The New Girl Ch. 12

***The characters referenced in this story are Sixth-Formers, aged 18, or they are teachers. No character is any younger than 18***

Nothing is said of the "intermission" when Freya and I return to the table.

Persephone gives me a look, inscrutable but otherwise harmless. Morgan, of course, manages the slyest of winks. Mistress and I play it off coolly, act as if the sibling drama -- and the illicit incest that Freya partook of, that I witnessed -- took as long as it did because...just because, I suppose.

But again, nothing is said.

The food is arriving as we sit ourselves back down, and the portions are surprisingly generous for a place this expensive. On those rare occasions that Mum and Dad have taken me to a fancy restaurant, usually to impress family, the rule seemed to be that the more expensive the meal, the less you got of it. Rich people apparently prefer an "artistic drizzle" to actual sustenance.

Here, at least, there's plenty. Which is slightly concerning, given the futanari capacity to consume so much, but then again, they are Amazonian in nature. Freya at six-foot is the shortest, with plenty of aesthetically pleasing muscle, yet is nonetheless remarkably tall for a woman. Even so, to manage such a neat shovelling away of what, with a single bite, strikes me as the tastiest Chinese food I've ever eaten, provokes amazement.

'What?' Mistress says, eyes hooded as she gives me a side-on glance. 'It's really tasty.'

'I wasn't judging. Just impressed, really.'

And it's not just Freya. Morgan is the same, and Persephone again. Alicia and I are the only people with reasonable portions sat before us, "inferior" as we are compared to the delicious dickgirl dominatrices. Mistress does, all the same, despite her apparent ravenousness, spoon out a little bit of every single one of her dishes onto my plate. The overarching theme of her choices being "hot as fuck", much like herself.

She takes just a little bit of indulgence out of my inability to eat the -- admittedly fantastic -- beef and chicken pieces sent my way without sweating around my eyes and at one point breaking out in deeply annoying hiccups that proving a constant low-grade mocking chuckle from my mean Mistress.

Intermittently, small talk surfaces from the background sound of sating that other pressing hunger, distinctly different from that which Mistress and Morgan were dealing with prior to the meal. Alicia leads for the most part, and asks bits and pieces about my life. About my parents, about my hopes, my dreams, my ideals.

It's weird, talking about it. It's not something I tend to do, push come to shove. Freya and I talk about plenty of things, but I suppose that unless your family life is particularly arresting, it's not all that necessary to speak of. And the other stuff, the personal aims? In the least arrogant sense possible...do they matter, now?

Mistress adores me, and Mistress brings with her, as some fantastic side-effect, more wealth and luxury than I'd ever dreamt of before all this.

Still, I'm left thinking. Before this, I had no certainty. The luxury of a poor family is that you have to adapt, to make the most of whatever life throws at you. You can't just say, "I'll do X," and then relax. Want to be a doctor? A scientist? An engineer? A mechanic? Sure. But if things go wrong before that becomes possible, you have to change gears.

Freya doesn't have to do that. None of her family do. They can be anything. Anything they want. And while I make small-talk, while I'm visibly "present", for the duration of the meal and the car journey home, I'm lost in my thoughts. Nothing further is said of the little encounter in the private room of the restaurant, and Mistress -- clearly in her own head, dealing with her own array of novel concerns -- seems at least psychologically spent from the encounter with her sister. But as we're lying together in bed, side by side, warm and comfortable as can be, my curiosity about the bigger picture asserts itself.

'What can I do?' I say, staring up at the ceiling. At the dark, at the swirling patterns of the plaster. 'If this is real, and I'm staying at your side...what can I do?'

'You'll have to be a little more exacting,' Freya says, hooking an arm across my middle. She turns about, onto her side, and brings her head down to rest against my chest. It's wonderfully odd. Her softer side, all for me. Faces only I see, gestures intended only for my lucky self. 'I'm not going to suddenly ditch you for Morgan, if that's your worry.'

I shake my head, and put an arm across her shoulders. Mistress is silken to the touch, bubble-gum sweet. Her grip on me is soft, comforting. To be with her, to be here, is to be the safest I can possibly be. In the luxuriousness of her presence, all is well with the world. But I do need to make the most of things, don't I?

'My dreams were small, but with you, they can be bigger. I could...write. Or volunteer. Or learn a trade. I could do anything, but that's a little scary. I'm still getting used to the, um, less romantic side of this.'

'The wealth? The ease of living?'

