The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Week 1

Thursday

1. Wendy meets Sara

Wendy Love sighed judgmentally into the mirror. The face staring back at her, a long oval triangle with pronounced cheek bones supporting delicate, almond-shaped pale blue eyes peering alertly at the world, judged equally harsh. She pursed her lips together to make her broad mouth smaller. Her shoulders sat too far apart below her head, she thought, making her a freak with broad shoulders and a football-shaped head roaming the hallways of Kid Lester High like a modern Quasimodo, searching in vain for his Esmeralda, still walking her goat through the narrow alleys of medieval Paris.

Quasimodo was a humpback, not hydrocephalic, she admonished. And Brad Blake was certainly no Esmeralda.

Moby, the janitor, had already been there. The heavy odor of pine cleaner permeated the air, and she curled her nose. But the stainless steel gleamed, and the tiled floor glimmered, and the trash cans were empty, and that was the way Wendy liked things.

At that moment Sara Craft, in her gold and blue cheerleading outfit, burst into the restroom, flung her backpack on the counter near the sink furthest from the door, leaned forward to squint at the mirror and muttered.

“Bitch.”

“I’m sorry?” Wendy exclaimed.

Sara turned to face her.

“My mother.”

Wendy understood. She had gotten her own looks, most of them anyway, from her mother. She never quite forgave that.

“I was supposed to have that party.”

Wendy drifted away. Parties belonged to another world, another layer of the social strata in which she moved. She liked her layer, small but filled with a few close friends. Maddy Springer, Gregory Gregor, the yearbook photographer, and Trina Something-or-other.

But not Brad Blake.

No, he moved at least two layers above her own, paced and ranged through it, a tiger in a cage. Or ordered it, arranged it, a lord among lords, disposing their own kingdom as they willed and keeping the lesser layers, the lower layers, in check.

“Hello? Anyone home?”

Startled out of her thoughts, Wendy turned to leave.

Sara, standing on her toes, pushed her face close to the mirror to apply a new coat of pink lipstick to her full, round lips.

“Why don’t you wear makeup?”

Sara spoke to Wendy, but she continued to coat her lips with layer upon layer of glossy pink and did not turn her head away from the mirror. Wendy eyed the shiny pink coating from the corner of her eye. Then she smelled it, faint but not entirely overwhelmed by the odor of pine cleaner, a spicy aroma, vaguely reminiscent of cinnamon.

Wendy didn’t answer.

“You should, you know. You’d look awfully cute.”

Wendy again turned to leave.

“Wait. Let’s try something.”

Holding the black and gold lipstick tube in her right hand, Sara approached Wendy, and, slightly embracing her with her left arm, raised the tube to Wendy’s lips. Being a little shorter than Wendy, Sara raised herself on her toes. Her chest and torso grazed Wendy, who pulled away.

“Hold still.”

“But.”

“Hold still. Open your mouth a little.”

Carefully and gently, Sara ran the glossy, pink lipstick over the length of Wendy’s lips, parted half open for Sara. Sara swept the lipstick back and forth a few times, wiping the edges with the pinky of her right hand. Satisfied, she dropped to the flats of her white sneakers, twisted the tube of lipstick, and closed it with its black and gold top. She used both hands to steer Wendy back to the mirror.

“What do you think?” Sara asked, biting her lower lip.

Wendy stood looking shocked at her changed face. Although her face itself remained plain, her lips leapt out, vibrant and zealous. Her blond hair, pulled back in a long, free-flowing and unbraided tail, no longer accentuated the height of her forehead but brought the rich, full, sensuality of her lips into stark relief. Wendy caught her breath and started to stammer.

“I look.”

“No. You look great. Hot even. Sultry.”

Sara continued to hold Wendy close with her left arm. Wendy grabbed a tissue from a dispenser just to the right of the sink.

“No. Please, Wendy. Would you do something for me?”

Wendy’s hand hung in mid-air, near her mouth, ready to wipe away the lavish color. The two girls in the mirror could not have been more opposite, Wendy thought. The one, feminine, beautiful in flowing auburn hair around a face from which Sara’s hazel eyes, slightly rounder than Wendy’s, gleamed at the world in confidence, wearing colors of her high school, proud to belong. Her full breasts filled the top, and when she stretched her shoulders out, a small red piercing peeked out from below the hem of her sleeveless cheerleader top, a belly button piercing.

The girl beside the cheerleader, taller, gangly, broad-shouldered, dirt blond hair pulled back, forehead looming over what could only be described as a horse face made human, eyes set too far apart. But that blue, that pale blue. Wendy had to admit the Almighty got that part right. They were lovely, and she knew it. Wendy wore denim jeans and a non-descript blouse. Altogether unflattering and unremarkable.

“What?”

“God, they’re right about you. You just shine.”

“What?”

But Sara already dropped that thought.

“Wear it. Just for the day. The rest of the day. I just know you’ll love it, you’ll see.”

Wendy’s lips tingled, and began to warm up. She edged the tissue closer.

“I don’t know,” she replied, her voice trailing off.

Sara held the pale blue eyes of Wendy’s reflection with her own hazel gaze and squeezed the girl closer to her.

“Just for the day. You’ll feel better, I promise. Please,” Sara said, imploring the last word in a whisper.

Wendy furled her brow. She didn’t understand why Sara was taking so much interest in her. Sara ran in Brad’s circle, two layers higher in Wendy’s meteorology of Kid Lester politics. They had not exchanged more than two words last semester. Or this semester, for that matter.

Suddenly Wendy’s lips began to burn fiercely. With her tissue at the point of wiping the lipstick away, the burning dissipated, just as suddenly as it flamed up, leaving Wendy feeling relaxed, happy, and carefree. What was there to worry about? She dropped her right hand and smiled at Sara in the mirror.

“Why not?”

“Oh Wendy, thank you,” Sara beamed. She leaned up to Wendy, again rising slightly on her toes, and quickly kissed Wendy’s left cheek with her glossy lips, leaving a faint set of lipstick marks. She reached for Wendy’s right hand and trailed her fingers along the outside of Wendy’s own fingers, who gave a short intake of breath. Then she snatched the tissue from Wendy and wiped away the kiss.

“Oops,” she said smiling.

Sara gathered her makeup together in her purse, stuffed her purse into her backpack and shouldered the backpack over her right shoulder.

“Come on, Wendy. You don’t want to be late.”

Wendy hung back and gave one last look at her image in the mirror.

“I don’t want to be late,” she said. Then she also headed out the restroom to her locker on the way to home room.

The morning of that Thursday passed uneventfully, until lunchtime arrived. The cafeteria hummed, students mulled about, running, shoving, shouting, and laughing. Lunch workers stood behind glass counters in hair nets and vinyl gloves, sullenly slopping lunch onto waiting student food trays. Wendy wove her way through them, holding her tray. Turkey and gravy, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, and a stale roll. She held her tray steady, keeping the milk cartoon on the corner from falling off. As she set her tray down beside Maddy Springer, her friends hammered her with questions.

“That’s some pink,” Gregory burst out.

“You, you, you look,” but Maddy didn’t finish her statement.

“I like it.”

That last was said by Trina Something-or-other. Wendy gave her a quick smile.

“It’s the weirdest thing. That Sara insisted I wear it. Sara Craft.”

“Sara Craft!” Maddy exclaimed. “What’s she up to, I wonder?”

“I think she was just being nice.”

“Oh, Wendy, you think everyone is nice.” Maddy shrugged her shoulders.

“They’re not though,” said Trina Zschwinzscher.

“She is,” said Wendy. “I just know she is.”

Later that day, Wendy hurried toward 5th period Trigonometry, hugging the wall of lockers to avoid oncoming students.

Sara, still dressed in her cheerleader outfit, bumped into her.

“Oh, excuse me,” Wendy apologized quietly.

“No, it was my fault. I’m sorry. Hey, listen, can I ask you something, Wendy? I know we don’t really know each other, but maybe you’d like to hang out sometime?”

Sara bit her lip anxiously.

Wendy considered the invitation warily. Suspicious by nature, Wendy kept away from people she didn’t know. Even nice girls like Sara. Then she smelled a strange, wonderful odor, an exotic perfume perhaps, and her lips tingled for the first time since the morning.

“I’m going to the mall Saturday. Why not meet me there?”

That perfume. It reminded her of, well, what did it remind her of? Wendy’s lips tingled and grew warm. Something cinnamon and spicy. Wendy’s suspicions passed.

“Okay, I’ll come.”

Sara smiled brightly at Wendy, eyes gleaming with joy.

“Oh, you’re still wearing it! See, I just knew you’d like it.”

Then she drew close to Wendy conspiratorially. She leaned up into Wendy’s ear.

“Did you notice anyone staring at you today?” she whispered.

Wendy’s mind raced.

“No. Who?”

“You’ll find out. See you Saturday, Wendy!”

Sara squeezed Wendy’s hand before she ran off.

“Gotta go now. Practice.”

Wendy’s gaze lingered after her, watching as the hem of her short, blue and golden flutter skirt bounced against the back of Sara’s muscular, athletic thighs. Some girls just have nice bodies, she thought. No wonder all the guys fall over themselves around her.

At home in her room, Wendy lay on her bed, flat on her stomach, with her legs crossed and kicked up behind her, flipping through her Sophomore yearbook. Halfway through the book, the section opened to photographs of last year’s football season. She quickly found her favorite picture of Brad, helmet off in victory after the District Championship, lifted up on the shoulders of his teammates after having thrown a last-minute Hail Mary. The photographer captured Brad with his head thrown back in triumphant laughter, his sweat-soaked hair flat against his head and hanging until it the tips touched his shoulders.

Then Wendy noticed Sara in the background, caught in the moment of leaping and waving her pom-poms, one of her legs stretched high over her head, flutter skirt raised past her hips, the crotch of her white panties showing, stuck like that forever in a high school yearbook. Wendy couldn’t imagine showing off that much skin. She’d simply die of embarrassment.

The District Championship. It was as far as they’d get. It was as far as Kid Lester High ever got.

The garage door opened with a loud grumble. Wendy’s mother, Mary Love, was home from work. A few minutes later, Wendy sat up when her mother knocked on the door and opened it.

“Wendy, I’m home!”

A private joke, Mary intoned the phrase in the manner of Ricky Ricardo, the Desi Arnaz character. Wendy smiled at the lame joke and cringed inside, glad that her friends were not with her.

“Mom,” she protested.

But the smile on Mary’s face vanished when she saw Wendy’s lips.

“What on earth are you wearing, Wendy Love? Is that lipstick? And hot pink of all things. You know I don’t like you wearing make up at school. You just turned sixteen.”

“But Mom.”

“You have no business wearing that kind of lipstick at school young lady.”

“Fine, I’ll take it off.”

“But why are you wearing it in the first place?” Mary Love gained a reputation for not letting go of a subject once she hooked in.

“It was a dare, all right. Just a friend of mine. Just the last period. No one saw, okay?”

Mary stared at her daughter, then she sighed.

“It just doesn’t suit you. You’re pretty enough without it.”

Wendy’s mother closed the door, leaving Wendy to stand in front of her closet door, hesitating to wipe the lipstick off.

“No,” she thought. “I definitely look better with it.”

But she wiped it off and went downstairs to help with dinner.

2. A phone call from Sara

It turned out Wendy didn’t have to meet Sara at the mall. On Friday night the phone in the kitchen rang. Wendy ran to get it.

“Hey, it’s Wendy.”

Mary, overhearing from the living room, exclaimed, “Wendy Love, that’s not how you answer a phone!”

Wendy covered the speaker with her left hand.

“Mom!”

“Hey Wendy, what’s up? It’s Sara.”

Sara’s voice sounded different over the phone, deeper and breathier.

“I found your number in the phone book. You know, I was thinking. I could pick you up tomorrow. I mean, if you still want to go to the mall with me?”

Wendy feared that Sara would cancel. Relieved, she said, “Oh, yes. Yes, of course I do. That’d be great. Do you know where I live?”

“The phone book has your address, silly.”

Wendy chuckled.

“Oh gosh. I forgot.”

“So I’ll pick you up in the afternoon, then. Around two?”

“Sure. That’d be great.”

“Fabulous. It’s a date, then. See you at two.”

The phone line on the other end clicked. Then Wendy hung up.

“Who was that, Wendy?” asked Mary, curious.

“Just a friend from school. Sara. She’s going to pick me up to go to the mall.”

“Do you need money? How much?”

“I’ve got some left over from Grandma’s birthday present.” Grandma Emily didn’t give presents, she never knew what to buy, but she did give cash. Not a lot, not too much, but enough—if you knew how not to spend it all at once, and Wendy knew how not to spend it. If anything, Wendy held on too tightly to her cash, collecting it in a pink ceramic piggy bank she vowed to break only when she graduated.

“That’s nice.”

After brushing her teeth, putting her hair in a scrunchie, and changing into her pink and white cotton pajamas, Wendy crawled into bed, plopped her head against the pillow, and pulled the pin-striped, pink duvet close to her chin. Her mother insisted on buying the duvet. Wendy kicked against it, kicked against too much pink in her life, but her mother’s mind held firm.

“It’s a date,” she thought. Now that’s a funny way to put it.

3. Saturday at the mall, a makeover, and a gift of Pink Sunshine Spice lipstick

When Sara pulled into the Love driveway, Mary looked out the window and gasped.

“Does your friend drive a Mercedes, Wendy? How old is she?”

“Oh, Mom, she’s in my grade. Not everybody is poor like us, you know.” Wendy tried to hide the reproachful tone in her voice, but failed. Good, she thought. She needs to hear these things.

“Wendy Love, you’re not poor. There’s people right here in this town who don’t know where their next meal is coming from!”

“I gotta go now, Mom. I can’t have this conversation.”

You never can, Mary sighed to herself.

