***
Everything in this tale is true, I just changed the names to protect the guilty. All of us…
It’s hard to believe, but we were all in our late twenties once. That is when this story took place.
***
3:00 PM SUNDAY – NOVEMBER – 1988
I woke up on Sunday at three o’clock in the afternoon. On a different day I would have sought out my big brother George, and seen if he had a little time to make love with his little sister. George is the very best big brother any girl could ever hope to ask for. I may have been the one that seduced him ten years ago, but he knows me better than I know me. He knows what I like, what I want, and what I need. More than that he truly loves me, and he tries to give me exactly what I need.
George has this gift, what some might call a super-power: vision. Not comic book x-ray vision, something real and far better, attentive vision… He pays attention to me and notes how I react when we are together. He gently pushes my boundaries in the direction that my reactions indicate, then he waits for confirmation, and adjusts his actions. My body reacts to his touch like Pavlov’s dog reacted to that damned bell.
But today was Sunday, which meant our parents were in town. Although I would be with George in a few minutes, we would not be alone. It was not a hardship giving up some alone time. I wanted to spend some time with mom and dad watching them enjoy their four grandkids. Their grandchildren being our children. So I got dressed and inquired of Kristin where the wonderful man we shared, my big brother, her husband was. Then I walked down the street to the neighborhood park and playground.
Kristin was making Jambalaya, a spicy Creole recipe of chopped chicken, shrimp and andouille sausage. It would be stewed in a pot with sweet red bell peppers, tomatoes, onion, celery and garlic. It was seasoned with spicy tabasco peppers, and best of all it contained absolutely no okra whatsoever. Jamie and Lillian were helping by mixing a batter that would be cornbread muffins when we gathered together for dinner at six that evening. One of our planes left at seven o’clock every evening, 363 days a year, so dinner was always at six.
It was a sunny fortyfive-degree day in early November in Saint Andrew, a hamlet just outside of Saint Louis Missouri. The kids were playing on the playground structure; they had another two hours of daylight remaining. Mom and dad were having fun with George’s two children with Kristin, his one with my Jamie, and my child with Punch. Eva, home from her studies at Nod Theological Seminary in Old Orchard, was there with our other four children.
Biologically our kids are all siblings, cousins and half-siblings, to one another. But more significantly they are all the precious children of God. We seven adults all consider ourselves to be brothers and sisters in Christ and to one other. So, therefore all of our children are brothers and sisters to one another as well. George had been talking to dad for some time. He told me we had to find some time to talk later. We both had flights tonight, at seven and nine, so it would have to be tomorrow.
We had a wonderful dinner back at the house, all of us together. It was a little crowded but having seventeen together all in one place was heaven. After dinner George drove over to the airport, he had the seven o’clock flight to the west. Dad excused himself and took a little nap before I drove bursa escort him and mom to the cross dock to pick up their tractor and semi-trailer. They would drive to Arizona passing through Lubbock, near the little west Texas town they used to live in and we seven grew up in.
On Wednesday they would turn their truck around and be back in Saint Louis on Friday night or Saturday morning. For them life was four or so on, three or so off every week. It was eerily similar to our weeks here, three on, two off. As they pulled out of the lot dad drove and mom slept. They would switch places down in Springfield or Joplin around midnight. After saying goodbye, I continued on to the airport, I had the nine o’clock flight south. The kids should be in bed and asleep about the time I lifted off.
Punch had the eleven o’clock flight to the east, so once the children were in bed he was able to join in this evening’s playtime with Eva, Kristin, Jamie, and Lillian. We usually used the larger, rectangular servant’s room off the butler’s pantry for our playtime. George and I would just have to go without tonight. My six wonderful lovers spoil me, I hate to go even a day without their affectionate touch.
The flight south to CGI in Cape Girardeau Missouri, JBR in Jonesboro Arkansas, and LIT in Little Rock then returning to STL, Lambert-Saint Louis International Airport, was usually a ten hour duty day. Five of those hours were loggable, in the air time. A late fall storm to the south of us made it longer on this trip.
