Levirate Customs

"That's enough for now. Carol, how long before you need to start dinner?

"About half an hour, Sir."

"OK, come have a seat," and I patted my lap. Carol threw me a doubtful glance, and primly sat on my lap, side-saddle. I put one hand around the back of her neck and pulled her down into a kiss. She made some indignant noises and tried to push away, until she remembered that she was auditioning, sort of, and allowed herself to relax into the kiss. This went on for a few minutes--she was not entirely passive nor without skill in that department--and then I moved my free hand to one of her D-cup breasts, which provoked an abbreviated reprise of her earlier performance. Finally, when she calmed down again, I took my hand from her tit and slid it under her dress to begin massaging her panty-mound. She had gotten the message by now, and with a whimper, reluctantly opened her thighs to allow me access. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Dana gnawing on a finger. After about 20 minutes I was gratified to feel Carol's hips begin to squirm and lift. Good.

"That's a good start, Carol. Go ahead and start dinner, while I get better acquainted with your daughter." Carol climbed off my lap, pulled down her dress, gave me a wild glance, and fled to the kitchen. I adjusted my erection, and crooked a finger at Dana. She presented herself in front of me, but rather than sit side-saddle as her mother had done, she straddled me, her knees beside my hips. She leaned into the kiss, but a moment later, to my surprise, she broke the kiss and pushed me away. What the fuck?! Then she smiled, grabbed one of my hands, and pulled it to one of her nice C-cup tits.

I chuckled. "Eager little slut, aren't you?"

She laughed. "Mister, you have no idea how eager or how slutty." Then, inconsequentially, "I'm sorry they're so small." And we went back to the job at hand. Dana was wearing jeans, and given the barrier, I didn't hope for as much of a reaction from her, so I was pleasantly surprised when, after a few minutes, she began humping my hand. From time to time I could see Carol glance our way, and look distressed.

Eventually, we broke the clinch and moved off to dinner.

After dinner, I thanked Carol for her culinary efforts, which were creditable. I admonished them to work on the task list, and said that I would return Sunday afternoon. I kissed them both good night, very thoroughly, and drove back to my town-house.

Information Technology

I spent Sunday morning looking at household task-management apps for smart phones. I read the reviews, and picked one that would play on their phones and mine. I loaded it onto my phone and played around with it a bit, enough to get the hang of it.

When I arrived at their house in the late afternoon, they showed me the results of their labors on the task list, which I praised. I then installed copies of the task-management app on their phones, networked the three phones together, and did a quick demo to show them how to put the tasks in to the little database that was part of the app, and how to check off a completed task. Since the three phones were networked, any time one of us added or checked off a task, the other two phones would be updated. It seemed that they had the rudiments of the app under control. I hoped that I could use the app to supply the micro-managing that Carol said she needed without needing too much time on my part.

Since today was to have been the start of their edging task, I asked about how it went. Blushes, downcast eyes, and nods, for all the world like a couple of naughty schoolgirls who had been caught wet-handed. Where did they do the "public" iteration? Dana gestured to the couch. Carol pointed to the kitchen. Dana, if you use the couch, put down a towel. Carol, um, how? "Standing up." Oh, really. And the anal iteration? Again, embarrassed nods. There was a bottle of anal lube on the side table that hadn't been there yesterday. I didn't press the matter. It was a good start, anyhow. I made a mental note to configure the big-screen TV across from the couch for Internet access, and pre-load links to some porn sites, so the women could be inspired as they edged.

Then I went back to having fun with grope-and-smooch before dinner. Carol was becoming resigned to being pawed and groped at random moments, though every time I initiated contact she went rigid and shuddered for a few seconds before submitting. Dana apologized again for her "small" chest, though I tried to reassure her that her tits were just fine.

Couture

The next day was Monday, and it was back-to-work for me. Most of the day was spent in preliminary hearings, and in preparation/homework for hearings to come. Every few minutes my phone would quietly twitch in my pocket as a new task was added, or a "Monday morning" task was checked off. At lunch I took a look at my phone and things seemed to be going along OK.