When Sara saw Wendy emerge from the front door of the squat, buttercream, two-story colonial, and trot joyfully down the short steps to her waiting car, she smile to herself. Yes, a lot of work remained to be done. A lot of work, but it only took a week to get her out of the house, she thought with satisfaction. But she still kept her lustrous blond hair pulled behind her head. She still wore plain, badly fitting, unimaginative denim. And Sara didn’t want to even begin to think about that blouse. But a body, a full, wonderful body of sloping, sweeping curves, hid under those plain clothes, and Sara wanted, no needed, to see what it could do.

“You’re not wearing your lipstick,” Sara said, chastising Wendy the moment she sat down in the leather passenger seat.

“Oh, Sara, I forgot. Wait. I don’t have any.”

“I’m joking, Wendy.”

“Anyway, my mother would kill me if she saw me wearing it. She already warned me once.”

“Really? That’s a shame.”

Sara put the car in reverse, backed swiftly from the driveway (without looking at the road behind her, Wendy noticed), stepped on the clutch, jammed the gear into first, and roared down West Pigeon Street, quiet and empty as usual, except for a few folks tending their beds or mowing their lawns, who glanced up reproachfully at the speeding German automobile.

“I’m sure we’ll change her.”

The mall hopped with activity, but Sara hooked her right arm through Wendy’s left arm and led her through the crowd of teenagers, mothers with prams, packs of boys looking for video games, old men dragging behind their wives, little girls squealing into shop windows, and little boys ducking slaps from their mothers or bigger sisters.

Wendy didn’t recognize any Kid Lester boys, but here and there she checked out one or two cute guys, in white shirts and jeans, dark hair and tight, muscular chests. None of them were as cute as Brad, but their chiseled biceps showed that they kept fit. Wendy imagined stroking her open hand along the hard muscle, caressing the strong masculine flesh. What were men like? I’ve never even kissed one, she thought.

I’ve never even had a boyfriend. And I’m in eleventh grade. I’ve never even had a date.

A few mothers disapproved of the two girls, especially Sara, who wore a billowing sundress, for the weather, warm even in late September, allowed light clothing. Less allowable, at least from the mothers’ perspectives, was Sara’s noticeable lack of a brasier. Wendy herself had noticed in the car, and considered remarking on it, but held her tongue.

Sara, she understood already, did Sara.

But she pulled it off, Wendy admitted. She really did. The low cut of the sundress revealed her adorable cleavage naturally, obtaining without seeking attention and even admiration, at least from Wendy, who could not help but peak from time to time, drawn more by the odd ornament hanging from a loose braided leather cord than any desire to look at her friend. Two rings hooked together each with a stick figure body hanging from the bottom. Wendy suppressed a giggle. Why would anybody wear stick figures joined at their fat heads? She’d ask Sara about it later.

And if the hardness of her nipples stood out from the thin cotton, well, what could you expect? They remained discreetly tucked within the confines of the dress.

Supremely confident herself, she inspired confidence. Wendy straightened her shoulders as she strode forward, arm in arm with her new friend. Sara took note, and her smile, already large and happy, grew even more large and happy. Suddenly she stopped and pointed at a stand in the middle of the wide main corridor of the mall.

“Hey Wendy, look! Do you know what that is?” She asked excitedly. She didn’t wait for a response. “They give out free makeovers there. It’s where I got my lipstick.”

A small cluster of girls with their mothers stood around the four-sided booth. A panel above one side of the booth proclaimed in large, pink floral letters, Therapeutic Transformations. Another sign above the adjoining side asked, somewhat aggressively, Are You Ready to be Changed?

A heavily but elegantly and professionally made-up assistant stood behind a free counter. Her auburn, almost red, hair flowed in waves around the woman’s familiar face, plunging down to the shoulders to splash over the sides of the woman’s neck. Light mascara, thin red eyeliner, and faint blue eye shadow showcased her slightly downturned eyes rather than garishly overwhelming them. She wore just enough blush to invigorate and pronounce the cheek bones below her temples, blush which smoothed into the contouring of the flesh of her cheeks to sharpen the angle of her round face. Altogether she looked stunning, imposing even, dressed as she was in a dark thigh-length skirt that hugged the contours of her hips and highlighted the curve of her ass when she turned. But the woman smiled genuinely when she saw the couple, still arm in arm, approach her counter.

“Can I help you,” she said, smiling pointedly at Sara.

“Yes, please. My girlfriend and I,” and here she beamed at Wendy, “are looking for something special in the way of lipstick. Something pink. I bought it before, but not here. Um. Pink Sunshine, I think it’s called.”

“Pink Sunshine Spice,” the woman corrected. “You know, it’s not just for everyone. Are you sure you want to use it?” She asked conspiratorially.

“Oh yes, please. Wendy’s just been dying to try more of it.”

The woman smiled at Wendy and retrieved a black and gold tube from below the counter.

“Well, Wendy, how about it? Would you like me to put some on you?”

To tell the truth, Wendy felt that lipstick’s absence ever since the evening her mother made her wipe it off. Something about it just felt right, and her lips felt parched, dry, and chaffed when she ran her tongue over them the next day, constantly checking herself in a compact mirror to make sure her lips weren’t burned. She had meant to ask Sara about it, but the cheerleader avoided her that day, spending time with her own group of friends. Once or twice she caught Sara’s attention, but Sara just smiled and winked and gave her attention to her friends.

She could at least wave at me, Wendy had thought. I don’t think she meant it when she asked me to meet her at the mall.

But now she was here, with her, at the mall, standing in front of a beautiful woman who held out a black and gold tube of pink lipstick. Her heart beat faster in her chest, thumping wildly beneath her breasts.

“Yes, please,” she said faintly.

“What’s that?” the woman asked.

“Yes, please, I’d like some.”

Sara laughed.

“Wendy, silly, you have to ask. Would you like the nice woman to put lipstick on you? Then you have to ask. Go on. Just ask.”

Sara nudged Wendy in the ribs playfully with her elbow.

“Yes, please,” Wendy found herself saying. “Would you put the lipstick on me? The pink lipstick?”

“I’d love to,” the woman answered. “Here, lean forward.”

Once again Wendy held her mouth open slightly while a strange woman applied lipstick to her upturned face. The woman leaned forward on the counter. She had left the top three buttons of her white blouse unclasped, and Wendy saw the cleavage of her breasts well up, pressing on the smooth edge of the countertop.

The woman skillfully, gently, and carefully ran the tip of the lipstick around Wendy’s lips, holding her chin firmly with the soft fingers, her polished nails digging just a little into the sides of Wendy’s jaw.

“There, purse your lips, then open your mouth again. Another layer should do it, I think.”

When she finished, she released Wendy, stood back, touched her chin, and nodded.

“Will there be a full makeover?”

“No, thank you. We’re going to do that at my place, aren’t we Wendy?”

Wendy’s lips burned, sending a thrill from her nose to her inner thighs. She closed her eyes, shook, tremored, quaked. She slumped forward and caught herself at the counter to prevent her from collapsing onto the mall floor. Finally she opened her eyes and regained her posture, shocked and scared at what had just happened. Then the shock and fear passed, and a wave of relief and relaxation rolled over her.

“Yes, we’ll go to your place,” she answered.

“I have one last case of lipstick left, girls.”

“Um, how much,” asked Wendy nervously. “I mean, I just need one tube.”

“Oh, Wendy, I’ll get it. After all, I asked you out.”

In the end, Sara bought more than a case of lipstick. She purchased a whole array of Therapeutic Transformations cosmetics, foundation, blush, highlighter, concealer, and contouring. She bought eyeliner and eyeshadow, and with her selections complete she offered a black and gold credit card to the assistant. Wendy didn’t recognize the logo, but the woman behind the counter did. The Diana Group.

Wendy turned her back on the makeup booth. She didn’t see Sara mouth the words, “Thanks, Mom,” to the woman behind the counter. Then, with her left hand holding the bag of cosmetics, she grabbed Wendy’s hand with her right.

“C’mon, let’s go home.”

Then she looked up at Wendy.

“Drop dead gorgeous. Just drop dead gorgeous is what you are.”

Wendy dropped her head, embarrassed and blushing.

“You’re going to slay all the guys at school. Or lay them.”

Wendy spluttered.

“Sara!”

“Just kidding.”

4. Later at Sara’s house, after trying on lipstick

“Now it’s time for makeup!”

“I’ve never put on makeup before.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll help you.”

Sara dexterously layered purple eyeshadow and black eyeliner over Wendy’s eyes. Then, after using an eyelash curler to extend her lashes, she applied primer to condition and further lengthen her lashes before carefully applying mascara. Sara took out foundation, blush and highlighter. Already having perfect skin, she left the concealer alone. Wendy sat still in her chair in Sara’s huge bathroom, while her new friend touched and tickled her face with an assortment of soft brushes. Unused to anyone grooming her, she stiffened at Sara’s touch, then breathed in Sara’s sweet perfume, so much like cinnamon.

“Hush,” said Sara, “I’m almost done.”

Wendy’s stiffness receded, almost to the point of relaxation.

Finished, Sara held up the pink lipstick.

“More?” she asked.

Wendy nodded eagerly.

After coating her lips again with pink lipstick, she smeared gloss over them and leaned away from Wendy to inspect the results of her labor.

“Now every guy will drool over you, you’re so hot!”

Wendy blushed as Sara applied the makeup on her own face. Then Sara stood behind Wendy, twirled three long strands of silky blond hairs, and wove a loose braid that she draped across Wendy’s right shoulder. After Sara finished, Wendy compared to her old self to this new, but eerily strange, her.

“Come over here, babe.”

Sara tugged Wendy’s hand and led her over to a large wooden cabinet. The slight touching a caused a strange tingling feeling in Wendy.

Sara opened one of the drawers, revealing a wide assortment of lingerie. She picked up a black and white frilly lace bra and a matching pair of panties.

“This set looks good.”

Wendy stalled.

“That looks kind of...”

“Slutty?” Sara suggested.

“I guess.”

“Oh, come on Wendy. Slutty is in. Besides, who’s going to know?”

“It is?”

“Sure it is. Now get those clothes off.”

“Right here?”

“Of course! It’s just us girls.”

“Here, I’ll go first,” said Sara.

Wendy looked away, but Sara stopped her.

“Wendy, don’t be afraid to look at me. You’re not going to jump my bones, are you?

Sara pulled the straps of her billowing sundress away from her shoulders, letting the garment fall to the floor with a quiet swoosh. Sara’s breasts bounced as she struck a little pose for Wendy, jutting her hip to one side while holding a balled fist just above the slope. Sara stuck her bottom lip out in a sensuous pink pout. Against her better judgment, Wendy stared in dazed astonishment at Sara’s hard nipples protruding from the wide, round area of her dark areolas. She entirely ignored Sara’s strange necklace.

Wendy laughed, hiding her embarrassment.

“No, of course not,” she said, but she continued to stand without moving to change. Sara slipped off her panties and put on a sheer set of blue lace panties and bra.

“Wendy, I can’t be the only one getting changed. That would be weird, don’t you think?”

Still hesitating, Wendy slowly unbuttoned the top of her jeans and slid them down past her round, curvaceous hips. Then she stopped and cast an anxious glance at Sara, who smiled encouragingly.

“Go on, it’s just me.”

Wendy slipped her jeans past her thighs, slowly, inadvertently enticing Sara with her slow seductive reluctance. Then, pushing her jeans past her ankles, she stepped out of them, almost gracefully, if not bashfully.

“Now your blouse,” Sara said softly and firmly.

Button by agonizing button, the sides of Wendy’s blouse fell open, and Wendy’s breasts, not quite as large as Sara’s but full, robust, and gloriously pear-shaped, tumbled into view, bound only by the white fabric of Wendy’s matronly brassiere. The curves of her hips flared out in the majestic form of the receiving end of an hourglass before inwardly sloping to narrowing flesh of her abdomen, then spreading out again in the expanse of her wonderful bosom, her breasts, her adorable and gorgeous tits. Then Sara turned her gaze to the crotch of Wendy’s panties, where a thick dark bush bulged, and a few stray pubic hairs wagged wildly behind the plain edges of her plain white panties.

Sara stifled an intake of breath, bit her lip for the umpteenth time, and chided the disrobed teenager standing in her bedroom.

“Just plain white,” sighed Sara. “We’ll have to change that. Try this!”

Sara tossed black satin frilly bra and panties to Wendy.

“Go ahead, put those on.”

“But I’ve never worn anything like those before.”

“That’s the point!”

Sara touched Wendy’s shoulders. Wendy tingled.

“Go on,” she breathed more than spoke. “You saw me.”

Slowly, awkwardly, as if something or somebody else controlled her hands, Wendy reached behind her and unclasped her white bra. The undergarment fell away, but Wendy continued to hold up the bra in front of her, covering her bare chest, unwilling to take this next intimate step. And then, even before Sara protested her qualms or encouraged her fleeting courage, something loosened in Wendy, and she dropped the bra to the floor.

“Bravo,” exclaimed Sara. “But now your panties.”

Wendy breathed deeply, laughed briefly, and with the same slow deliberate motions that secretly drove Sara wild, she pulled her panties down to her ankles, and stepped out of them, leaving them on the floor behind her. Unlike Sara, she did not strike a pose, but simply pulled the two pieces of black satin lace over her waist and over her breasts. Then she worried her new friend with an uncertain, doubtful look.

Sara nudged her towards an oval standing mirror.

“God, look how hot you are!”

Wendy gazed long into the mirror, appraising her body and stealing glances at Sara’s body, who saw, said nothing, and smiled.

“You look cute like that.”

“I do?”

“Oh, god, yes. Hot and cute.”

They both did. Both of their hair had been pulled back into a long braid which hung over their shoulders, the underwear of both exposed flesh and limb, concealing only the minimal of coverage. Then Wendy looked at Sara’s crotch and looked at her own. Sara shaved. Or at least trimmed neatly. She did not, and felt a sense of sickened shame. She swallowed, her throat tightened, but Sara did not embarrass her by remarking on it. She didn’t even seem to notice.

“Have you ever worn one of these before?”

Sara held up a little black dress, sleek, form-fitting, strapless, meant to reach only to the thigh below the bottom curve of her ass.

“No.”

“Figures. Here.”

Sara grabbed matching high heels from a nearby shoe rack.