The ground crew were apparently unable to get to the Cape Girardeau Airport in this late fall storm. So I was alone getting the many large white cotton bags that we were not allowed by company policy to call “mail bags” off of ‘Ferdinand,’ my airplane tonight. I left them on the concrete hangar floor there at Cape. Not that the actual Cape on the Mississippi River still exists; it was dynamited into oblivion a century ago in the name of progress.
Having successfully left those items that wanted to be in the town named for Jean Baptiste de Girardot; I was on my way to the town named for Senator Jones. Our final destination before returning to the town named for King Louis IX, was the town Jean-Baptiste Bernard de la Harpe named for a stone outcropping in the Arkansas River. Well at least nobody had thought to dynamite Little Rock’s rock.
The weather was better as I flew north back to the ‘Lou. Like all urban areas, Saint Louis is a heat island. The masonry, concrete, and asphalt absorb and store thermal energy. Because of the overnight release of this stored heat energy it had remained above freezing there. It had actually been colder south of the ‘Lou, Both Jonesboro and Cape Girardeau had snowfall and worse, ice.
The ‘Lou sits at a geographic point where three weather systems converge. It has predictably unpredictable weather. The predominant easterly flow of winds aloft creates a low pressure area that sucks moisture up the Mississippi valley. That siphon often runs out of steam right over the city, dumping that moisture as rain, snow or ice. The really nasty weather, late winter storms, tornadoes and other destructive winds usually develop from an occluded front, at the intersection point, coming south-south-west from central Illinois.
I had planned to go home and have a nice shower, and change into something more casual before my ten o’clock appointment with Mrs. Mouequay, Phillip’s first grade teacher. bursa eskort But arriving two hours late back to Lambert there just wasn’t time.
The rectangular clock on the dashboard of my little red Karmann Ghia read nine-forty as I pulled out of the parking lot beside the old Flying Tigers building, and onto Banshee Road, named for James S. McDonnell’s first jet fighter. Ten minutes later having driven south along the perimeter road around Lambert Airport I was at Coldwater Creek Elementary School.
***
10:30 AM MONDAY
After a second mind-numbing conversation with the school secretary. A conversation that would have been unnecessary had they correctly typed the information they had asked us to provide, but never so much as read. I waited to see Trudy Mouequay. Trudy apparently needed someone to read those confusing forms to her because Mrs. Sangfroid, the Principal, was in the class room as well.
After my third explanation to a certifiable idiot, as to why the person that the school specified on the note which Stuart brought home on Friday was the person they were actually speaking to, the Principal finally said, “we asked you here to talk about problems with Stuart’s Cognitive Development Worksheet and his intrangence in dealing with Mrs. Mouequay.”
“Yes, Stuart said that you seemed really confused,” I replied, thinking that that was a gross understatement. Stuart had been going to school here for five quarters and these morons still didn’t know who his parents were, although it was written down on their own forms, “perhaps I can shed some light on the subject matter.”
“WE are not the ones who are confused,” Principal Sangfroid said.
“I am beginning to see where Stuart’s intrangence comes from,” Trudy interjected.
“Here,” Mrs. Mouequay said holding a mimeographed sheet, “the first, second and fifth questions measure a child’s ability to differentiate fact from fantasy.”
In too small of a chair, I sat in a first-grade classroom, in my polished black low-quarter shoes, my black “oh, girl those make you look so gay” socks, black uniform trousers and white uniform shirt. Silver wings were pinned to my left breast and each of my shoulders held an black epaulette with four silver stripes.
I started to giggle, and then to laugh. My big black leather Jepp case, black uniform jacket, hat and tie were out in the car. That was why they were so confused. The first question on the paper read, “my mommy can fly.” Stuart’s answer of “yes” was crossed out in red.
“What is so funny,” Mrs. Mouequay said sharply.
