The Lesbian Patch: Paloma & Isabel
Para el habitante de Nueva York, París o Londres, la muerte es la palabra que jamás se pronuncia porque quema los labios. El mexicano, en cambio, la frecuenta, la burla, la acaricia, duerme con ella, la festeja, es uno de sus juguetes favoritios y su amor más permanente.
Octavio Paz, El laberinto de la soledad, capítulo 3
For the inhabitant of New York, Paris or London, death is the word that is never pronounced because it burns the lips. The Mexican, on the other hand, frequents her, teases her, caresses her, sleeps with her, celebrates her, is one of her favorite toys and her most permanent love.
I
Paloma Garza leaned forward in the small wooden chair, her elbows on her knees, holding her cigarette loosely between the fingers of her right hand, idly swiping through her phone. The smell of onion, cumin, and chorizo frying in the pan drifted through the screen door closed against the bugs flying in the early twilight of Isabel’s back yard.
Although she didn’t turn her head to verify her suspicions, Paloma knew that her sister regarded her from behind the window overlooking the sagging wooden deck and backyard with that uncomfortable mix of worry, disapproval, and jealousy.
Paloma shivered in the coolness, unused to the cool spring evenings of the new, strange place.
Her people had come from a warmer spot, further south, from Texas and before that, before her own birth, from south of Texas.
Isabel and Enrique had moved the kids up there, what, two years ago, chasing a general movement north where rumors of work and new opportunities flew like the clumps of dirt Enrique slapped from his brown canvas work pants or beat from his blue overalls.
Lonely and miserable after losing her chief support, her older sister, Paloma followed several months later. The university there offered a doctorate in comparative literature, she told Isabel. She wanted to specialize in social and magical realism in early 20th century literature, exploring the internal tensions of the imperialistic white male gaze in such works as, say, Tortilla Flats in its pseudo self-aware encounter with the oppressed other, rich with misogyny and stereotyped alcoholics.
Paloma leaned back, pulled a long drag from a cigarette already nearing its end, and idly gazed through the white gray smoke at the buds beading along the thin limbs of the witch hazel and buttonbush Enrique had planted in a row in front of the back wooden fence separating their property from the squalor of their neighbor’s yard.
The climate here, too cold for his beloved agave, allowed him to explore the range of native plants in this hilly green country.
She looked up at the creaking of the screen door.
“Chinga, chica mia. You can quit if you really want to. I did.”
Paloma watched Isabel suck the lozenge eternally in her mouth and said nothing. A floral dish towel hung from one shoulder, and an apron covered in flour and grease splats protected her clothes from the fury of the kitchen.
Then she shrugged.
“I don’t want to.”
Suddenly a shriek broke the calm, steady insect noise of the spring evening.
“¡Puta! You fucking slut, don’t ever touch my stuff! Stay out of my room!”
¡Pendeja! You took my brush! That’s my fucking brush, you dirty pig. ¡Mamá! Angela keeps taking my shit! Mom!”
Paloma winced at the sharp crack of doors slamming and the unmistakable smack of palm on face, but Isabel just sighed.
Enrique had not yet come home, and the girls gave free rein to every obscenity they could think of.
The mother eyed her sister’s cigarette longingly as Paloma squished the end into a short, squat yellow can of Bustelo overflowing with cigarette butts.
She stood up.
Both women crossed into the kitchen.
“I can heat the tortillas in the microwave,” Paloma offered.
But Isabel already had a large iron skillet ready with a pat of lard in the center.
“Pobrecita,” she said. “Just go make sure the hijas haven’t killed each other.”
Isabel pulled the towel from her shoulder and snapped Paloma’s round ass as she walked away.
“And stay out of my kitchen, chamaca blanca.”
II
Paloma sat up, yawned, and stretched her arms wide.
Her sleeping partner stirred his half-sleep, not quite wanting to admit that the new day had begun.
Isabel would be getting back tomorrow.
She had gone south to check on abuela, who refused to move and insisted she could take care of the old home in the valley.
She had plenty of nietos and nietas, so many sobrinos, so many sobrinas of Paloma and Isabel around her, her sister didn’t need to go.
Paloma surged with guilt, for she had not gone with her.
“It’s been so long, Paloma. She’d love to see you.”
“Yo sé, yo sé, hermana mía,” she’d excused herself then. “It’s just that. I’m so busy right now.”
Her partner shifted again, raised himself up, and stretch.
The bedcovers fell to his lap, showing off his hard, muscular chest and biceps, his, and Paloma hated to say it to herself, steely abs.
But he worked at least ten hours a day, he didn’t drink the cerveza with his buddies after the shift ended. Didn’t sit around the house drinking and smoking.
He always kept busy, and that what’s attracted Paloma to him.
Another surge of guilt.
But his cock sprang free in his lap, hard in the morning, and Paloma couldn’t resist it.
“Dios mío,” Enrique said as Paloma wrapped her lips around her brother-in-law’s cock.
“I’ve missed this, baby. God, your mouth is so fucking hot.”
Isabel wouldn’t get back until tomorrow.
Enrique let the sisters spend the night with their friends so he could have some time alone with his wife’s hot sister. Caliente. Muy caliente. La puchita caliente, as his uncles used to say.
Paloma would have to deal with the guilt later.
She took Enrique’s full seven inches into her mouth, going deep to his cock-root, then slid her lips up its length, sucking on the tip. She used her right hand to jerk him into her, then repeated the process, slowly, slowly, until Enrique started bucking his hip into her face hard.
God, she loved the way he trembled in her mouth. Loved to hear him groan, a feeble cry of drawn-out agony never quite rising to its relief.
Not until I’m ready, she smirked.
You can’t cum until I’m ready for it, cuñado.
She licked the tip of his cock, licking the edge of the bulb, tonguing the pisshole, then she engulfed his dick with her mouth.
“Oh fuck, Paloma. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” Enrique kept repeated to himself, roaming one hand through her hair and pointing the lens of his phone at the top of her head in the other.
When she tasted pre-cum, she increased her sucking, driving him deeper, faster, and harder into her mouth, ramming his cock as far into her throat as she could, and when he started to cum, she swallowed part of it, then pulled out his cock to shoot the rest of his sticky white semen all over her face, enjoying the warm spew of his white seed.
The phone fell out of Enrique’s hand as he yelled out and flung his body back against Paloma’s pillows.
“Oh god, oh god. Oh fuck, puta. My puta, my beautiful puta.”
Later, the two of them sat at her kitchen table. Paloma filled a second cup of coffee, black no cream or sugar, for her sister’s husband.
“You sure about tonight?”
Enrique shook his head.
“Las hijas.”
Paloma nodded. She had no choice.
III
Vaping worked, a little.
The moist clouds dissipated quickly, and the smell didn’t linger like the stink of tobacco. Still, Paloma couldn’t stop feeling like a minor criminal as she huddled into herself behind the tall hedge hiding the little-used entrance to the liberal arts building.
She stiffened when she heard the door open, followed by the unmistakable rustle of someone picking through the hedge.
“I thought you’d be here.”
Paloma smiled, but she didn’t relax.
It was just Jessica, the tall redhead from her Spanish class. But the girl had changed.
They used to gossip about boys, their boyfriends, guys they hooked up with randomly.
It might not have been exactly appropriate student-instructor engagement, but a girl had to talk to someone.
And it felt good to laugh with young women, to be reminded that she hadn’t turned old; she could still swap jokes with the students.
But then Jessica went gay.
She’d see her in the halls or on campus, arm in arm with other girls, delivering slow kisses before separating to go to class.
She’d catch her from the corner of her eye.
She’d try not to stare.
Times had changed all at once, she realized. While I hadn’t been looking.
Chicas suddenly in heat for other chicas.
That was something that took getting used to, as feminista as she was.
Chinga, prefiero los hombres, muchacha.
She put it down to youth, a changing culture, new rules to live by.
Then summer came and summer went, and the new fall semester arrived, though the summer heat lingered in the air, covering the days in a slow to dissipate warmth.
Jessica’s red hair still waved luxurious around her freckled face, and she wore tight pink shorts and a sleeveless pink crop top exposing so much of her white skin.
I hope she wears sunblock is what Paloma thought.
“I haven’t seen you here in a while,” is what Paloma said.
Jessica shrugged.
“The thing is, you know. The thing is I quit smoking. For a while now. Last semester.”
Palomo blew out another cloud of vape.
“I really need to quit. I’ve tried everything. But all I do is eat and gain weight.”
Jessica swung her backpack from her shoulder, unzipped the top, and fumbled around until she took out a small, shiny pink box.
“I’ve tried every patch, every gum, and every vape out there. But these. These really work. They just. Help. Here, take these. They work. I haven’t wanted nicotine in months.”
“Did it make you want to eat a lot?” Paloma asked doubtfully.
Jessica winked at her.
“Nothing you can’t handle.”
IV
Paloma stared blankly at the telenovela, Mi Corazón: el Fuego y la Selva, playing out on her TV. Sor Juana Esmeralda, persecuted and chased from the Convento del Sagrado Corazón de la Virgen for her inexplicable pregnancy, had just found haven with la Mujer Salvaje de la Selva, at that moment mixing a secret herb powder to put in Sor Juana Esmeralda’s tea. Her phone buzzed loudly on the coffee table in front of her. She lifted it from the table and answered the phone, hearing the shrieking of Camila, Isabel’s older daughter, even without putting the phone on speaker. The shrieking didn’t end until Paloma was sitting behind her steering wheel, half-way to Isabel’s house, stopping only to get a pack of Reds from a gas station along the way.
Paloma didn’t remember tearing open the pack, she didn’t remember breaking the first cigarette as she pulled it out, and she didn’t remember lighting the second cigarette with the lighter below the dashboard of her decades-old Honda. She did remember turning the windshield wiper on suddenly to clear her blurry vision. She remembered turning it off just as suddenly, embarrassed. She wiped her eyes with her right hand.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Enrique had been killed.
These damned hills, these damned highways around here curved so much, wound so tightly, it was bad enough going around a corner. But these idiots around here, esos retrasados de mierda, drove so fucking badly. They swung out wide to the other lane going around a corner, it took nerves of steel to drive these roads. Enrique swerved, of course, Paloma learned later, holding Camila and Angela on the sofa and nodding her head at the police officer standing in front of his little group, explaining what had happened.
The little Bobcat on the long, steel trailer he hauled behind his huge Ford flipped or jack-knifed or did whatever a fucking trailer does when the truck in front of it lurches without warning. It flipped him off the highway. And rolled him down the steep hill into a thick tree dozens of yards down, snapping his neck and killing him even before the Ford stopped rolling.