Wendy stood clumsily in the heels, but Sara whistled.

“Don’t we look hot and sexy?”

Again the tingling feeling came when Sara touched her arm.

“I guess.” Wendy tingled again.

They spent the rest of the day, dressed up with nowhere to go, sitting on the couch in Sara’s game room, watching a romantic movie called At Play in Fields of Reeds. A new film to Wendy, she couldn’t decide whether the movie was supposed to be a comedy, a tragedy, a drama, or a skin-flick. Truth to tell, it boasted elements of all four genres. A side drama, a budding romance between two minor characters, both women, featured prolonged kissing and nudity. Wendy looked over to Sara to see if that bothered her, but Sara kept her attention focused on the large screen of the television.

The movie over, Sara surprised Wendy for the penultimate time that day.

“Do you have a DVD player at home?” she asked.

“Yes, of course we do.”

“In your room?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Sara said, “Did you like the movie? Do you want to watch it this week? You get a lot more out of it the second or third time you watch it.”

Sara ejected the DVD, placed it in its jewel case, and handed it to Wendy.

“Do you want something naughty?” she asked, managing to squirm while standing, gently undulating her hips side to side.

“Um.”

Cinnamon.

“Sure. Okay.”

Sara swept to her room and came hurriedly with a plastic bag.

“A magazine and another movie. One for the good girl, and one for a bad girl. A very bad girl.”

Wendy tingled.

She didn’t have to watch it, but she couldn’t refuse her friend. Not after everything she had done for her. Wendy took the bag, and the two girls walked to the garage. Suddenly Wendy stopped and said, almost shouting,

“But what about my clothes?”

Sara laughed.

“Keep the dress. You look too good to take it off. Unless you need to? I won’t mind.”

Wendy repeated the laugh.

“You,” she said.

“I’ll burn your old clothes. Especially the blouse.”

Sara’s Mercedes pulled into the Love driveway. Sara idled the car in neutral and focused her gleaming eyes on Wendy.

“Thank you for coming with me today, Wendy.”

“Oh thank you so much, Sara. It really meant the world to me.”

“And thank you for trusting me so much. That really means the world to me.”

With that Sara leaned over and kissed her solidly, firmly, and unmistakably on the cheek, leaving large, glossy pink lip marks. This time she did not wipe it off or say oops. She pulled slowly away from Wendy.

“There. I’ll see you next week. Don’t be afraid to say hi to me, even if I’m with my friends. They can be your friends too you know.”

Wendy felt the kiss burning into her cheek as she closed the car door behind her, she felt the kiss burning into her cheek as the German automobile once again roared down West Pigeon Street, felt the burn of that kiss as she walked on high heels through her front door, fearing her mother’s wrath, and hearing the shower of her mother’s bathroom running, she felt the burn of that kiss as she stood in front of the mirror, in a short black dress under which she wore satin underwear. She gazed at her made-up face, the striking color of her eyeliner and eyeshadow, the glossy black of her mascara, the shining pink of her warm lips, and the hot pink kiss on her left cheek, still burning when she crawled into bed, wearing only the covering of her satin panties. Her bra she had removed to gaze at her own breasts. Were they as wonderful as Sara’s? She fell asleep, the pink lips of Sara’s kiss still burning into her dreams.

5. Sunday morning, Wendy’s bedroom

Week 2

Sunday

Wendy awoke the following morning to sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains of her window at left side of her bed. She opened her eyes, rubbed her hands across the smooth flesh of her upper thighs and realized that had she slept in her panties. Momentarily confused, she wondered where her pajamas bottoms were, and then the strange day with Sara flooded back to her mind. She sat up, stretched, rubbed the sides of her torso, and discovered her striped pajama top missing.

I slept in the nude, she thought. Or practically. Weird.

Casting her glance idly around her bedroom, the strange face reflected in the mirror of her closet door, which stood just a little away from the foot of her bed, caught her attention. Startled, Wendy shuddered. Then she crawled across the length of the bed to get a better look. Had Sara been in the room to drink in the sight of a topless Wendy, clad only in the lacy black satin underwear she gave her, on her elbows and knees, back arched to bring the contours of her thighs, her calves, and her ass to dazzling perfection, face resting in her hands as she peered at her reflection, well, she was not there.

Streaked and smeared cakes of mascara, eyeshadow, eyeliner, highlight and blush ran across her face in all direction, but the pink mark of Sara’s kiss remained, a little blurred from contact with her pillow, on the left side of her face, not far from the corner of her mouth.

Wendy touched the pink kiss thoughtfully with her hand.

I didn’t even wash the make-up off. Good thing Mom hasn’t seen me.

Grabbing her terrycloth, she trotted down the hall to her bathroom. Wendy’s mother occupied the master bedroom of course, alone since Wendy’s father Bruce dropped dead of a sudden heart attack while inspecting power lines for the state. But there was little chance of bumping into her. An open area divided one side of the second floor 3-bedroom colonial from the other, connected only be a narrow mezzanine at the north end.

Good lord, Wendy thought, studying the pink lipstick on her mouth, still glossy and glimmering in the wavering fluorescent light above the tall and wide bathroom mirror, frosted and tarnished at the edges with time and humidity. She slipped off Sara’s lace panties and inspected them suspiciously, holding them a good deal away from her face. Is this normal, she asked herself. Do rich girls just strip down and change in front of each other without a care in the world?

And she had done it too!

Took off her pants and blouse right in front of, well, a complete stranger to be perfectly honest, or as complete a stranger as could be imagined. She knew Sara’s name of course, everybody did, and knew enough to stay away from her, from that whole crowd in fact, but then. Last week. When Sara started bumping into Wendy in the restroom every day, sometimes more than once a day. She learned to tell right away when Sara entered, even sitting behind the closed door of a stall. That faint odor of cinnamon. Or something like cinnamon. Saying nothing, doing nothing really but stand in front of the mirror to coat her lips with that brilliant pink lipstick.

And her bra and panties too when she asked!

No, ordered. Or at least cajoled.

Oh but that lipstick felt so good.

Even now she had more than half a mind to run down the hall, stark nude, cover her mouth in that wonderful pink and go to church that way. Well, maybe not go to church nude. She’d have to dress. But still wear that lipstick. Wouldn’t her mother be shocked! But then, but then, and then and then again. No. She had to scrub this clown face off, wash her hair, wipe the lipstick from her mouth and be shy, sensible Wendy again. The pillow was probably covered in it, she would have to do the laundry today.

What did that woman call it?

Pink Sunshine Spice.

That nice woman at the booth where I had that, god, what happened there? That most amazing feeling, like a bolt of lightning striking every nerve of her body with concupiscent fire. Concupiscent? Really, Wendy? And how would you know? I’ve read books. Maddy says. Oh what does Maddy know? And you don’t even touch yourself.

I can, Wendy argued with herself. I’ve tried. It’s just that. It feels weird. Silly I mean, kind of lame and stupid.

Awkward and clumsy, you mean.

That too, she thought, agreeing with herself before climbing into the shower.

Later that morning, getting out of her mother’s Odyssey, holding her small purse in her hand while smoothing out her pale blue and white floral midi, with ruffles naturally, she saw three boys standing across the parking lot, close to the church entrance, almost her age, dark haired in dark blue jackets and ties, point and wave in her direction, but when she turned around, she saw no one behind her. She heard laughter as her mother touched her elbow and steered her towards the church. Her mother had pulled Wendy’s blond hair back and attached a blue bow that morning.

“Pay no attention,” her mother said. “They’re just being stupid. It really matches your eyes.”

A yellow sun shone in a clear blue sky in September, and boys were stupid.

Although they could be awfully cute. Gorgeous, thought Wendy. Handsome, compelling, mysterious, and brooding. She ran through the list, mentally checking off desirable masculine traits one by one. Strong, compassionate, independent, funny, a good listener, honest, rich, beautiful. Loyal. Tall. And out there one of them, one of them in all that confusing, chaotic, and stupid masculine mass, loomed her future husband and lover, patiently waiting for her to arrive.

Brad Blake, star quarterback, and six foot four inches of tight muscle and athletic grace.

God, Wendy, could you be any more predictable? What would Maddy.

But then the line at the church door moved forward, Wendy and Mary entered the lobby, and smiles and laughter magically rose to every human face, pasted by the habit of decorum. Wendy never finished her thought of what Maddy would say or do.

“Hello, Mary,” a man’s voice intruded.

“Steve,” Mary exclaimed, transmitting joy, relief, and trepidation in one smile.

“Wendy, have you met Steve, darling?”

“Yes.”

It was all she could say. It was all that needed to be said.

As Wendy and her mother walked past the back row, twitters broke out, and from the corner of her eye, she saw those three same boys punching, slapping, and throwing welcome cards at other kids, some of whom wore pullover shirts, and even jeans. The white bony knees of one curly haired kid, older than the rest, poked through frayed and gaping twin holes, but Mary held her nose high, and Wendy, following suit, held hers just as far aloft, however much she blushed.

In the midst of the sermon, Wendy stifled a yawn, licked her parched lips, she longed for the balm of the pink gloss makeup in its black and gold tube. The desire for it became unbearable, Wendy’s knees trembled, she jerked and twitched in her seat until Mary nudged her, stopping her momentarily. Then she twitched and rocked her foot against the floor. Suddenly she heard the call to pray, and, seizing the opportunity to dig through her purse for the tube, applied the thinnest layer over her lips with the tip of her finger after having smeared a little of the lipstick on it. At once her body ceased to tremble, and her lips felt full, refreshed, incredibly on fire.

Wendy fairly groaned.

If Mary noticed anything odd about Wendy’s lips, she said nothing, but Wendy, on coming home, went straight to her bedroom to hastily gather all the loose tubes of pink lipstick in her dresser and toss them in the bag Sara had given her just last night. Then she wiped her lips with the back of her arm, flopped down hard on her bed, and threw her face into her hands. What in the world is happening to me, she thought. But Maddy called about fifteen minutes later, and Wendy, glad to hear the frank and open voice of her friend, spent a good portion of the afternoon gabbing on the cordless phone, whose dock sat on the dressing table she used for a desk, along with her PC and monitor, across the room against the wall opposite her bed.

The rest of the day dragged by uneventfully, as Sundays often do, but Wendy constantly licked her lips, or gulped water, or smacked her mouth in quick succession.

“What is going on with you, Wendy?” Mary asked. “Do you have any idea how annoying that is?”

“I’m going for a run,” said the teenager, who never went for a run.

When she came back, Mary was lying on the sofa, feet crossed over one arm, laughing and blushing into the phone with Steve. Wendy bristled, but had to admit it was time.

It’s been two years.

Wendy drifted into her room after her second shower of the day, wrapped from her breasts to just above her thighs in a large white towel. The run didn’t help, the shower didn’t help, and now the hands of the kitchen clock hovered around nine.

Her mother had gone out with Steve on an impromptu date.

“Don’t wait up for me, darling, I may be late.”

Wendy blushed for her.

Now Wendy stood in front of her mirror, examining her unadorned lips, her unmade face, her long wet hair hanging past her shoulders. She dropped the towel, and swept the hair forward to partially cover her breasts, her nipples peaking from beneath the loose strands. Pear-shaped and C-cup, she compared favorably to Sara. Hers were bigger, rounder, she thought, but I can’t complain. Then she led her gaze to her crotch, and frowned slightly. She ran her fingers through the thick bush of her pubic hair, remembering Sara’s smooth and hairless crotch and how her own panties had bulged with the dense hair.

Why don’t I ever shave?

I could at least trim.

She continued to stroke her fingers through the plush blond hair above her mons.

She sighed, shrugged her shoulders, and walked to her dress, the cheeks of her full, heart-shaped ass jouncing behind her, breasts on parade with no one to witness. She leaned over the small top drawer of her baby-blue dresser, pulled the curved antique brass of the handle, and rummaged for a pair of panties. She stopped. She owned nothing remotely as sexy and risqué as that black satin Sara had given her. Mostly white, some pink, one light blue, all cotton, and nothing approaching sheer. So she closed the drawer, opened the wider one below it, and withdrew her pajamas. Nothing sexy about those either. But they were comfortable. And she wouldn’t be naked.

What if I just put it on for tonight?

What harm could it do?

She practically leapt to fetch Sara’s Therapeutic Transformations gift bag she had stuck in the back of closet, pink with black lettering on a gold field in the middle of both sides of the bag. Her hand found a tube of lipstick and also a magazine. Then she remembered how Sara had stuffed a magazine and two movies in them.

The magazine cover pictured a topless woman, legs splayed over the sides of a plastic pool raft floating on clear, chlorinated water. A muscular, athletically built man, naked from the waist up, with a wide, powerful, smooth, hairless chest stood in the water beside the raft. Shaking her head at her friend’s outrageous taste in literature, she put the magazine back into the bag. She took out the DVDs. Besides At Play in Fields of Reeds, a DVD whose cover showed a naked man with two half-clothed women kneeling by his cock. Wendy didn’t bother to look at the title as she tossed the movies back into the bag.

A cold day in hell, she thought.

She walked over to her desk, adjusted a round mirror standing on the desktop beside her computer, and hurriedly opened the tube of lipstick, quickly layering a coat of pink on her lips. She pursed them to make a kiss, and then layered another coat, just to make sure. Her lips burned, and a quickly passing electricity shot through her crotch. She clutched the edge of her dresser, inhaled deeply, and relaxed. The Kid Lester High School Yearbook, next to the mirror, grabbed her attention.

After climbing onto the bed, she lay on her abdomen and propped her upper body with her elbows. Wendy flipped through the pages of the yearbook until she came to the double-photo of Brad triumphantly laughing on the shoulders of his teammates. She traced her fingers over Brad’s face and said, softly, whispering longingly, “Brad, you’re so beautiful.” Suddenly her legs jerked straight behind her as another bolt of heat seared through her body.

