tagLesbian SexTrust Comes Easy Ch. 01

Trust Comes Easy Ch. 01

byRogue Writer©

(FF, FFF, exhibitionism, toys, threesome, drugs, violence, death, destruction of a high-grade printer)

AUTHOR NOTE: If you like this hilariously grim little tale, read some of my other equally uninspired fiction:

After the Party

Daphne's New Life

How I Spent My Summer Vacation by Carol Hitchcock

A Death, Baked Bob, and the Personal Ad

Screwing My Ex

They came out in that order, and according to one reader I got better as I went along, so do yourself a favor and read them in order to avoid getting disappointed by my early lack of skills.

DISCLAIMER: Pay attention! This story is fiction and not meant to do anything more than entertain, don't read this stuff with any intention other than having a good time, don't take life too seriously and don't swim after you've just eaten. Isn't it stupid that I have to write these warnings in case someone goes out and does something bad because of what they read in my story? What's happened in our society to cause this? I know, I know, lawsuit-happy people and the lawyers who run commercials that inspire them. Now you have to put warning labels on everything. And I understand that some things need warning labels. Hydrochloric acid -- big warning label on that one. With letters four feet tall. But I don't need a cup of coffee with a warning label that says it's hot. I know it's hot. I wanted it hot! Well, not that hot. I take it light, actually.



Florida, several years ago...

As the woman who had called herself Michelle finished dressing, her eyes kept going over to the dead body on the bed. It fascinated her how just a few short minutes ago the woman laying there was alive, talking, laughing, writhing in the throws of passion, and now all that was left was the shell, a motionless body growing cold and a pair of eyes that looked at nothing. No, they did look at something; they looked towards the window and the sunlight streaming in through the sheer drapes. But the eyes had nowhere to report that information to, since the brain had stopped functioning, along with all the other parts in one of the most complex organisms on the planet.

And Michelle was the one who had stopped it. She had stuck the knife into Doctor Sara Gold's heart, ending her thirty-nine year old life. Right up to the moment she'd done it Michelle felt fear and anxiety because this was the first time she was going to kill someone. But just after, she felt something she didn't expect -- power. It was the kind of power she hadn't felt in months, the kind of power she used to feel when someone put their financial future in her hands, the kind of power that told her she was special, above other people. This was why she couldn't stop looking at the body, because every second she spent with it she felt that power.

Another unexpected surprise was that she didn't feel a shred of sympathy or sorrow. Instead of feeling bad, she felt like she had done the woman a favor. Last week Sara spoke about hating that she would soon turn forty, an age she associated with older people. Now Doctor Sara Gold would remain thirty-nine forever. It was the least Michelle could do for the woman, given how much Sara had done for her over the past three months. Doctor Gold was a plastic surgeon, and a decent amount of work had been done to change Michelle's appearance. Now, along with a dye job that made her a redhead, she looked different enough to make a second-guesser out of anyone who knew her back in New York, and most likely she wouldn't be recognized at all by some cop who'd only seen a 'Wanted' poster.

All that work had been done for free, thanks to the false sob story Michelle had spun the night they met at a local lesbian club -- a viciously abusive girlfriend, a late night getaway, the girlfriend tracking her down wherever she went, feeling like there was no where left to turn. Sara offered to let Michelle stay at her place, and it wasn't long before they were involved physically and romantically. The romance part was important. Michelle expressing her love for Sara but knowing that staying there might be dangerous for both of them if the ex-girlfriend showed up, then Sara getting the idea to use her skills to change Michelle's appearance.

That's the key to any good con -- always let the mark think they came up with the idea on their own. Michelle had labeled Sara as a mark from the second she saw her car pull into the club's parking lot, where she watched from the shadows to pick out who drove in with the most expensive wheels. Sara's was a Mercedes Benz with a bumper sticker on it, something for a stray animal shelter. Anyone who puts a bumper sticker on an expensive car like that is the kind of person who puts their heart before their wallet. All Michelle had to do was provide Sara a stray to take home.