I nod. 'Yeah.'

She smiles at me, then leans over and kisses my chest. Freya's eyes, catching a silver shaft of moonglow and starlight -- out here in the country, the night's sky is a sea of brilliant sparks and flares -- possess that incredible depth of blue, that stunning sapphire, even in the dark.

'I want you to be happy, Tom. That's all that matters to me. That and us working out, obviously.'

'I'm sorry about the Morgan thing,' I say, sighing. 'I wanted it. Wanted her, and the guilt was awful. Especially when I thought I'd hurt you. I don't ever want to hurt you, Mistress.'

Freya moves with daemonic urgency, one moment at my side, on my chest, some lovely creature soft and delicate, and then she's atop me, knees either side of my hips, mane of golden blonde falling about my head like the most inviting of veils. Sweet breath, gorgeous eyes, a face that could fit just as well on an angel as a human.

'Would you have done it if I hadn't said it was okay? If I'd said I want you to myself, and don't want to share?'

I shake my head. 'Never.'

Mistress dips down, presses her enrapturing lips to mine. Slow, methodical, a tangle of mouths. 'Mhm.'

Mwah. Smooch.

And when she pulls back, a silvery strand of spit linking our lips, Freya smirks warmly. 'We've been clumsy. All of this has been clumsy. We're young, and we're inexperienced, and...I do need help. From the start, I needed it. What I did to you?' She rolls her eyes, shakes her head. 'We're even, Tom. A hurt for a hurt. But we'll do better, going forwards. Thank you for being patient with me.'

She descends, naked body curvaceous and cushioning. Her weight atop mine is paradise, heavy for her height and strength, her innate physical splendour. Those wonderful double G-cup tits, pressing against my chest, provoke a satisfying shiver.

'Morrigan annoys me,' Mistress says, all mischief and just a hint of madness. 'I want...a little dose of revenge.'

'Revenge?'

Freya blinks slowly, glances to the side. 'I want her, Tom. Not like I want you, but I want her. My own sister. My own flesh and blood.' The shiver, anxious or shameful, is noticeable as it courses through her. 'That mouth is exquisite. It felt like she was trying to suck out my soul.'

'Better than me?'

Mistress chuckles sweetly, but her gaze is mean. 'It's hotter when you do it, but yes. I think we're kind of even there, right? Morgan's more fun to suck than me, because she's able to play the role of dominant better than me. Morgan's blowjobs are more enjoyable, because she's better at sucking dick than you.'

I can handle the gentleness of her voice. It's not a rejection, after all. Just a statement of fact. As suckable as the elder sister's cock is, the attachment isn't there. Though...

'I don't want a future where I'm not shared, Mistress,' I say, blushing. 'And I don't want you to go without, either. I'm okay with that.'

Freya chews on her lower lip, pink between two rows of marble white. 'I think you're right. I think, actually, that we're missing the bigger picture.'

She does this thing, this wonderful thing that has me instantly hard and completely smitten. Mistress gets her hands behind my shoulders and spins us about, onto her back, so that my face comes to rest smothered in the perfect pillows of her beautiful bronze chest. Boobs, swallowing my face. Bubble-bum sweetness and her delectable odour, sweat and femininity, filling my nostrils. Claiming my world.

'Morgan keeps causing problems, so instead, she's going to become a solution,' Freya says, stroking my back, holding me against the magic of her mammaries. 'I love you, but there's so much truth to the idea that you're just a man. That you're submissive to futanaris. That we're better than you are.'

'A truth that I eagerly embrace, Mistress.' I lap at the flesh of her breast, and she quivers slightly. Mlep. 'Mhm. Your boob sweat tastes so good.'

Freya gives me a playful smack on the back. 'Good boy. But...what if there are degrees of hierarchy, here? Degrees of importance?'

The hunger in her eyes is glorious. Though she stares up at the ceiling, gaze twitching with thought, it's impossible not to be smitten with the azure allure of those deeply desirable blues. Mistress is rather amazing, and that same Venyabildt tendency to dominate, to assert oneself, is clearly every bit as present in the younger daughter as in the older.

'Well I'm beneath you,' I say. 'Where do the others fit in?'

Freya turns her attention down to me for a moment, and shifts her arms upwards so that her grip on me is firmer and her breasts are pushed up to engulf the sides of my face. 'I want my sister beneath me, as well. As for Mum and Dad, I'm not so bothered. Let them have their hierarchy, outside of ours. But Morgan...'