Her vagina quivered, a fire shot through from her mouth to her groin, and, almost without knowing what she did, she parted her thighs, and slid her left hand through the waist band of her pajamas until she reached the top of her groin, labia already wet with desire. Wendy spread her hand all around the sides of her vagina and shuddered. Experimenting, she ran her index finger between the warm, moist folds of her labia and brought it up slowly against her clitoris, pressing her fingertip against the hardening nub.

She drank Brad in with her eyes, absorbing his sweaty hair, his broad smile, his wide shoulder, the bulging groin between his spread legs. Wendy moved her hand faster and faster, gyrating her hips against the bed, catching her hand against the duvet and her spasming vagina. Something seemed to build inside her, almost a pain, very close to a pain, rising like flood waters against a dam. She licked her lips slowly, then increased in speed and pressure, her tongue sliding over the pink gloss in companionship to her masturbating hand. Suddenly Wendy shook, groaned and saw Sara in the background of the photograph, one leg raised over her head, exposing her crotch to the world. The dam burst, the flood waters poured through the broken crevice, and Wendy came. For the first time in her life, Wendy orgasmed.

The yearbook fell to the floor, thudding on the carpet, as Wendy pushed it off the bed. She withdrew her hand from beneath her pajamas and rolled onto her back, closing her eyes and breathing through the tremors slowly fading through her limbs, her center, her insides, shaking her to the root of her soul. She gathered her thoughts and whimpered, “Brad.”

The truth is, Wendy never cared for her body, and by that she meant she never paid it any mind beyond a casual disregard bordering on contempt. Ever since the onslaught of puberty and the changes brought with it, she reviled herself. And when the pangs and terrible cramps hit, she rejected her body outright. Anything that caused that much pain could be completely discounted.

The stares, comments, and jeers from the boys in her class confirmed her in her low opinion of her corporeal being. So she forgot it, cast it from her consciousness and focused on her mind instead. She harbored a good mind, and had chartered a course for it, for when she could set it sailing.

A knock on her door woke her from her reverie.

Wendy sat up in her bed, and realizing the groin of her pajamas were soaked, leapt to the door quickly before her mother could enter. Wendy cracked the door open. Mary’s head poked through. Wendy held the door firmly ajar against her mother’s intrusion.

“Wendy?”

“I fell asleep.”

“I just wanted to say,” then she saw Wendy’s face. “Are you wearing that lipstick again.”

“Mom!”

Mary started to say something, stopped, then opened her mouth to speak again, and again shut it closed. Her heart told her that Wendy had long passed the age of girlhood. But seeing Wendy make it through her tweens and early teens with little or no rebellion, Mary felt no desire to push her forward to feminine adulthood. Wendy didn’t seem to want to wear make-up, at least she never fussed in that direction, so Mary never pursued the matter. In the meantime Wendy studied, made excellent grades, and provided her mother with no grief in the matter of friends. Or boyfriends, for that matter, she realized with an unsettling wrench.

It does look good on her, Mary decided. Better just leave it. She’s old enough, and if it helps land her a boy. Just as long as he’s nice, she added.

“You know,” Mary said. “If you ever want tips on wearing make-up, honey, just ask. We can go get a makeover together. Or I could show you how right here at home.”

“Mom,” Wendy groaned in remonstration.

Just then Wendy heard Steve’s face echoing down the hallway of the second floor.

“Babe?”

Wendy glared at her mother.

“It’s just for one night, honey. He’ll be gone before the morning.”

Wendy slammed the door, and crashed on her bed.

And then her phone rang. Lurching forward and almost cursing, she grabbed the receiver and answered huskily.

“Wendy?” asked a deep, soft, and breathy feminine voice.

6. Sara calls at night

Wendy recognized the voice instantly. The voice belonged to Sara, sounding so much different and silky over the phone.

“Hey,” Wendy answered.

“What are you doing?”

“Um.”

Sara guessed immediately.

“Wendy, what are you up to?”

No answer.

Sara changed directions.

“I just put my lipstick on,” she said. “Are you wearing yours?”

Wendy could answer that.

“Yes.”

“You better put some more on, just to be sure.”

Quickly Wendy grabbed the tube on her dresser, parted her lips in a half-open simper, coated her lips with a new layer of glossy, pink lipstick, and pursed her lips. They burned lowly, but that electric shock failed to charge. Disappointed, she sat down on her bed, and stroked her hand over the wet fabric of her pajamas.

“Wendy,” Sara asked pointedly, smoothly, conspiratorially. “Did you look at the magazine I sent you? How about that movie, did you watch it yet?”

“Um,” Wendy hesitated. “Not yet. I mean, I glanced at them. But.”

“Wendy, do you masturbate?”

It was a shockingly frank question, even from Sara. Wendy resisted, remained silent. But Sara repeated the question, softly, kindly, and with the compassion of understanding. Wendy’s coyness receded, her timidity faltered.

“Yes. I do. Sometimes.”

“Really? You don’t seem the type.”

“I mean, I just did. Tonight.”

“What? Just now?”

“Well, about a half an hour ago,” admitted Wendy in that odd way she had of mixing pride with embarrassment.

“Oh, Wendy, tell me all about it. Was it your first time?”

How could Sara know her so well?

“Yes,” Wendy replied. And she told her all about it. Except for seeing Sara in the background. That part she kept to herself.

When Wendy finished telling Sara, her friend burst out laughing.

“You mean you fucked yourself to Brad in the yearbook, after I gave you all that porn?”

“Yes,” replied Wendy quietly.

“Wait a minute,” Sara said. “I’ll be right back.”

Sara came back and Wendy heard heavy pages being turned rapidly.

“The picture of Brad after winning District?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you see me?”

A long pause.

“Yeah, but only after.”

“After what, Wendy.”

“After…”

“After you came, Wendy? That’s how you say it, silly.”

“Uh huh. After I came.”

Another pause, this time coming more from Sara’s end.

“I look cute in that picture,” she finally said in a simple statement of fact.

But Wendy didn’t answer.

“Wendy, honey, do you think you can do it again?”

“What?”

“You know, play with yourself for me?”

“I don’t know, Sara. No. No, I couldn’t do that.”

“Don’t you trust me, Wendy?”

“I trust you, Sara, but I, I don’t know if I can do it with you listening.”

“Where are you right now?”

“My bedroom.”

“No, silly, I mean, where in your bedroom. Describe it to me, sugar. I want to see everything.”

So Wendy described her bedroom to Sara, stopping to answer questions, repeating herself so Sara would know exactly where each item, even the smallest brush, book, or stuffed animal was located. Sara’s thorough investigation brought forth clear answers from Wendy, and at last Sara asked her last remaining questions.

“So you have a mirror at the foot of your bed?”

“Uh huh.”

“How close to the bed? Is there enough room for you to sit down in front of your mirror and lean against your bed?”

“Um. Uh huh.” Where was this going, Wendy asked herself.

Another long pause in which Wendy heard a bed squeak and the sounds of furtive movement.

“Wendy.”

Sara’s sweet and silky voice this time, drenched in sexuality and heated with longing, came deep, soft, and husky over the phone.

“Wendy,” she repeated, “I took my pajamas off. I’m not wearing panties. I only have on a t-shirt. I never wear a bra to bed.”

“Sara.”

“I’m touching myself. Oh god, I’m so wet.”

“Sara.”

“Do it, Wendy, go over to your mirror, take your clothes off, and sit down against your bed and open your legs as wide as they will go.”

“Oh, god, Sara, really?”

“We have to do this together.”

Standing up slowly from her bed, telling herself she was going to just hang up the phone, not even say good night, never even speak to Sara again, never even think about this conversation again, she turned instead away from her desk with its phone dock and drifted over to the foot of her bed, slowly letting her pajama bottom fall to the carpet. Then she groaned as she too dropped to the carpet, faced the mirror and, splaying her legs wide, leaned against the foot of her bed to watch herself masturbate, for the second time in her life, listening to her new friend’s heavy breathing coming over the phone line.

Focusing on her vagina, she saw the slit showing behind her blond pubes seemed to resist opening, a long slit with a round button at the top, her clitoris which she had already touched. Peeking through the thin slot, two red folds showed, eager to expand, to blossom. Moisture gathered over her golden hair like dew on the morning grass, and she trembled, biting her bottom lip, as she split her labia with her fingers, her labia which seemed to pulse and swell, wet with the fluid of sex.

“Are your fingers on your pussy, Wendy? Are you going to fuck yourself for me? I’m going to fuck myself for you.”

Wendy listened to Sara’s heavy breath as she slowly ran her fingers over her hot, humid core, watching a pool of vaginal moisture form a sticky glaze over her fingers.

“Are you watching yourself, Wendy? Talk to me. Tell me what you see.”

“I can’t. Please, Sara. I can’t.”

“Don’t be afraid, honey. Do you trust me? Let me hear you breathe.”

Wendy groaned into the telephone, heaving gasps of lust increasing in a staccato burst of plaintive longing. She raised her ass off the carpet, her hips lunged forward to greet the ministrations of her frenzied hand. At first hesitant, unsure of how to move her hand or where to put her fingers, she listened as her partner gave directions and urged her on. Wendy told Sara how her fingers glided over the fleshly mounds of her outer labia, stroked the inner lips and grazed the hooded sentry of the clitoris.

It’s true that Sara had to remind Wendy of the naming of parts. Having done well in biology, nevertheless Wendy had struggled to apply those names to her own anatomy. They seemed like words you would use to describe someone else’s body, where your own terms were secret, unknown even to you.

Wendy licked the pink lipstick on her mouth as her new friend spoke to her.

“Is your clit hard?”

“Oh god yes, Sara, it’s so hard. I’m so hot right now.”

“Are you fucking yourself, Wendy?”

“Oh god oh god oh god yes I am.”

“You’re what,” teased Sara.

“I’m fucking myself, Sara.”

“Listening to me. You’re fucking yourself listening to me fuck myself. And I’m so close, Wendy I’m so close.”

The pitch of Sara’s voice rose, went up, tiny squeals of pleasure sprayed a volley of wanton heat across the mind of the listening Wendy, who echoed her friend’s passionate utterances, whipping her hand across the drenched valley of her lust in a blur, a whirlwind of libidic torment. Her mound, a saturated mass of fur and near orgasmic secretions, matted down by the constant pressure of her palm on the bush of her mons, shuddered, trembled, twitched, and quivered.

“Your bush is so fucking hot, Wendy,” Sara croaked out in a dry, husky whisper. “I’m fucking myself with three fingers.”

And then Wendy jammed her pelvis into the flat of her hand, her index finger splitting her inner labia, pressing part of her finger over her clitoris, fingernail barely entering the vestibule, careful to preserve her maidenhead, dropped the phone and howled into her left shoulder. The entire length of her body convulsed as she squeezed her hand between the iron vice of her thighs. When she finished shaking, when the last tremors finally vibrated through her exhausted body, faded out, and left her dazed, at peace, and half-shocked, she fumbled for the phone and found Sara still there, catching the final, deep gasps of her own orgasm.

“Oh my god, Wendy. Do you know how incredible you are?”

Wendy couldn’t say anything. What was there left to say?

Then she heard it. Faint but unmistakable. Noises echoing down the hallway of second floor of the house. The pounding of a headboard against a wall, the high-pitched moans of a woman in pleasure, and rougher, brutal grunts of a man having his way with her. Wendy had come, and come hard, while her mother fucked her new boyfriend.

“Sara?” Wendy asked into the phone.

“Yes, babe?”

“I think my mom’s having sex with some guy. Some guy from church.”

“You think?”

“No, I know she is. I can hear them.”

But despite all her pleading, Sara could not convince Wendy to go down to the bedroom with the phone, so that she could hear, too.

“She said it’s okay for me to wear make-up though,” Wendy added, to get Sara to change the subject.

“Really, that’s wonderful. Now you won’t have to hide your lipstick.”

“She said that she wants to get a makeover together.”

Sara, on hearing this, fell silent. Then she asked Wendy a simple question.

“Can I drive you to school tomorrow, Wendy? l’d like that so much.”

“Um, yeah, why not?” Wendy replied.

“Great,” said Sara. “I’ll come early. l’m bringing make-up, now that your mother says you can. I’ll get you ready for school. Get some sleep, you’re going to have to wake up early. I’ll be there at 6:00. At the latest. Set your alarm for five-thirty.”

Then Sara hung up. Wendy reach for her pajamas, climbed into them, and collapsed into bed. Despite her exhaustion, she had a hard time falling asleep. At last she extricated herself from her covers, stumbled to the closet to get At Play in Fields of Reeds, and loaded it into the computer. Maybe watching that would put her to sleep.

Growing ever more drowsy, and finally closing her eyes during whole sections of the video, she paused the movie at the passion of the two female lovers. She didn’t shut the computer off. She knew it would fall asleep by itself, just as she herself would. Then she lay down, closed her eyes and thought the last thoughts of the night.

“It’s getting weird with Sara. I’m not going to let that happen again.” She took no note of the gathering excitement of seeing her again so early in the morning, and she made sure to set her alarm for 5:30. And ungodly early hour for her. But Sara said to, and she didn’t think she had much say in the matter. For now, she thought, her very last coherent one of the night.

Monday

7. Sara gives Wendy a makeover

8. At Kid Lester High School

Kid Lester High School, named after the famous boxer, squatted rather than stood at the far, southwestern end of Edge City, two stories of cinder block and cramped window, forming an L with two equal sides. In the midst of the L stretched a courtyard where students gathered and talked before, between, and often after classes, a courtyard of path worn grass in the midst of which bubbled a fountain. Usually. Sometimes. Okay, on rare occasions, for school ceremonies and the like. The rest of the time the fountain remained bare, dry, silent. But students, freshmen and sophomores for the most part, still sat, hunched over, on the sides of it, which formed a kind of narrow bench circumscribing the bowl of the fountain.

Beyond the courtyard to one side of the L, sprawled the practice field, where the marching band practiced in the morning, and beyond that rose the bleachers of that luminium colosseum, the American high school football stadium. Behind and beyond the other side of the courtyard, behind and beyond the other side of the L, the student parking lot spread out, a flat, sun-bleached asphalt barren prairie, where Porsche vied with BMW, or Acura dueled Nissan, while old Camaros and Mustangs ruminated on the fringes, recalling times when they were lords.

