Prom Night Ch. 01

"No means no. Keep your hands to yourself."

"Why are you playin' hard to get? You don't want to piss me off. I promise, not a good idea. Now bring those babies over here. I just want to give 'em a little squeeze or two."

I opened my car door.

The driver was yelling: "You saving those things for rich college boys? You think they're to good for a limousine driver like me? Is your little blonde friend as stuck up a bitch as you?"

Cherokee, voice calmer, more focused than mine would have been, said, "You don't want to do this. We may be lost for the moment, but they'll find us. Let's just get the car started and then you can take us back to town. Anything else that happened tonight will be our secret. No one need know."

There was a silence -- had Cherokee convinced him? -- and then Cherokee's voice: "Get your hands off me."

There was a slap, so hard it reverberated in the small clearing, and the driver laughed. "We have a temper, don't we. I like little girls with a little fight in them."

Telling myself to be as brave as Cherokee, I took my shoes off and stepped out of the car, sinking in the mud. The driver, visible in the car's headlights, was holding Cherokee's wrists with one hand. Cherokee was struggling to free herself.

In the firmest voice I could muster I said, "Don't touch her. You don't want to start anything. I called for help, it will be here soon."

The driver looked over his shoulder. "Hey blondie, don't worry, there's enough man here for the two of you, you'll get your turn," then shoved his free hand down the front of Cherokee's dress, tearing it open.

"Nice titties, big titties."

Daddy said no matter how big, kick 'em in the balls. I planted my left foot on the firmest spot I could find and holding on to the car to steady myself, gave the driver the hardest kick I could muster. As I did my left foot sank deeper into the mud, upsetting my balance. I kicked him hard, but on the inside of his thigh, missing my target.

Enraged, muttering, "Fuck, you fuckin' bitch, you fuckin' bitch," the driver turned towards me. As he did Cherokee pulled free, but fell, landing on her backside in the mud. The top of her gown was ripped open.

I stepped back, but not fast enough. The driver grabbed my arm, yanked me to him -- my feet actually left the ground -- and pinned me against the vehicle with his body.

"Look blondie, maybe I was going to leave you alone, who'd be interested in your teeny titties when your friend's are around. But now you pissed me off. You shouldn't have done that."

I struggled, but he was too powerful.

Then the driver roared, pushing me hard against the car and knocking the wind out of me. I fell to my knees. Cherokee was standing behind him, a big stick in her hands. She'd hit him in the back and was winding up to do it again. The driver turned to face her, blocking her second swing with his arm and shattering the stick. Stepping backwards, Cherokee tripped over a log, dropping what remained of her weapon.

I saw headlights. The driver's threatening look said, "Don't you dare...," but I yelled for help, then heard, "Josie, Cherokee."

Moving gracefully for such a big man the driver grabbed a wrench from the tools sitting on the hood and hid it on his leg, out of the light. "I'm glad you're here mister, we're having car troubles and," pointing at me, "the girls are having problems with the mud."

As Daddy glanced at me the driver cocked is arm. Before I could shout a warning Daddy, reacting to the look on my face, shifted his weight to the left. The wrench went whizzing by his head and daddy's fist flashed forward. The driver fell straight down, landing on his butt.

Cherokee said, "Mr. Canseco," stepped forward, and stumbled, cascading into daddy's arms. The driver popped back up, wrench in hand, but Mr. Canseco emerged from the darkness and hit the driver, who went down again. Blood dripping from his nose and his arm, the driver struggled to stand.

"Best stay down."

And then there were flashing blue lights. The police were here.

Scrambling to his feet the driver headed for the road, waving his arms and demanding the police arrest our dads, who he said attacked him. Anger shot through me, but Mr. Canseco lay an arm across my shoulders and said, "Its okay Josie, everything's under control. We've already talked to the Chief, she'll be here in a minute."

The Chief was Paula Thompson. Built like a fire hydrant, five feet tall and hard as steel although no one had ever seen her near a gym, down to earth, and unmistakably gay. She rarely made it through a sentence or two without "son-of-a-bitch" sneaking in. When she applied for Chief of Police our dads had been among her biggest supporters, eventually overcoming the opposition of a small but vocal minority who cited Ms. Thompson's (admittedly) libertine past and recent marriage to a strikingly attractive younger woman who was also Broomall High School's librarian.