On her way out of the bedroom Michelle wiped down wherever she remembered touching today. For the past three months she had always been careful about remembering what she touched when Sara was around and then wiping it down afterwards. Whenever Michelle was in the house alone she made sure to wear some of the rubber gloves a doctor like Sara had in multitudes. It made for lots of work, and all because she had made a Stupid Move, one that had put her fingerprints in the system forever.

That mistake happened back in college, where she got arrested for stealing a car as part of a sorority initiation. Daddy had the power to fix it, to get her out before a bail hearing and have her record expunged like it never happened. But he did nothing, just let her sit in jail for the night and let the arrest stand on her record. She even had to hire her own lawyer and go to court. Luckily it was knocked down to community service and a fine. Afterwards, she asked Daddy why he'd let her go through all that when he had the power to fix it, and he said it was to teach her a lesson. She told him she knew it was wrong and she was sorry. That wasn't the lesson, he said. Plenty of people break the law or do things that are morally wrong, and people with power actually need to do those things if they want to gain and keep power.

The lesson was not to get caught.

In the kitchen Michelle wiped the knife clean of blood and fingerprints and put it in a plastic sandwich bag. She put the bag in her purse, grabbed a manila folder and keys from the kitchen counter, and went to the back door. Michelle cracked it open and looked around, trying to see if any of the neighbors were out and about. All clear. She locked the door and shut it, then strode across the backyard, stopping to pick up a decent sized stone from the rock garden, and finally down to the dock where she got into Doctor Sara Gold's boat. It was a twenty-foot motorboat that could do eighty miles per hour on the open water; full of gas and supplies for the trip they had planned. Michelle started it up and cruised out to sea. The sun was starting its downward trek on a Friday afternoon, and no one expected to see Sara Gold until Monday morning, plenty of time to get south of the border. Once there, Michelle would sell the boat and buy a few documents, then take a plane to somewhere in South America.

When she was out far enough that she couldn't see land, Michelle stopped the boat, took out the manila folder and opened it. Inside was the medical file that Sara had created for her. It was under the false name she was using, but there were also pictures of Michelle from before and after the surgery, not something she could leave behind. She tore it up page by page, into the smallest pieces she could, before tossing them overboard. That felt symbolic for Michelle, like she was literally tossing her old identity away. Now she could start new.

Only one piece of business left.

She took out the knife in the plastic bag, opened it and put the stone from the rock garden inside. Just as she was about to toss it overboard Michelle saw the distorted reflection of her face in the knife, and that feeling of power came back. Suddenly she wished she could keep the blade, so every time she looked at it she was reminded of the power. That reminded her of a sad fact -- all the things she'd had, all the things she'd worked for years to build, were forever lost. She'd fled New York with almost nothing, no mementos of what had been her power. If she could keep this one thing...

No. That was the Stupid Move. Her father always taught her to avoid making the Stupid Move, the one that separated the successful from the losers. She tossed the bag overboard and it disappeared below the surface. Michelle started up the boat and headed south with an empty feeling in her gut, wanting to feel that power again.


New Jersey, yesterday...

"Maggie, I've got to leave soon," Rich said.

I forced a smile. "I'll have it on your desk, don't worry."

Rich walked off and I got back to work. It was Friday afternoon and I was sitting in my area of the lab, rushing to get my part of a formula for a big project finished so I wouldn't have to take any work home. My girlfriend and I were planning to spend the weekend relaxing at our apartment, watching movies, eating take-out and having sex. The only two things that would cause us to get up from the couch were the party we were throwing Saturday night and a romantic picnic on Sunday afternoon. The past two months had been full of busy work, running errands, helping a friend move, and organizing not one but three events for charitable causes Kaye is involved in. So we planned to use this weekend for spending some "just us" time together.

I couldn't wait, and not only because the "just us" time involved copious amounts of getting slutty with each other. At the picnic on Sunday I planned to ask Kaye to fly with me to Amsterdam sometime soon and get married, which is legal there and not in the land of the free. This will be a shock to my friends, who have labeled me Miss Anti-Romance. It will be even more of a shock because Kaye and I have only been dating for eight months, but the truth is our relationship has been nothing less than extraordinary. We made love on our first date, despite the fact that she had a personal law against sex on a first date, and several days later we said "I love you" to each other without the slightest hesitation or fear.