Between the courtyard and the V made by the connecting wings of the high school protruded a three-sided glass bay. On closer approach you could see that the three sides were really part of an octagon-shaped enclosure, with half of the octagon confined within the school and the other half extending into the area occupied by the courtyard. Students used this glass enclosure, of course, as a gathering place—at any rate, those students who chose not to go outside. It also served as the school cafeteria. Quite a way back, a few kids, freshmen, took to calling this structure the Octagon, and the name stuck.

Wendy felt out of place, a radically altered imposter, as she paraded—there really could be no other word for it—down the front rows of the parking lot, sometimes side by side, now falling behind in tandem with Sara, then catching up again, struggling to walk in her black, three-inch ankle straps. Her breasts pushed up against the open V of her burgundy surpliced neck. She clutched her purse, another anomaly, usually opting instead for the far more functional backpack, where she could at least stow her books.

“You should just leave them in your locker, Wendy. I do.”

“But I need my Trig book!”

“You can leave it home just this once. Mr. Vernon won’t mind. You’re his pet.”

“How do you know,” Wendy asked, surprised that Sara would know that about a class they didn’t share. They didn’t share any class, and never had, as far as Wendy could remember. Which was odd, if you thought about it.

“Oh, you know. It’s true, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but.”

“Just bend over in front of him if he gives you a problem.”

“Sara.”

The outside air blew through the rips of Wendy’s jeans and across the rolling landscape of her ass. The thong of her panties had bunched near her crack during the ride to school. She had to fight the urge to pull at it, to yank it out and smooth the bottoms of her tanga. While certainly not as narrow as Sara’s G-string, they could hardly be considered anything more than a mockery of coverage. But she soon got used to the sensation, and, as they approached the back entry of the school, she reveled to the thrill of wearing something so naughty. Nasty, even.

Then she glimpsed Maddy Springer staring at her from the fountain, sitting with Gregory, eyeing Wendy with open incredulous hostility. She longed to run to Maddy to explain, but she couldn’t run in those heels, and she knew she couldn’t explain. She didn’t know herself. So she kept her head straight, tilted up the way Sara showed her, and walked through glass double doors, opened for the morning onslaught.

Wendy had expected to meet open ridicule from other students, especially the guys. But Sara led her, taking her arm in hers, down the hallways to her locker, and she faced no ridicule or derision. She did notice guys raising the eyes to look at her, or turning around to stare after the striking pair. She couldn’t help but put a little more sway in her step. She had never done that before, either. Wendy Love, you little, she thought.

“What’s your schedule?”

Sara’s voice broke her reverie.

“Biology, English Language and Composition, Macroeconomics, French—those are all AP—and then lunch, and after lunch Trig and study hall. Then art.”

Sara took out her phone. “I need room numbers.”

Then looked Wendy seriously in the eyes. “Do you have a phone? I never see you with one. Luckily you still have a land line, and I found you in the phone book.”

Sara laughed, actually snorting.

“That was my mom’s idea,” she admitted.

Sara typed the room numbers into her Blackberry.

“No, Mom. I mean, she, we talked, and she, we think.”

“I’ll get you one.”

Sara met Wendy after each class for the rest of the day. She walked Wendy to the next, arm locked in arm, laughing, talking and asking questions about her day. Once they took a potty break together, an unexpectedly quiet and even solemn occasion, when even Sara stopped her happy chatter. But as the hours of the day passed, Wendy felt more and more distracted in her seat. She wriggled, scooched, and slid in the hard plastic of her chair. A terrible heat rose in her pelvic region, and the labial area enflamed. The narrow gusset of her panties dug into the engorged folds of her vagina, driving her further into sexual fury. So distracted in French class, she forgot the cédille in façon, the circonflexe in hôtesse, and kept using the accent aigu every time she wrote à la in a sentence. Finally, she could take it no longer. When the bell rang for lunch, she leapt up, gathered her books, and ran for the door, bumping against a waiting Sara.

“Ready to eat?” Sara asked cheerfully.

9. Masturbating in the restroom

“Uh, listen Sara, I’ve got to go to the bathroom right now.”

“Oh, I’ll go with you.”

“It’s just that, I need to, I need to go to the second-floor bathroom. The one by Moby’s closet.”

No one went to the restroom near Moby’s closet.

It’s the only place she knew where she could be utterly alone. And she needed to be utterly alone.

“You mean,” asked Sara.

“Hm mm,” Wendy nodded.

“I’ll go with.”

“You don’t need to,” Wendy discouraged.

“I think I do.”

The restroom was empty.

“Hurry,” said Sara. “I need this so bad. I’ve been twitching all morning long.”

Three stalls lined the wall to the left of the door, a row of sinks facing them. The door of the third stall, wider for the disabled, hung by the top hinge. The bottom hinge had broken off. Wendy lunged toward the first stall, Sara pulled her to the larger disabled, but Wendy, guessing her friend’s mind, resisted, much to her own surprise.

“No, Sara. That door’s broken. I, I, I’ll use this one.” She hurriedly closed the door, closed the latch, and bent to unstrap her heels. One by one she kicked them off. Then, unfastening her black leather belt, she pulled her jeans to the restroom floor and tore at her panties, sliding them off an instant later. She sat on the toilet, spread her legs, and plunged her right hand into the swollen mound of her pussy. She didn’t bother to worry about Sara listening. She didn’t care. She couldn’t care. Her sex called. It howled her name. It screamed for her attention.

She groaned the moment her hand slid through her pubic bush and caressed the wet sides of her muff.

From the other stall, she could hear her partner.

“Oh god, Wendy, are you doing it, are you really doing it? Are you really fucking yourself at school?” Sara asked in heated passion. “I’m fucking myself. I wish you could see. Can you hear me, Wendy, can you hear me fucking my wet pussy on the other side of the wall? Just this wall is separating us, Wendy.”

Wendy stretched her legs and gyrated against the seat of the toilet, one foot slid beneath the open space the wall on Sara’s side of the stall, and she beat a tattoo of desire against the thin wall of the other side. Sara’s foot touched hers, but Wendy didn’t pull back, too deep in the throes of a coming orgasm to know what was happening around her, too immersed in the scorching experience to care.

Sara’s foot stroked and caressed Wendy’s. She lightly brushed the length of the top of Wendy’s foot with her polished toes, and Wendy threw her head back against the wall of her stall, moaned, shuddered, and came.

Not long after, Sara came too.

As Wendy came down from her orgasm, she heard her friend dressing and gathering herself together. That’s three times now, she thought as she pulled her jeans to her waist and reclasped her belt. And twice with her.

Wendy tried to remain quiet as the two girls washed their hands, but Sara gushed with praise and thanks.

“Oh god, Wendy, you can’t believe how good it feels for me to do that with someone. I know, I know it makes you nervous, and I’m not trying to be with you or anything. It’s just. It’s just that it’s so fucking hot to know you’re right there with me when I have my hands on my slit.”

Once again she propelled herself forward, held Wendy close, and lightly kissed Wendy’s cheek, her lips just brushing the corner of Wendy’s mouth.

“I know you like Brad. I’ve got a boyfriend, too, you know. It’s just that. He’s out of town right now. And with a friend it’s just so much nicer.” Sara paused.

“I want to help you get Brad. I think he’d be great for you.”

To tell the truth, Wendy looked noticeably relieved to hear Sara had a boyfriend. And her promise to help with Brad warmed her heart. She didn’t even notice that she had pursed her own lips at Sara’s kiss.

When they left the restroom, they saw Moby focused on the ceiling about ten feet away from the door, bumping a flickering fluorescent ceiling light with the end of a broom handle.

“You two need to be careful in that one,” Moby said without looking. “There’s something bad wrong with those pipes.”

The girls bent over in a cross between a giggle and guffaw. Then they both fled down the hall, heels stomping on freshly burnished tile.

10. Lunch with Julie, Laura, Melani, Nikki, and Sara

Sara nudged Wendy to her round table in the Octagon. Interspersed throughout the Octagon, wide concrete columns created the impression of passing through an old temple, some ancient edifice of solitude and contemplation—or would have, if not for the continual din of student scream and teacher bellow. The columns rose to support the ceiling two stories above. Student voices, laughter, swearing, even tears resounded in the octagonal enclosure, echoing from one wall to another before ascending to the mezzanine of the second floor and escaping along the hallways and classrooms of both wings of the L.

Nikki, Laura, Melani, and Julie were already laughing at each other as Wendy and Sara clanked their trays on the smooth, light blue, delicately marbled Formica tabletop. The four girls, similarly dressed in blazers and thigh-length skirts or dresses, turned in unison to great Sara.

“We were just talking about Homecoming. It’s only a month away, you know.” This was Julie. Of all the girls in the group, she took school functions the most seriously. Especially dances. And pep rallies. Even Sara, by far the undisputed leader of the group, recoiled at Julie’s displeasure at being late for squad practices. Late once, she vowed never to be late again, although Julie spent an entire night the next day orally apologizing between Sara’s thighs.

“Are you going to the dance Wendy? Has anyone asked you yet?”

Laura, the littlest of the group, delicately built from all appearances, dark hair reaching past her ears in a cross between a pageboy and bob, naturally boy crazy, perked up at the slightest hint of dating, or dancing, or corsages and boutonnières, of Valentine cards from hidden admirers or week-long groundings from marks on the necks made by crazed, impassioned lovers. Melani poked her in the ribs.

Melani, originally Melanie, dropped the e after Nikki joined the group, always dissatisfied with her name, immediately intrigued by the reckless audacity, even hedonistic independence, of that final i, standing alone, without need of its fatter and rounder supporting mate. When she encountered David’s Oath of the Horatii in Art History, she considered another change with unbounded enthusiasm. She reluctantly dropped the idea as an impertinence to Nikki, whom she adored.

Nikki. The most recent acquisition and the tallest of the group, the most athletic (she had also joined the girls’ track team, a perennial threat to win State), she harbored a dominant personality not yet fully subdued by Sara. Indeed, Melani more supported Nikki in any discussion allowed open. Sara took note. Nikki would enjoy watersport, she thought, and grinned at the idea.

“Um,” said Wendy, sitting beside Julie, on Julie’s left, while Sara kick dribbled a chair out and sat beside Laura.

“We’re working on it,” replied Sara, quickly squeezing Wendy’s right thigh and letting go. “I have someone in mind. Someone I think Wendy already likes.”

Just then, Gregory, appearing from behind a wide column, took a picture of the group of cheerleaders, laughing at during lunch.

“Smile, girls,” he said. “It’s for the yearbook.”

“He’s such a dork,” Nikki said, after Gregor stepped away, taking pictures of other tables.

“Yeah, but he really is a good photographer,” Laura piped in. “He took that picture of Brad winning District.”

“That one?” Sara asked, practically shouting. “That’s Wendy’ favorite picture. Isn’t it Wendy?” Sara teased and gave another Wendy’s knee another squeeze, sliding her hand lightly up her thigh before removing it. Julie faced Wendy, touching her thigh before lightly clasping her side, just below the slope of her breast, and then sweeping out to brush her elbow with the same hand.

“Really, Wendy? Brad Blake? Is that who you want to go to Homecoming with?”

Wendy felt a bare foot nudge her shin below her knee then slowly rise in a long graze. She jerked her leg back, but the foot followed. Wendy looked across the table at Laura smiling at her, eyes gleaming with affection. The foot retracted.

“Oh, Wendy, that’s so sweet. Brad really is the most wonderful person. Do you think he’s going to ask you? When?”

“We’re working on it,” Sara repeated, placing the flat of her hand just above Wendy’s knee, keeping it there, but not clinching or moving in any way. Wendy stirred, then remained sill. No biggie. That’s just Sara.

“Well,” said Nikki as a booted foot bumped Wendy’s right, “If you keep looking like that, you’re bound to get his attention. You look fabulous, Wendy. That pink lipstick is something else. I mean it.”

“I love the way you braided your Wendy,” added Julie, as she stroked the blond hair above Wendy ear, running the flat of her knuckles down her neck along the line of Wendy’s braid. “It makes you look, well, casual and elegant at the same time, if you know what I mean.”

Wendy swallowed and nodded.

Sara leaned close to Wendy’s ear, her own pink lips nuzzling the edges of Wendy lobe.

“See? They all love you,” she cooed.

Wendy sighed, and turning to face Sara, smiled a deep, warm, and thankful smile.

11. Brad stares at Wendy in Trig

Wendy caught Brad staring at her in Trig. She couldn’t know, and she wouldn’t have believed it had someone told her, that way she dressed now, her hair, her makeup, her nails, instantly shot her to that rarified strata of the alluring, the enticing, even glamorous girls of Kid Lester High. Beautiful and hot. Definitely hot. Perhaps her obliviousness made her more so. She seemed unaware that the black lace of her balconette, breasts welling from between the cups, exposing a deep cleavage, showed behind the edges of her burgundy surplice. She either did not know, or did not care, that the two tears below her seat showed the flesh of her thighs, partially exposing the bottom globes of her ass, bouncing behind her as she walked, often arm in arm, with Sara Craft. At any rate, only a few girls at school could now compete with her, at least for that day. Among those were Nikki, Melani, Laura, and Julie. And Sara. Naturally Sara.

To Wendy’s relief, that sudden, aching horniness which so overwhelmed her in the morning stayed in the background, present and inescapable, but lingering on the fringes of her mind, where she could deal with it. She looked up problem 3 on her worksheet. Luckily, Mr. Vernon wasn’t teaching from the textbook today. Find the equations of a circle with a radius of 2 centered at (1,2), a laughingly easy problem to which she haughtily scribbled ${\left(x-1\right)}^2+{\left(y-2\right)}^2=4$ with no more thought than slapping at a fly. Or undoing hers right now and jilling one out. Easy, girl.

