Les Autres

All Sexual Activity In This Story Is Between Characters Who Are 18+ Years Old

*****

Midsummer Night, 1940

Arlene Hart was worn out. She felt more than a little shaky when she left the big house at 46 SE Garvey Street. Although the distance from its back porch to the doorstep of her rented cottage was only fifty, or so , yards along a smooth flat brick path, it seemed like she was climbing a mountain. Wending her way among the Macintosh and Arkansas Black apple trees, which divided the huge city lot, she thought, "Jock is such a STUD. And me just days away from ovulation... Thank GOD I had two rubbers left in my handbag!" Pausing, she lightly rubbed her tender overworked tummy muscles, then, with a long, satisfied and fulfilled sigh, she stepped onto her porch and through the front door.

The kitchen Regulator wall clock struck ten o'clock. In the parlor, Arlene's eighteen-year-old daughter, Cynthia, snapped off her radio program as it ended. Hearing the door close, she groused loudly, "You've been gone nearly three hours, Ma. What were you DOING?"

Arlene moved from the hall to the front room's entrance and replied, sharply, "Don't take that tone with ME, young lady!" She continued, while pulling off her gloves and tucking them in her purse, "You weren't completely truthful. Mr. McGuinness and I had quite a lot to... er, WORK out between us before we... um, CAME to our resolution."

"I don't know what you mean by 'completely truthful,'" Cynthia fibbed, with an edge in her voice. "I told you what happened." She was still furious with herself for napping longer than she thought she would after Mr. McGuinness thoroughly fucked her; twice in her pussy and then, once more for good measure, in her bottom. It had been entirely her own fault that Arlene had come home at seven o'clock and found her sleeping, curled up nude on her bed, in cum-drenched sheets.

Even so, Cynthia had never imagined her mother would fly off the handle the way she had. "It was an ACCIDENT," she had explained. "I fell. He helped me into the house. When he kissed me, I tried saying 'No'... but, we ended up... DOING IT, anyway." Cynthia, sobbing softly, but wiping her tears as she spoke, had concluded her tale analogizing, "Mr Trotter's made love to BOTH of us. LOTS of times. Even at the SAME time... Why is THIS so different?" Arlene had said nothing, but stalked out of the house, rattling the windows when she slammed the front door. Cynthia was left alone; confused and chewing her quivering lips.

Now, from the parlor's arch, Arlene watched Cynthia rise from an easy chair and stand facing her, ten feet away, in the middle of the room. Her stance was defiant, but her young face begged for compassion. "She's so beautiful," Arlene thought, looking at the barefoot teen, naked under her long sheer pale saffron negligee.

Its high empire waist gathered beneath the girl's young firm medium-full breasts. Housed behind lace-edged triangular rayon panels, and secured by the thinnest possible flat satin ribbons, her bosom rose and fell dramatically with Cynthia's agitated breaths. The bias-cut nightdress fell straight away to her ankles, clinging to every soft gilded curve. Its golden veil perfectly complimented her shadowy brunette nest, from its border, six inches below her hinted navel, to the apex of her nubile cunny, modestly hidden two inches further south.

With tears welling again, Cynthia fought her emotions and tried making sense of the evening. She asked her mother, simply, "Why did you react the way you did? What did you SAY to Mr. McGuinness?" Losing her battle, she wept openly. "It's not like he FORCED me, or HURT me, in any way!"

Arlene, belatedly recognizing, for the first time, the fragility and angst which accompanied her daughter's recently awakened sexuality, rushed forward. Hugging Cynthia tightly, she cooed repeatedly, "I know. I know, Sweetheart." Stroking her child's head, she rocked forward and back, and side to side, until Cynthia calmed. When the waterworks dried up and the shaking ceased, Arlene kissed Cynthia's brow, then answered quietly, "I just felt extremely... PROTECTIVE. I'm sorry. You're right. You're a WOMAN, now."

Cynthia slid her hands up and down Arlene's back, cuddling even closer within the secure embrace. She pressed her nose to the flesh of her mother's warm neck and inhaled the sweet fragrance of her skin. "It's alright," she whispered. Her lips buzzed against Arlene's throat, sending a thrill to her toes. "Don't be 'sorry'... I LOVE you, Ma."

Arlene broke the hug and stepped back, still holding Cynthia's bare upper arms in a light grip. Looking squarely into the girl's face, she asked, in a serious, but non-threatening, tone, "Did Jock, er, Mr. McGuinness, use any... PROTECTION when... he..." Her voice trailed off. The look in her daughter's eyes answered the unfinished question.