She trails off mid-sentence, luscious lips falling still. Again Mistress looks thoughtful, eyes twitching and shifting, searching for the words or the ideas necessary to communicate just what she's picturing. But the crux of it, at least, is in my head as well.

Is that at all realistic, to get Morgan -- "Morrigan" -- in the same general situation as myself?

The older Venyabildt daughter is, without a doubt, better at this. As much as I love Freya, she's had less time to hone this side of herself. Over the past months she's gone from rude and crude to a much more refined state of domination, but even so, Morgan presents a radically different situation.

'You really think you can make her submit, Mistress?'

'Hm?' Freya turns to me again, in the process pushing her tantalising tits up that much more. My jaw rests between them, and their bouncy bulk sandwiches my cheeks. 'You don't think I can?'

'Right now? No. Sorry. Morgan's dominance is like breathing to her. You saw what she did tonight. Do you really think that blowjob was submissive?'

A short while ago perhaps, I might find myself pushed off. Instead, Mistress merely narrows her gaze and twists her mouth. 'No, you're right.' She slides her fingers up the ditch of my spine, to cup the back of my head. 'She's a lot more confident than I am, and a lot more comfortable with the other side of sexuality. Giving pleasure, without it involving actual submission. I've never sucked a cock before -- it always seemed some admittance of superiority -- but my sister took care of mine without a hint of reservation. Hm.'

I'm vaguely wary that I might pull a face, suggestive of eager excitement to be a potential guinea pig, but either Mistress doesn't notice it or I manage sufficient self-restraint to not make a dirty fool of myself. As beautiful as Freya is, in all womanly ways, I know which way around this has to be. At least with her.

'What do you want to do, Mistress?'

She shakes her head. 'Well see, Tom. Sleep on it. Tomorrow's a new day.'

I shut my eyes, having nothing more to offer. This is Freya's plan, Freya's strategy going forwards, and she's a great deal smarter than I'll ever be. Besides, sleep comes especially easy when you've got a pair of double G-cup bronze breasts for a pillow.

*

When I wake, Mistress is absent, though that's not unusual.

I get up and shower, get dressed for the day, picturing the look on her face. The way she seemed so excited about the prospect of expanding our horizons, going beyond simply sharing me with the others. Honestly, the idea of Freya taking control, becoming more dominant even than Morgan, is a tantalising thought. Whether or not it's a realistic one, however, remains to be seen.

Fresh and clean, I go down for breakfast, finding Persephone preparing the morning meal for everyone. Not a daily occurrence, but common enough on a weekend morning. The omelettes she's making have a distinctive twist to them, some fusion of the familiar and foreign. Worldly as I understand the Venyabildt matriarch to be, it makes sense that she'd masterfully merge a selection of cuisines into something so mundane as an omelette.

'Morning, Persephone,' I say, not entirely comfortable with Alicia's suggestion of "Daddy". 'Where is everyone today?'

The beautiful futanari, pale as Morgan, blonde as Mistress, gives me a side-on smile. Lingerie assists the apron today, though her overabundant curves are impossible to ignore, regardless of whether the particularly naughty bits are on display. Brilliant blue eyes, same as Mistress, behold me with casual interest.

'Alicia's is bathing, and I believe Freya's using the gym. I can't speak for Morgan, as ever,' she says, warm and sonorous. Persephone has this steady manner of speaking, each word well-enunciated, as cool and constant as a summer sky. 'Just you and I for the moment, I'm afraid.'

She turns back to the pan, to the sizzling egg mixture, adding a pinch of assorted herbs, a touch of fragrant chilli. It's strange, that Persephone is a point of solace. As intimidating as she is, every bit as impressive as her daughters, the statuesque blonde is somehow...safer? There's this low-grade suggestion that she's every bit as dominant as Morgan, as fierce as Freya, but cool and controlled. Effortlessly so. Enough that I speak without thinking.

'Do you think Freya can dominate Morgan?'

Persephone ceases her stirring, and my cheeks grow fiery hot. Red as a tomato, no doubt, and what a stupid thing to ask her, but this house, this family...

'Which of them put that question to you, Tom? Is Morgan trying to play with Freya, or is Freya trying to assert herself over Morgan?'

She starts moving the spatula again, glancing at me side-on. Phew. I scratch my cheek in thought. 'I don't really know what's happening, to be honest. Morgan's been interfering with us for a while now, and Freya's thinking of fighting back, I guess?'