She jerked her head up with a start. She half-rose to get a drink of a water from the fountain just outside the door. The she saw Brad staring at her. Not turning away or even taking his eyes off her, he bore into her with his, his chestnut meeting her blue eyes, and slowly, steadily, his gaze drifted downward, downward, past the ridge of her nose, over the shining pink glow of her mouth, past the round nub of her chin, down the inward sloping curve of her neck, swept over the soft, twin ridges of collar bone, and landed on the cleavage spilling from her exposed chest.

To her utter disbelief, Wendy, suddenly aware of her charms, pushed her shoulders back, and exposed even more of her lovely breasts to Brad. Her nipples hardened, and a heat seared through her groin. Then she walked from the classroom, swaying her hips, now fully aware of the way Sara dressed her that morning. Oh, Sara. Thank you.

Sara wasn’t waiting for her at the door after class, so Wendy walked to her locker, feeling strangely alone, abandoned, and left behind. I wonder where she is, she thought, or with who? A pang of jealously shot through Wendy at the realization her new friend had a life, a past, and companions of her own. A sudden desire to be all of Sara’s world flared through Wendy’s heart, which she stifled. Don’t be ridiculous, Wendy.

Wendy grabbed a couple of books from her locker. She had a biology test coming up next week. Gotta prepare for that. In front of her French class already, she wanted to get ahead in the textbook for reading and writing, so she grabbed that book too. She spun around on her heels—they really are nice to walk in, she thought, I feel so much taller—and directed herself to study hall. Suddenly someone pushed her books from the cradle of her right arm, she whirled around but saw no guilty face in the rush of students behind her. She bent over to pick up the books. She gasped as a soft, open hand slipped into the tear of her jeans, rubbed the cheek of her ass and then pinched it. Hard.

She gathered her books, reared up straight, and whisked around in a 180 degree turn, rubbing her butt with her free hand.

Sara stood in front of her grinning.

“Hey, babe. I got something for you.”

She held a mobile phone, a Hipkick all the rage at the time, especially among teens.

“What, Sara, no. I can get my phone. It’s just that my.”

“I know, sweetie, but this way your mother doesn’t have to know. It can be our little secret. It’s set up and everything. Now we can text during class.”

Wendy took the device, quickly turned it over in her hands, sliding the top to reveal the small keyboard. She grinned gratefully at Sara.

“Oh, Sara. Thank you so much. I just don’t know what to say. Or how to thank you.”

12. One more time, in the big stall

That feeling came back during Study Hall. She tried to fight it. Tried to carry on a whispered conversation with Maddy, who sat in front of her. Wendy chose the seat in the back corner, farthest away from the door and attention. Maddy proved noncommittal, and Wendy lost interest. Wendy twitched and wriggled in her seat, turning away from her best friend. Her pussy itched. That’s the only way to put it, she thought. My pussy. Sara uses that word all the time, and right now it just seems right. Oh god, my wet pussy needs attention. She giggled at that thought, and then her breasts seemed to swell, to have new nerve endings, her nipples grew erect in their lacy confines, and when she looked down, Wendy saw them protruding from the rib-knit fabric. Thicker than cotton or silk, the fabric still showed her hard nipples sticking from the bulging mounds of her chest.

She leaned over the top of her desk and with her arms folded in front of her, she stroked one of her nipples with two fingers. A tingling pleasure raced over her chest.

Her phone vibrated.

She saw a text alert. She opened the text and saw the words.

You too? Same place?

No I’m good, she wanted to reply.

No I’m sane.

No thank you I don’t masturbate at school I’m normal.

Thanks but no thanks gotta study.

No fucking myself today sweetheart I’ve got other things to do.

But she already had fucked herself once today. And she needed to do it again.

OMG yes is what she sent.

She walked to the study hall monitor’s desk, said she needed to go to the bathroom, twitched while waiting for the monitor to write a pass, took it and fled.

Sara was standing inside the door of the restroom, her blazing hung on a hook on a row of hooks running across the wall shared with the janitor’s closet on the other side. She slipped off the straps of her light dress the moment Wendy entered, the cami dropped to the floor, exposing the twin half-orbs of her breasts bursting from the top of her sheer bra, dark nipples revealed below the floral pattern of the lace mesh. She whooshed up her dress and hung it, too, on the wall hooks.

“Oh god, I’m so hot,” she said.

This time Sara steered her to the big stall. Wendy protested, but Sara wouldn’t have it.

“We have to do this together, Wendy. I have to do this with you.”

Wendy relented, but set rules for herself. She didn’t tell Sara what they were.

Wendy unfastened her belt slowly, then haltingly unbuttoned the fly of her jeans, feeling awkward in the presence of Sara. She didn’t pull down her pants or take of her heels. She leaned in the corner of the door’s joint with the far wall, while Sara, slightly shrugging her shoulders, slouched on the toilet seat and spread her legs wide, lasciviously wide, her booted feet dangling from stall wall to the middle of the stall. Keeping on her own laced G-string on she rubbed her crotch from the outside, moving her hand in a narrow circular motion. She caressed a nipple with the other hand, staring at Wendy, who hesitated to put her own hand down the opened fly of her jeans.

“God my tits feel so good,” Sara breathed out, moaning. “Go ahead, Wendy, you know you want to. We’ve done this before.”

“You weren’t looking.”

“Looks don’t bite, Wendy. I just want to watch you make yourself feel good.”

Wendy nodded, saying nothing. She haltingly pushed her hand forward, compelling it under her fly, slipping beneath the band of her panties to feel the soft plush of her mound. She closed her eyes to Sara’s eager gaze.

“Lick your lips, Wendy. Feel how good your lipstick makes you feel, feel how softly your tongue slides across your wet, glimmering lips. God, your lips were made for tongues to glide along, Wendy. Your mouth needs to feel a tongue, inside and outside, caressing your lips, plunging into your mouth, exploring your hot wet mouth.”

Wendy licked her lips. An electric thrill shot through her body, charging her being from her head to her toes. She picked up her pace, she trembled and shook, her jeans slipped a little lower from the round bank of her hips, exposing more skin to Sara’s lusting, insatiable eye.

“Do you feel good, Wendy? Huh, do you feel good yet?”

The heat that had been singeing through Wendy’s body now turned into roaring fire of need. She didn’t care who looked, she didn’t care about Sara sitting in front of her, legs splayed, and fucking herself with her right hand. Her jeans slipped past her hips, bundled at the knees, which Wendy held tight together. Her hand moved up and down over her pussy as she kept a partially hooked finger in constant contact with her quivering clit.

“Are you fucking yourself, Wendy? Have you put a finger inside you yet? No, because you’re a virgin, aren’t you Wendy? A good little virgin who likes to play with her friends at school. I’ve got three fingers inside me, Wendy. I’m not a virgin. Do you want to see? Look.”

Despite every scream inside telling her to stop, despite every protest arguing with her mind, Wendy opened her eyes, raised her head, and looked. The string of Sara’s panties had been pulled aside, her wet lips glistened with the dew of ministration, and Sara plunged three fingers between the folds of her pussy, gyrating wildly on her seat. She pulled her fingers out momentarily and held them up, a string of juice spanned the tips of her fingers. She licked them slowly, licking each finger one by one, sucking each finger to the knuckle of the hand before bringing her mouth achingly slow to the tip, a trail of saliva and vaginal secretion clinging to her pink lips.

Sara thrust her fingers back into her steaming cunt.

Wendy whined in heat, almost sobbing with pleasure, her eyes fixed on the movement of Sara’s hand. Sara sculpted, molded her left breast with her other hand, having raised her thin bra above her globes. She nuzzled the engorged nipple of her tit between her two longest fingers.

“Oh god, my tits feel so good. Are you about to come, Wendy? Look at me when you come, Wendy. I want to see your eyes.”

Wendy rubbed, stroking the hood of her clit, wiping the flesh of her labia, staring into Sara’s eyes the whole time. Then she tensed, went stiff, and came. Wendy came. Into Sara’s hazel eyes, she came. Sinking to the cold tile of the floor, she came, holding her gaze steady onto Sara’s gaze, as she sank to her knees and collapsed.

13. After school Sara teaches Wendy how to wear makeup

Sara drove Wendy home after school.

“I’ll show you how to wear makeup,” she said. “I didn’t get a chance to teach. Too rushed.”

“You don’t have to,” Wendy stammered out.

“No, but I want to.” So that was that.

Once again in Wendy’s room, Sara began to set up Wendy’s computer near her bed. She stood the tower near the legs of Wendy’s nightstand, more of a small square table, really, on four thin gently curving legs. Clearing the nightstand of its lamp and alarm clock, she put the flat screen monitor on it.

“If you put the monitor here,” she explained, “then you can watch movies at night. And if you want to keep the noise down, you can use your headphones.” She winked.

“What about my schoolwork?” asked Wendy in protest.

“Oh, Wendy, I thought we settled that. Anyway, you can use your keyboard from your bed. And if you must do your homework, well, you can do it from here, can’t you?”

“I suppose,” Wendy had to admit. But Sara rearranging her room rankled her. She felt like she should, rather than wanted to, argue, to say something to defend her territory in some small way. No, she’d wait until Sara left. Then she’d put everything back in its place. And there was no point in Sara showing her how to use makeup. She’d never wear it again anyway. Makeup seemed to change her somehow. And she didn’t like where it was leading.

“Your skin is just so clear, except for a little acne,” Sara said. “I’ve got just the thing for that. Works super good, and it doesn’t burn. You put this on every morning, and you’ll never see a pimple again.”

Sara brought out a clear bottle of a transparent, almost water-clear, pink liquid. As usual, the pink label showed the black and gold logo of Therapeutic Transformation.

“You can even eat potato chips again. Now go to the bathroom and wipe your makeup off. All of it. Even your lipstick.”

After Wendy washed her face and looked at her image in the bathroom mirror, she experienced a sense of, well, what did she feel? Empty? Naked? No, not really naked. And not quite empty. What then?

Diminished.

She felt as a higher being must feel, fallen to earth, bereft of wing and crown. She had soared momentarily among the seraphim, or, changing mythologies, had ridden Pegasus to the Olympia of the beautiful, and the gods, jealous of her charms, had told her to wash her face. She felt flat. But normal, she realized with a start. I’m normal.

She padded back to her bedroom.

Then Sara sat Wendy down in her chair, swinging it forward to face the makeup mirror of her vanity table. Now standing behind her chair, now stepping to her side, always keeping one hand on a shoulder or her neck, sometimes touching her face, she showed Wendy the difference between concealer and primer for eyeshadow, when to get away with just wearing foundation, how to use highlight, and the stunning effect of both shimmer and foil. She taught Wendy how to spread her lipstick just beyond the edges of her lips to give them a fuller, more sensual appeal.

“Not that your lips need that,” Sara admitted, “But try it some time. You might be amazed. And delighted.

“I find this the trickiest part, and you might hesitate a little to do it, but I’ll show you anyway. Once you get the hang of it, it’s just nothing really.”

She carefully showed Wendy how to use eyeliner on the waterline of her lower lid by gently applying liner with the end of a soft eyeliner pencil.

“You can use a brush, if you prefer. You can wet the brush and the put the tip into your eyeliner before applying it. Some girls say it gives a more dazzling effect. But you don’t have to pull down your eyelid. And it’s better not to touch your face if you already have makeup on.”

Then Sara had left, and Wendy took a shower.

14. Sara calls again that night

She had Sunday leftovers for dinner. Her mother Mary had gotten hurriedly changed after coming home from work, not long after Sara walked out the front door, carrying her bag of makeup.

“Don’t stay up for me, honey,” she had said. “I’m, I’m. I may be late.”

Wendy held both arms up and fled to the living room, where the TV blared. Bored and restless, Wendy considered calling Maddy. They had not talked since yesterday afternoon. Something restrained her from pushing the buttons as she held the cordless phone in her hand. No. If she wants to talk, she can call me. She spent the rest of the evening flipping through channels, settling on nothing. She got up, sat down, got up again, went to get her AP English reading. Try as she might, that evening she could not adjust to the obsolete cadence, and she dropped the paperback on the coffee table, leaving Viola to pine for Orsino, Orsino for Olivia, and Olivia for Cesario, who was also, of course, Viola, without an audience to make it worth it. For howsoever poor a player we may be, and we may be poor players indeed, we make this at least our demand: to be seen.

At last she rose and gathered herself, and glided up the stairs. She changed into her pajamas, kept her plain white underwear safely covering her hips and groin, dismissed memories of the school day and of Sara, and slumped into her bed. It was only a little past nine.

Twenty minutes later the mobile phone vibrated on the night stand next to the monitor. Sara was calling. Wendy reached to grab the phone.

“Are you wearing your lipstick?”

“No.”

“Get it.”

“Sara it’s late.”

“Get it.”

Wendy clambered from her bed with a groan of loud complaint. She sat at her vanity, took the black and gold tube from the middle drawer, and applied a coat of smooth, pink gloss to her lips, carefully going just over the edges. She smacked her lips together, then pursed them. She applied another coat. Sara was right of course. She looked stunning, sensuous. Heat rose to her face, turning it red, enflamed. She returned to bed, almost staggering.

“It’s on.”

“Put the other movie in. Not the one you were watching. The other one. I made sure to put it on top of your computer.”

This time when Wendy looked at the cover with its nude man, well-built, with a smooth, hairless, and muscular torso, a broad, handsome face, her heart raced in her chest. Her eyes fixed on the long, thick cock jutting between the open, heavily lipsticked mouths of the two topless women facing each other, preparing to devour his length. One woman held the base of the man’s tool, directing the bulbous tip just slightly towards the red mouth of her waiting, cock-famished companion.

Barely registering her actions, Wendy turned the computer on and waited for it to boot. Finally the screen displayed its familiar desktop, and Wendy opened the CD/DVD drive, removed At Play in Fields of Reeds, and replaced it with the new movie, Cock-Hungry Coeds.

“Are you naked, Wendy?” Sara’s silky-smooth voice trilled over the phone.

“No. I’m in my pajamas.”

“Take them off. Take off your pajamas. Slide them down your sexy thighs for me, push them past your knees. Oh god I want to see your calves, the way your feet twist at the ankle.”

“Sara.”

“Please.”