Cynthia, shaking her head, verbally confirmed, "It all happened so FAST... the first time." She lowered her eyes and her voice. "I didn't think about it. But, I know he DIDN'T, because I remember sucking on him... afterward... you know, like we do for Mr. Trotter. And then, he just... slid right in... and we DID IT... again." Deciding that Jock's third and final ejaculation, into her tight behind, was irrelevant to her mother's concern, Cynthia did not mention it. Instead, closing the gap, she hugged Arlene again, and asked her own question. "Oh, Ma! It's been two weeks since my Curse stopped... do you think I'm pregnant?"

Fearing the worst herself, Arlene read the trepidation in her daughter's wide eyes and adopted a pragmatic, but hopeful, mien. She patted Cynthia's bottom affectionately and replied, "Only time can tell us THAT, Sweetie." Reflexively sliding the negligee in small circles over the teen's firm resilient moons and kissing her forehead sweetly, Arlene added, "But maybe there's STILL something we can do... besides crossing our fingers and wishing. That is, IF you want to reduce the chance of having Mr. McGuinness' baby."

The friction of her mother's palm and the rayon material warmed Cynthia. She felt loved and secure. Oddly, she also felt her pussy waking up; dispatching alert signals through her stomach to her chest and throat. She choked and stammered, "Y-yes, please, Ma... wh-what can we do?"

Suddenly Cynthia realized that her breasts were chafing against her mother's scalloped décolleté. She smiled, and looked over Arlene's shoulder into the dark hall. Fond memories of intimate threesomes with Ted Trotter came into her mind uninvited. Her nipples hardened and her puffing areolae ached fiercely. Arlene, blushing from her own intruding erotic impulses, stepped from the embrace and said, "Go run a hot bath. With Epsom salts. I'll be along in a moment."

Ten minutes later, Arlene walked into the steamy bathroom. Like her daughter, who already sat soaking, she was as naked as the day she was born, though her maturely developed form was in no way infantile. She hung her own negligee, identical to Cynthia's, except for being pastel green with emerald satin trimmings, on a door hook beside the teen's nightdress. Kneeling on a towel, beside the big porcelain tub, Arlene set a small bowl with lemon quarters, a soft tan natural sponge, and an ivory rod on the floor tiles beside her.

"So, what are we doing, Ma? How does this help?" Cynthia peered inquisitively over the tub rim at the arrayed aids and her mother's nude pulchritude. Her tits tingled.

Arlene smiled. "Well, first of all, remember nothing is certain... It's possible one of Mr. McGuinness' pesky little seeds has already found a new friend, introduced himself, and made a home inside your womb." She dipped the sponge in the hot water and squeezed it several times until it was saturated. "Spread your knees, Sweetheart, then draw them up and lean forward." Arlene flattened the full sponge on Cynthia's bowed back as she complied with the instruction. The sponge-water pressed out, sheeting over her scapulae and down her spine. The girl hummed as its moving heat invaded her pores. Her worries evaporated into the room's steam.

"I'm going to rub you a bit," Arlene continued, sensing her daughter's increased relaxation. "What I want YOU to do is: Cup your hands between your legs and vigorously swish the bathwater up inside your personal area. Get it as DEEP into you as you can. WRIGGLE your fingers; AGITATE the Epsom salts while you irrigate yourself."

While Arlene watched Cynthia roil the foaming water, she slipped the sponge, in wide swaths, across her lats and down to her tailbone, massaging her fingers, through the porous pad, deep into the muscle tissue. "THAT'S my girl," Arlene praised, softly, as Cynthia's hand plunged, wrist-deep, in and out of her pussy. "Really get IN there."

"Uhnnnnn..." Cynthia moaned. The sluicing action made her cunny twitch and suck at her fingers involuntarily. "But," she panted, "what's happening... M-m-ma?" Her philosophical question was real, but so, too, were the physical results of her exercise. Sweat, unrelated to the bath itself, popped and beaded on her brow. Her breaths became more rapidly shallow with each flushing stroke.

"When I was about your age, Sweetheart," Arlene answered, "my mother told me HER mother told HER that magnesium is POISON for sperm. So, bathing thoroughly with Epsom salt water... which is really magnesium... will kill any contacted seeds, unless, of course, they're out of reach... or, protected inside the egg's wall." Wringing out the sponge, she continued, "Now, stand up for the next part."

While Cynthia carefully rose from the tub, balancing herself with her hands on her mother's bare shoulders, Arlene juiced the lemon sections into the damp sponge. "Stand still, for me, Sweetie," she advised. "As an extra precaution, I'm going to chase that poison with citrus... the mild acid will irritate... but don't fret, the soft sponge will feel nice as I scrub away any bits of semen that might still be clinging to your tunnel waiting for the coast to clear."

