Virginia

Yes, Virginia, there is ho-ho for a hoe!

When you are young and spend a year away from home in a small apartment studying, you don't run your own place like your mum. Though your mum would hope you did.

No, gear and textbooks are thrown everywhere: you have way more important things to do than be tidy. You have lectures, a part-time job and above all; a coochie to manage, ensuring the latter gets regular action.

The state of your fridge is cringeworthy. Lucky guys don't check it out; they are more concerned about shaved legs and pits. They do not check the laundry scattered with brief, skimpy panties and socks to wash. Guys only care about seeing you naked and keeping you naked. They don't care where panties are as long as they are off.

You take to walking around your flat half-naked or in the buff. You look sensationally good anyway. You enjoy your full birthday suit and take in your trimmed dark pubes and shapely butt in any available mirror. You like the wobble of free titties as you rush around before securing everything for the world of work or study.

Still, back home the night before Christmas, you behave in your mum's place. You had arrived excited after a delayed flight from Brisbane to Hobart. So being over-tired was accepted by Mum and my stepdad, and you went straight to bed. You told your mum to spare the details as she tried to mention your stepbrother James' now had a sleepover girlfriend named Stella. She would be here for yuletide lunch.

You wake early on Christmas morning with the urgent need to relieve yourself. The opening of presents would be preferable, but your bladder comes first. The irritating demand flings you into action. The doona is off, and you are in the hallway fast.

Damn it, you mull.

If you use the WC next to your parents' room at five-thirty in the morning, your tinkle or flush will likely draw their attention.

With a flick of your long hair, you scamper for the downstairs bathroom next to the laundry.

You complete the full, happy sprinkle—the plash, burble, and splash created by the warm stream from her body and the loud flush of the cistern, hoping no one will hear it.

Oh My God!

Hitting you is the naked fact you slept in your bloody birthday suit last night. This topped the list of all the awkward, messed up, and humiliating events that could happen.

Commando, starkers, peeled, nuddy in your parent's abode!

What loomed as worse?

Your mother scrutinising a trimmed pussy?

Or your step-daddy leering at jiggling fulsome boobs?

Christmas morning of all days to be au natural!

You do the stealthy listening at the bathroom door, hearing a creak or perhaps a rustle that is not even there.

Then, the sound of a door opening.

No, you calm yourself.

Get a grip!

A smile spreads across your face. You tweak your nipples at your goddamn lightbulb moment.

The clothes basket in the laundry. Anything would do for a modicum of decency. The desperate need to be covered quicker than you strip gear off for an available guy.

You decide the laundry requires stealthy access. A scuttering scuddle comes from the WC at the base of the stairs, where four doors meet. One leads to James' room, another to the garage.

You realise your luck so far with a sly slap to your rump.

Imagine James catching you jaybird naked, ogling your girly vertical smile as you bounded down the stairs!

Christ, you dash faster than a premature ejaculation through the open laundry door.

The washing basket! The washing basket? Where the hell is it?

Oh, Christ, it's one of those new flip-lidded ones that look like a cupboard!

Your nimble hands prepare to rummage through soiled clothes quicker than a guy can get his fingers inside your pussy after your murmur of consent.

Hell No!

You confront an empty basket.

Damn, mum, for being super clean!

What wouldn't you give for even Eve's fig leaf?

With your hands on your hips, you still have time for naughty thoughts.

Image wearing your stepbrothers' dirty sports jocks. Even worse, Mum's saggy, bottom-spreading underwear. Your stepdad's boxers, no yech!

Suddenly you do the sixth sense spin around, like you know your arse is being perved on. Well, your peachy booty in tight jeans or a super-summer short skirt with your red G-string.

"Fuck," is all you manage.

"Fuck," is echoed back.

"Stella?" you mouth.

"Virginia," is the response.

Your eyes pore over a heavenly lush body with the slinky intensity invested in sliding a vibrator from your nipples, inside your belly button, across your padded fem-mound and circling your engorged private pretty pistachio.

To say Stella presented flesh gorgeous and irresistible would be an understatement.

You wonder how the fuck James scored such a swanky dish.

But not for long, as your mind collects images of Stella's private zones faster than a camera shutter clicks.

Her boobs were the stacked rack—perfectly rounded, gravity-defining melons. Whilst her slash was a shaved, puffy purry pussy. Beckoning for exploration.

"Wow, you are sweetly shaped yourself," she said, breaking my shameless lowered eye fixation.

You saunter into her space. This is a dual-woman starkers moment.

Bugger guys in your life, even one behind a bedroom door, mere meters away.

Touch traps your mind and guides your fingers into the sapphic web without — I've never ever had a lesbian thought — crossing your sex-focused brain.

You seek flesh as your skin is sought. You caress bountiful, unexpected, ripe, exposed good looking skin.

"Same brunette hair," she whispers in your ear after blowing warm air across your nape.