Wendy rolled over onto her back, raised her hips, pushed her pajamas and underwear, plain white, past her hips, bent her knees towards her chest, and rolled her clothes over her thighs, past her knees, along her calves, over her bare feet. The scent of her pungent arousal filled the room, intoxicating her further.

“Do you trust me, sweetie?”

“Yeah.”

“Play the movie. Tell me what you see.”

Shuddering, Wendy clicked the movie viewer and described what she saw. How the man and woman kissed near their pool, how they disrobed, how the man fondled the woman’s breasts, kissing them, how she leaned back, sprawled on a lounge, and how his kisses trailed down her smooth and trembling abdomen.

“Is he kissing her tits, Wendy? Is he flicking the tip of his tongue against the hard nipples of her tits?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what. What is he doing?”

“Yes, Sara. He’s kissing her breasts.”

“Her tits, Wendy.”

“Oh god, he’s kissing her tits.”

“Like the way you want Brad to kiss yours, Wendy?”

“Oh, god, Brad. He. He looked at me today, Sara. He looked straight at my breasts. My tits. He looked right at them.”

“What’s the man doing now?”

“He’s. He’s. He’s between her legs, Sara. His head’s between her legs. Oh god, it’s showing it, Sara. The movie is showing what he’s doing. He’s kissing her there. He’s licking it, Sara. He’s licking it. I can see everything.”

“What, Wendy? What is he licking?” Sara prodded.

Wendy inhaled deeply.

“He’s licking her pussy, Sara. He’s kissing her pussy.”

“He’s eating her out, Wendy. He’s eating out her pussy.”

“Oh god.”

Wendy brought both her hands to her moist and heated groin and half-crouched on her side, gazing lustfully at the computer screen.

“Oh god, he’s standing up, Sara. He’s gripping her legs and spreading them. He’s moving his body between them.”

“He’s treating her like a piece of meat, Wendy. He’s going to fuck that gorgeous body like a piece of meat. Wait, you’ll see.”

“Oh my god, it’s showing it, Sara! It’s showing his thing going into her, into her pussy.”

“It’s his cock, Wendy. Do you like looking at his cock? Do you wish you could touch it?”

Wendy groaned in response, saying nothing.

“Say it. Say you want to touch his cock.”

“I, I, I want to touch his cock.”

“Say you want to kiss it.”

“I want to kiss it. His cock. I want to kiss it.”

“Say you want it all the way in your mouth. Beg for it.”

Wendy rubbed her soaking pussy feverishly, hands working over her golden thatch, across the valley of her twat, along the folds of her pulsing lips. Her fingers caressed her clitoris, and she twitched, shaking her bed. Her headboard beat against the wall, and the springs of bed frame squeaked beneath the moans of Wendy’s crescendoing pleasure.

“Please. Please Sara. I want it. I want it all the way in my mouth.”

A tremor ran through Wendy’s body.

“Do you see the beautiful cock going into the pretty, wet pussy, Wendy?”

“Yes.”

“Look how wet the pussy made that cock, Wendy, look how wet that cock is from that pussy, such a gorgeous pussy, isn’t it, Wendy?”

“Um.”

“Say it. Say it’s a gorgeous pussy.”

Wendy rebelled. Her body froze, and her the rise of her coming orgasm dissipated.

“Sara, don’t. I’m. Uncomfortable. I don’t. I’m not. I want a boyfriend.”

Sara stopped masturbating, calmed down, and began to speak in a friendly, but remonstrating and mentoring tone, as if speaking to a little sister.

“Wendy stop playing with yourself.”

Wendy abruptly pulled her hand away from her snatch, listening.

“This is going nowhere. Wendy, it doesn’t make you gay to look at women in porn. You shouldn’t be afraid to love your own body. And your own body is just like the bodies of other women, isn’t it? I mean mostly? You like your own pussy, don’t you?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“Then say it. Say I love my pussy.”

“Um. I love my pussy.”

“Say it one more time. Say I love my gorgeous pussy. And mean it.”

Wendy sighed at her weird friend.

“I love my gorgeous pussy,” she repeated in a flat, unenthusiastic tone, but yielding all the same to Sara’s wishes.

“That’s better.” Sara, too, sighed. “But I wish you would mean it.”

Sara hung up the call shortly after that, leaving Wendy unsatisfied, disappointed, and somehow inadequate. Sara asked too much from her. Still, Wendy thought to herself. I should have been able to give it. Wendy paused the video. By now the man had shot a stream of semen onto the woman’s belly. Wendy glanced at the screen with disinterest. She, and she alone, had killed the mood. Wendy turned off the computer and flung herself back into her bed, then crawled under the covers. She rumpled her pillow, tucked it, then spread it out evenly, and plopped her head against it. She closed her eyes, but sleep did not come down. It hovered just beyond reach, until finally it must have descended enough for her to drift off, because she did not hear it when her mother came home, cracked open the door of her bedroom, and, looking at Wendy’s sleeping form in the dark, whispered, “Good night, my love.”

Tuesday

15. Back with Trina and Maddy, no sign of Sara

16. An exchange of poetry

Wendy came home tense, stressed, worried about the strange course her life had almost taken and why she had let things get as far as they had. Wendy’s landline rang. Retrieving the phone and going back to her bed, she saw Maddy’s number on the display.

“Hello,” Wendy said, almost flat.

“Hi Wendy,” Maddy said, “I’m not bothering you am I?”

Wendy’s tension subsided, and she sighed.

“Absolutely not. What’s going on?”

They talked as friends talk, about this, about that, about nothing at all. Boys, girls, acquaintances. What so-and-so said yesterday, what so-and-so repeated today. Who wore what and how. That time Tommy. The future a little and the past a lot.

“Do you remember our poetry class last year, Wendy?”

“Oh, god, yes. I still kept some of.”

“I threw all mine away.”

Maddy paused. Her voice rose again in a half-whisper, half-chant.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,

waved my nude arms at villages going by,

learning the last bright routes, survivor

where your flames still bite my thigh

and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.

A woman like that is not ashamed to die.

I have been her kind.

“Did you memorize that?” asked Wendy. “I love it.”

“No, I have the book in front of me.”

“Hold on,” Wendy said, leaping up to fetch her own textbook from that class, digging in the corner of her closet through a pile of old clothes, stuffed animals, and a hammock in its bag.

“What’s this?” she asked when she returned, opening her book to the familiar poem.

“Nudgers and shovers

In spite of ourselves.

Our kind multiplies:

We shall by morning

Inherit the earth.

Our foot’s in the door.”

“Pure propaganda,” Maddy replied. “Guess this one.”

My candle burns at both ends;

“Millay, Millay!” Wendy interrupted, but Maddy continued.

It will not last the night;

But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—

It gives a lovely light!

“Now that’s propaganda,” Wendy retorted before giving one last quote.

“I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.

But who would count eternity in days?

These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:

(I measure time by how a body sways).”

“That one sounds familiar, but I can’t.” Maddy’s voice drifted off.

“Then you’ll just have to look it up.”

But Maddy had one last response of her own.

“And further still at an unearthly height,

One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.

I have been one acquainted with the night.”

“Now I’m stumped,” Wendy admitted.

“Then you’ll just have to look it up.”

The two friends talked and laughed long into the night.

Wednesday

17. An existential crisis, but Sara calls again

Wednesday night Wendy lay on her bed, dressed in her school jeans and blouse, studying, writing in a notebook. From time to time she sat up to type into the keyboard, peering into the monitor standing on her night table. Sara had been right. This was kind of easier.

Exhausted, she glanced up, yawned, and then she suddenly saw it: the vista of her life laid out in its entirety. Of college, of career, of each thought leading to another thought, every action begetting another act. She saw how no matter what she did, she would still be Wendy, and that was some comfort, but it held horror, too. For what was Wendy? A set of classes, a collection of scribbled notes, a series of essays on a hard dive? A house? A family of faceless sons and shapeless daughters? She saw vacations and meetings, offices and driveways. She saw herself sitting in a car (a nice one, yes) in a long line of cars, waiting for a green light that would never come.

Her father had lived such a life, and he was dead; her mother lived such a life, and now she spent her nights away from home, away from her own daughter. In search of what, Wendy could guess—but did not like all the same.

Or worse, an endlessly flowing stream of traffic, going nowhere, all on the same highway, without pausing or turning a new direction, unable to flee far from the flowing river of our common human destiny.

She ran to the vanity, grasped a black and gold tube, quickly smeared her lips, and, delaying only momentarily, dialed Sara’s number on the cell phone.

She heard Sara’s voice say, “Hello, Wendy?”

“I’m wearing my pink lipstick.”

The was a long and suspenseful pause, time during which Wendy changed her mind, and came very close to wiping her mouth clean.

“Are you sure, Wendy? Do you really want to do this?”

“No!” part of Wendy screamed at herself, shaking with a worried fury inside the confines of Wendy’s mind.

Wendy nodded.

“Hm mm. I’m sure. Yes. I’m sure.”

“Are you wearing pants, Wendy? Take them off. Take off your pants. And then take off your panties.”

Whining, Wendy complied.

“Turn that movie back on. The one with the cock you want to suck so much.”

Oh, my god, Sara.

Standing on her knees, clad only in her blouse which raised above her hips as she stretched toward the monitor on her nightstand, Sara was not there to see how the soft, round haunches of Wendy’s ass bloomed outward, exposing the folds of her pink well covered in a fine, blond thatch.

Wendy found the movie folder and clicked it. She moved the progress bar to where the movie had stopped, dragging the cursor to just before where the man shoved his dick into the women’s steaming pussy. Then she clicked the mouse, leaned back against the wall, and splayed her legs, facing the monitor. She breathed into the phone cradled in her left hand.

“I’m ready.”

“Are you jilling yourself, Wendy? Are you jilling yourself to that long hard cock? Is your pussy wet? Is your fuck hole wet yet, Wendy? Wet like that whore’s cunt you see in the movie? Do you wish you were that whore?”

The man drove his cock into the women’s fuck hole with slow, steady thrusts that lifted the woman up and back on the lounge chair. He stood between her outstretched limbs, holding each leg bent over his shoulders. The woman grunted in pleasure, a look of sheer joy and relief spread across her glistening face.

“Yes, yes,” the woman was pleading in a high-pitched voice, “fuck me, fuck me harder, yeah there, oh yeah there. Fuck me harder.”

Wendy nodded, rubbing her hard nub faster and faster, splitting her soaked and heated labia with her fingers, spreading her labia wide, and plunging her middle finger fingertip-deep into her aching hole. Wendy’s eyes fixated once again on the close-up of the woman’s pussy, of the hard cock slamming into it, of the vaginal secretion sticking along the length of the dick sliding into the steaming wet fuck hole.

“I can’t hear you, Wendy. Do you wish you were that whore? Then say it. Say you wish you were that whore.”

“Oh god, Sara. I wish I were that whore. God I want to be that whore.”

“You want your cunt fucked by that hard cock?”

“Oh god I want my cunt fucked so bad by that hard cock.”

“You want to be that whore.”

“Yes. Yes, I want to be that whore.”

Wendy rubbed herself in a frenzy.

Just then another woman entered the camera view. A dark-haired woman, with hard small breasts, smaller than Wendy’s, and tight long legs leading to a round tight ass. The woman wore a skimpy blue Lycra bikini, mere strings and tiny triangles. She walked over to the woman getting fucked, pulled the string of her bikini bottom away from her hairless groin and crouched over the woman’s face, her ass facing the camera, her knees resting on cushions placed on either side of the lounge.

The woman below her began to lick wildly against the dark-haired woman’s groin gyrating against her mouth. Then the man pulled out his cock and sprayed rope after rope of come onto the woman’s abdomen.

Wendy came with a shriek.

When she came down, she heard Sara speak.

“Turn the movie off now, Wendy, and go to sleep. Meet me in our restroom tomorrow morning. Let me put the lipstick on you. Don’t put any on tomorrow. Let me do it. I want to.”

Strange. But not as strange as.

“Sara,” Wendy asked abruptly. “Do you read poetry? Do you have a favorite poem?”

Sara hesitated, then spoke in a language Wendy did not understand. She thought it at once rough-cut and beautiful, like a light hail in a summer storm falling on wooden planks, or simple chords played on a broken piano in an antique shop.

“What is that?” Wendy asked, a little awed.

But Sara kept silent, until Wendy could hear her own heart beating against the cage of her ribs. Then Sara’s voice rose over the phone, unusually wavering and unsteady.

“Love shakes my soul now, like a wind on the mountain whipping the oaks.”

“Gosh, Sara,” said Wendy.

“Good night, Wendy,” replied Sara.

Thursday

18. Wendy dresses for Sara

That Thursday morning Wendy found a long-sleeved, black crochet lace blouse with scallop trim in her closet. She remembered how after her mother, after coming home from shopping, had taken it out of a shopping bag to show Wendy. She recalled immediately hanging it in the corner of her closet, refusing ever to so much as look at it. What on earth had possessed her mother then, she couldn’t say. Now, as she stood in her closet wondering what to wear that day, the black lace stood out from the rest of her stale shirts, seeming to beckon her. She pulled the hanger off the rod, gently laid the blouse on her bed, and rummaged in the closet again for jeans.

Naturally she couldn’t wear those ripped jeans again. Not twice in one week. But she could wear those tight pink jeans she bought on a whim. Those would work. She pulled out a pair of open-toed wedge sandals.

I’m going to have to do my nails, she thought.

“Mom?” She shouted from her bedroom. She continued shouting for her mother as she stomped down the hall.

Mary emerged from her bathroom wrapped in a towel, another towel swirled turban-like around her head.

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Do you have nail polish? I need nail polish.”

“Nail polish?”

“Mom!”

Mary brought Wendy into her bathroom, where she showed her her collection of nail polish, all lined up on a clear plastic 3-tiered display standing on her sink counter. Wendy glanced through them, rejecting each one in its turn, until her eyes alighted on a small bottle of hot pink polish.

“That one!” Wendy cried out, reaching for it. “This one is perfect!”

I thought she hated pink, Mary wondered as Wendy trotted from the room. Finally. She’s becoming a girl.