Later, after the police left, Paloma mustered enough nerve to call Isabel.
“No puedo hacerlo, Tía Paloma,” Camila whined. “I just can’t do it. You have to.”
After that both girls fell silent, struck dumb and numb by the senseless finality.
Isabel, too, was quiet.
“I see,” she said after a long, long period of silence over the telephone. “Let me talk to the niñas.”
Angelita sat up to lifelessly answer her mother. Nothing in her wanted to talk to her right now. Nothing in her wanted to speak at all.
“Yeah?” she said.
Paloma went outside to the deck in back of the house to smoke another cigarette, the taste of the tobacco acrid and bitter in her mouth. The pack was just over half full. She couldn’t remember smoking that many, but her mouth was raw.
Just that morning she had his cock in her mouth, just that morning he was spraying her insides, and now he was gone, and now she’d never taste him again. She was so cold, that bitch, she could be so cold, that bitch, and Enrique needed so much, and Palomo had given him everything, denied him no part of her body. And he had fucked her good and had fucked her thoroughly and had ridden her hard, putting her away wet, like the bitch of a mare she was.
She’d never have the hot cum from his kind and gentle body again, hard and terrible and inexplicably gentle.
His body was broken now, dead and broken.
Soon it would be buried beneath the dirt.
“John Brown’s body is a-moulderin’ in the grave,” the words to the old estadounidense fighting song from the days of abolition and kinslaying floated through her mind. She’d heard it a few semesters ago, studying American folklore in a forgotten comparative lit seminar, and now the words returned without warning or even much sense.
She smashed the butt stub of her cigarette into a red coffee mug she grabbed from the kitchen cabinet, got up and went back inside. Angela and Camila were both gone, but she heard quiet sobs upstairs. Her phone lay on the coffee table. Paloma slumped more than sat down on the sofa, closed her eyes, and collapsed on her side.
The stars above in Heaven now are looking kindly down,
His soul goes marching on.
A flurry of loose, disjointed, and tangled thoughts flew through her mind, but eventually, eventually she fell asleep to weird and bitter dreams where naked bodies writhed beneath the gibbets of hanged American abolitionists.
V
Two weeks later, Isabel stared at the plastic bag holding Enrique’s personal belongings from his Ford. She had sold the rest of the wreckage for scrap, but some items she couldn’t bear to part with. A pair of worn leather work gloves, a map of the area, two postcards from Mexico, where his abuelo still lived, over 90 years old and still strong as a bull, as he liked to say when he came up for the wake and funeral.
His phone.
At first, the girls moved around the house like zombies, eyes pale and red and swollen. A few days ago, Camila started going out again, and Angela followed her. They’d come back late, intoxicated or stoned, but Isabel had grief of her own. She knew she had to snap out of it, for her own sake as well as her daughters. In the meantime she leaned on Paloma, and Paloma held her up.
But now Paloma was gone, teaching at that universidad of hers, and Isabel huddled her bones beneath the covers of her bed, unwilling and almost unable to get up. The bag of Enrique’s belongings rested on the floor, just in front the folding doors of their (hers now) closet.
Paloma.
They had never really been close as sisters, not as some sisters are. Unlike so many familias, theirs had not been large. Just the two hermanas, Isabel six years older and already graduated when Paloma entered junior high. Isabel never wanted for admirers, but she met (and fell in love with) Enrique her last year of high school and married him soon after graduation.
Life moved so quick and slow.
Camila came before Isabel wanted her, but long, long after her own mother had given up home.
“Dios, cariño, you’re already eighteen,” she’d fret. “You want your uterus to dry up and shrivel? Make Enrique a man, cariño. Make him a padre.”
At twenty she made Enrique a man, and then again at twenty-two.
It was enough for Enrique.
Strangely, Isabel thought she wanted more, but as the girls grew, she found enough to preoccupy her, and she ran her small house, and when Enrique’s business grew, she ran that, too. On her end of things. Phone calls, records, bills, emails. Later, the social media sites.
But she was frugal, and though she encouraged her husband to buy good equipment for the business, she rarely allowed money to be spent on other things. They moved into a larger house, but not much larger. A better neighborhood, but still the barrio. They drove used cars and watched the odometers grow with pride. They kept Camila and Angela clothed, and fed, and in her way she doted on them, and in Enrique’s way, he spoiled them.
Tía Paloma started showing up more and more often, and it was during the raising of the two daughters that the two sisters became close.
Tía Paloma, first of the family to go to college, first of the family to graduate, first of the family to get her master’s degree.
She started visiting during the summers, and she learned how to help Isabel with the business, and she became a kind of third parent to the girls.
Paloma.
Isabel shifted in her bed and glanced at the photograph on the night table. The three of them in bathing suits standing on a beach in the Gulf. It was taken years ago, when Isable could still wear a bikini without fear. Paloma stood on Isabel’s right, her arm around Isabel’s waist, leaning her head against Isabel’s shoulder, and Enrique stood on Isabel’s left, his arm drooped over her shoulders and neck. They were so very close, and both women wore their bikinis well, round hips and round chests in yellow bikinis and shoulder-length brown hair.
Tits full and pendulous, cleavage tight in the cups of their bikini tops.
We used to be so hot, Isabel thought.
They looked alike, Isabel and Paloma did. The same cheeks of their mother, the same lips, the same deep olive-brown skin. Isabel stood a little taller and wider, especially at the hips, and Paloma looked finer, sharper, almost stunning where Isabel boasted a simple lovely attractiveness.
Sexy.
Lately Enrique had not been making her feel that way.
And now he never would. A sharp pang of guilt stabbed Isabel. The father of your children is dead, and you’re thinking about fucking, puta?
Isabel rolled over, turning away from the picture of her dead husband, her sister, and herself, facing away from the bag holding Enrique’s belongings.
Then Enrique moved them up here, up to this horrible place, and then here he died, leaving his small family alone and unhappy.
Then a soft knock tapped at her door, and Paloma stepped into her room.
VI
Paloma had also changed in the two weeks since Enrique died. Her face looked haggard and worn, dark bags hung under her eyes, which gazed dull and lustreless red at the world, detached and uninterested. The skin of her face hung loose, as if she had aged years. Night after night, day after day, she had left her crammed and shared office at the university to visit her sister, foregoing grading papers, completely putting her students out of her mind.
Everything Paz wrote about Mexicans and death was bullshit, Paloma thought. Unas mamadas. If it was a joke, it was a bad joke, one without laughter. She didn’t want to dance with it, or celebrate it, or light fucking fireworks for it. She certainly didn’t want it to caress her or sleep with her. She wanted Enrique himself to sleep with her. And he was gone.
Death was no pinche toy for her, puta Octavio; it burned her lips, and she hated it.
She knew she’d have to snap out of it, and there were times when she thought she was close. Then the guilt of fucking her sister’s husband would flood her being, drowning her self-pity and misery. Her poor sister. Hermana. Mi hermana.
I’m so sorry.
She smelled openly of nicotine and tobacco now. She’d reached a pack a day, smoking two cigarettes in a row during breaks at her hideaway, chainsmoking away from campus.
She crawled into Isabel’s bed and hugged her over her blankets. She caressed her cheek and kissed the back of her head, her sister’s black hair, fine and disheveled. Dirty.
“Cariño,” she said.
“Oh god, you stink,” Isabel said, making blaching choking sounds and burying herself deeper into her covers.
“Come down, Isabel. I’ll make something to eat.”
But no matter how much Paloma pleaded with sister to get out of bed, she wouldn’t do it. She remained hiding under her covers.
Finally Paloma shuffled from Isabel’s bed and went to the kitchen.
She moved a few pots and pans around listlessly, stared at the inside of a cabinet, and went outside to smoke.
It was during her third cigarette that she heard someone come through the sliding door. She looked up and saw her sister.
“Let me have one, chica.”
Paloma hesitated only an instant before pulling a cigarette from her pack and handing it to Isabel.
They smoked in silence for a while, but the time together, the time outside, seemed to affect Isabel. Maybe it was the cigarette.
“I used to smoke in high school, Pigeon,” she said. “Maybe you don’t remember.”
Truth to tell, Paloma hadn’t paid any attention to what her older sister did back then. She had her own life, and Isabel was simply too old for Paloma to care about. She remember the fights with their mother, the long screaming matches between Isabel and her mother, ending only with Isabel slamming the front door as she left for wherever.
“I remember,” Paloma said. And maybe she did.
They smoked in silence.
“There’s a bag of his things upstairs. I just can’t bring myself to go through it. Stuff from his accident. I don’t know why I have it. Or what I’m going to do with it.”
Paloma smiled sadly at her sister.
“You’ll be ready one day, sister. You’ll be able to go through it one day.”
After a while, Isabel smashed a final butt into the wooden bench Enrique had built into the deck behind the house and went into the kitchen.
“I gave them up. I don’t like drugs.”
Paloma laughed to herself. It was Isabel’s way. Drinking, smoking, she eyed all that with suspicion acquired with age, with maturity, the responsibility of adulthood, of parenting.
“You stay out,” she said to Paloma. “I’ll cook.”
VII
Time passed, several days, a week, two weeks.
Life returned to the Nuñez household, a limited life, a facsimile of life. Isabel could walk. She could wake up, she found out with some surprise, and get out of bed.
She could stay out of bed, too, and that astonished her.
She could clean the house, go through the bills, go through what remained of Enrique’s landscape business. She didn’t know whether to keep it or to sell it, sell Enrique’s tools and equipment, the equipment he kept in the landscaping shop he he ran just outside of town.
He’d bought it from a cousin, an older cousin who was getting tired of the work.
Jorge was a big help, and he took over operations.
“Don’t sell it, Isabel. You’ll see. Business is good. Even in the fall, business is good. You’ll see.”
So Isabel didn’t sell.
Yet.
Paloma came by, almost every night, and by now they both sat outside, smoking cigarettes and drinking cerveza or tequila or vino, the upwelling of humor and sadness brought by alcohol as good a kind of emotion as any.
Then one night Paloma didn’t drop by, and Isabel, having nothing better to do, finally decided to go through the bag in front of her closet. The bag she never touched. The bag she never moved, tainted as it was by Enrique’s death.
Most of it was too trivial to notice, but then she saw his phone.
She grabbed it and turned it on, but the battery was dead. She pulled a charger from her phone and plugged it into Enrique’s, plopped down on her bed and opened his phone, looking through the calls.
A lot of calls from Isabel, some from Paloma, a lot, a lot of customer calls, Isabel supposed.