The rest of Monday passed without a major disaster at the courthouse. Just as I was getting ready to head out to the suburbs, my phone chirped twice--the pictures I demanded had arrived, and they were reasonably predictable. Carol's was a 1950's housewife in a kitchen, with gingham dress, petticoats, stockings, heels, a wooden spoon, a mixing bowl, and a big, carmine smile. Dana contributed a pinup, with a skintight red latex dress, sky-high heels, enormous breasts, and Grand Canyon cleavage.

When I arrived in the suburbs, the three of us reviewed their work, I answered a few questions about using the app, and that was that. Then it was time to move the new relationship along a bit more.

"We need to talk about your clothing. How you dress gives you several ways to communicate the 'character' you are, some more subtle than others. I'll give you three examples.

"First and most obvious is the degree of provocative cut of the clothing. Here we're talking about adolescent wet-dream clothes. There's the cliché about a woman who was raped and the explanation was that 'she was asking for it' because of how she was dressed. These clothes are the 'asking for it' part. Maybe Spandex-tight, maybe daringly cut, maybe sheer, maybe bright red. These are the clothes you envision when you think 'bimbo' or 'street-corner whore.'"

"Second, more subtle, is whether the clothing is constructed to provide easy access for my hands. Can I reach any part of your skin with minimum disassembly required? Where provocative clothes might be skin-tight, accessible clothes might be loose and billowy, giving an easy path for my hand to tit, ass, or pussy. Sometimes a small change in design makes a big change in accessibility. For example, a front-opening bra is usually much easier for a man to work. Jeans and such are an obvious no-no unless, and only as long as, the job dictates them."

From Carol, "What about panties?"

"Good question--you're paying attention. Panties are diapers for women. I'm no fan of panties, but sometimes practicality must be accommodated. If you're on your period and need them to keep from soiling your clothes, panties are tolerable. That sort of thing. Otherwise, go ahead and leak for all I care. Likewise, I'm no fan of conventional pantyhose; stockings or open-crotch pantyhose are much to be preferred.

"Third, more subtle yet, is whether the clothing leaves you feeling nervous that you might unintentionally expose something risqué, forcing you to always be on your guard against making a shocking display. A scoop-neck loose blouse with no bra would be an example--don't dare bend over. Where '"provocative' clothes shout 'I'm a whore,' 'nervous' clothes whisper 'I'm a nice girl and these clothes were a terrible mistake.'"

From Carol, "Like a wrap skirt?"

"Or a slit skirt, or a stretchy knit skirt that keeps trying to shrink up and be too short.

"While we're on the subject of clothes, if I move in on Saturday I'll need some place to put my stuff. Take all of Ted's clothes to Goodwill. You can keep one photo of him if you want; everything else associated with him goes in the trash."

As an aside, all the lab reports came in clean, which was a relief if not entirely a surprise.

To show that the task-management app was working, my name came up to roll the trash cans out to the curb on Tuesday evening, and back on Wednesday evening. and I did my tasks and checked them off in the app. "What a good boy am I." The trash cans were heavy with Ted's stuff.

As the week went on, Dana became much more aggressive in the before-dinner period, opening my pants and stroking my tool, and pulling my hand under her skirt, confirming that she wore no panties. She would take me by the hand to the bench in the garden and climb all over me. Something was going on that I didn't understand, and I didn't think that her hormones were the answer. I sensed almost desperation on her part, though for the life of me I couldn't imagine a cause. In any case, it was prudent to tread carefully. I went home every evening with a severe case of Blue Balls.

Decision Day

Friday came at last. We gathered on the couch. There were no questions about the app, and all tasks were getting checked off in due course. I had a Scotch-rocks in my hand.

"Let's hear from your characters. Carol, you're having coffee with a friend whom you can trust to keep her mouth shut. She has heard about your new boyfriend. Put on your 'with-friend' character mask. What do you tell her?"

"When Ted died..."

"Stop."

"Sir?"

"From now on, you don't say 'Ted,' or 'When Ted died.' You say 'My ex,' or 'When my ex left me,' which is actually reasonably close to the truth. Start over."

She took a moment to compose herself, then "When...my ex left me, I found out that I was suffering from a severe lack of dick. I need a reliable supply of man-meat, and Tinder and 'hot singles want to meet you' were not going to cut it. Fortunately, my ex's brother was available, so I threw myself at him, and after some persuasion he agreed to move in and help me with my 'condition.' But under the heading of 'be careful what your ask for,' the guy's a stallion, and I'm already sore!"