After doing her toes, Wendy realized her fingernails also needed polishing. Shaking her hands in the air, she paced her room. Sara’s underwear, she thought. I still have those. I can wear them twice in a week. She waited until her nails were dry, then jogged to her hamper in the bathroom to retrieve her black lace thong and sheer bra.

I can’t believe I’m going to do this again. Do they stink?

Wendy ran back into her mother’s room as Mary buttoned up a blouse, her hands near the bottom of the shirt. She always started at the bottom and worked her way up. A large plain white bra pushed Mary’s full breasts together. The blouse tails covered Mary’s hips, but her smooth white legs showed bare. Mary had not yet decided on a skirt or slacks for the day.

“Perfume,” Wendy exclaimed. “I need perfume.”

“Sounds like we need to go shopping tonight.”

“Mom!”

“In the bathroom. Pick what you want.”

Choosing a small red flask with a gold label, she burst from bathroom back to her room.

“Thanks, Mom,” she shouted behind her.

Wendy appraised herself in the mirror. She didn’t say anything about eyeshadow, she thought. Or eyeliner.

19. In the restroom

20. Sara calls again

Later that night Sara called again.

“Are you ready, Wendy? God, I’m so hot right now, I’m practically gushing into my hands. I’ve already started.”

“Um, Sara? I’m not sure. My mom’s home.”

“Oh, sugar, will be quiet. I’ll make sure you’re quiet.”

“But she could walk in at.”

“She won’t, baby, I promise.”

“Okay, but we gotta be quiet.”

“We’ll be so quiet, honey.”

“Okay.”

“Is the movie on?”

“Just a second.”

“Are you wearing your lipstick?”

“Just a second.”

Truth to tell, phone sex with Sara all week (except for Tuesday, she reminded herself) exhausted her. And she kept thinking about Brad. About her coming date with Brad. He had called earlier. A movie at a drive-in, a real drive-in. She didn’t know people did that anymore. Be ready at 7, he said. That’s when I’ll pick you up. Her mother hugged her when Wendy told her, then looked really serious, sad, and alarmed all at the same time.

“Are you sure it’s okay?” she asked. “Are you sure you should go alone? Maybe you should bring your little friend Maddy?”

“Mom!”

She pressed her lips together, smoothing out the pink lipstick along her lips. It really did feel incredible wearing it. It just did something.

Phone sex. It that really what they were doing? That seems, well, off, doesn’t it? I mean, straight girls didn’t have phone sex with each other did they? Normal teenagers didn’t have phone sex, did they? Oh, god, though. Was it ever hot. God, Sara’s voice could get her to do anything, look at anything, say anything, touch anything. And make her come. Oh, god she needed to come. Her pussy spasmed, her fuck hole twitched, and the lips of her cunt swelled. She pulled down her jeans. Her fluids soaked through the string of her panties, making her thighs damp.

“Okay,” she said, “I’m back.”

She started the movie where she had stopped it last night, the woman’s belly drenched in a load of come. The man backed away, and the dark-haired woman kept thrusting her pussy at the blond woman’s mouth. The woman on the bottom pressed her partners ass against her face.

“That whore just got the fuck of her life,” Sara’s voice broke through her reverie. “Now look at her. She’s eating her friend’s pussy.”

“Oh god.”

“Yesterday you said you wished you were that whore.”

“Oh god Sara no.”

“Do you still want to be that whore?”

“Do you wish you had pussy to eat after Brad fucks you with his 8-inch dick? After Brad comes all over your stomach, baby. Do you want Brad to come all over you?”

“Oh god Sara. Don’t.”

“Then you can lick Megan’s pussy.”

“Stop. Sara. Don’t.”

“You can make little Megan lick Brad’s come off you. Would you like that, Wendy? Do you want to be that kind of whore?”

“Look at that whore in the movie, Wendy. Look how wet her face is. She’s got so much pussy juice on it. So much. So much cunt on her mouth. Look at that dark-haired girl’s beautiful pussy, Sara. Isn’t it a gorgeous pussy?”

“Don’t. Sara. Stop.” Wendy groaned.

“So shaven. So naked. So smooth. So hot.”

“Don’t. Stop.”

“Do you like that gorgeous, pussy, Wendy? Do you? Then say it.”

Wendy rubbed her cunt through the string of her panties, legs spread wide as she hammered her spasming groin at her hand. She looked at the blonde with her face between her friend’s legs. A close-up showed her long, pink tongue extended past the pink-glossed lips of her mouth, stabbing the tip and then licking with the flat of her tongue the wet, pink labia and hooded clitoris, hard now, of the pussy above her. Both women were groaning, sighing, and moaning.

“Yeah, there, oh yeah there. Pussy, oh, pussy.”

“Look at that pussy, Wendy. Look at that pussy while you come.”

Suddenly the dark-haired woman flexed and arched her back, then she jammed her mound into the open mouth of the woman below, holding the back of her head with one hand, mashing her groin while the woman kept her open mouth on the woman’s gash. All at once a whitish, semi-transparent fluid sprayed everywhere, poured across the woman’s lips, down her cheeks, as the dark-haired woman’s thighs and pelvis trembled, quivered, and shook.

The woman’s throat moved up and down as she tried to swallow as much of her friends orgasmic juices as she could.

“I’m coming, Wendy,” said Sara breathlessly. “I’m coming all over your face.”

Wendy fell to one side, jamming her hand against her squeezing thighs, and shoving her head into her pillow to muffle her screams. The bed bounced against the wall to her shuddering orgasm, moments later, even as the tremors subsided two smaller orgasms following in quick succession.

She picked up the phone that had fallen.

“Sara, Sara,” whispered Wendy.

“Lick it, Wendy. Be sure to lick my pussy clean.”

Wendy sat up and felt her bed. Her legs were soaked. Her bed covers were soaked. Not just damp, but soaked.

“Sara.”

“Yes, darling?”

“I think I just did that.”

“Did what, baby?”

“I think I just did what that woman did. My bed’s soaked.”

“Did you squirt, baby? Did you fucking squirt?”

“I think so.”

“Oh god you’re amazing, Wendy.”

Sara went quiet on the phone, and Wendy prepared to hang up.

“Wendy?” Sara asked

“Yes?”

“Do you want to, can you come over this weekend? You know, maybe for a sleepover?”

“Um.”

“Wendy, I want you to. Spend the day with me Saturday and spend the night. It’s okay to spend the night with your friends, Wendy. We’ll do makeovers and talk. You can tell me your secrets.”

Wendy agreed. What else could she do?

Friday

21. Sara puts lipstick on Wendy and kisses her again

“I won’t be able to call you tonight,” Sara said Friday morning, after putting lipstick on Wendy again. They had agreed to let Sara put lipstick on Wendy in the mornings. It was their ritual. “Game night. Make sure you do all your homework so you don’t have to worry about it this weekend.”

Sara kissed Wendy on the lips again, pressing her lips tightly against Wendy’s before turning her loose.

“So adorable.” She paused. “I heard a rumor.”

Wendy pressed her burning lips together.

“What?”

“You have a date. With Brad.”

Wendy blushed and nodded.

“You didn’t tell me!”

“Um.” Wendy didn’t tell her. That was true. For some reason, she didn’t want Sara to know.

“I think it’s great. We’ll have a lot to talk about Saturday!”

22. Masturbating alone at night

Wendy spent most of her Friday night doing her homework, just like Sara had suggested. Her mother had hemmed and hawed when Wendy asked permission to spend the night at Sara’s.

“I just don’t know her, Wendy. I’d like to at least meet her parents.”

“But Mom, I’m sixteen. I’ll give you her number, and you call me any time. We’re just going to watch movies.”

Finally Mary relented, but with misgivings. She just didn’t like Wendy going off with strangers. Even teenage strangers. Teenage girls who drove a Mercedes. Then Steve called her, asked her out for Saturday, and Mary forgot all about her misgivings.

Wendy got up from her bed, went to her dresser and put on the pink lipstick, she grabbed her yearbook. She remembered how she had masturbated that Sunday to a picture of Brad on the shoulders of his teammates. Could she do it again? She slipped of her jeans and panties at the same time. Then, pulling her T-shirt over her head, she unhooked her bra and climbed back on the bed, the photo of Brad spread out in front of her.

She raised her pelvis to get better access for her exploring hand, and then she raised her ass fully off the bed by bringing her knees forward, half sitting on them as she kept her chest and head close to the bed, rubbing herself slowly as she looked at Brad’s picture. Then she saw Sara in the background with the crotch of her panties exposed to the world. Leaping up, she ran to the closet to get the magazine from her bag. She quickly flipped through the pages until she came to a double page of a red-haired woman sucking a mechanic’s cock. She resumed her position, looking at both Brad’s face and the magazine. She turned the page of the magazine and saw how the woman had more of the cock in her mouth, with a photo below showing her sucking on the tip. The other pages showed the woman’s face, the bulbous tip of the cock near her glossy pink lips, covered in come, dripping from her eyebrows to chin.

Wendy ran her hand furiously across the mound of her pussy, working through her golden thatch, and between the hot, swollen folds of her wet cunt lips. She pressed her clitoris with her index finger as she gazed at the man’s cock, the woman’s come-covered face, and a smiling Brad with Sara’s crotch in the background. She closed her eyes. God she was so close. She felt her orgasm boiling inside her. Licking her lips, she rubbed her pussy in a furious frenzy. Nearing her climax, she hungrily turned the page of the magazine. Wendy opened her eyes to another double photograph, this time of two naked women, one behind the other, the woman in front turning to passionately kiss the woman behind her, glossy pink lips on glossy red lips, while the woman in back fondled and cupped the other’s full breasts, her fingers squeezing the hard, dark nipples standing in the midst of their round, wide areolas.

Wendy hurried to turn the pages back, but she came instead in an orgasm that shook her body to her toes, like a wind from the mountain shaking the oaks.

Saturday

23. Wendy dresses again for Sara

Wendy spent the morning hurriedly preparing for her day with Sara. Although her mother had finally agreed to let Wendy spend the night with Sara, Wendy wanted to get out before Mary changed her mind. She took a brief shower, washing her hair and running shampoo over the golden thatch of her mound, she pushed her fingers through her labia, and squeezed her thighs together. No, she thought, I need to hurry. She rinsed and stepped out of the shower.

She quickly applied her make-up and eyeshadow, a pink shimmer that showed off her pink lips, pulled her hair in a loose tail, threw on a billowing floral pale-yellow sundress, under which she wore a plain white bra and panties set. The lace bra revealed more flesh than she liked, the panties exposed a little more of her hips and cheeks than she liked, and a fine scallop frill bordered both garments. They were the sexiest, most risqué undergarments she owned, but in comparison with what Sara wore, well, Wendy felt like a nun in a habit. She dipped a little of her mother’s perfume on the inner side of her wrist and touched the back of her ears and around her neck.

Sara’s perfume smells so nice.

A car honked in the driveway, and Wendy jumped up from her seat at the vanity dresser. Her pink piggy bank lay in a broken rubble on the floor. She flung a small black leather purse over her shoulder and bolted down the stairs.

Mary caught her in the living room, disheveled, in her bathrobe, dark bags under her eyes.

“Have a good time, darling. Oh. You look. Nice. Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”

“Mom.”

“Okay, give me a kiss. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Don’t be late, remember.”

Mary leaned in for a kiss, and Wendy placed a soft kiss on her mother’s cheek.

“Really, Mother. I gotta go now. Sara’s waiting.”

24. Shopping

“Do you mind going to the mall again,” Sara asked Wendy. “They’ve just got some lovely sales on at Vestal’s. They have the best lingerie. I mean, for a mall store.”

“Sure,” smiled Wendy. “I don’t mind.”

Sara leaned across the console to kiss Wendy on the cheek. It left a mark, but Sara said nothing.

“You’re the best,” she said, pulling back. “We can look at jeans while we’re there, too. Shoes.” Sara glanced at Wendy’s purse doubtfully. “Accessories.”

Sara was right about the sale at Vestal’s Lace, a boutique mall store specializing in all things lace for women, especially undergarments, lingerie from long lace negligees to lace bodystockings, from lacy babydolls to lacy nightshirts and lacy boy briefs. But the shop also offered lacy tops, lacy skirts and lacy dresses, and even lacy head-wear, a veritable cornucopia of feminine fashion for sleeping and nightwear.

Women of all ages and sizes rampaged through the small shop, middle-aged women and adolescent girls milled through shelves, hurtled through hangers, ransacked piles of clothes folded neatly on tabletops. Colored sales tags were checked, appraised, compared, switched, inspected for loopholes, and cursed.

“Oh this is cute,” said Sara, holding up a pink babydoll. “I can’t wait to see you in this.”

“Sara.”

“Or this. Or this. Or this. And this. Especially this.”

By the time she had finished, Sara had amassed an assortment of babydolls, teddies, nightshirts, panties and bras, corsets, and long, flowing negligees. She nudged Wendy towards the dressing rooms, all of which held a customer.

“We’ll have to share a station, of course,” Sara winked at Wendy. “It’s way too busy here.”

Wendy muttered something, but not even she knew what she meant.

Wendy and Sara spent the next half-hour trying on underwear, bras, panties, negligees, lace shirts. At first Wendy hesitated to change in front of Sara, but seeing Sara undress so quickly in front of her, and remembering how last Saturday went, Wendy quickly got into a rhythm of trying the lingerie out. It definitely seemed weird trying on panties. When Wendy asked about that, Sara just shrugged.

“Well, I think they like you to just try it over your own panties. But what good does that do? Here, turn around.”

Wendy turned around and jerked as Sara hooked her fingers through Wendy’s waist band, adjusting the garment. Then she slapped Wendy’s ass playfully.

“You look super good.”

Several times Wendy or Sara stood fully unclothed, and Wendy no longer tried to hide by raising her arms over her chest or turning her pubic area to the side, away from Sara’s view.

Sara liked everything she picked out. She bought them all.

25. Reno Arroyo Canyon River Trail and hand-holding

26. At Chez Vince

27. Sara’s house