She opened his photos, excited to be able to see his face again, pics he’d taken of the family. She scrolled through everything. A few pics surprised her. She wondered why they were there. Pics of Paloma. But by herself, not with the family. Isabel wondered when they were taken. The she saw the video files. The folder was empty except for one video, and when Isabel played it, she played it again. She played it a third time, because her eyes were lying to her, and because no such thing could be possible.
But it was Paloma’s head bobbing up and down, and Paloma’s mouth sucking on the cock phone, sucking it deep into her whore mouth, slurping the cock like the slut she was, and it was Enrique’s voice Isabel heard.
“That’s right you dirtly little whore,” the voice of Enrique said. “Take that cock into your greedy little whore mouth.”
The words seemed to have driven Paloma crazy, and she renewed her attack on Enrique’s cock with vigor. And then Isabel saw how the cock went still, Paloma stopped moving her mouth up and down, and how Enrique, with a last effort shoved his cock deep into her mouth while groaning into the phone.
She couldn’t see it come out, but Isabel had no doubt.
Not the way Paloma slowly started sucking the cock again to Enrique’s groans, almost painful and pitiable.
“Oh god, puta. Oh god. Oh god.”
That whore of her sister had gulped down every last drop of her dead husband’s semen.
VIII
What did she think was going to happen, Paloma cursed at herself.
It was another two weeks or more since she went to Isabel’s house only to find her sister once again bundled in her covers. Isabel didn’t speak. But Paloma saw the phone. She turned it on and saw the video Enrique had made of the last blowjob he’d ever get.
Then Isabel spoke.
“Get out. Get out of here, you fucking bitch. You fucking dirty cheating whore.”
Paloma fled.
Every word Isabel hurled at her was true, and she couldn’t protest, couldn’t defend herself.
She was a fucking whore. La puta la más puta de las putas. Claro que sí.
Paloma stared blankly at Mi Corazón: el Fuego y la Selva.
She was up to two packs a day now. Chainsmoking as soon as she got home. Her mouth burned, and her throat chafed, but she didn’t care. Putas like her didn’t matter. Putas like her could rot in hell.
Sor Juana, now enslaved by La Mujer Salvaje, moved about the bruja’s hut in a white diaphanous gown, her pregnant body clearly outlined beneath the transparent fabric. Her tits were swollen and heavy, and she padded to the bruja’s bed, where La Mujer Salvage embraced her, stroked her swollen belly, and kissed her tenderly on the mouth.
“Mi corazón,” she said. “Mi corazón encantado.”
She picked up the pink box, still unopened, and wondered whether she should try one of the patches.
Just to see if they helped.
That girl Jessica had asked her about them several times lately, always seeming to pop out of nowhere, always showing a lot of skin, despite the cooling weather, and always looking at Paloma a little too lecherously.
As a feminista, claro, Paloma didn’t mind dykes.
But as a woman, they made her stomach lurch.
If you could speak of the biggest dyke on campus, if such a thing were so, then Jessica would be the biggest dyke on campus.
Paloma kept looking at the TV.
At least Sor Juana and the bruja were getting some action.
It had been a little more than a month since Enrique passed, and Paloma hadn’t fucked anyone since that day.
She was getting itchy.
Miserable and itchy.
IX
Finally Isabel called.
Camila and Angela had spun out of control, and Isabel needed help. Even from her whore of a sister, she needed help. That cunt, that puta was the only family around here, and the only one who seemed to exercise any degree of influence over the girls.
For some reason, they listened to her.
For some reason, they listened to Tía Puta.
Tía Panocha.
Tía Cocksucker.
Isabel paced the wooden deck, smoking her enésimo cigarette.
That fucking bitch got me hooked on these. She fucked my husband and got me hooked on drugs.
She was in no mood to curb her hyperbole.
“I need help,” she said. “We need to talk. I don’t think. I don’t think I can ever forgive you, but I need your help. You owe me. Please come over. Por favor, hermana mía. Las hijas son locas.”
So Paloma went over.
She didn’t have a choice; she needed to see her sister, needed to know they could still return to something like normalcy. That something like family was still possible.
When she saw Isabel, she doubted anything like that could occur now.
Isabel hated her.
She could see the hatred in her eyes.
But Isabel held the tongue of her hatred, and they both stared at each other in the livingroom, Paloma on the couch, Isabel perched in Enrique’s armchair.
And for a second, for a brief moment, Paloma felt like a kid again, a niñita facing the stern reproach of a stern parent, her stern mother, regal and proud and tolerating no misbehavior.
Oh, she’d misbehaved, all right.
And seeing Isabel’s look, so much like their mother’s, she knew a pretense of tears and sorrow would not get her out of it.
Paloma swallowed and looked at her lap.
“I’m. I’m so.”
“Don’t,” Isabel rebuked her. “Just don’t.”
Paloma nodded solemnly, trying not to laugh at her absurd situation despite the awful weight of guilt dragging her spirits down. It had been decades since anyone had sat her down to scold her. Mastering her mood, her emotions, she listened to Isabel’s litany of complaints about her daughters, about Camila and Angelan.
“I know they’re drinking,” she said. “Even Angela. Even Angela comes home drunk now. And I know they’re with boys. And I know what they’re doing with those boys. A mother knows, Paloma. A mother knows.”
Suddenly Isabel erupted in tears, huge convulsions that shook her body, and she threw her head in her hands, trying to wave off her sister, but her sister wouldn’t hear of it.
Paloma rushed to Isabel’s side, the soft whoosh of a dove in flight, and she knelt beside her sister’s chair, throwing her arms around her sister’s neck as the older sibling collapsed in her worry, her grief, and the frustration of parental impotence. It was a momentary lapse in hostilities.
Isabel quickly recovered herself and pushed Paloma away from her, but the younger sister remained kneeling beside Isabel’s chair, refusing to let go of her sister’s left hand.
Isabel glanced askance at Paloma.
She’s trying, Isabel told herself. The little whore’s trying to make up for. Being a whore.
The betrayal stung, accompanied as it was by inescapable feelings of guilt, of worthlessness. Had she been a better wife. Had she been sexier, hotter, more romantic, more understanding, more attentive, then maybe her slut of a sister wouldn’t have been able to seduce her husband.
She looked at Paloma’s full, sensual lips, and she recalled Enrique’s wandering eye.
And very faintly, very gently, almost imperceptibly, she squeezed Paloma’s hand.
God, she hated her.
But she could understand her too.
Paloma stayed kneeling after the fashion of a woman at rest, legs tucked under her as she sat half on her hips and half on her ass.
No, Isabel thought. I need Tía Cunt now more than ever. For Angela and Camila.
So Isabel told Paloma all about the girls, how they went out, how they came home, drunk or stoned or worse, clothes torn, hair disheveled, reeking and angry.
“I need to smoke,” Isabel said, getting up from her chair. “Join me?”
They went out to the back deck and lighted their cigarettes, trying to relax, trying to calm themselves, trying to find a peace that would not descend.
Finally, Isabel threw an unfinished cigarette onto the deck and ground it into the wood with the toes of her shoe.
“This isn’t working,” she shouted, exasperated. “I can’t believe you got me hooked on again after all these years.”
It was an unfair accusation, but Paloma accepted it.
“There is something,” Paloma replied, digging into her purse. “I mean. I’ve tried everything. Hice todo, hermana. Nothing’s worked. Nada. This girl at school, she was in the Spanish class I teach last year, she gave me a box of patches. She said they really work. I haven’t used them yet. I mean. It’s kind of weird. But if you think. I mean, if you want to give them a try. I’ll try them with you.”
Paloma carefully opened the pink cellophane of the shiny pink box, opened the box, and handed a shiny square of pink foil to her sister. She retrieved one for herself.
“What, now? Eres loca, Pigeon. You don’t know what they’ll do.”
“It must work, Isabel. She used to smoke with me all the time, but now I never see her smoking, and she told me she doesn’t even feel the faintest desire to smoke. Or to use any kind of nicotine. I think we should try it.”
Isabel nodded.
“Where do we put it?”
Paloma turned around and pulled the back of her shirt up to her neck, exposing her back to Isabel.
“Put it somewhere just below my shoulder, and I put one on you in the same place. Make it hard to get so we won’t be tempted to take it off.”
Paloma yelped and shivered at the freezing contact of the pink patch, but a feeling of warmth, calm and soothing, quickly replaced the cold.
Isabel turned around and the sister’s repeated the performance, Isabel yelping in her turn at the cold sensation.
She dropped the hem of her shirt, turned to face Paloma, suddenly grinned and squeezed her sister in an affectionate embrace.
“I hate you so much, Pigeon. I don’t think I can ever forgive you.”
She let Paloma go.
“But I love you too, hermana.”
Just then the front door slammed, and the sisters heard the loud voices of the girls.
Camila and Angela were home.
X
They were both clearly drunk.
Angela leaned against Camila for support, and when Isabel and Camila entered the living room, looking serious and upset, both teenagers burst out in derisive laughter.
At once Isabel broke into a long complaint, her tone agrieved and hurt.
It only made the girls lash out even more derisively.
“Oh god, Mom. You’re so pathetic. Angela and I were just having a little fun. Could you be any more dramatic?”
Isabel continued to remonstrate with her daughters, but they just shrieked with laughter as they stumbled past the distraugt woman.
“You’re such an idiot, Mom,” Angela hissed at her.
Suddenly Paloma flew across the room and stood between mother and daughter. She faced Angela sternly, fixing the girl with a look utterly different from any expression Angela had ever seen their aunt wear.
“Cállate, pendeja!”
Camila would have laughed, Angela wanted to laugh, but the laughter died in her throat, seeing the look in Paloma’s eyes. Isabel, moving around and seeing her sister, recognized it.
Paloma wasn’t the first in the family to wear it.
Mamá Pilar used it to maximum effect on Paloma, but Isabel remembered it well. It had daunted her, too, before her own rebellion became too strong to resist. It had never been used on the hijas, and they didn’t know what to make of it.
It shocked them a little of their intoxication, enough to get them upstairs, enough to get them if not subdued, then at least calm enough to go to bed, quiet enough to put away the seemingly inexhaustible supply of anger they now carried at all moments.
When Paloma, once again Tía Pigeon, closed the door on Angela she bumped into Isabel.
“I can’t do this without you, sister,” she said. “Please. Can you spend the night? Would you spend the night?”
It was Friday, Paloma had no class to teach in the morning, and she could get new clothes the next day.
So she settled into the guest bedroom and when she went to the bathroom, Isable showed her a new toothbrush on the bathroom counter.
