Warning: F/F/F. Explicit language. Crude humor. Don’t read if you can’t handle tastelessness. 😉 300 words.
From the logs of Detective Harry Lichter, psychic sex P.I.
Monday, July 3, 2017 — 6:02 PM
Closeted lesbian sporting a Hillary-Clinton-circa-early-2000’s haircut, tan booties and an oversized white shirt that resembles a Dollar Store tablecloth, secretly lusts after the long-haired blonde Barbie-type seated next to her. Their tablemate: a Snow White lookalike; stylishly-clad, too much eye makeup. Her skinny bra straps are twisted in the back, which adds to her appeal (imperfection makes her real).
Hillary spies possibility.
During a lengthy creative brainstorming session (ordered by the soulless corporation to which they are willingly enslaved), the three women drink fishbowl-sized Sex-on-the-Beaches, which leaves the “straight” girls feeling horny and experimental. Flirting ensues, followed by an embarrassingly-loud round of “Never Have I Ever”. To no one’s surprise, Snow cops a feel on Barbie. The trio Ubers back to Hillary’s place for a nightcap.
Cue suspenseful sex music — no such thing, but there’s beaucoup sax dominating the driver’s playlist. He knows what’s coming.
Opportunity presents itself during a slurred conjecture about how the ladies’ boss could be a cuckold. Superior sneers mark the start of a sloppy three-way massage. When Barbie’s hand rides up her thigh, Snow watches with an exaggerated lip-bite. Hillary strikes while the iron’s hotter than Satan’s big boner. Triple-kiss: initiated.
Panties drop. Heavy petting turns wetter, stickier, slippery…Snow role-plays dominatrix, but passes out in the thick of Barbie’s anti-climax. Hillary finishes herself off one-handed; the other alternating between Snow’s boobs and Barbie’s booty.
Tuesday, July 4 — 7:16 AM
Barbie and Snow ignore Hillary, pretend they didn’t wake up nose-first in each others’ burrows; then skedaddle. Hillary doesn’t sweat it — instead, she relives hazy memories of their dearly-departed threesome with Hudson Flynn, her favorite vibrator.
It’s all in a day’s jerk.
I don’t know what came over me, but does it really matter? The wetter, the better…as ever — thank you for the side-trip, jetsetter(s).