Fran & John Not Lovers

(All characters are at least 18 years of age.)

(This is a work of fiction; any similarities to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.)

Upon arriving back at the house, Frank stalked into the kitchen, fished around in some drawers, or at least so it sounded to John, and returned with a large yellow notepad. She handed it over, a hand-written list of tasks. These tasks, in principle, would compensate Debbie for the free room and board that she was providing to John.

Debbie, according to Frank, had termed it a "honeydew" list. Frank's facial expression indicated vast amusement, for some cryptic reason beyond John's comprehension. He had only ever heard the word "honeydew" used to denote the variety of melon. In any case, the list was long, extending over two full letter-sized pages. Some of the tasks were daily ones like cooking meals (two per day, at least five times per week). Others were big, one-time jobs like fixing cracks in the cement walkway leading up to the house, redoing the landscaping in both front and back yards, fixing the garage door, fixing broken or outdated electrical outlets, replacing the flaky dishwasher, insulating the garage, and so forth.

"Now I'm starting to see why Debbie's letting me stay here for free," John said wryly.

In response, Frank hastily clarified: "Oh yeah! I almost forgot! Mom texted me from Toronto the other day. She said she forgot to write down that she doesn't expect you to do all of that stuff right away. You can even spread it out over the next three years."

John was too stunned to say anything at first. He had assumed he would be able to crash with them for twelve months at most, possibly fewer. Even with his agreement to do work around the house, that had seemed like it would be an imposition. Now Debbie was implying that she would put him up for the rest of his college career, without him even having to ask! John felt an overwhelming sense of relief. The last few months had been more stressful than he had realized, with the uncertainty about where he would be able to continue his studies and how he would get by financially. He started to cry. It was the first time in years.

Frank said nothing and gave John a tight bear hug. She rubbed his back and shoulders firmly. He could feel her breasts pushing against his pectorals but, for once, this did not provoke an erection.

"Sorry I'm such a mess." John's voice was muffled by her shoulder. "I guess it's just been super stressful lately. Especially the last couple of months. And I can't believe how generous you and Debbie are being. I feel like such a leech."

"Dude, it's all good. I keep trying to tell you we're happy to have you here. You really have no idea how much mom misses you. I'm not sure even she realizes. And there's nothing wrong with crying. I cry all the time!"

"Frank, the last time I saw you cry you were eight," John said.

"Okay," Frank said sheepishly, "But that was a really big cry! And you weren't around when Phoebe split."

Then Frank remembered something and shouted, "Oh yeah!"

She stalked off down a hallway, which lead to a part of the house John yet to visit. She returned holding an unopened, official-looking envelope and gave it to John. Inside he found a credit card. The rectangular plastic featured the Milwaukee Brewers' logo in the upper left corner. "Of course," thought John. It also had his full name embossed on it: Johannes Ulrich Lehmann, Jr.

"Wow, Debbie really went formal on my name there."

"Of course she did!" Frank said. "It's for you to buy groceries and supplies for fixing up the house. Oh, and you can use the car. And can you keep the tank full? We hate getting gas! Such a cliche, I know."

John did not cry in response to this latest evidence of Debbie's beneficence, but only just barely.

"OK, time for dinner dontcha think?" he said. He had already planned out an elaborate meal for his cousin.

As it turned out, however, John did not prepare dinner, after all. Frank convinced him to take a break and try out his new credit card. She suggested that they order delivery from her favorite Chicago-style pizzeria.

"I don't care whatcha get on it," Frank said saucily, "as long as there's mushrooms!"

She also convinced him to binge watch the Die Hard movie series with her. They had both seen all four movies before. John powered on the large TV in the living room and, after navigating around with the remote, queued up the first film of the quartet. He turned around to scope out the couch and find a place to sit. It was an unusually large sectional with an extra-wide chaise lounge attached on the right-hand side, as John was facing it. He decided to park himself in the corner of the chaise lounge, both because it looked comfortable and because he hoped Frank would join him there. At forty-three inches wide, there was more than enough room for the both of them.