The only hitch in the plan for this weekend was the gig I have to play tonight. Since I was eight I've played the violin, and these days I earn some extra money as part of a quartet that hires out for parties and social functions. The gig had been booked a few weeks ago, before Kaye and I planned the down time. Tonight was a dinner benefit for some charity and I'd already cleared leaving work early with my boss.

But now the project deadline had changed and I had to finish before Monday. I couldn't be late to the benefit, so if I didn't finish now that meant I'd have to finish it at home. Kaye would be pissed and I didn't want to pop the question to her when she was angry. My eyes kept looking at the clock, like it was going to somehow have sympathy for me and slow down. But there were forty minutes before I had to leave and more than an hour's worth of work to be done. This was too much stress to be under just before my pleasure weekend.

Little did I know that was the calm before the storm.

It took an extra ten minutes, but I managed to finish everything, put it on a memory stick and toss it to the project manager before running out the door. Forget the elevator, I flew down the stairs, jumped in my car and zipped out of the parking garage with tires screeching. The first red light was when I felt it, that incredible sense of relief that washed over me followed by a burst of excitement. I blasted Black Flag's 'Rise Above' on my stereo. Rolling down the window I screamed, "Yeahhhhh!" and started screaming the lyrics at the top of my lungs. The people in the next car looked at me like I had three heads.

I felt my phone vibrating and turned down the music. It was Kaye. No surprise she was home already since schoolteachers have those hours.

"Hey Pookie," I answered. That was my pet name for her.

"Hey sexy girl. I've got a surprise. You will never guess who I have sitting next to me."

"Oprah Winfrey?"


"Gwenyth Paltrow?"


"Paris Hilton?"



"Stop it! I said you'd never guess! Now I hope you don't mind, but I've offered to let her stay the night..."

"I thought this was a weekend alone."

"I know, I know, but she just came in from out of town, showed up here as a surprise for you. One of your ex's."

That caught me off guard. "Okay, now you have to tell me who it is."

"No I don't. But maybe I can narrow things down. Let's just say she hinted at the idea of the three of us having some fun together."

That really didn't narrow things down very much. I've never been the romantic type, at least not before I met Kaye, so many of the girls I've ended up with were keen to having threesomes or moresomes. One girlfriend deemed me a sex addict, which I didn't argue with. Sex is fun. Sex feels great. Love hurts.

"So you okay with this?" Kaye asked. When I took a second to think she added, "C'mon, you know you want to say yes!"

That's my Little Miss Fun Time. Kaye loves to party, and if you're on the fence about staying out too late or drinking too much or taking one more hit on the joint, she'll be the one who kicks you over the edge and then jumps in right after. Funny thing is you wouldn't know it if you met her at her job. During the day she's an eighth grade English teacher, and most of her students come to her without the ability to read. A good number of her students are in gangs, and from what she tells me the girls are more vicious than the boys. Yet Kaye maintains order and her students leave the class with better grades and test scores than they came in with. Those who've had her know she's strict and doesn't put up with any shit, and the ones who haven't learn quickly. Meanwhile, I get to experience Kaye the rest of the time, where she turns into Lindsey Lohan on crack.

"Come on!" she chided. "You know, for someone who looks like a Blink 182 groupie you can be a big tight ass!"

My eyes darted to my bag on the passenger seat. Inside was a box holding identical silver rings, each inscribed with 'Maggie and Kaye forever'. I worried about this surprise visitor having some bad effect on my plans for Sunday. But then again I understood why Kaye was so gung ho about this. She'd never been in a threesome before, and even though she's always been open to the idea circumstances seemed to forever align against her. Most of the women she dated before either weren't into it or just when it seemed like they were warming up to the idea the relationship ended. And when she finally finds someone who is all about open sexual relationships, namely me, the aforementioned busy period of our lives swept in on us.

"All right," I said, "that's fine."

"Great. We're going to grab some dinner while I try to pry out some embarrassing stories about you. Have fun playing. Love you."