The girls’ clothes littered the bathroom floor.
“You’ll have to share with the girls tomorrow morning,” she warned as she picked up the laundry. “Get up early and get in first. Or you’ll have to wait forever.”
The next morning she got up late and would have had to wait forever, but her impatience drove her to her sister’s bathroom, where she took a long bath. Drying herself off, she found clothes laid out for her on the bed. Isabel’s clothes. Jeans, panties, socks, blouse, bra. A little loose for Paloma, but they’d do.
They were clean.
And that’s just about all that really counted.
But Paloma skipped the bra.
XI
A new routine quickly established itself in the Nuñez home. Paloma returned every night after class. She rolled a big luggage case behind her that first night, unpacked her things in the guest bedroom, insisted on helping Isabel in the kitchen, and absolutely refused to let the hijas leave the house.
“What?” screamed Camila. “You can’t do that!”
“We don’t have to do what you say!”
But they came to the dinner table all the same, and if Isabel snatched the briefest glimpse of a smile on the lips of Camila or Angela, she bit her own lip and guarded her optimism, knowing the irrepressible mood swings of teenagers.
That night they all watched a movie in the living room, all of them on the sofa, Enrique’s chair empty. It wasn’t a happy time, it wasn’t a joyful experience by any means. But it was an experience, and they were having it together. As a family.
Isabel couldn’t have been more grateful.
She boxed her anger and her hurt into a little cardboard box, drew the twine around the package, neatly tied it, and shoved it into the furthest reaches of a bottom drawer behind sweatpants she’d never wear.
All week long the house regained its fragile appearance of normalcy. The girls took to Paloma, were genuinely glad of her presence, and genuinely glad too of the imposed discipline, as easy it would have been for them to discard it, ignore it, and continue to go wild.
The truth was that their behavior had scared them; they were their father’s daughters, and he had raised them well. He would have been disappointed in the both of them, could he have known. Paloma had made them remember themselves, and the drunkenness, the going out stopped. They had exams to study for, homework to do, grades to maintain, and futures to plan.
Two things, no three things surprised Paloma that week.
First, her itchiness was gone.
All that horniness, all that need to feel a man’s body over her, under her, inside her—it all vanished. Not that she felt numb or sedated or dimmed. If anything she felt more alive, more aware, quicker, sharper.
Second, her nicotine cravings vanished.
Not dampened, not dulled, not curtailed, not eased. They vanished, just like her sex drive. She didn’t even feel the need to put a cigarette, a vape pen in her mouth. Not even a little chicle de nicotina. No need for nicotine or smoking at all. Nothing. Nada.
Zilch.
Thirdly, and much more importantly and much to her delighted astonishment, Isabel was also hooked on Mi Corazón.
It was on Thursday that she found Isabel sitting on the couch, eyes glued to the television, wearing loose shorts and a baggy t-shirt, under which her large boobs wobbled freely.
Paloma didn’t really take note of that.
How they both had just stopped wearing a bra.
How they both just pitter-pattered around the house with their girls hanging free and easy, covered only in the cloth of whatever shirt they wore.
They were kind of like a married couple by this point.
In a way.
Isabel and Paloma in the kitchen, getting dinner ready for the kids, or Isabel having dinner ready for Paloma, making the kids wait for Paloma to get home from a late class. She even fussed after her on Wednesday, when Paloma had to go to the University to teach her evening class.
“It’s too much work, Pigeon. They work you too hard. At least take these tortillas to keep you from starving.”
The tortillas had a little bean and chicken rolled up in them, frijoles con pollo, and Paloma hugged Isabel, grateful to be reprieved.
Now Paloma came downstairs from a long bath in Isabel’s bathroom, the only room with a tub, and gleefully exclaimed when she saw what Isabel was watching.
“Mi Corazõn! My favorite. I love this show. It’s so. Such a soap opera.”
Isabel patted the seat next to her, and Paloma, dressed only a short pink terrycloth robe, snuggled next to her sister.
The girls were at Ramona’s house and were safe. Isabel knew Ramona’s mother well, and she allowed no boy to visit. Ramona’s mother absolutely forbid any kind of alcohol or drug. So the girls were safe.
Both Isabel and Paloma could put their minds at rest.
XII
Jessica, la pelirroja, caught up to her after class one day.
“So,” she asked,”how’s everything going? I don’t see you sneaking a smoke any more. Does that mean? Are you wearing it?”
Jessica leered at her, eagerly, expectantly, excitedly.
Jessica’s excitement put Paloma off somehow, but she smiled and nodded.
“The past week now,” she said. “Me and my sister both.”
She didn’t know why she added that last part. Surely none of this was any of the coed’s business.
Jessica bit her lip.
“That’s so cool. I just know it’s going to work for you. And for her. You’ll never want to smoke again.”
Then Jessica turned around and trotted off, Paloma watching the swing of her wide round ass encased in tight pink leggings like a second skin.
Biggest dyke on campus, she thought. Almost indifferently.
At night Paloma would sleep in the guest bedroom, down the hall from the two sisters. At first she didn’t notice the smell, but after the third night she realized she couldn’t take it anymore.
In the morning she asked her sister about it.
“Hm? Smell? I didn’t notice anything.”
Paloma insisted.
“I can’t sleep up there. I’ll just throw some pillows on the couch. I’ll be fine. That room. It’s just so. Stuffy. Or something.”
That was on Thursday.
Now, as Paloma yawned against Isabel’s shoulder, the two of them engrossed in the schemes of La Mujer Salvaje, she wondered how much longer her sister was going to stay up.
Sor Juana’s term was reaching its limit. Soon she’d give birth to the child la bruja insisted would be a girl. Agents of the Iglesia del Nilo had gone through the nearby village, terrorizing the population of paisanos and campesinos, but no one gave up the location of the wild woman’s choza.
The show ended on a cliffhanger; it always did.
At that moment Camila and Angela burst through the door, shouting at each other. But it was normal shouting, and both girls were quite sober.
They quickly vanished into their rooms.
When Isabel stood up, Paloma yawned, stretched and fluffed her pillows.
Isabel stretched her arm out, holding her hand out for her sister to take.
“You don’t have to sleep on the couch, Pigeon. Sleep in my bed tonight. It’s been so empty without.”
She didn’t need to finish the thought. Paloma didn’t want to hear his name either. Too much anger and sadness had filled their hearts lately. Too much anger, regret, and shame.
“Are you sure, chula?”
It was their abuela’s favorite word, and Paloma rarely used it.
“I’m sure.”
Paloma trundled sleepily after her sister, holding her robe around her. She was so tired. So sleepy.
She dropped her robe as soon as she reached Isabel’s bed and crawled beneath the covers.
Isabel noticed her boobs hanging freely.
“Do you need a shirt?” she asked. But Paloma was already snoring.
XIII
Paloma woke, momentarily confused, her arms wrapped around her sister, whose back was turned toward Paloma’s chest. Paloma felt the warm skin of her sister’s body on her tits, and she looked down puzzled. Realizing she had fallen asleep without bothering to put on a shirt, she slowly extricated herself from her sororal embrace. Isabel shifted, pushing her body against Paloma’s and holding Paloma’s palm smashed against her own breasts.
“Mm,” she said. “Don’t go yet, cariño. You feel so good, and it’s been so long. I’ve missed you.”
Paloma smiled to herself sadly and kissed her sister’s bare shoulder softly.
“I’m sorry, honey. I’ve got to get ready. You’ll just have to keep on waiting.”
Fully awake now, Isabel shot up, clutching the blanket to her chest, leaving Paloma to face her sister topless.
“Oh my god. I’m so embarrassed. I thought.”
Paloma glanced away and saw the picture frame on the night table turned over, face down.
She didn’t say anything.
Isabel watched her sister get out of bed, her boobs swaying. She leaned over to pick up her bathrobe, showing her full ass to Isabel, the lacy strip of her green panties caught in the crack between her two ass cheeks. Paloma slipped on the robe and dug her panties from her ass crack.
But Isabel’s mind swirled with the image of her sister’s mound hanging between her thighs, just below the concealed asshole, her puffy labia extended past the narrow strip of green satin. It all looked so animalistic, so mammalian. Isabel caught her breath at the idea of her sister being a fully sexual creature, and for a moment she understood Enrique’s attraction.
“Tía Panoche,” she whistled after her.
Paloma whirled around, shocked by the epiteph.
“I’m sorry?”
Isabel fell back on the mattress and laughed.
“Auntie Pussy, Auntie Pussy, Auntie Puss.”
Paloma shrugged her shoulders and left the room.
“You’re so weird.”
Without discussion, without even mentioning it, Paloma started sleeping in Isabel’s bed every night. Isabel, visibly comforted by the presence of someone else in her bed, regained much of her old spirits. She went through the bills, called Jorge for updates on the business, and began reasserting control over her deceased husband’s operations. Paloma, encouraged by her sister’s revival, also showed a new bounce in her step, something the red-headed Jessica picked up on.
She seemed to be everywhere, winking at the instructor whenever they passed in the hall, bumping into her in restrooms, standing behind her in line at the campus coffee shop. They even started taking breaks together between classes, and Paloma found herself enjoying the red-head’s attention, enjoyed being around younger women, proud that she could still be sought after, that she hadn’t aged out of student enthusiasm.
She made sure to wear a loose top at night.
That direct contact of her sister’s skin on her bare tits just felt so.
And anyway.
It was just so.
Weird.
She found herself staring at the girls on campus more and more, female students, female instructors, watching how the moved, talked, gestured, noticing the sway of their bottoms as they walked, the smoothness of their bare thighs and calves, the natural good round softness of their faces, so unlike a man’s rugged and brute features.
Which was funny when she thought about it.
She used to love that about men.
She never looked at them now, and when they did make their presence known (unavoidable when you had to teach them or work with them), her mood bristled with a sense of annoyance and even something close to.
Disgust.
She used to always flirt with them.
Used to.
Just last week wasn’t it?
It seemed like forever ago.
But her sex drive was still zilch. Nada.
Nothing.
Still, she could see why Jessica got so turned on by women.
They were quite lovely.
I’m mean, if you were into that sort of thing.
The girls took to Paloma sleeping in their mother’s bed with the same concern they greeted news of a new sub for social studies. Not much.
If anything, they understood. Their mother had been so lonely lately, and they knew that the sister’s had been fighting until very recently, and it just seemed sort of natural.
Neither Palamo nor Isabel seemed embarrassed, so that meant their was nothing to be embarrassed about. Because parents were worse than teenagers at hiding, well, things that needed to be hidden.