Frank did not disappoint. Without asking permission, she cozied up right next to John, leaving zero personal space. The warmth from her body felt nice; the central air conditioning was on and must have been set to replicate arctic conditions. John hit the play button on the remote and soon the two were immersed in the opening scene of the movie. He recited a few of Bruce Willis' lines from memory, just before the famous action hero expressed nervousness about flying.

Thirty minutes later the doorbell rang. John got up to pay the pizza delivery person, tipping generously. He was generous with tips; having worked in and around the restaurant business he knew how crucial this source of income could be. Returning to the couch, John worried that Frank would move away from him to make room for the large cardboard box. His fears were unfounded; she had not moved. As he walked around the couch, she pointed to the pizza with her right hand. With her left she patted the spot where John had been sitting.

"Lemme know when you want another slice and I'll hand you one," Frank said, as she proffered up the first slice on an already-greasy paper plate. "Oh yeah, here's the napkin."

"Thanks!"

They happily munched on pizza, drank more IPAs and also, at Frank's insistence, drank one liter of water each. Frank got up to pee twice, both times leaving the door of the powder room open. It was close enough that John could hear everything.

Before starting the fourth installment of the saga, the cousins turned their heads towards each other. It was now one in the morning, and neither could keep their eyes open.

"Turn in?"

"Yup," Frank said, with a yawn.

John had just started to brush his teeth, in front of the bathroom mirror, when Frank appeared next to him. She butt-bumped him out of the way so she could open the drawer containing the dental floss, then started ostentatiously cleaning her teeth in the mirror. Next she sat down on the toilet and started to pull down her basketball shorts.

"Um, unless you want see an innocent young lady urinating, a little privacy please?" Frank grinned innocently.

"Innocent my ass!" John retorted, recalling what they had been up to at the park. He closed the bathroom door behind himself.

"That's probably the first time she's peed with the door closed," John thought.

Several minutes later, the two friends were in their respective bedrooms. Frank was still up and about. Her closet was open. She was standing on her tiptoes so that she could pull down a faded blue Converse All Stars shoe box. Inside was a disorderly pile of photos. Frank pawed around until she found a specific Polaroid. The thick bottom part of the photo's border had turned slightly yellow from handling. It was poorly lit, poorly framed, and showed a blue-eyed man, around eighteen years old, sitting on an unkempt twin bed. He was grinning wolfishly. Frank studied the man in the photograph for around thirty seconds. Then she put it back into the box, and returned the box to the closet shelf.

By the time Frank had finished her trip down memory lane, John was clad in his boxer shorts and an old, ripped t-shirt, and was under the covers in bed. He was too tired even to read, as he customarily did each night. Within three minutes, he had already fallen asleep. At first, John slept soundly and dreamlessly. Around three AM, though, he began to dream. It was intense enough to it provoke a massive erection, and also caused him to toss and turn. At some point he rolled over. His penis bent awkwardly, sending a twinge of pain through his body. He woke up.

Groggy John could remember only certain fragments of the dream. What parts he could recall were clearly influenced by the day's events, with the notable difference that Debbie took the place of her daughter.

First, Debbie peed loudly in the powder room toilet instead of Frank. In inexplicable dream-fashion, John was inside the bathroom with her, instead of being out in the kitchen as he had been in real life. She had her knee-length red skirt and functional white cotton panties pulled down below her knees. In the dream her vagina was unshaven. Her outer labia was either naturally puffy, or swollen with arousal, or both. A jet of clear urine shot from within the hirsute folds of her long inner labia, which were hanging down provocatively, and into the porcelain bowl. Debbie peed for as long as Frank had, about thirty seconds. She then, without looking, grabbed for the toilet paper. Instead of paper she found only an empty cardboard roll. John noticed a look of mild distress cross her face.

"Johnnie, can you help a lady out?"

Debbie scooted her ass forward until she was just barely supported by the toilet. Her pussy, now clear of the seat, dripped clear liquid onto the tile floor.

"Happy to oblige, ma'am!"