We were standing on the side of the road, clinging to each other's father. Courtesy of the police department we each had a blanket draped over our shoulders covering our tattered gowns. The Chief, calm and in control, walked up. "Eric, Robert, ladies, your chauffeur's raising holy hell over there. Says he was just doing his job when the car broke. The son-of-a-bitch says you girls got hysterical, attacked him, then your dads did the same."

"We checked his driver's license, it's in the name of Elton Jones. The computer has nothing on an Elton Jones. I called Adrian Picklesdorf. Contrary to what you were told, it's not his limousine. When I described the driver Adrian said he thought he knew him, says his name is Steve Windward. He worked for Picklesdorf a couple years back, got fired when a customer complained about his eyeing young women. Says the guy's wanted in several jurisdictions around the country for stunts like this. Adrian's on his way; I hope to get a positive identification from him. Adrian also said he'll have one of his guys take the Oxley boys to their hotel. When I confronted Elton, Steve, whatever the son-of-a-bitch's name is with Adrian's story, he double-downed, insists you attacked him and Picklesdorf is out to get him."

I could hold my tongue no longer. "He's a liar Ms. Thompson, Chief, he attacked Daddy and Mr. Canseco, and he ripped Cherokee's dress, and he threatened me, and...."-- in the excitement I'd forgotten -- "I made a video, it's on my phone."

* * * * *

Chief Thompson watched the video.

"Josie, that was real smart. I'm looking forward to listening the son-of-a-bitch explain this. I'd like to take your phone to the office and download the video tonight; I don't want any chain of custody issues. The judges have been bitchin' about that lately. Still, I know how you kids live on your phones. Betsy and I are leaving town tomorrow; I could bring it to you in the morning."

I looked at Mr. Canseco, to whom I'm was still clinging, and saw no concern. "Okay."

Daddy said, "Chief, we know it's asking a lot, but could you wait to interview the girls until tomorrow when you drop off the phone. It's been a long day; we'd like to get them home."

Taking a second to suck on her lower lip -- a sign she was considering -- Chief Thompson said, "It's not standard procedure, but I can say I wanted to study the video before talking to the girls. I'll come by the house, let's say 11:00 A.M. tomorrow. Josie, Cherokee, you should be real proud of yourselves, tonight you were brave, heroic, and smart. If you ever decide you want to be cops, give me a call."

Holding myself tight to Mr. Canseco, Cherokee doing the same with my dad, I said, "Thanks, but our dads are the heroes, showing up just when we needed them, our knights in shining armor."

* * * * *

I was sitting in the back seat, Mr. Canseco's arm around me. He was warm; I liked that. I listened to the hum of the car on the road, to the sound of my own breathing. It was quiet. I liked that too. Our dads knew what we needed was peace, to be held, to feel safe, secure, and loved.

Mr. Canseco had rescued me. I took his hand in mine, traced its outline with my finger, ran my thumb on his palm, then along the base of his fingers. His hands were strong, his skin was rough.

"How does that feel?" I asked, my voice low.

"Nice, very nice. You have a good touch."

Continuing to massage his hand I looked up at him and said, "Thanks for being there tonight, for rescuing me, us."

Pushing several stray of my blonde hair back into place -- his touch was gentle -- he said. "It's what dads do, take care of our girls, any dad would."

In that he was wrong. Few dads were caring enough to stay home whenever we were on a date, or disciplined enough to turn down an evening with the Violet sisters, or wise enough to give us the Mini, or brave enough to take down a driver bigger than either of them, or empathetic enough to know what we needed was quiet, to be held and loved.

Laying his hand on my lap I snuggled closer, ran my open palm down his leg. He had nice legs, strong and muscular.

I started playing with my hair. The evening's events -- drunken dates, creepy driver, broken limousine -- had muted my sex drive, but now it was roaring back. I knew it was crazy, this was Cherokee's dad. I glanced at him, hoping he didn't notice. He was good looking: six feet tall, big frame, well defined muscles, a full head of thick black hair, and wrinkle free skin (he claimed good genes, but was a fanatic about skin care) that would allow him to pass for a man ten years younger. He was also sweet and kind and brave and treated me better than any high school boy, better than any frat boy, better than any Oxley. He'd rescued me while my date snored away.

I squeezed Mr. Canseco's thigh.

He looked at me. "You and Cherokee did real well tonight. I'm proud of you, both of you."

He'd noticed my squeeze; he hadn't objected. I squeezed again, snuggled closer to him. Mr. Canseco laid his arm across my shoulders. Content, I turned my attention to the front seat. Daddy was driving; Cherokee was slumped down in her seat dragging her fingernails up and down his leg. Daddy was lucky, I knew how good those nails felt on your skin. And how had she, despite all that had happened tonight, not broken a nail?