Mostly they just didn’t think about it.
Ramona’s new friend Sarah was just so awesome.
It was Thursday night when Camila and Angela begged to be able to spend the night at Ramona’s house.
“Is Ramona’s mom going to be there?”
“Yeah.”
“Promise? Do I have to call her?”
But Angela and Camila both bore Isabel’s scrutiny, and the mother didn’t bother to make the call.
So Isabel and Paloma were alone that night, alone for the season finale of Mi Corazón.”
A little over two weeks had passed since they both started wearing the pink patches, a little over two weeks of putting the little pink patch on each other, raising the shirts up to let the other put the patch on their back, then not putting on a shirt until the other put a patch on their soft skin, somewhere below the neck.
Lately, Isabel had started biting her bottom lip whenever she felt Paloma’s soft hand smoothing the patch against her bare back.
Lately, Paloma started to feel a little.
Turned on?
It had been so long, why not?
So long since she’d felt anything, any kind of arousal at all.
That morning, when the first premonition of hot arousal hit her, she brushed it off, and it quickly passed.
Isabel’s fingers so gently, so tenderly stroking, almost caressing that sensitive area between her shoulder blade and neck. Paloma could feel Isabel’s warm breath nuzzling her naked shoulder, brushing her naked skin like fine silk. And when it was over, Paloma felt, for the first time in weeks, moisture and warmth growing between her thighs.
“I need to get laid,” she thought at the time.
“What’s that?” asked Isabel who didn’t quite catch what Paloma had said.
“Nothing. Just muttering.”
But she didn’t. She didn’t need to get laid. The thought of a man between her legs, fucking her clumsily, rudely, thoughtlessly just held no appeal.
And strange as it may sound, she really couldn’t think of an alternative.
Now the two of them were snuggled into each other, Paloma once again a her short pink terrycloth after a long stint in Isabel’s bath, and topless, covered only by the loose belt of her robe. Isabel wore a long tee shirt over her panties, but neither woman wore a bra in the house.
Last week, the show had ended just as black-robed agentes de l’Iglesia del Nilo burst down the door to the bruja’s cabin, breaking it from its hinges, just as Sor Juana began her labor. Tonight the show picked up where it left off.
Paloma huddled closer to Isabel, alarmed.
Her bathrobe fell open, slightly. The side of left breast was fully exposed almost to her nipple. Isabel caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of her eye. She tried to look away, but she soon found herself staring deep with her sister’s cleavage, as if seeing for the first time how lovely, how wonderful, how beautiful her sister’s bosom was.
Isabel’s breath grew shorter, more ragged; the beat of her heart quickened. She tried to look away and thought she did, but her eyes remained glued to the bronzed, smooth lines of Paloma’s breasts. Just then she realized that her dry lips had parted, and that she was licking her bottom lip. She forced her eyes to the television.
The pink patch below her neck burned a little, sending a warm thrill throughout her body.
She wanted to touch it, maybe even to peel it off, but the burning sensation felt good. Necessary. Real.
She’d leave it on.
It was good to leave the pink patch on.
The bruja’s cabin was empty; los agentes had been deceived.
They rushed into an unused shack, loose papers fluttered in the wind made by the breaking of the door, cobwebs hung from corners, what furniture stood in the cabana was broken and covered in dust. Broken crockery was strewn on the dirt floor, and a green snake slithered through a hole in the far wall, leaving the agentes to stare with confused expressions at the derelict space surrounding them.
Meanwhile, in what looked like the bruja’s cabana, La Mujer Salvaje hovered over a reclined Sor Juana, her belly extended, clearly in the anguish of el parto. Sor Juana lay on her back, her nude body gleamed with the sweat of labor, her face was pulled and contorted in pain. Her thighs were parted and her knees were bent, and one of the bruja’s four ayudantes, topless but wearing a long, beaded skirt, knelt at the foot of the bed, preparing for the babe’s exit from the safety of the maternal womb.
Three other ayudantes, topless like the woman caressing Sor Juana’s thighs with ointments and tinctures, stood at the side othe bed, swaying and chanting, running their hands over the woman in the middle shaking a sort of maraca fashioned from a big dried and hollowed gourd. A white powder or dust flew from the maraca thing as the ayudante shook it, and the two ayudantes on either side of the woman, as if drugged, utterly enrapt in their groans and chants, kissed and fondled the shaker of the maraca.
Typically, Isabel would have turned the television off at this part. Even Paloma, feminist as she was, disliked this sort of thing, preferring to speed through the show (streaming) or rolling her eyes during broadcast.
Now, however, the sisters stared transfixed to the screen, unable to take their eyes off the sensual animality of the strange ayudantes and the hot sexuality of the wild woman, the witch, bending over Sister Juana, caressing her cheeks, her brow, her swollen tits, whispering into her ear, brushing her lips against the pregnant woman’s earlobes, so tenderly, so soft, so magical.
Sister.
Juana was a sister.
And the ayudantes called themselves sisters in earlier episodes.
The pink patch just below Paloma’s neck grew hot, a sweet burning on her spine that sent waves of warm pleasure over her skin and through her body, muscle and bone.
Women were so sexy.
She hadn’t really noticed that before.
Not really.
But they were.
So sexy.
Like that pelirroja, that Jessica.
God, she was hot.
Caliente.
The biggest dyke on campus.
Paloma scooted closer to Isabel, her lower robe parted, exposing her legs, and Isabel placed her hand on her sister’s thigh, her body flinching at the searing contact of her palm on Paloma’s naked flesh. With each passing second, Isabel felt a new, bizarre surge of arousal, an onslaught of lust and desire she rarely experienced in her life.
No.
Never.
She’d never experienced anything like this before.
It all happened so suddenly, so fast, so muy rápido, so hot, so caliente. She could smell Paloma’s female sexuality, the heat of her body, and she knew even as the lust, the desire burned through her, that it was a woman turning her on. Because it was a woman.
So sexy.
So hot.
She wondered if this was how a man felt around a hot woman, a sexy woman, a woman as sexy and beautiful as Paloma, and then she stopped wondering because the very idea of men faded from her mind, her brain raging in the heat of lust for her sister.
Isabel’s hand moved up and down Paloma’s thigh, wanting so much more, so much more than the touch of her skin but so overwhelmed at even this slight contact.
She could smell Paloma’s pussy.
She wanted so much more, but even this slight contact overwhelmed her.
And drove her mad with more desire.
Her hand moved on its own volition up and down Paloma’s thigh, delighting in the smooth soft brown skin of her sister, so warm and yielding and muscular. So sexy and poderosa.
Paloma trembled at Isabel’s touch.
The women, the sisters writhing against each other as La Mujer Salvaje fondled Sor Juana’s swollen tits and kissed her on the mouth even in the agony of parto captivated the Spanish instructor. Her eyes flitted from woman to woman, greedily drinking in every exposed inch of their skin, greedily devouring the vision of their dark and engorged nipples, their gleaming bodies and swaying hips, so round, so sexy, the glistening sweat pouring down their smooth and muscular legs, so soft and hard at the same time, like a woman is soft and hard.
The cries coming from the writhing trio sounded aroused and painful, a sexual, erotic version of the plaintive cries coming from Sor Juana as the fourth sister knelt between her legs at the foot of the bed, holding her thighs spread wide, coaxing the child to the world of daylight, de luz.
It was so feminine and erotic, so entirely female, the culmination of the pregnancy, and that thought, the thought of pregnancy turned Paloma on even more, and when Isabel touched her, she flinched, tightened, pressing her thighs together, but she didn’t try to evade her sister’s hot caresses.
Her sister.
She was too turned on to resist, and she didn’t want to. And before she became aware of it, she spread her legs, shifting to give her sister access to her secret parts.
She bent her left leg, lifting her foot to the sofa and turned her pelvis to Isabel.
She loosened the belt of her robe, pulled her robe apart and let it slide from her shoulders as she leaned against her sister, nuzzling her lips against the soft skin of Isabel’s neck.
My big sister.
La mayor.
She trailed her lips over Isabel’s neck, going just below her jaw line, leading her lips up to Isabel’s earlop, and nuzzled and kissed her sister’s skin with swift butterflies, lightly touching Isabel.
Isabel, la mayor, swelled with winds of lust blowing inside her like a tempest. Her left hand glided across Paloma’s thigh, caressing her knee and then moving upward to stroke along her inner thigh. She knew Paloma wanted her now.
The little slut.
The fucking puta.
She threw herself at my husband, and now she’s throwing herself at me.
Isabel realized she was shaking as her hand moved closer and closer to her sister’s pussy. Heat emanated from her center, and Isabel could feel the warmth of Paloma’s body grow. Inch by inch her hand sneaked closer, a little velero blown by a desperate gust, and Paloma was now bucking her hips towards Isabel’s hand, her thighs spread so tight Isabel could see her perineal muscles stretched like cables.
Her pussy gleamed with her juice, and Isabel reached her hand out, closing the final distance, to touch her sister’s naked cunt.
She’s so wet. She’s so wet my fingers are covered in her slimy pussy.
Isabel couldn’t believe how hot Paloma was. Her pussy practically scalded her fingers as she slid them over the slippery slopes of her vagina, feeling for the first time in her life what another woman’s area felt like. Paloma was humping at her now, desperate, making little whines of complaint, but Isabel shook her head.
Trembling with arousal at Paloma’s butterfly lips on her neck and ear, she jerked her head away.
“You like that, don’t you whore?”
Paloma’s brown eyes widened as she stared at her sister in astonishment.
“My husband fucked you, and now you want me to fuck you too, right puta?”
Paloma’s eyes were already hooded again, she stared at her sister with unfocused pupils, her need to cum grown so fast and so big, she couldn’t even think. The need to be touched by a woman, the need to touch a woman.
“You had his cock and now you want to taste my pussy. You want my pussy, don’t you slut, mi hermana lesbica?”
Paloma’s mind buckled.
Her world change so suddenly, so quickly, so drastically, she couldn’t catch her breath. All her arousal, all her sexuality, her raw libidic need to fuck, so restrained for the past few weeks, came roaring back. With this difference.
She needed a woman.
Somehow she knew she needed a woman, and just being next to her sister drove her crazy with the need to touch her, to taste her, to kiss her, to make love to her. To fuck her.
And to be fucked by her.
Lesbian.
Dyke.
Rug muncher.
Tortillera.
Mi hermana.
Incesto.
You want to taste my pussy, don’t you slut?
Paloma whined and nodded her head wildly, vehemently, needfully.
She did.
She did want to taste her sister’s pussy.