What happened after that, John could no longer recall. In fact, the only other part of the dream that had not yet drifted out of his consciousness was some kind of analogue to the cousins' post-basketball experimentation. Debbie and John, drenched with perspiration, were lying next to each other under the ash tree. Debbie asked John to stand up, take off his shirt and raise his right arm. She walked over to his right side and knelt on the ground. Her face was level with his waist. She stuck out her tongue, making contact with the bare skin that was directly in front of her lips. She carefully raised herself upwards with her legs, never letting her tongue break contact with his wet skin. By the time she finished, she had lapped up several teaspoons of his sweat.

"Yum," Dream Debbie said. Her voice was low and sultry.

As Frank had been, Debbie too was wearing a sports bra. Unlike Frank's, this one was fairly revealing. John could see a long line of cleavage between her big bosoms. The garment was drenched in sweat.

Debbie raised her left arm and John kissed and then licked her armpit thoroughly. His cock, already hard, pushed out of his shorts, as it had done in real life. She glanced down and saw his swollen glans protruding uncomfortably through the elastic.

"Sweetie, that's very pleasant what you're doing, but please stop for now and stand in front of me," his aunt commanded, albeit gently.

With some embarrassment, John complied, concerned about what she might see. Once he was in position, Debbie bent slightly at the waist. She hooked a thumb into his waistband at either side of his body, then pulled downwards. His dick popped out as his shorts traveled towards his knees.

"My, what a lovely penis!" Even Dream Debbie, like her real-life counterpart, stuck to medical terminology when it came to describing sex organs. "The poor thing looks so painful and hard, though."

Debbie put on a theatrical pouty face as she gently began to stroke his cock with her right hand. She held her cupped left hand in the ready position over the tip of his cock. Some time later, he began to cum, fountain-like, all over the hand. After ten blasts, his unruly member bucked out of her grip, and a further seven spurts of semen went flying off, most of it landing on the grass some six feet away.

Meanwhile, Debbie's fingers and palm were covered in a thick layer of sperm, some of which was now flowing down her forearm. Before it could get farther, she ostentatiously began to lick it up, starting at her elbow. She carefully scooped up every drop, backtracking as needed if she missed anything. Then, as Frank had done with John's hand, so Debbie did with her own. She slowly and deliberately licked and sucked each of her own fingers, individually, cleaning them of the substantial layer of sperm. Then she suctioned up all the sticky fluid on her palm, as well.

"Why Johnnie, that tasted just like black truffles!" Debbie made a delighted humming sound as she said this.

Then she put her hands on the back of his head. He had short hair back there and could feel how sticky her left hand still was, despite her meticulous attentions. She guided him so that his mouth neared the exposed area between her breasts. Sadly, as before, this portion of the dream faded from his mind's eye.

Now fully awake, John felt as if an immense wave of guilt was washing over his body. This always happened after fantasizing about his aunt, despite the fact that he had been doing so regularly for many years. Warring with this sense of shame was a burning curiosity to find out what had happened in the rest of his dream. The missing finale must have been incredible to have produced such a massive erection.

He lay in bed, unable to fall back asleep, and tried to think of mundane subjects such as how he was going to upgrade the wiring in the garage, or fix the busted espresso machine in the kitchen. These tactics bore little fruit. Images of Debbie kept intruding, no matter how hard he tried to distract himself. He imagined her, fully nude, spreading her legs for him, inviting him to lose his virginity. He slipped easily into her sopping wet pussy. Before visualizing a full thrust, he would catch himself and redirect his thoughts for a few moments, back to household chores. And then the cycle would repeat. Fifteen minutes later, he decided that neither his fantasies nor his erection were going to go away of their own accord. He would not be able to get back to sleep without some kind of sexual relief.

One possibility was to watch porn, but he rejected this idea when he considered the logistics. Booting up his laptop, which he had not yet unpacked, and logging onto the local Wi-Fi network, to which he did not yet know the password, seemed like too much work in his present mental state. He was still desperately tired. The best option was to simply continue fantasizing about Debbie and hope it would not take long to blow his wad.

John made for the bathroom, as it would be easy to clean up any mess there. Frank had always been a heavy sleeper when they were younger, so he was confident that his activities would not awaken his slumbering cousin. He stepped into the hallway. Under normal circumstances, he would have noticed that his cousin's door was closed. For her, this was unusual, and had he noticed, he might have listened at her door to make sure she was truly asleep. Instead, zombie-like, John trudged across the dark hallway into the bathroom, turned on the light, and closed the door behind him.

