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Who's got their hand in the oopsy jar?

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A white striped pantsuit with a jacket but no blouse was a remarkable outfit to wear to visit your own grave, or at least the grave with your name on it, but then again Stephanie wasn’t sure what sort of clothing would be appropriate for that occasion. But if Emily had intended to hypnotize her with breasts just barely covered by a jacket that could blow open and reveal them completely at any moment, it was working.

“Focus.” Emily snapped her fingers. Stephanie hurriedly jerked her gaze up to her face, which was also hypnotic in its own right. “There’s a third option.”

“What’s that?”

“You and me, baby.” Emily’s voice dropped to a purr. “We grab our kids and run away together. Create new identies for ourselves. I’ve done it before.”

“Yes, and look how well that worked out!”

“It did, though. You’re the only one who figured it out. You put that mommy gumshoe brain of yours together with mine, and we’re home free. We could go to Venice. The French Riviera. Las Vegas. Anywhere. With me. Don’t you regret that you chickened out on more than one kiss? Don’t you lie awake at night rubbing one out and imagining it’s me fingering your cunt?”

“I… Uh… No, never!” Stephanie stammered.

“Are you telling me you’re not dying to touch my tits, right now?” Emily caught her hand and put it under her jacket, right on her breast. It was warm and soft, and as Emily started rubbing Stephanie’s hand all over it, the nipple hardened under her fingers. “Want more of that?”


“But you're holding out for the full monty?” Emily inquired. “All right, then. I'll give you one free taste. One. If you want me to fuck you ever again, you have to be all-in.”

It was like Emily’s breasts secreted perfect martinis instead of milk. Magical martinis that transmitted themselves straight into your bloodstream without having to pass your lips. With her fingers on the magic martini nipple, Stephanie had lost the ability to form sentences or say the word no. Next thing she knew, Emily had pushed her up against her own gravestone until she was more-or-less sitting on it, pressed up against her, then reached up under her skirt and into her panties and—

“You always this wet, or do you get extra turned on by being finger-fucked on your best friend’s grave?” Emily inquired. “Because I’m afraid that’s a one-time-only experience, no matter what.”

“No!” Stephanie managed to gasp, though she wasn’t even sure what she was denying. Emily’s fingers were on her, in her, rubbing and stroking and stretching and—

Over Emily’s shoulder, Stephanie spotted an elderly couple headed their way with a bunch of flowers. Thank goodness, they were nobody she recognized from the town, and she knew everybody, at least by sight, so they weren’t likely to identify Emily. But having total strangers catch you having sex on a tombstone wasn’t all that much better than having people you knew catch you and also find out that a supposedly dead woman was alive and fucking.

“Get up,” Stephanie whispered. “There’s people here! With geraniums!”


The couple came closer. Stephanie gave a convulsive leap, but Emily pressed her back down so hard she probably left bruises.

Unable to escape their compromising position, Stephanie was forced to call out brightly, “Just tripped and fell! My, ah, my sister’s checking me for scrapes. So considerate.”

“Actually, we’re fucking,” Emily said loudly, and with incredible cool considering that she had several fingers inside Stephanie. Then again, Emily.

Stephanie forced out a laugh. “My sister! She’s so funny.”

“We’re fucking on top of Grandma’s grave,” Emily went on. As she spoke, she slowly moved her fingers in and out, stroking Stephanie’s clit as she went. Stephanie gulped, unable to interrupt. “Bitch cut us both out of her will. Left everything to her fucking caretaker, just because she found out we were fucking.”

The couple began to hurry away, looking horrified.

“This is our way of saying fuck you!” Emily shouted after them. “Or rather, fuck above you!”

Stephanie managed to get some breath back, which she used to whisper, “You’re supposed to be dead! The last thing you want to do is attract attention and be memorable! And it doesn't get any more memorable than lesbian incest!”

“Oh, I don't know about that. Heterosexual incest is pretty memorable too. Am I better than your brother, brotherfucker?” As Emily spoke, she drew lazy circles around Stephanie's clit with her thumb. Stephanie couldn’t do anything but moan helplessly until Emily stopped her thumb right on her clit, like it was a button she was definitely planning on pushing. The button to a bomb that would blow them both sky-high. “Well, am I?”