No. She needed to taste her sister’s pussy.
Isabel slid the length of her hand over Paloma’s quivering pussy trembling like a pigeon, a dove. Paloma spread her legs wide now, moving to stretch her right leg over the back of the sofa and behind Isabel. Her other leg dropped to the floor, and she leaned on her elbows, her eyes pleading with her sister to give her what she needed.
“Please, Izzy. Please.”
But Isabel continued teasing her sister, letting the flat of her hand float over her sister’s steaming cunt, hot like boiling water, como agua para chocolate, and Paloma groaned in frustration and arousal.
She reached for Isabel’s hand to grind it into her boiling hole, but Isabel slapped her hands away.
“No!”
Isabel teased Paloma’s clitoral hood with her thumb. Juices oozed, fluids flowed, and secretions poured from her box, her ragged vaginal lips were wide, extended, lewd, and swollen at Isabel’s constant ministration, and finally Paloma gasped with pleasure as Isabel bent a finger into her hot and slippery cunt.
“Oh god. Oh god, Izzy. That feels so good. That feels so nice. Oh my fucking god, keep doing that. Keep doing that!”
Isabel bit her bottom lip and smirked at Paloma grinding her nasty pussy.
“She’s so pretty,” Isabel said to herself. “Even her fucking pussy is gorgeous.”
Isabel slipped a second finger, her index finger, into Paloma’s shaking cunt, joining the long middle finger already there.
She started pumping her fingers in and out of Paloma.
Her sister’s pussy tightened around her fingers and thrust forward trying to snag them as her sister withdrew them completely. Her hole gaped wide, hungry, starving. Aching to be filled.
“Please,” she begged. “Please put them back. Please fuck me. Fuck me, Isabel. Fuck my pussy.”
Her chest heaved, and her pleadings came out in a staccato, chanted in a weird tattoo of a prayer.
“Fuck me. Fuck my pussy. Fuck me. Fuck my pussy.”
Isabel stared at the slimy juices glittering on her fingers.
With her sister still wearing her short, baggy tee-shirt, Paloma gazed in affection and lust at Isabel’s full cleavage, her glands hanging down as her sister bent over her body, showing her tits displayed in the long hanging neck line. She smeared some of Paloma’s cunt drizzle on Paloma’s thick and sensual lips, and then she forced her fingers, coated in Paloma’s vaginal secretions into her mouth.
“Taste yourself, dyke. Your first taste of pussy should be your own.”
Isabel lay on top of Paloma, her warm body pressing down on her sister, and her mouth, lips parted in an open leer, hung inches away from Paloma’s lips sucking off the juices of her own cunt, moaning around Isabel’s fingers.
“So good. I bet your pussy tastes so good.”
Paloma’s eyes were closed, and then she opened them to look deeply into Isabel’s eyes.
“I bet my pussy tastes even better,” Isabel taunted.
She was on fire.
In a few minutes she had gone from your average wife, ex-wife, widow with kids, straight, aching for male companionship, the companionship of her husband, her poor husband, and their strong and regular sex life, happy for it, happy about it, taking him deep inside and enjoying, genuinely enjoying his grunts as he shot his load inside her, to this: a depraved and wanton incestuous whore, hungry for female flesh, even her own sister’s flesh, starving for the puta’s sex, her pussy, her tongue.
She was a whore.
The patch below her shoulder grew hot, spreading its heat throughout Isabel’s body, suffusing her body in lesbian, Sapphic arousal.
Her sister was a whore, she’d fucked her ex-husband, her poor deceased husband, sucked his cock and sucked down his cum all on camera, all on video, letting herself be recorded like the whore she was. A slut without shame.
And now she was going to fuck her.
There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that she was going to fuck Paloma, her little Pigeon. She was going to fuck her and eat her out and taste her cunt and, oh god, she was even going to stick her tongue up her ass, she needed her so much, she needed that tight, sexy, school teacher body, sitting at her desk and showing off those legs to all the little girls at their little desks gazing up at her with bright eyes filled with desire and admiration.
All those little girls hot for teacher.
All those slutty college girls hot for their profesora.
So turned on.
So aroused.
So wet.
All those little wet pussies, waiting to be licked.
Then Isabel leaned in and touched her lips to her sister’s mouth.
When Isabel shoved her own pussy-coated fingers into her mouth, Paloma’s mind, already heaving precipitously on the edge of reason, rocked, shuddered, and toppled into a vast and wonderful pink abyss, where Paloma was no more, and Pigeon ceased to exist. She was merely a greedy lesbian mouth, endlessly sucking the juices of her pussy, needing only to kiss and taste pussy, pussy, pussy.
And when Isabel’s lips touched her lips, still sucking the glorious secretion of her cunt, she opened her mouth, and Isabel’s tongue slipped inside. A woman’s tongue, a woman’s mouth, a woman’s kiss. So beautiful. So good. So right.
That it was her sister’s mouth meant nothing to her.
That it was her sister’s hot lesbian mouth, her sister’s hot lesbian tongue, and her sister’s hot lesbian lips kissing her own, gliding blissfully over her lips, so warm and wet, their thick, full lips colliding and sucking on each other only threw fuel on the Sapphic fire blazing in her mind and body, raging wildly in her pussy, her cunt, with her sister’s fingers still pumping in and out, an irresistible piston Paloma ground her groin against.
She was so close to cumming already.
Isabel was in ecstasy.
Paloma’s mouth was so hot, and her lips were so soft, and her tongue at once so hard and yielding, so wet and fleshy, it felt a thousand times more satisfying than the kisses her Enrique would sometimes give her. Isabel wanted to kiss Paloma forever, to lose herself in this otherworldy bliss of carnality.
Su boca, su lengua, sus labios ardientes, todas estas cosas femeninas la volvieron loca con deseo.
She’s driving me crazy. I want her so bad. I need her. I need her whore mouth on my pussy.
On my lesbian pussy.
Just thinking that sent electric thrills searing through her body, shocking her with its intensity.
Lesbian.
“I’m such a lesbian now,” Isabel thought. “For my sister. For any woman, maybe. Quizás. Cualquiera. Porque no?”
She couldn’t even think it strange, couldn’t even consider it bizarre. It was just a fact. Yesterday she was strictly into men, if she even thought about it, missing her Enrique as she did.
Tonight, she turned lesbian.
She knew it with such an irresistible force of truth, such an irresistible certainty, that she fell in love with the thought of it.
The sound of their kissing filled the living room, and Isabel began to groan, to murmur, adding her sounds of love and arousal to Paloma’s.
“She’s such a slut, such a dirty little whore. Such a shameless little puta of a dyke. And I need her little whore mouth on my dyke cunt.”
And with that thought, she lifted her mouth from her sister, sending one last charge of her tongue into Paloma’s mouth to swipe against her sister’s tongue, and she sat back on her knees and heels, pulled off her tee-shirt, and let her loose bronze tits, marrón como café con leche, bounce and spill into view.
Paloma reached to touch them, but Isabel slapped her hands away, lay back, spread her legs out and around Paloma, and pulled her sister to her.
“I want your mouth on my pussy, hermana mía. Ahora.”
And with those words, Isabel led her sister’s head inescapably towards the center between her thighs, hot and wet, waiting for Paloma’s hot mouth, Paloma’s slut tongue.
Paloma, for her part, passed into regions she could find no words for. A fine, brown fuzz covered her sister’s pubic area, her lips were wide and extended, surrounded by the puffy flesh of her outer labia, which formed little creases where her thighs met the outside of her cunt.
It was a beautiful cunt.
Paloma knew now that all pussies were beautiful, but her sister’s pussy? It defied description, and Paloma knew without the slightest shadow of a doubt that it owned her, that she would serve her sister’s delicious cunt throughout the days and nights of her life.
As well she should.
She had betrayed her sister, and she had betrayed her sister’s cunt. She had fucked and sucked the husband; now it was time to fuck and suck the husband’s wife. Her sister. How did you make up for an act of betrayal? By enslaving yourself to the betrayed. How did you make up for betraying a cunt? By enslaving yourself to that cunt.
The scent of her sister’s womanhood swallowed what little remained of Paloma’s mind. Independent thought ceased; Paloma’s face bent towards its task; her tongue stretched forward, eager.
One, two, three tentative swipes with the tip of her tongue were all it took to convince her. She was hooked. A small tremor ran through her body, and she used her hands to push Isabel’s thighs apart. Her sister’s skin was so soft, so smooth, so nice; her palms caressed her sister’s legs on their own volition; pleasure saturated Paloma’s mind.
Isabel’s pussy tasted heavenly, a sharpness melting into a suave and pleasant warmth. Like cilantro on unseasoned beans, warmed on the stove. A little salt only, just a pinch before her sister slapped her away, her hot hand on her ass.
Oh my god.
I want her in every way possible. I want her hand on my body, her body. It’s her body now, my body is hers.
Paloma’s mouth sucked on the wrinkled folds of Isabel’s exquisite pussy, and her tongue ran over the soft, yielding edges, amazed and happy at the juices pouring from her sister’s volcanic cunt.
“That’s it, whore,” she heard her sister say. “Suck on my cunt, puta. Brother fucker. Cuñado fucker, but you’re a sister fucker now, aren’t you slut?”
Paloma’s head bobbed on Isabel’s hot hole, and when she felt Isabel’s hands pressing the back of her head harder against her soaked pussy, a new tremor ran through her. Her sister was so strong, so poderosa.
Isabel’s strong hands caressed Paloma’s head. Her fingers drifted lovingly through the waves of Paloma’s dark hair. Paloma heard Isabel murmur in a soft voice full of affection.
“Hermana mía.”
Tears rolled down Paloma’s eyes, and she lapped with a renewed vigor matching her older sister’s love.
She’s been through so much.
She deserves this.
I need to show her how much I love her.
The evening went on, and Paloma learned how to please Isabel.
Isabel learned how to give Paloma instruction, both in word and by moving her hips and groin to encourage her sister.
Paloma learned quickly, eagerly. She licked around the sides of Isabel’s slit with the flat of her tongue, lapping the fat labia like a dog, then she tickled her inner lips with the tip of her tongue, tapping her hood before sucking the top of Isabel’s pussy into her mouth, pulling on it with her lips and licking the hot, steamy, dripping insides of her cunt with her tongue-tip.
Suddenly, Isabel grabbed Paloma’s hair harshly, threw her backwards as she stood up to straddle her sister’s face, fling Paloma backwards against the arm of the sofa. She knelt over her sister’s head and ground her cunt against Paloma’s mouth. Paloma tried to keep licking, but the force of Isabel’s hands and thighs were too strong; her face was smashed too tightly and too hard against her sister’s pussy to do anything but hold her tongue inside of her sister’s cunt while Isabel fucked her face, pitching her clit hard against her mouth.