His first idea was to sit on the toilet and jerk off there. It would be the simplest to clean up. However, when he sat down he found that his penis did not fit. He had to bend it downwards uncomfortably, and even then the tip still touched the inside of the ceramic bowl. He slid his butt backwards as far as he could, but his glans remained firmly in contact with porcelain. This seemed gross and unsanitary.

The only other possible places were the shower enclosure, which he had already used once that day, and the oversized tub. John decided the shower would be best. If sperm went flying off in some random direction, as it sometimes did, it would just hit a glass wall. The tub lacked any kind of surrounding enclosure.

Hoping the plumbing would not be too noisy, John turned on the shower to its hottest setting and got in. He dumped a generous helping of shampoo onto his painfully firm erection and began to replay his memories of the dream as he stroked himself. Recapitulating those events sent him over the edge before he could even get to the final part where he, presumably, was going to kiss her breasts and then move on to even more exciting acts. Relieved, John blearily unhooked the shower head from its holder and aimed it at the large patch of cum that was oozing its way down on the glass surface. He dried off as quietly as he could, using the still-damp purple towel from earlier, put his boxer shorts and t-shirt back on, and opened the bathroom door.

Frank was standing there, mere inches from him. She must have placed herself right in front of the door while he had been masturbating. "What did she hear?" John wondered.

"That's three to zero, ass-wipe!" Frank said.

An hour before this meeting at the threshold of the bathroom, Frank, also, had woken up. Like John, she had dreamt a dream of an erotic nature, although not so directly based on the day's events. She was attending an invitation-only event, late at night, at a nameless, murky club in Avenues West. It was billed as a "Pimps and Ho's" dress-up gala. Only women were allowed. Frank was there with Phoebe.

At the outset, Frank was dressed as a "pimp". She was wearing a maroon velvet tuxedo, white shirt with wide, frilly collar, and an orange top hat. Her shoes, red Converse All Star high tops, were the one break with stereotypical pimp attire. Phoebe, dressed as a "ho", was wearing a satiny blue one-piece strapless dress, which clung tightly to her skin and just barely covered her ass. She was wearing neither bra nor panties. On her sock-less feet were black patent leather high heels.

Without logical transition, Frank began parading Phoebe around a smoky, packed, room. Phoebe was wearing an inexpensive black mesh dog collar around her neck, cinched up tightly so that she was reminded of its presence whenever she took a full breath. It featured a two-inch silver metal ring, hanging near her breastbone. Frank was holding the cheap red leash that had been clipped onto the ring.

As Frank dragged her around, women groped Phoebe freely. Eventually a butch-looking woman, also dressed in cinematic pimp attire, pulled down the top of Phoebe's dress, exposing her small, pale, handful-sized breasts and dime-sized, erect nipples. The butch-looking woman roughly squeezed one of Phoebe tits while simultaneously pinching the nipple on the other side. Phoebe voiced an "Ow" sound but did not otherwise protest. Another woman, also dressed as a pimp, came up behind Phoebe, lifted the back of her skirt up over her butt, and stuck her thumb into Phoebe's anus.

Before Frank could find out how her dream counterpart would react to this latest turn of events, the scene shifted entirely. Phoebe was now dressed in Frank's pimp attire. Frank was clad in the basketball clothes she had worn, in real life, earlier that day. She was also wearing the collar that only moments earlier had been on her ex-girlfriend's throat. Phoebe was holding the leash.

They were standing on a dance floor consisting of a broad field of multi-colored lights, much like Frank remembered from disco movies, such as "Saturday Night Fever". The two young women were at the edge of an impromptu, fifteen-foot circle of on-looking women. The crowd was chanting rhythmically but Frank could not discern any words. Phoebe led Frank to a raised, lacquered wooden platform in the center of the circle. She motioned for Frank to mount the wooden contraption, then said evenly, "Hands and knees, bitch." Frank complied. The surface of the platform was covered in soft velvet. Because of the added height relative to the dance floor, her head was now aligned with Phoebe's midsection.