“I think,” Claire said in her tight-jawed voice, “we should make that fat girl, Janice, our slave. If we need our pussy eaten, we call Janice. If we’re going out of town, we have Janice make herself available to our men.” Claire snorted. “Do you know Dwight actually had the nerve to tell me ‘…it just feels good and squishy…’ when he was talking about some fat, latina cunt he fucks down in Honduras? What a prick.”
Abby rolled her eyes at Gail, before voicing her opinion. “I don’t understand what the big deal is. Men fuck. They like to fuck. What’s the problem as long as they come home?”
“Don’t be stupid! Disease, you silly twit!”
And, it was decided.
Janice Weaver was surprised by Abby’s invitation. Of The Sextet, Abby was the by far the nicest; but, nice enough to invite her to her parents Maine retreat? Janice didn’t think so. She stopped at her parent’s Manhattan townhouse to relay the news. Momma Weaver was no dummy. She had a clutch of beauticians brought in to exfoliate, pluck, and wax her girl clean. She paid the club’s Zimbabwe masseuse a small fortune to come at a moments notice and massage Janice limp. She had the little anal girl come with her colonic machine and scented oils to clean Janice further. Finally, she called Mrs. MacGiver and asked her to send her two of her best to give Janice a quick primer in the art of pleasure on her trip to Maine.
Janice was sipping on a Shirley Temple, when the door swished open and two of the most beautiful women stepped onto the plane. “You must be Janice,” the taller of the two said in her faintly accented English. Her skin pure white, and she had the shiniest, jet-black hair Janice had ever seen. The other woman drawled in authentic Deep South, “Mmm-hmm. There is nothing I like better than little girl virgins sipping a Shirley Temple.” The woman was about 5’6”, with strappy, baby blue heels, and only a baby blue negligee underneath the fur coat she shrugged out of. She was pale with a mane of curly, black girls falling down her back. “I’m Trish, and this here is Sadie, baby-girl.” Trish said, taking the Shirley Temple from Janice’s hand and sipping from the glass.
“Now, sugar, as you already know, the rich have a different set of rules. And, I believe the…Sadie, what the hell are they called?”
“The Sextet,” Sadie called over her shoulder. She and Marla, the hostess, were unpacking the videos as the plane began to taxi into line for takeoff.
“Yeah. The Sextet. Anyways, sugar. This Sextet is going to try and play some mind games with you. They are going to want to make you their slave, is your mother’s takes on things. Oh, stop blushing,” Trish laughed, bending over to give the kid a kiss on the lips. “And don’t worry about Marla. She’s seen everything and done everyone and is paid plenty of money to forget. Isn’t that right Marla?”
Marla looked over her shoulder and winked at Janice. “You’ll look back on today and laugh, cherie,” Marla declared as she walked back into the galley.
Sadie came and sat on the other armrest of Janice’s chair. “Listen to us, darling,” she demanded, softly, “We are women who know how terrible one human being can be to another. In particular, when one human being believes they own the other human being.”