From time to time Isabel slid her pussy over Paloma’s mouth, giving her time to suck in a quick breath.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, puta. I’m cumming. I’m cumming so fucking hard on your whore face.”
She banged Paloma’s head hard against the cushioned arm, not caring if she hurt her or not.
I deserve this, Paloma realized. I’m such a whore. I fucked her husband. I deserve this. She can fuck me any way she wants.
She winced as Isabel yanked the hair on the top of her head, fucking her face hard, then she felt her sister sink her fingers inside her own cunt. She couldn’t guess how many. It felt like a lot.
“You like that, baby? You wanna cum with my pussy on your mouth, bitch? You’re so fucking wet, puta. Licking me must have really turned you on, huh?”
Paloma had no idea she was so wet. She’d been concentrating so much on what her sister needed, she gave no thought to herself, her own needs, but when Isabel stuck her fingers inside her, she spasmed.
Oh my fucking god.
Dios mío.
Paloma spread her thighs and bucked her hips at Isabel’s intruding hand, welcome, so welcome inside her aching hot pussy.
“Por favor,” she tried to say, her mouth muffled by the furry vulva glued to her face.
“Bueno,” she heard Isabel say. “Puta bitch whore dyke.”
It didn’t take long.
Either Isabel knew what she was doing, or Paloma had been on the verge of an orgasm all night long, because the climax came quickly, so quickly, catching the both of them off guard. Paloma convulsed in the shock of the pleasure, all the good feelings, overwhelming her. Her body literally quaked as if in a seizure, and strange noises exited her mouth.
Isabel watched her with astonished fear.
“Easy, girl. It’s okay, baby. I’m here. I got you. I got you.”
Isabel moved her body alongside her sister’s shaking form, embracing her from the side, kissing her face, her cheeks, her brow.
“Cálmate. I got you.”
Eventually, Paloma recovered from her orgasm, but tears still welled in her eyes. Isabel kissed her again on her lips. Paloma’s face glistened with the smear of Isabel’s juices.
All of sudden, Paloma broke into open weeping, tears flowed from her eyes, and her chest heaved.
“He’s gone, Isabel. He’s gone.”
Isabel ran her hand through Paloma’s hair and kissed her tears.
“I know, baby. I know.”
Paloma’s weeping faded almost as abruptly as it came, and her big sister rocked her in her arms.
“But we have each other,” Isabel said quietly. “We still have each other.”
XIV
At first she thought she was mistaken, then she wondered if somehow the patch was to blame. When a second month was almost up, she began to suspect, and when the vomiting started, she more than suspected. The blue line only confirmed her. Her what? Fears? Hope? Excitement? Depression? Annoyance and frustration?
Yes.
She didn’t know what to say to Isabel, how to explain it.
She couldn’t even imagine what the girls would think.
By then, Paloma had become a fixture in the Nuñez family. She’d spend the night two or three times a week, sharing her sister’s bed. They tried to behave, try to maintain discretion, but the noises couldn’t be fully dimmed. The girls didn’t seem to notice. Or if they noticed, they didn’t seem to care.
They just liked having Tía Paloma over.
Their mother seemed happier, livelier. She had regained her confidence, her authority.
She didn’t press the girls, and the girls in their turn never came home drunk, stoned, or pregnant.
Their grades went back up.
One thing surprised Paloma, and that was the ease in which the girls accepted their mother’s new-found lesbianism.
Oh, she didn’t bring anyone home, but she didn’t hide it either, and when she had a date for the evening, she talked about it and even asked Angela’s or Camila’s advice on what to wear.
“Your aunt’s babysitting tonight,” she’d say. “I probably won’t come home.”
“Is she pretty, Mom?” Angela would ask.
“Oh my god, darling. She’s gorgeous.”
The girls would break into laughter.
Jealousy only slightly gnawed at Paloma, but she understood her sister’s need, her sister’s heat.
She shared that feeling herself, an irresistible desire for the touch of a woman.
La Pelirroja had been her first after Isabel.
Naturally.
The girl seemed to pop up wherever Paloma went, and it was either the very next day or the day after that first night with her sister that Jessica tapped her on the shoulder.
“Well,” she asked knowingly, her bright blue eyes glinting with lust and humor. “How do you feel?”
Paloma was standing in line at the new coffee shop that had opened recently, Female Mystique. It seemed a weird name for a coffee shop, but the name fit when she went inside. The place was almost empty, but the entire clientele was female.
When Jessica wrapped her arm around Paloma’s waist and felt the woman tremble, she knew it had happened.
Jessica’s lips grazed Paloma’s ear.
“Here?” she asked, “Or can you wait to get to my place?”
Jessica saw the turmoil in Paloma’s brown eyes.
“Here,” she decided. “Follow me.”
The red-head led her to the empty restroom. She locked the door.
The toilet had a lid, and Jessica steered Paloma towards the john.
Paloma wore loose jeans, and Jessica pulled the zipper of the fly downwards. Paloma caughter breath, biting her lip. She knew what she wanted; she wanted Jessica.
The biggest dyke on campus.
And the biggest dyke on campus was about to take her in the womens restroom of a public coffee shop, and she didn’t have the slightest worry in the world.
This is as it should be. I’m such a total slut for girls now. A real tortillera.
Jessica pulled her jeans down, then her panties, and pushed Paloma onto the closed lid of the toilet seat. She worked her jeans and panties off her feet and spread the older woman’s legs, baring her pussy to Jessica’s hungry eyes.
Jessica fished in her purse and brought out a long pink dildo, maybe eight inches.
“Get this nice and wet with your whore mouth,” she ordered the Spanish instructor.
When the cock entered her lips, she thought of Enrique, and when she thought of Enrique, she thought of Isabel, and when she thought of Isabel her pussy clinched, and she began to drip fluids from her open cunt. Paloma closed her eyes and sucked on the dildo as if pleasuring it, and Jessica’s mouth dropped open.
“My god,” she gasped. “It’s almost a shame you’ll never suck the real thing again.”
Jessica fucked the dildo deep into Paloma’s mouth, reaching her throat.
“But that mouth of yours is made for pussy now.”
Jessica lowered a hand to Paloma’s vagina and began to stroke her fingers through her hot wet lips.
“God, you’re so wet. You’re always wet now, aren’t you?”
Paloma nodded on the cock in her mouth.
When Jessica thought Paloma had made the cock wet enough, she pulled it from her mouth and lowered it to her pussy. She rubbed Paloma’s hood with the thumb of her left hand and pressed the bulbous tip of the artificial cock against the quavering hole of Paloma’s pussy, rubbing it up and down until Paloma’s hips began to grind against the cock, her exposed pussy aching to be filled.
“That’s it slut. Let your pussy beg for it.”
Her pussy didn’t have to beg for long.
La Pelirroja shoved the cock inside her with one movement, sinking the tool deep into Paloma’s moist depths, and Paloma cried out in pleasure.
“Oh my god. Please. Please fuck me. Please fuck me, Jessica.”
Jessica wore a button-up blouse, and with a smooth movement of her left hand, she continued fucking Paloma while unbuttoning her shirt. Her breasts spilled from her blouse. She lowered a tit to Paloma’s mouth.
“Kiss my tits, baby. Suck my nipple. Show me how much you love a woman’s body.”
Paloma’s lips wrapped around the hard nipple, sticking from Jessica’s full tit. She raised a hand to caress, cradle, fondle, and massage the other tit, delighting in the feeling of the younger woman’s hot skin, so smooth and soft. So yummy.
Paloma giggled at the word in her mind.
Then her mind exploded as Jessica’s hand returned to rub her clit with her thumb, pounding the dildo over and over into her raging cunt. Paloma sucked on Jessica’s boob and fucked her hole at the dildo pummeling her pussy.
Finally she could take it no more.
The climax came so rapidly, so easily. It was like she was rebuilt to cum, and cum she did. She lifted her mouth from Jessica’s tit.
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. I’m cumming. I’m cumming, Jessica baby. I’m cumming so hard. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.”
Paloma’s cunt spewed juices over the pink dildo, over the toilet seat, juices and fluids soaked her thighs, and Jessica laughed happily.
When her orgasm finally subsided, the red-head pulled her off the toilet and held her in a tight embrace, kissing her neck, trailing her lips over her shoulder, then up her neck again, to her ear; she kissed her hair and followed a long line of butterfly kisses to Paloma’s mouth, where her kiss became earnest and deep, and her tongue entered the Spanish instructor’s mouth, and they kissed for what seemed ages.
Until someone knocked on the door.
Jessica pulled away and slapped Paloma’s behind playfully.
“That’s just to get you through the day,” she said. “I expect payback. And payback’s going to be heaven, girl. For me. And for you.”
Her skin was so white and pale against their skin, the brown skin of the two sisters, but Paloma loved seeing it lying on top of Isabel, thrusting her hips into Isabel’s splayed cunt, the black straps of the long strap-on criss-crossing her lovely white ass, so wide and full, not quite as round as Paloma’s or her dear, dear sister’s but full, and long, and wide.
Isabel raised her legs, knees bent, and cradled Jessica’s back, pressing her against the front of her body, her breasts heaving and her breaths pumping from her chest in short, ragged puffs of air.
“Oh, god, oh dios, oh dios mío. Fuck me. Please fuck me. Yeah. There. Oh yeah there. Harder. Fuck me harder.”
But Jessica aimed to take it slow.
She had waited a long time for this night to happen.
Meanwhile, Paloma knelt beside Jessica, a little behind the thrusting lesbian, her hand, her left hand, sliding across Jessica’s lower back, watching in fascination and lust as her new lover continued fucking her sister, and when Jessica’s face, her gorgeous red hair falling over the two of them like a tent, leaned in to kiss Isabel passionately, deeply, greedily, hungrily, Paloma smiled to herself.
My sister’s such a slut, she thought. But I’m happy for her. She needs this. She’s been so sad lately.
The contact of Jessica’s skin on her hand electrified Paloma, her brain swelled with the desire of it. Ever since that morning—what? This morning? Yesterday morning? She couldn’t remember; it all ran together now—when she woke up, arm in arm with her sister, breast to breast, waking up at the same time, eye to eye and lip to lip, she wondered how such a thing could happen.
It all had seemed so weird, so strange, so bizarre and unreal.
Lesbian.
Incest.
