Timeout for Bad Girls

Isabella's days became habit, and her love for Penelope, burning hot and expressed at last in their intimate nights together, cooled and deepened into a real relationship, even if Penelope couldn't understand why Isabella insisted on hiding it from you. You know this because even now you watch their latest argument from the comfort of the basement, where you barred them from coming (lest they spoil the surprise) while you still a WiFi signal strong enough to play their heated sex and arguments for you while you moved all your old junk around.

"Your old junk" indeed, because much of this space is occupied by your belongings, spurned by your late spouse and shoved into the earth to be forgotten. You find your old accolades - trophies for varsity soccer and chess, neither of which you pursued, either of which you wish you did - along with titillating magazines that once defined your childhood and a sliver of what the state calls "legally adult" years. The models in the center-folds, once your marvelous treasures, now seem quaint fantasies. You shove this whole lot against the wall, stacking boxes high where once they were lined up across the ground. The only thing left unboxed was a sterling silver briefcase, but that is a work-in-progress, delivered courtesy of an old friend's connections to a particular market just yesterday. You opened the space up in three short days, and in all three days of active work you watched and listened as Isabella continued to deflect Penelope's probings (unknowingly about your probings) and pleas to solidify and publish their match.

Today is the fourth day since you began this project, and within its morning you finished ordering your various supplies and furniture, all of it enroute to your home. Checking your phone, you see the arguing has turned to violent kissing, and what clothes they decided to wear are coming right off again.

Pre-20 lesbians are decidedly "masculine" in their appetites, or else their passion burns like nothing you've ever known. Nothing you would ever know, if Isabella couldn't be turned.

You decide you had enough of feigning ignorance, and choose now as the time to quietly invade their privacy, in the middle of their fornication. The basement needs furniture, in any case, so there was no work left to do there to excuse your continuing lurking below.

You climb up to the living room, and the creaking of Isabella's old bed makes them adorably obvious even with your phone turned off. Up the stairs you go, gentle with your feet and avoiding that single, noisy step halfway up. Your hand is already turning the knob by the time their surprised gasps signal that you're finally detected.

"M-Mr. Krowe!"

"Dad!"

You don't shy or slink away, nor leer like a pervert. You practiced this reaction many times in your mind, making sure to emphasize in the mirror the utter disdain and disappointment you now shine upon the women now desperately lifting bedsheets (stained in obvious splotches) to cover themselves. You almost lose your composure; Penelope is a beautiful specimen, and the camera feeds hadn't prepared you for just how amazing she looks in person. Seeing her AND your victim together, naked... you're sorely tempted to break from the plan, but you stay the course.

"Dad! Get out!"

"Isabella!" you harshly command, stunning both with your anger. "Pre-marital sex? In MY house, under MY roof?! Unbelievable."

"What...?"

"Isabella, you know how I feel about that," you remind her, though of course she has no idea how you feel about it; the topic is not one you'd normally entertain, given your parental curriculum for the poor girl. "You have to wait until you get married! It is tradition, and I won't have you ruin yourself so freely."

More silence. Both girls look at each other, confounded, and then back to you. Penelope is all but a statue save for these reactions, so Isabella continues to be the only one to speak. "B-But when... well, I guess you must've told me?" It came out as a question, but your nod turns it into fact. "I'm sorry, daddy, I... I forgot, and I..." She looks to her lover, a firmness forming in her brow. "And I love her."

Penelope's ice melts, and somewhere between the stress of being examined in the buff, being caught by her lover's father, and this confession, of words you know you've not heard before now in all your spying, she finds herself collapsing into tears.

You're not about to lose your stride over a bit of romance, however. "All the same, it's time you went to timeout; it's the only way you'll learn."

"T-Timeout?! Dad, I'm almost 19!"

"You'll respect my order in this house, young lady... and you," you add, pointing at the blubbering mate, "I expect you to resist these urges from now on, or I'll be speaking with your parents." You worry that this threat is empty; you met the father, at least, and there was hardly anything in the world less threatening. But Penelope crumbles, her happy tears turning into the miserable sobbing you hoped for. "Isabella, to the basement, NOW." Your daughter, standing up from the bed completely in the buff and uncaring for your leering vision, stomps angrily to your marching orders, totally unaware of what awaits her. You watch her butt sway as she does so, and give one last withering glare to your houseguest before closing the door on her temporary room. Penelope has plenty to think about, you'd wager.

A few short minutes pass as you unlock the briefcase. It's silver lining is fine, and the red velvet interior matches the quality and grade. The shapes of the indents inside, for hypodermic needles and vials, seem well-worn, suggesting your friend acquired the cheapest thing he could given your short notice. Isabella waits impatiently in the center of the basement, staring at you with a disdain you've never seen prior. It would change, in time.

You tap the needle, and only then does she realize at least the shape and pain of what's to come.