She said something to Daddy; he replied. Their voices were low and intimate; I couldn't make out what they said. Cherokee sat up, turned to the left, and started working the muscles of daddy's neck with her hand. I could see her breasts. The blanket she covered herself with at the scene had fallen to her waist.

I guess it was it okay. It was dark, other drivers, truckers, wouldn't be able to see anything. Only Daddy could. Was my best friend flashing my father? Was he looking?

It was a crazy thought, but as I rolled my body against Mr. Canseco I thought it might be fun to let the blanket slip from my shoulders and give him a peek at my cleavage, but then Daddy said, "We're almost home. It's late. Eric, you and Cherokee are welcome to spend the night. It might help everyone decompress. The girls can get cleaned up, hit the sack, or stay up, get on their phones, whatever they want."

Turning towards the back seat, making no effort to hide her breasts, Cherokee said, "Daddy, if it's okay I'd like to clean up some and then sit with you guys. What do you think Josie?"

"Sounds perfect. Daddy, could you build a fire?"

"Sure can pumpkin."

* * * * *

Cherokee was twisting her torso, trying to see the back of her legs. Finally, frustration apparent, she said, "Josie, I'm getting you a full length bathroom mirror for Christmas. Is there mud back there?

"A little."

She ran hot water on a wash cloth, handed it to me, then spread her legs and leaned forward. "Okay babe, give me a hand. And hurry, we don't want to keep the guys waiting too long. We don't want to lose the mood."

Long well-muscled legs, tight high butt, thick dark hair draped around her shoulders. She was frigging spectacular. I'd planned on an Oxley tonight, but if Cherokee's sweet body was the evening's entertainment? There were worst choices.

Noting my reaction, Cherokee said, "Josie, you look as horny as I feel. Right about now the Oxleys were supposed to be tearing off our clothes and despoiling our maidenhoods."

Hand on her firm ass, I knelt behind Cherokee, catching the spots of mud she missed. Then, preparing to run the cloth down each leg, I found myself looking at her pussy. It was wet and swollen; she wasn't kidding, she was turned on. I teased the opening of her sex with a finger and with a purr of pleasure she said, "Instead the Oxleys as are useful at tits on a boar, passed out and snoring. However, I do know two studs who are available and ready to go."

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't bullshit me, I saw the way you were looking at my father."

Caught, and a bit embarrassed - I could deny it but neither of us would believe me -- I said, "Okay, yeah, maybe I thought about it for a second, but Cherokee he's your dad. He'd never do it," then added, more spitefully than intended, "and you were flirting with my Dad."

"Yeah dummy, I know they're our dads. I also know they're in heat. I've heard that sharing a common danger arouses people and damn are they right. If I was wearing jeans I'd be creaming in them. You don't need to be Einstein to see that our dads feel the same sexual energy we do. Yeah, I was flirting with yours and didn't exactly get no for an answer. He's classy when he looks, but he didn't object to a private showing of the girls."

That was my dad. I got set to reply, but Cherokee was on a roll.

"And don't give me any nice girl crap Ms. Josie Luker, I've known you too long. I saw you and my dad cuddled up on the back seat. If the drive home had been any longer you'd two be at it already.

"Yeah, maybe after everything that happened tonight I'm supposed to be freaked out, but I'm not. What I am is the same person I was this afternoon: a horny eighteen year old hottie who needs to get laid. Your dad looks like the answer to that dream. Smart, funny, tight ass, and that touch of gray makes him look distinguished."

I should say something -- someone had to be the voice of reason -- but Cherokee caught one of my nipples with her thumb and forefinger, gave it a gentle twist. I could feel that between my legs.

"I know you're thinking we can take the edge off by doing each other. But where does that get us? We've spent months turning ourselves into bundles of sexual frustration in anticipation of getting laid tonight. And what did we get? The chance to lose our virginity to a pair of drunken frat boys in a skanky hotel? We didn't learn our lesson the first time? The Oxleys did us a favor. Thanks to them our knights in shining armor showed up: two good looking, sexy men who look out for us, want what's best for us, treat us right, and I'm pretty damn sure know what they're doing in bed."

Picking up her mascara, Cherokee said, "You with me on this? If so, follow my lead."