The beautiful pale blonde sighs, smiling broader as I speak. 'You should leave them to it, Tom. It'll sort itself out.'

But that kind of hands-off approach doesn't sit well with me. 'Freya told me, a while back, that Morgan was dangerous. That she's like Genevieve. But now--'

'She's absolutely nothing like my father,' Persephone says, her voice possessing for a shadow of a heartbeat something like disgust. 'It seems you're going to be family, so let me correct this once and for all. Genevieve is a one-off. Our views on humanity, superior as we know ourselves to be, still take people as free agents. If Morgan was anything like Genevieve, you'd know it. Believe me.'

'I wasn't meaning to offend. Sorry.'

Persephone smiles softly. 'I know, Tom. But I think you're involving yourself in a sibling rivalry, and with all respect, is that your place?'

'Why would Freya want to dominate Morgan if that's all it is? What aren't you telling me?'

Her eyes shift, widening vaguely. As if taking more of me in, viewing me in a different light. I appreciate that I'm being bold, and the passion for Mistress probably seeps into my voice, but it really feels like I'm not receiving all of the facts here. And I really do need to find out why.

'I never believed in my father's stories,' Persephone says. 'They didn't soften the things she did to me. Morgan, however, very much agreed with Genevieve, for a while. She doesn't go by Morrigan, and why? Because for a time there was a split, and that name haunts her for her time with my father. For a time, I'd lost my daughter to the rapacious cretin who did nothing but hurt and hinder. And in that time, thinking it her place, thinking it necessary, she intervened with Freya's relationships. Do you really think a woman as beautiful and intelligent as my youngest daughter would, left to her own devices, have her first boyfriend at eighteen? Really, Tom?'

I know that I'm her first real one. I know that. Which means she's not saying the obvious, but rather...

'What did Morgan do before me?'

'She didn't think Freya should have normal relationships. In fact, she didn't allow Freya them. On those rare occasions that Freya found a boy like you, Morgan stole them. The specifics you can imagine, but she always ruined her sister's interest in them.'

'Why would she do that?'

Persephone sighs, sadness taking hold of her features. 'Because of her own warped view of how things are meant to be, Tom. Because she thought that Freya -- Venyabildt, superior -- should have had pets, playthings, not actual lovers. Roughness, violence, unkindness, that was Genevieve's modus operandi.'

Fuck. It's like a puzzle, pieces fitting together at last. How Freya could do what she did to me, then turn about, be someone genuinely affectionate and decent, suddenly makes sense. She wasn't necessarily sexually inexperienced, but emotionally? Completely ill-equipped for relationships.

The elegant matriarch gives me a searching look. 'Judging by your face, I think you've something of your own to say?'

'Freya...raped me, at the start of this.' It's weird, thinking back. To that, and the other. To the harm done, the hurt which might well fester if I didn't know Mistress as I do now. 'She was a lot cruller. She was...'

'A lot like my father?'

I nod. 'It sounds like it. But she stopped, kind of well, fell for me.'

Persephone pulls a plate out and slides the cooked omelette onto it, with a dash of salt and pepper. 'She shouldn't have done that, and honestly I'm surprised you've persevered with my daughter, but you make Freya happy and I'm glad that you saw past her stupidity. The problem with evil ideas is if they take root, they create evil actions, with or without malice.' The futanari matriarch comes over to me, delivering me the steaming golden dish, portion size maybe a little too big for a non-Venyabildt. 'But just as you've forgiven Freya, please give Morgan a similar chance. Let my girls sort themselves out. It'll be good for their relationship, if nothing else.'

She runs a curled finger across my cheek, smiling enigmatically, and then turns away, back to the cooking. At any other moment, the brief touch, the warmth of her silky fingers, might provoke something, but mostly I'm annoyed. Annoyed because nobody in this damn house seems able to tell me anything other than half-truths. I appreciate that the topics are difficult, yes, but even so.

How am I meant to belong to Mistress if she won't tell me the specifics of her beef with her sister?!

I manage, at least, to suppress the urgency of these feelings. To eat, to be grateful, but to do so fairly swiftly. To get away, heading out the back of the massive central mansion and across the garden towards the gym annex, to get certain things ironed out.

And she's there, glistening with a patina of sweat, those well-trained muscles defined beneath the bronze beauty of her skin, bench-pressing more than my bodyweight. Maybe twice as much. Freya pauses at the end of a rep, and lifts her head to look at me.