"OK... Ma," Cynthia agreed, trusting the nostrum implicitly and enjoying the waning glow in her gut.

Arlene dabbed the doctored sponge against her daughter's cunt lips, sliding it up, then down, and finally thrusting it, bit by bit, until it all but disappeared into the vagina. Cynthia did not stand still. She danced actively, and, to keep from falling, pinched her fingers into her mother's trapeziuses as her legs quaked and her knees threatened to give way. She thought she might climax at any moment. "MAAA!" She cried with a gasp. "I think... I want... t-to COME!" She groaned, curling her fingers and toes, "Issss... that OK?"

Arlene grinned up at the excited teen and assured her, "Absolutely! Push out anything you CAN from the inside... let it GO... COME if you need to!" She ripped the sponge from Cynthia's pussy with a single stroke and drove the girl off her cliff.

"NYAAAAHHH!" Cynthia's crisis broke. Locking her elbows and knees, she braced herself against her mother and shuddered.

"Good girl! That's my VERY good girl," Arlene cooed. "Come all you can... don't hold back, Cynthia." She threw down the sponge and picked up the gleaming hard white rod.

Nine inches long, and two inches in diameter, the carved ivory wand was polished glass-smooth its entire length. From its blunted butt it was devoid of adornment over its first third. The next four-and-a-half inches were wrapped by a single continuous spiraling ridge, like screw threads, at quarter-inch intervals. The tool's top was sculpted, in perfect detail, into a penis' crown, complete with a slightly cleft nose and gently flared angular flange.

Cynthia's head, tipped back, with a long orgasmic growl still rumbling in her stretched throat, snapped forward when her mother split her labia with the ivory dildo's nose. The unexpected hard slick knob electrified her clitoris before it slipped down her slit and pressed against her gateway. As Arlene pushed the phallus past its rim, and a further inch along its grooved ribs, Cynthia's nails clawed into her mother's deltoids. Transferring her heightened ecstasy, she yelped, "OOOhh, M-M-maaa!" Then, whimpering in delight, she trembled, "Wh-what's THAT?"

"That's my 'Widow's Secret,' Sweetheart," replied Arlene, continuing to bury the love-stick to the top of her fist. "Do you LIKE it?"

"Unnnn, y-yesss," Cynthia wheezed. "Oh gosh! YES!"

Arlene twirled the dildo counter to its threads as she withdrew it, and then pushed it straight in again. The ridges rippled deliciously along the gripping wet walls of the teen's tunnel. Cynthia came again, deliriously unabated, leaning her tummy against the top of her mother's head and shimmying her shoulders as wave upon wave crashed in her cunt.

"And now," Arlene said huskily, as finally, after uncounted deep, and torturously effective, thrusts, she removed the artificial cock, "NOW, for the clean-up." Sliding her hands up the backs of Cynthia's wet shivering thighs, Arlene grasped her globes and pulled her forward. Leaning in, she rested her heavy breasts against the cool porcelain tub's rim and sealed her lips fast to her daughter's winking pussy.

Curiously, for all their intimacy with Trotter, neither Arlene nor Cynthia had touched her mouth to the other's cunt. The shocking new activity, spontaneously inspired by the totality of the evening's events, thrilled them both to no end. Cynthia came violently once more, immediate upon her mother's first clitoral kiss. Moaning, Arlene lapped the free flowing juices and probed Cynthia's channel with her darting tongue.

Removing her right hand from her daughter's ass, Arlene retrieved her Secret and jammed it into her own aching and unrelieved vagina. While she sucked and licked Cynthia, Arlene pushed and pulled the ivory implement until her critical tide overflowed her basin and wracked her already worn out body.

At length, both women went limp and propped each other weakly as their passionate flames died into soul-satisfying embers. Arlene dropped her dildo while Cynthia loosened her grip. Their hands, wrists, and forearms ached from protracted flexion. Cynthia weaved precariously in the throes of late-arriving diminishing orgasmic aftershocks.

Arlene stood and helped her daughter step from the bathtub's cold water. Pulling towels from a nearby rack, she wrapped them both up in a terry cocoon. Gently, sweetly, they celebrated the new dimension in their relationship with a long soft loving kiss. When they broke, Cynthia asked quietly, "May I sleep with you tonight, Ma?" Arlene silently nodded her assent and handed Cynthia her yellow negligee before worming her lush destroyed bounty into her green gown.

In bed, with the lights out, and the waning full Midsummer moon visible among sparkling stars through undrawn curtains, Cynthia inquired, "Will great grandmother's remedy work?"