That would be quite an advertisement, except that we hadn't had sex yet. I hoped I could live up to the advance billing. Don't believe your own press releases.

"Your friend asks 'What about Dana?'"

"She was part of the price I had to pay to get him to move in. I have to help him get into her pants."

"Oh, very good! Reasonably close to the truth, certainly naughty, and provoking of envy. Now, how does your other character, the 'with-Mike' character, describe the situation to me?"

"I am your property. I have no options that you do not approve. I can go nowhere you do not point. My back is to the wall, and there is no escape. The chains are invisible, but that doesn't make them any less real. I don't like you. When you touch me it makes my skin crawl, but I need you to the depths of my being, and my body is all I have to offer. It's what I imagine would be the relationship of a junkie with the only pusher in town. And yet I have to please you, or the whole thing collapses. You say I have to 'get pleasure from giving pleasure,' but dear God, that's going to be hard."

"Good! The honesty will earn you points. One addition to explore: Think about, try to imagine, what could happen if I become disappointed with you. What's the worst outcome you can envision? The reality would be worse than that! Use your imagination. Roll around in that scenario, marinade in it, soak yourself in despair, then, build in yourself the certainty that the reality--should it come to that--would be even worse, even more horrible, even more degrading than your imagination provided. Read news stories or porn about women who have been abused. Imagine dogs, mules, tentacles, surgery! Struggle to think of what your fate might be. Be inventive, even if parts of it remain a cloud of darkness just beyond your ability to form an image. Repeat from the top. Use your fear of that outcome to motivate yourself to perform for me. You are responsible for frightening yourself. And when you can get no further, think about how you'll morph that into Stockholm Syndrome."

Carol looked at me with horror.

"And now you, Dana. What's your story to your friend?"

"Mom's got a new live-in boyfriend. Just my luck, he's an older guy I've had a crush on since I was 12. I've been Jilling off every night since I was 14 to the thought of him using me."

I wasn't fond of the "older guy" part (malicious little wretch!) but I let it pass. I raised an eyebrow at the "crush" and "Jilling" part, and she blushed and nodded, then rushed on: "But he's giving me The Eye, y'know, and I catch him looking up my skirt and such? So I think I've got a chance to maybe make him my boyfriend instead of Mom's. Show him a little more upskirt and downblouse, flash some boob and some thigh, all accidental-like? Who knows?"

"What's your Mom's view of this?"

"Mom? She's working hard to get him to bed me! She's coaching me on how to tease him. It's just a matter of time. He can only hold out so long."

"And your story to me?"

"I'm a barely-legal virgin (not much longer, I hope), with severe daddy-abandonment issues..."

Well, that's an explosive cocktail!

"...and I want you to take my cherry, all my cherries, pretty please. I will call you 'Daddy.' Teach me how to be your sex toy, whose every thought is scheming to drain your balls, and whose only purpose is to get your dick into me anywhere, and as often as possible. But to be the kind of bimbo you deserve, I need a boob job."

Well, well, well.

"Let's see what can be done."

"Yippee!"

There was, after all, that college trust fund that was going to waste. Since I was the trustee of the fund, I shouldn't have much difficulty persuading the trustee to write the check for the bolt-ons under the heading of "such other expenses as may benefit a young woman."

Over dinner we took a vote on whether I should move in on Saturday. The "aye's" had it with no dissenting votes. The women exchanged glances, and visibly relaxed.

Moving Day

Saturday early I rented a van and made two round-trips from the town-house to the 'burbs. I was hoping to sublease the place as furnished, maybe to a professor at the local university, so the hauling was mostly my clothes/suits, cosmetics, books, and such. The furniture could stay.

While I was working, my phone would occasionally twitch with updates from the task-management app. Automated micro-management was in action.

The day's pictures arrived from the girls. Carol's model was wearing a cosplay maid's outfit with locking cuffs and collar, who was twisting around to ruefully examine the blushing cheeks of a freshly-spanked bottom. Dana's model was on the floor beside a bed, sucking her thumb and looking needy, her other hand between her thighs.