The benefit was being held in some rich bigwig's mansion. A tuxedoed guard stationed at the bottom of the driveway directed me to park around the back by the servant's entrance, presumably so my ten year-old VW Rabbit didn't show up all the Benzes and Cadillacs and Jaguars out front. I grabbed my violin and my dress and ran inside, ducking into a bathroom where I quickly changed and then made my way to the foyer, which was bigger than my apartment. The other three members of the group were already there warming up. As I took out my instrument I got a hard glare from Robert Hanson, our self appointed leader, who is also a certified asshole.

"You're late," he spewed. Then he craned his neck towards me and stared at my arms. Hanson is certain that one day he'll find track marks there, since he firmly believes that anyone who looks like me will end up on heroin.

"Stop trying to look down my dress, asshole" I said loud enough to be heard by the few guests who were standing nearby. As Hanson smiled and waved at the startled guests I began playing to drown out any further bullshit he wanted to throw my way. There were lots of things Hanson didn't like about me, which he had made clear soon after he took over the group. He didn't like my tattoos, at least the ones he could see, which were a big black 'X' on my arm, a broken heart on my ankle and a bar code on the back of my neck, and my piercings, which were in my nose and lower lip (I did diamond studs for gigs), and several in each ear. He also didn't like how I cut my dark hair, which was shorter in the back and longer in the front, or that I dyed one lock purple. He dislikes liberals, and he dislikes liberal lesbians even worse. I told Hanson that the only thing that really bothers me about him is that his hairpiece reminds me of Rose, the poodle I had when I was little. But he couldn't throw me out of the group without cause, mostly because he sensed that the other two wouldn't stay, and good players were hard to find.

We started on Vivaldi while people walked in and ate Hors d'Oeuvres and chatted. They wore expensive clothes and jewelry and talked of tax shelters and country clubs and constantly smiled at the joy of being privileged. A few of them stood in front of us and watched us play as they made comments to each other. 'This is what a fish must feel like,' was our joke in the quartet. I caught sight of a girl, maybe sixteen, standing next to a young boy around her age who flirted with her as they laughed and smiled. When I was her age I was sleeping in parks and sticking my head in dumpsters behind restaurants looking for food. I looked at the girl and thought it must be nice to not have a care in the world.

Suddenly a fortyish woman came up behind the two teens. They turned and the woman gave a stare that quickly sent the boy away. She shot the girl a stern look and it wasn't hard to tell they were mother and daughter. The daughter looked down sheepishly as the mother whispered angrily in her ear. Then the woman took her daughter by the shoulders and spun her, proceeded to wipe some crumbs off the girls dress and adjusted it to her liking. As they walked off, with the mother leading the daughter by the hand, I discarded my previous thought and remembered the grass is always greener when you're not standing in it.

During the performance my mind kept wandering to whom Kaye was with. It could be Beth Larson, since she always had the bad habit of dropping by unannounced, or Ginny Roberts, who does everything on the spur of the moment. If it was Pam Grace it meant she needed money. Then a truly horrible possibility entered my head -- Sarah Rosenberg. Please, please, don't let it be Sarah Rosenberg. That girl could talk for five hours straight before she needed to break for air.

Dinner was announced and everyone filed into the dining area. That gave us an hour break and I stepped outside for a cigarette and a phone call. I was going to demand Kaye tell me which ex she was with, mostly because I needed to know what embarrassing stories from my past were coming up. I dialed her cell phone, thinking they might still be out to dinner, and it rang and rang and I started to get worried. But then there was a click and some noise like the phone was being fumbled in her hand. Kaye finally came on the line with, "Hey sweetie!"

"Pookie, who are you with?"

"I can't tell you that, but I can tell you that she...oooh..."



"Are you having sex with her?"

"A little. Uhhhhh, Jesus. Are you mad? You always talked about an open sexual relationship, but I didn't know if that...that..." She gasped. "That meant sex without each other, or the other present, or, ah, or...you know what I'm saying."

"Yes, it's okay," I reassured her.

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byRogue Writer© 7 comments/ 32345 views/ 20 favorites

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