"We won't know for a while, yet. Que será, será, Sweetheart," Arlene answered as she curled into her daughter's warmth and closed her eyes.

Meanwhile, under the same clear balmy summer night sky, downtown at 400 NE Dorchester Avenue, Greta Van Der Molen sat on the window sill of Room 32 at the Wheeler Hotel. An errant breeze snuck under her jumper and petticoat, billowing them in her lap. She patted her dirndl flat to her thighs, tucking its edges more securely under her legs, as she shifted her seat on the brickwork and resettled the soles of her sturdy low-heeled shoes on the third floor fire escape's metal grid platform.

"Mijn god, tante Betty was boos," Greta thought, shaking her head. Her brilliant yellow hair braids, washed pale by the moonlight, dusted her bust as it heaved angrily in her white peasant blouse. While she very much enjoyed sex, and had no personal qualms about fucking her uncle, she did not like his dishonesty. Brian had given her a clear, but obviously false, impression that her aunt was disinterested in who he slept with. Dutch men did not lie like that and Greta never suspected her uncle would be such a cad.

"Arme tante Betty," she said aloud to herself, "Ik moet excuses aanbieden aan haar." Pulling in her legs and turning back into her room, Greta pulled the shade down, leaving the window open for the airflow. She moved about the brightly lit twelve-by-twelve room, reviewing the evening's catastrophe, preoccupied with how she could square things with Elizabeth Doherty.

Ten minutes after his wife's fiery tirade and exit from The Shillelagh, following her catching him and his nineteen-year-old niece in flagrante delicto after their frenetic final fuck, Brian had come up from the basement and closed the bar early. The half-dozen patrons grumbled that it was only just eight o'clock and he was ruining their Friday night, but he stood firm, appeasing them with promises of free drinks on their next visit. Cookie, wondering about the rumpus, stood at the end of the long oak bar with Greta and Stella.

Looking at the trio, after clearing the main room of customers, Doherty said, "Shut down and put away everything back there, as quick as you can, Cookie. I want to lock up and leave as soon as possible." The tattooed former Marine mess sergeant shrugged acquiescence and disappeared again into the kitchen. Brian emptied the cash register into the floor-safe, retaining some bills, and walked over to the women.

Dropping his right arm lightly around the bony shoulders of his dowdy middle-aged day shift barmaid, Doherty handed her three dollars and said, "I appreciate your staying after your shift, tonight, Stella. Could you do me one more favor, before you go home?"

"Sure, Boss," Stella answered, casually pulling her blouse's neckline down and sticking the greenbacks into the top of her bra. She did not have much to be proud of upstairs, but she was not modest about showing it off. "What do you need?" Although Brian had not asked her for a blow-job for years, she was mildly curious if, despite his current squeeze standing right beside them, he had his old favorite favor in mind. "If so," she wondered silently, "what's the OTHER two bucks for?"

Stella's undersized tits, with their oversized acorn nipples, were a brief distraction, but did not sidetrack Doherty. He answered her, "Grab the next trolley and check Greta into the Wheeler Hotel. You don't have to keep her company; just make sure she gets there OK. OK?" Without waiting for Stella's answer, he reached in front of her and shoved the remaining money at Greta. "Here's fifty bucks, Rosie," he said. "Betty won't let you stay with us anymore, and I have to fire you... but this ought to tide you over until you find somewhere to live... and another job."

Greta remembered the sadness in her uncle's voice when he gave her the roll of bills and called her by her nickname. He had lied about the set-up, but he truly cared for her and her well-being. A discreet knock brought her back to the instant moment. She stepped to the door of Room 32 and called softly through the panel, "Ja? Who is it there, please?"

"It's me... Cookie," came the muffled reply. "I have your stuff here." Greta opened the door and watched the kindly older man drag her brass-cornered leather steamer trunk into the room. "The boss had me follow him home and wait while he and his missus packed your gear... then he told me to bring it to you." He grinned at the girl and added, "Don't worry about your uniform, Rosie. Stella said she'd stop by for it tomorrow morning, on her way in to work." With a wink, Cookie concluded, "Just lay low, kiddo... these things happen and, more times than not, they just blow over."

"Bedankt, Cookie ... welterusten," Greta smiled. Seeing the Marine's blank look, she translated, "Thanks for everything. Goodnight, now." Giving him a quick kiss on the cheek, she ushered her friend out, shut the door and leaned back on the panels with a long sigh. Her fingers pulled her vest's dangling cross-strings, untying the corseting bowknot. She was unaware of the Peeping Tom on the fire escape.