By late afternoon, I had moved what needed to be moved, at least in the short term. Until and unless I were able to sublease the joint, I could always come back and haul some more if needed. I returned the van to the rental agency and drove my car out to the 'burbs. Ted's clothing was all cleared from the closets as I required, and after a few hours of putting my stuff away, I was ready to pull the plug on the day.

A Scotch-rocks magically appeared in my hand as my ass hit the couch, and my little harem assembled for duty on either side of me.

"Good evening, girls."

"Good evening, Sir." "Hi, Daddy."

There was nothing of pressing nature to report from the home front. All the day's tasks, including the edges and photos, had been checked off. The Scotch was building a nice warm fire in my belly. Dinner was in the oven, there was no reported conflict between the girls, and all was right with the world.

Dinner passed without incident, and after the dishes were loaded in the dishwasher, we convened again on the couch.

From Carol: "Uh sir, what's the plan for the evening? I mean, y'know, um, ..."

I rescued her. "So here's the plan. As you correctly pointed out, Dana, I'm an 'older guy' so it takes me a while to reload after sex. So, one woman a day, and today, Carol is 'it.' It looks like the super-king bed you have is big enough for all of us to sleep in together, but what we're talking about now is before sleep. Tonight will star Carol, with Dana serving as 'fluffer.'"

Another blank look from Dana.

"Dana, a 'fluffer' is an off-camera member of a porn-movie crew whose job is to make sure that the male porn star is fully erect and ready to perform at the critical moment. The fluffer generally achieves that state with her mouth. I would guess that you have no experience with that skill, but trust me--seeing your lips around my dick will achieve everything that is needed. While that is going on, Carol can edge, and then it's 'game on.'"

"Uh, goody, I think."

An hour later, there was one last thing before the curtain went up: "Carol, give me your wedding ring." She gave me a begging, silent shake of the head, but I gave her back an "or else" look. That crushed her, but it had to be done, or Ted would be hanging around here forever. With great reluctance, almost reverence, she placed the ring on the palm of my hand, and I clipped it onto my keyring with my car keys. She watched as I did this, and something changed in her eyes.

We migrated to the master bedroom. Then on to the main event.

Carol changed into a black négligée, and Dana into a pink babydoll. Neither had panties. I pulled back the covers.

"Carol, here you go, and edge."

"Yes, Sir."

I stood at the edge of the bed. "And Dana, kneel down and give me a kiss."

It took her a second to work out the implications of what and how she was supposed to kiss, but with courage, though with some uncertainty, she bent to her task. First a kiss on the tip, then a lick, then a mouthful, she powered on. While her effort showed her lack of experience, the sight of an 18-year old virgin's mouth around my dick, and the sounds of her occasional choking, made me iron-hard, and Carol's moans as she edged only helped.

It was time. I thanked Dana for her efforts, forgave her her pout, and climbed on top of Carol. Dana retreated to a chair in the corner of the bedroom.

Carol opened her arms, and her thighs, to me, but even as she wrapped her arms around me, I had the feeling that she was pushing me away. She was not happy about having to do this, but it was part of the price to be paid for having me around, and she was prepared to pay up. "Needs must," etc. The feeling was what I came to think of as "the wall," but in a sense it didn't matter: she was my property, and I intended to use her. She was wet enough from the edging. I slid slowly into her hot vaginal tunnel, and she groaned. I suspect that it had been nearly two months since her last penetration, and she was out of practice. I would have to add Kegels to her regimen, and I needed to make a plan to use her ass in the near future. None the less, I was able to set up a good rhythm and she dutifully did her best to rock her hips in response. She was able to sneak her hand between us and keep her edge going, which provided pleasant audio accompaniment. At last I reached my limit, and with an "Oh, shit!" I dumped my load into her. She managed to find enough space between us for her fingers to complete their job, and pushed herself over the edge. Rule 2 had been fully respected.

After my breathing returned to something like normal, I rolled off of her. "The wall" was still there. I tried to give her a kiss, but she jerked away from the kiss, rolled up in a ball in the center of the bed, and cried. Well, her perceptions were her problem, and her reluctance did lend a certain spice to the sex.

I wound up on the left side of the bed (as viewed from the foot of the bed), which henceforward became "my side" of the bed.