I said, “I’m a pilot, I fly airplanes for a living.”
I looked at question two, and then read it aloud, “my daddy can fly,” I said laughing just a little more than before, “his father does fly, he is a pilot too.” Question five read “I have two mommies,” I was really fighting the laughter now.
“But you just SAID you were NOT Stuart’s mother,” said Mrs. Mouequay, getting visibly upset while almost crying, “you said Jamie Stuart was.”
I broke into full laughter while looking at them, “I’m really sorry that after my explaining it three times you still can’t comprehend that Stuart’s mother is Jamie Saunders, not Jamie Stuart. But please… Please let’s talk about Stuart’s imagined inability to process information.”
“This worksheet comes straight from Collingwood Children’s Cognitive Development Third Edition” Trudy said. escort bursa It now seemed to me she was the one becoming intrangedent.
“But the questions,” I said, “they are just awfully ambiguous if not clearly wrong.”
“It’s not WRONG! It CAN’T be WRONG!” she said loudly .”It was developed by a TEAM of EXPERTS in childhood cognitive development. YOUR stupid child answered it WRONG.”
I got up and walked out the door. It was almost eleven in the morning when I got back to the big shabby-chic victorian we all shared. With its three floors, eight bedrooms, and servant’s quarters, it was a relic from a different age. George and Punch were already home, they had showered and were asleep in those servant’s quarters. No penises for Lisa today.
Lillian was waiting for a call pertaining to a load for the trucking operation and passing the time swapping spit with Kristin on the sofa in the living room. The pork shanks which they had obviously been working on were sitting marinating in a cassarole pan of white wine in the kitchen. Jamie was doing something in the laundry room off the pantry.
I took her hand, and gave her my best “I need you right now look.” Talking could wait. I led my beloved sister, my sweet lover, through the butler’s pantry to the bathroom between the servant’s rooms. I needed a shower; then I needed a really good hard fuck. I climbed into the shower and a moment later after getting naked Jamie joined me. I kissed her deeply.
“I am so tired of banging my head against a brick wall of stupidity,” I said.
“Same shit?” she asked.
“Same shit, different day,” I said.
She was playing with my breasts and my nipple studs, and she was magically making me feel better already. The hands of a caring lover are truly the hands of God.
“I want to talk to Sam again, about options,” I said, “if everyone agrees.”
“I’m OK with it,” she said putting my right nipple in her mouth, “never hurts to listen.”
I turned the water off, and we toweled each other off before moving to the counter in the butler’s pantry. Both of the beds in the smaller square and larger rectangular rooms behind us, those rooms having once been the servants’ bedrooms were already occupied. Jamie lifted me up and started licking the parallel folds of my labia. I bit my lip so as not to wake the boys as I came.
Jamie took her braided leather belt from her pants, and tied my wrists behind my back, and then led me to the living room. We were both naked. “Intervention needed,” she called to Kristin and Lillian as we walked through the doorway from the parlor. My lovers pushed me backwards on the soft cushions of the sofa, and Kristin started finger fucking me. Jamie straddled my face and I returned the kind favor she had just offered me, nibbling on her loveliness as it was presented to me.
After Kristin got me all warmed up, Lillian pushed her hand into me and pumped hard. It was heaven; it was just what I needed. A few thrusts and I could not think of anything except Lillian’s expert skilled hand moving about within me and Jamie’s sweet fragrant cunt in my face. After Jamie squirted me and Lillian made me come again Kristin took Lillian’s place.
Lillian stripped and sat on my face taking Jamie’s place. I lapped at her eagerly. After my fourth or maybe my sixth orgasm… I wasn’t really counting it spoils the mood; I slowly rose from the sofa. Kristin kissed me; she tasted me, Jamie and Lillian together. Jamie removed her belt from my wrists and Lillian helped me upstairs. I fell upon my bed and started to drift off to sleep.
My last waking thought was, we needed to make some sort of a change.
***
Lisa Ann