It all felt neither right nor wrong, just a neutral fact that she had somehow avoided all her life, but there it was.
She loved women; women aroused her something awful, and she needed their touch, and she needed to touch them.
With every passing moment of her hand on Jessica’s back, moving towards the rising slope and curve of her wonderful ass, her mind burned with that incontrovertible and growing fact: she loved fucking women.
It was natural.
It was the way things were meant to be.
Her hand swept over her round ass, sliding over the leather straps, and touched the warm split leading to Jessica’s delicious pussy.
Muy deliciosa.
Her sneaky fingers slipped through Jessica’s ass crack, and Jessica wiggled her ass as she pumped into Isabel’s cunt. Paloma listened as her sister grunted into Jessica’s mouth.
Such a slut.
Jessica groaned and murmured, drowning in the new pleasure washing over her; she loved this so much. She felt Paloma’s fingers creeping over her ass, and she raised her butt enough to encourage the girl, before slamming her dildo deep inside Isabel’s stretched pussy. Her tongue swirled against Isabel’s tongue, and their lips, covered in saliva, smacked against each other loudly.
“Please,” begged Isabel, “please fuck me. Please fuck me.”
Jessica knew Isabel’s mind was lost in the sensations, in the sheer lunacy of lust wildly reverberating in her mind and body; her words were without meaning: she was already getting fucked.
Paloma’s fingers, following the woman’s ass as it pumped up and down, touched Jessica’s asshole and hesitated. Jessica must have sensed the woman’s reluctance, because she lifted her mouth from Isabel’s in mid-kiss, Isabel desperating raising her own mouth for more of Jessica’s tongue, and encouraged her lover.
“Go ahead and stick your fingers in my ass, honey. Get them good and wet with your mouth, and fuck my ass with your fingers. It feels so good. You’ll see. When I do it to you, you’ll see.”
Jessica’s mouth returned to cover Isabel’s; Paloma sucked her fingers, licking them to slather her spit. Then she renewed her assault on her girlfriend’s asshole.
Probing with her middle finger, Paloma dipped her finger tip just a little into the warm hole of Jessica’s ass. She felt so dirty, so wicked, so perverted for touching the younger woman there, for touching her former student there, but she pressed on, listening to Jessica grunt as she sank her finger to its first knuckle.
So good.
So hot.
So dirty.
I have my finger in another woman’s asshole, Paloma thought. What’s happening to me?
Deeper and deeper her finger sank into la pelirroja’s asshole, rising and falling with the slow pumping of the dyke into her desperate sister. Paloma watched her sister’s legs tighten around the biggest dyke on campus, her soft skin so pale and milky, sweet like tres leches, pulling her lover tight against her brown skin, their full and glorious breasts pressed together as their mouths clung to eacher frantically.
Isabel’s toes were so close to her face as Paloma’s finger bottomed out in Jessica’s asshole, feeling the warm and dirty inside of Jessica’s shithole. She should have been disgusted, revolted, but she was so turned on now, so turned on.
Me gusta, no me disgusta, she thought, smiling and knowing she got the sense wrong. A momentary thought flashed through her mind, wondering if a grant would pay her to track the changes in the meaning of Spanish as it passed into Spanglish, assuming such changes existed.
Syntactically and semantically speaking.
Jessica’s mouth lifted again from Isabel’s heaving mouth.
“Stick another finger in my ass, baby. God it feels so good. I’m so close. I’m so close now.”
Jessica looked straight into Isabel’s brown eyes.
“I’m going to fuck you now, girl. You ready?”
Moments later, Paloma had three fingers shoved to the hand-hilt up Jessica’s asshole as the girl bucked, fucked, and rode her sister with fast, deep, hard strokes, jerking Paloma forward and backward in her wild movements.
“Fuck my pussy,” Jessica shouted at Paloma over her shoulder, “Get behind me and stick your other hand up my pussy, I’m so close, I’m so close now.”
“Oh god, oh god, oh dios, fuck me, please, please fuck me,” Isabel whined to the air, but she was already getting fucked; her pleas were desperate and senseless. The older sister’s face was covered in perspiration, and her dark hair clung to her skin, matted and wild as her head bounced and bobbed on the pillows under her.
Paloma scooted behind Jessica’s white ass, her eyes glued to the red fuzz covering the girl’s long and swollen cunt, her lips so wet, her fat outter lips hanging below her; she was an animal in heat, gorged with desire, lost in the moment of fucking Isabel, and Paloma wanted, needed, to be an animal too.
With most of the fingers of her left in Jessica’s asshole, she moved her right hand over the wet, hot, and puffy slit; her pussy was so hot, her pussy burned Paloma’s fingers, and Paloma loved it, loved feeling the heat of the woman’s desire, the heat of the woman’s needs, the heat of a woman, she loved it.
Two fingers slipped in easily, and then the third.
“Your hand, your hand,” gasped Jessica, “I can take it. I can take it.”
A fourth finger slipped in the bucking cunt, so wet now, her secretions flowing like the waters of a hidden oasis.
Jessica’s pussy opened like a great suctioning mouth sucking the Spanish instructor’s hand, and Paloma was amazed to see her whole hand sink into the red pussy.
Isabel’s toes danced just in front of Paloma’s open mouth, and Paloma, driven by a sudden urged, covered her sister’s big toe with her mouth, sucking on it as she used to suck on Enrique’s cock so long, so long, a lifetime ago. She kissed and licked all of Isabel’s salty foot, kissing the arched bony top of her foot, licking the concave sole of her foot, engulfing the entirety of Isabel’s toe row in her mouth because she could, she could fit her sister’s whole foot in her mouth if need be.
She could do it.
She sucked and sucked and sucked on her sister’s toes, feeling at once turned on and affectionate, worshipful, running her tongue over her sister’s nails, sinking her tongue between her toes, running her tongue over the padded flesh.
Isabel squealed.
She felt like a deranged rodeo cowgirl, riding a wild bucking steed. Jessica hammered Isabel’s pussy, and Isabel’s foot jerked from Paloma’s mouth as she spread her legs, pressed her feet into the mattress, and pushed her cunt harder and harder at the female cock pounding her.
“Make a fist, make a fist, make a fist,” Jessica screamed, but she was already cumming, cumming, cumming. Cumming by the fingers in her ass, cumming by the hand inside her raging cunt, and cumming by the ecstasy on the face of the woman below her, her face gleaming with sweat and happiness, cumming by the pleasure her shaft made in the cunt and mind of the woman below her.
Then Isabel came.
She screamed so loud, Jessica covered her mouth with kisses, and Isabel’s body quaked and shuddered in slowly dying eruption which gradually subsides under Jessica’s continual caresses, coaxing the older woman return to earth.
By that time, Paloma had removed both her hands, and Jessica motioned her to come closer. Jessica took Paloma’s left hand and stuck her long finger into her mouth, sucking and licking the filth; she leaned her head into Paloma’s head, sharing her hand, and pushed a dirty finger towards Paloma’s mouth.
She opened her lips. God help her, she opened her lips, taking in the finger and licking it clean, at once revolted and aroused; she still hadn’t cum, and she wanted to. She wanted to cum so bad.
Jessica saw the need in her eyes and pushed her backwards, next to her sister, pulling her legs around either side of her. She held the tip of her dildo against Paloma’s hole and pushed, sinking her cock in deeply.
“I’m not going to take my time. I’m going to fuck you hard. Isabel, sit on her face, facing me. I want to see you grind your asshole over her mouth. She loves licking ass. I know it. And she’ll know it too.”
Paloma spread her thighs and humped herself against Jessica’s thrusting dildo. Isabel sat on her face, and Paloma, unable to resist the desire, stretched her tongue out to lick her dear, dear sister’s asshole.
Isable growled.
This was something entirely new to her.
This was something she never even knew she wanted much less needed.
But having her sister, the cheating the man-stealing puta, the total tortillera whore, licking her asshole like the deranged slut she was, sent over the top.
Eat my shit, bitch, she thought as she ground her asshole into Paloma’s face. She grew more and more aroused, and Isabel began to slide her has back and forth, letting Paloma’s tongue move from her asshole to her pussy, her aching cunt, and back again, keeping her sister’s tongue working between the two holes, and when the gas inevitable exploded from her anus, she laughed.
Paloma retched and licked and retched and licked, and she squealed, more aroused than ever, totally humiliated by her sister and loving every minute of it, knowing she deserved it. The pounding of Jessica into her boiling cunt sent her so close to an orgasm. Her mind reeled and saw pink.
And then her sister leaned over and ground her pussy hard into her mouth, and Jessica increased the speed of her jackhammering thrusts, and then she came too. Paloma came, her screams muffled by Isabel’s pussy dripping over her open mouth, and Paloma’s tongue struggled to taste it all even in the midst of her great cumming.
The days passed like that, variations of a theme, a great lesbian theme, and Paloma and Isabel frequently shared lovers.
But they derived their greatest pleasure from the love they made to each other.
XV
At first she thought she was mistaken, but the swelling of her tits and belly couldn’t be explained, and when she finally told Isabel, she bit her lip and cried, fearing the worst.
But Isabel just embraced her, kissed her tears, and held her tight.
“Mi corazón, mi slutty corazón. My own husband’s child. And I’m happy for you. A mother. You’re going to be a mother.”
The changes came fast then.
Isabel wouldn’t hear of Paloma living alone, not in the cramped apartment, not on those miserable adjunct wages; she insisted on Paloma moving in.
The daughters didn’t seem to mind, and they delighted in Paloma’s growing body.
Isabel relented and let Paloma into the kitchen, where the younger sister proved to be not entirely useless.
Still, Isabel never let her cook alone.
It wasn’t long before the Camila and Angela learned the sex of the child coming into their house. A boy. A baby boy was going to be crawling under their feet in a matter of months, and then weeks, and then days. If they suspected it was going to be their brother, their half-brother, they never let on.
Although they begged to know who the father was, Paloma shook her head.
And then the day came.
Labor was painful, a little difficult, but the birth came quickly, and Paloma looked relieved and happy as she lay in her hospital bed, nursing her newborn. Isabel gazed down at the two of them, a strange, wistful emotion in her brown eyes, but she smiled and looked happy, too.
“I think he wanted a son,” she said. “He never said so, and he adored the girls. But I think he’d be happy right now.”
Isabel leaned over the nursing baby.
“Ernesto,” she said, “you must be very good to women. Como su padre.”
She glanced at Paloma and saw the laughter in her eyes.
“Well, maybe not that good.”
But Ernesto ignored the shrieks of laughter.
He was hungry, and an entire lifetime awaited him.