* * * * *

Cherokee wiggled into one of my tee-shirts, white and way-too-small. The color contrasted nicely with her dark skin and the way-to-small revealed inches of her stomach and stretched tight across her breasts. I could make out the outline of her dark areolas and nipples through the thin fabric. She finished with a pair of black seamless skin-tight gym shorts.

I went with a light blue tube top and shorts.

* * * * *

Our dads were in the living room, Mr. Canseco sitting on a brown leather couch, my Dad on its twin. Lights dim, Diana Krall crooning in the background, fire roaring in the fireplace. It was the perfect setting to comfort a daughter.

Consciously posing, I leaned against my taller friend, wrapped my arm around her waist; she laid her's across my shoulders. Cherokee said, "Hey guys, I hope we didn't keep you waiting. Can you make space for a couple hot women?"

I watched daddy's eyes. They moved from me to Cherokee and..., Cherokee was right. He was subtle, his glance respectful and flattering, but Daddy was taking in Cherokee's extraordinary form: long legs, firm flat tummy, full round breasts, hazel eyes and full lips on a heart shaped face.

Had Mr. Canseco looked at me the same way? My pussy spasmed at the thought.

"Of course, please join us."

Normally we'd sit with our dads, but now, slipping by Cherokee, I settled beside her father, leaned my body into his, draped an arm over his leg. Cherokee, bolder, motioned my father to open his legs, sat between them and, after straightening her thick hair with both hands, dropped her head to his shoulder.

There was a rectangular bottle on the coffee table, it's dark contents danced in the reflected light of the fire.

Cherokee said. "What are you guys drinking?"

"Hennessy, a brandy."

"Is it good?"

"Yes it is. It's the perfect way to end a day, especially one as eventful as this."

"May I have a sip?"

Daddy looked to Mr. Canseco, who nodded his approval. Before Daddy could act Cherokee took hold of his hands, guided them to her mouth, tipped the glass to her lips, took a sip, held it, swallowed. Rolling her body against Daddy she said, "Mmmmmmmm, sweet and fruity."

Taking hold of Mr. Canseco's hands, I did the same. Cherokee was right; it was good.

"Would you ladies like your own glass?"

Cherokee said, "Why, you guys afraid we have cooties? Promise, we don't, got our shots just last week," and taking hold of Daddy's arms she again brought the glass to her lips, savoring the thick liquid before letting it dribble down her throat. When done, braless breasts swaying in her tee-shirt, she picked up the bottle, reached across the table to fill her dad's glass, then curled back to fill my father's.

"Maybe now you guys will be willing to share."

Mr. Canseco, who'd been staring at Cherokee, held up his glass. "To our daughters, who handled themselves magnificently tonight."

Daddy held up his glass. "To our daughters."

Siding my hands up his legs, I said, "To Mr. Robert Luker, my best friend's dad, my hero."

It was Cherokee's turn and her eyes locked on Daddy's, she wet her lips, then purred, "To you Eric Canseco, this damsel's knight in shining armor." Then, moving with the grace of a cat, she wrapped her full lips on the edge of the glass, took a long slow sip, dropping her eyes as she focusing on the liquor's taste and viscosity. When she looked up she smiled, slid forward, said, "Thank you Eric. I owe you so much," and kissed Daddy's cheek. Her lips lingered on his skin.

I couldn't remember the last time she'd addressed Daddy by his first name.

There was a silence in the room, one of those silences you can cut with a knife. Cherokee's motion, her touch, her voice, the kiss, the smoldering desire in her eyes, were unmistakably intimate, personal, and carnal. Cherokee had gone over the line; no one knew what to say.

Then Cherokee double-downed. Leaning into my father, she ran the pad of a finger along the bridge of his nose, then took his hand in hers, kissed it, held it to her chest. Following her lead I slipped my hand into Mr. Canseco's, squeezed, ran my thumb on his skin, and lay our joined hands on his thigh.

Cherokee punctured the silence, changing the subject, slightly.

"There's another thing we girls need to thank you for."

"What's that Cherokee?"

"For not saying 'I told you so.' You warned us about the Oxleys and pretty packages."

Everyone laughed, breaking the tension, and Cherokee continued. "What's going to happen with Chief Thompson tomorrow?"

On familiar soil, Daddy said, "She'll describe the process, tell you what she's going to do, ask some general background questions. She'll want go know about the arrangements for the date, how the driver came into the picture, and everything you can remember after the prom, including how you ended up in the country and what happened there. If she gets into areas you think are private or uncomfortable, tell her you need a break and come talk to us."