A social evening

It was around half past seven when my solitude was broken by a knock on the door. It was my mother. She wanted to have this mother-daughter-confidentiality-talk thingy about the stuff we had encountered here, but I wasn’t really interested in that, and made sure to send out that message quite clearly to her.

Finally she just shrugged and said: “Ah well, have it your way. Somehow I still see this little kid, but you’re a grown woman now, right? Well, I guess I should say that we are invited to the Wilson’s house this evening… you know, the social thing about getting to know the neighbors. You really don’t have to come if you don’t want to, it will probably just be very boring for you anyway…?”

“No, mum. I’d love to come. After all, they will be my neighbors as well, right?”

She seemed to hesitate for a bit, then firmly said: “OK. We leave in 15 minutes, right?”

I nodded. It felt as if she wanted to add something, but decided against it and just left.

I had little idea of what would happen at a social encounter in that house, but I had a dark brown feeling that we were up to something unusual… after all, we had seen how he made is wife walk around town as if it was the most normal thing in the world. The problem was to pick clothing which would match any kind of situation we might find there. I didn’t want to look like his wife, and I decided against picking my favorite light summer dress with lots of cleavage; but i didn’t want to look like a prude conservative bitch either. In the end I picked a red cotton blouse, wearing it with all buttons closed except one, and a modest dress reaching to just above my knees.

There was a huge and hospitable grin on Fred’s face when he opened his front door to welcome the three of us into his house. He herded us to the living room, inviting us to an entire collection of comfy sofa’s and couches, saying: “Welcome, welcome! Me and my wife are so happy you came here tonight, we’re so looking forward to meet our neighbors and explore all the things we have in common!”

Debbie was already seated on a sofa, and smiled at us as we entered. She was still dressed in the pink outfit she had worn in the afternoon, though the gag had gone now. She still looked as slutty as any cheap prostitute you could pick up in a bad neighborhood downtown though.

She got up now to fix drinks for us: wine for my parents, cognac for Fred, and a soda for me. She wiggled off to the kitchen as Fred asked my father: “So what do you do for a living?”

“Well, I’m the team lead of a group of financial brokers at Levenworth’s… trading mostly against the Euro, the Yen, the Pound, that kind of stuff.”

“Ah! Good money in a job like that, right? “

Debbie returned to the room with our drinks. I noticed she hadn’t mixed anything for herself, and that she didn’t sit down again either.

My dad said: “Oh yeah, sure. Even the younger brokers get to six figures within a year. “

“Whaddayaknow… if only I had known that when I was in college, I might have picked some different subjects, eh?”

He laughed just a little bit too loud at his own attempt at a joke. Then without even turning towards her, it was clear to us all that he interrupted himself to address his wife, just saying “Juice up” to her in a flat, stern voice; then turned to my father again and continued as if nothing had happened: “So what are the latest trends in the market? “

“Well, you probably know already that capital is less and less bound to a place, or a country, or whatever. The money which is in Banger, erm, Bangkok now can be in Pusis… hehe, erm… Paris the next minute… and the dollars need to be swapped for vibes, you see? Heh, what did I say there? For virtual currencies, I mean… Erm… well… “.

He was completely losing himself in the sentence, which I had hardly ever seen him do; yet at the same time the reason for it was completely clear. As if responding to an order, Debbie had stepped up to her husband and turned her back to him; he unzipped her and the pink dress fell to the ground. She was nude underneath, except for the suspender belt, stockings and heels. As my father was trying to hackle his way through the story about his job, she stretched out on her back on the coffee table, right in the centre of the sitting area, pushing some of our glasses to the side. Her crotch was turned straight towards dad. She spread her legs, and put one feet on the couch right next to my mother, so her snatch was exposed even wider to my father; then her hand descended and started playing with her shaved pussy. _So this is what a woman does when her husband tells her to ‘juice up’ in this place, eh_, I thought to myself. I kept watching the proceedings with interest, but I kept my mouth shut.

Dad gave up trying to finish the sentence; he just shut up, swallowed and didn’t try to hide the fact that he was staring right into Debbie’s pussy, squirming right under his nose, less than a yard away. Her fingers covered the entire scope of it, massaging the labia between her fingers, rubbing her clit, stroking the closest areas of the insides of her thighs and belly, then moving back and spreading the labia with two fingers, while a third went for the swollen clit standing out between them, slightly quivering.

We all watched her in silence for a minute. It didn’t take that long for her to “juice up”: as we were watching, the pink pussy skin clearly started glistening, as she rubbed the emerging juices across her slit, labia, and clit. Her eyes were closed now, and she was breathing heavily. Her hand made a real show of playing her pussy to increasing levels of ecstacy.

My father (slightly horny), my mother (slightly disgusted) and me (slightly fascinated) were all absorbed by the spectacle at the coffee table. The only one who wasn’t, was Fred. He just took another sip from his glass, and watched the three of us instead, and the various responses in our faces. When my eyes met with him for a brief moment, he smiled at me in a “this is all OK” kind of way.

Then he turned to my father again: “There’s just one thing I don’t really like about juicing her up like this, you know? She’s touching her own pussy. I don’t really like it when a woman plays herself, even if it serves the greater good of juicing up. In my ideal world, the hands of others would do that job. “