“You’re very different,” Stephanie tried. Then, when Emily started to move her thumb away, she hissed, “Yes, damn—oopsy! Yes, you’re better. Sisterkiller.”

Emily put her thumb back where it belonged and rubbed it, murmuring, “Sisterkillerfucker.”

The bomb went off.

In the dazed aftermath, as Stephanie oozed down the gravestone until she was sitting on the grave itself, she realized that she’d told the truth. Emily would never replace Chris in her heart. As the saying went, brothers and sisters are close as hands and feet! But she had to admit that Emily was better at sex than poor, dear Chris had been. Then again, she was better than nearly everyone at nearly everything.

“Good girl. That’s the position.” Emily leaned forward and draped herself over the tombstone like a stylish blonde cat, with her forearms folded over it and her crotch right over Stephanie’s face. “Go on. Take a taste.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve never—” Stephanie broke off at a warning foot-stamp. “Right! No sorries. No more sorries, ever again. If you don’t come, I’m not going to apologize.”

“If it doesn’t seem like I’m going to, I’ll just grab your tongue and move it around till I do. But I’ll give you a hint: pretend you’re a cat lapping up milk. You ever look at how a cat curls its tongue? Of course you have. Bet you have a vlog post on it. 'Today’s vlog will be the closest thing to a guaranteed online hit, cute cat videos. With an educational voiceover to hide the stench of desperation.'”

“Stop talking.”

Stephanie reached up and unzipped the pants. And there it was, pink and glistening and so close that she could smell its sweet-tangy scent, like an expensive brand of organic yogurt. She couldn’t resist it, any more than she could resist the yogurt. She got her face up close, so she could feel the warmth of Emily’s muscled thighs, and took her first lap.

If they made yogurt that tasted like that, they’d never be able to keep it on the shelves. Stephanie found Emily’s clit with her tongue, a slick little button of her own to play with, and lapped away.

“Kitty cat,” Emily crooned. “That’s right. Like that. Just like that…”

The heat, the taste, the smell, the texture, the sound of Emily’s moans, the tightening of her thighs against Stephanie’s cheeks—all of it was making her wet again, like she might come again without even being touched. Her head was swimming, like she might pass out.

And then Emily shifted her weight, reached down, and found Stephanie's clit as easily as if it was own. Just a few strokes, and Stephanie went off like a rocket. An instant later, Emily let out a long, piercing shriek, like a very happy banshee.

Stephanie licked her lips. She wanted to say, “I’ll never brush my teeth again,” but that was gross so she stopped herself just in time. But she really didn't want to get that taste out of her mouth.

If she went with Emily, she could taste her every day.

Emily neatly zipped herself up and picked up her skull-headed cane from the grass. She offered a hand to Stephanie, who took it and let Emily pull her up.

“Well?” Emily inquired. “Will you ride off into the sunset with me, sisterkillerfucker? Or will this just become the memory that haunts you for the rest of your life?”

The decision was surprisingly easy. Or maybe not surprisingly, considering that one of Emily’s nipples was peeking out from the jacket. She’d probably left it like that on purpose, the manipulative bi—oopsy, witch.

Where they were going, there would be no oopsy jar.

“You’re a stone-cold bitch,” Stephanie said. That, too, was surprisingly easy. “A murderer. A pathological liar. A sociopath.”

Emily just smiled her mocking, teasing, testing, bewitching smile. If Stephanie backed out now, that would be the memory that would haunt her for the rest of her life.

“But you’re my murdering, lying, sociopathic bitch," Stephanie said. "Yes. I'm coming. But first, I need to stop by my house and do one last thing.”


mommyluvsu23147: wow stephanie, that was really educational.

kyleighhas2mommies: didn’t know you were one of the tribe stephanie! love it.

johnjamesbonner: like a cat lapping milk, huh? i’ll try that tonite after we put the kids down. thanks stef.

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