You finger trace her figure-eight hourglass figure whilst her hands outline your fem-curves before grabbing handfuls of your peachy butt.

"Ooh yes, ooh yes," you urge.

You embrace the simplicity of an orifice safari when clothes present no restrictions.

Tongues collide. Mouths mash. The snogging flares your nostrils. You sniff her musky scent.

The bitch had sex last night.

"Mwah, mwah," invades your ears.

The kissing is tacky, drenched, wet-faced heaven.

Still, your frantic fingers forage for cavities unexplored faster than ripping wrapping paper from a Christmas gift.

"Oh God, that's good, so fricking good," Stella moaned.

Her private nookie was smeared with girly jus, two digits stirred into a percolating lather like gliding your fingers through fluffy whipped cream.

"Orrgh fuck, please, please," is your response as her middle finger probes your pink slit.

You get in sync with her heavy breathing. Each gasp, pant and exhale match a spiky shard of pleasure coursing through your pussy, making your heart race before infiltrating your mind.

"Mmm, mmm, mmm," Stella coos.

Our pace develops a rhythm, adroit girl-on-girl touch.

"You like my thumb circling your clitty?" you whisper unnecessarily.

"As much as you like my crooking ring finger nail raking your perineum."

You can only moan as Stella trawls her nail towards your starfish.

The intense kissing resumes. Nipples accidentally contact. Pussies smooch in a tacky unintended tribbing. Thighs shudder.

You are speechless as Stella holds her nipple and flicks it back and forth over your taut, throbbing teats.

Clutching her hips, you guide her to the floor. There is nothing else for the situation but the mutual side on sixty-nine—an unscripted frenzy of delving fingers and flashing flicking tongues.

Stella launched her slick pink tip in and around your crinkled flaps. At the same time, your fingers spread her sweet, sticky, girly lubricant around her sensitive-shaped Cupid's grotto.

"Ooh yes, ooh yes," you motivate Stella as she rims your puckered back crack.

You, too, launch a spit-basting of her rilled cornhole before inserting a finger.

Stella's body quivers as you probe.

"Fuck," fills your ears, and it's gruff and deep.

Bugger, James!

You move to disengage and attempt to cover what can't be hidden with even two spread hands.

However, Stella grips your arm and, with her other crooks, her finger at your stepbrother, inviting him to join in.

In your randy excitement like Stella, all you see is a massive hard-on.

Stella yanks you up, plants your face atop the washing machine, and spreads your legs wide.

"Orrgh, oorgh, yes, ooh, yes, ooh, yes!" you repeat as the minx guides James' hot rod straight into your moist pussy.

Your eyes boggle as Stella mimics thrusting – pushing from behind her boyfriend.

"Enjoying your step-sister on Christmas Day," she said gleefully before pashing her man.

"Uugh, uugh," yes, the typical Neanderthal response from your brother.

Your juices flow, you hear, "puck, puck," as your pussy is pummelled.

God, it is so good. You just want to be shagged till Christmas lunch at barely past six am.

"Share, you bitch, "states Stella.

You flush red, acknowledging your greed.

Hell, it was Christmas. Share!

You take control. You urge Stella to spread her legs, seated on the laundry bench. You notice James doesn't care as long as you give his pecker a slot to fill.

"Ugh, ugh, ugh," you hear.

Stella enjoys rapid porking.

Yet you sense the bitch will accept the lewd more.

You finger her private balloon knot as she is bonked brainless.

Your ring finger is joined by your middle finger in her gaped rawness.

My God, her back passage tightened.

The bitch yelped, "Oh fuck that's good, so fucking good, ooh, yes, both of you, so fucking good, ooh, ooh, ooh."

Instinctively, you cup your second hand over her mouth to stifle Stella's passionate vocal frenzy.

Geez, you rationalise. You need to cover groaning James' mouth, too!

Removing your fingers from a delirious Stella, no chance!

Unexpectedly you gasp, "Oh shit!"

Your legs are parted from behind, and what can only be a goddamn massive schlong rims your butthole.

Closing your eyes as manhood probes constriction.

"Orrgh fuck," you mouth, it's a gigantic piston. Bigger than any pictured in a college dorm dream.

"Yes, yes, yes," you hear Stella pant as she approaches her orgasm.

"Uugh, uugh," no deviation in James's vocab, but the sweat beads on his temple indicated your stepbrother's wad release was imminent.

Still, as your arse was pillaged, raided and foraged, your sweet pink bead started popping like corn. Your bodily mechanism for climax unleashed its peak.

"Oh yes, oh yes, oh sweet yes, I'm cumming! I'm cumming!"

"Yes, Virginia, there is a Father Christmas."

You already knew who possessed the beef package attached to the voice behind you.

"Ho, Ho, Ho," added your stepdad.

Yes, you admit to yourself you are all ho. Pure ho. Anal harlot.

An ass-seeking whore as your clutching rilled doughnut ring is backfilled with wad after wad of gooey oozy jizz.