Don't you just hate a tattletale?
Well, if you do, no point in reading any further.
We got the idea for Tattletales from Marcia. She developed an obsession for old game shows and watched the Game Show Network whenever she went home for a visit. Of course she taped the episodes, brought them back to the sorority house, and made us all watch them.
I doubt we could have played the Newlywed Game with much credibility. Marcia told us all about the game Tattle Tales which gained some popularity more than 20 years ago. She tried to explain how it went and even showed us the tapes. It seemed way too confusing so we just invented our own version and made up our own rules.
In our version of Tattletales we asked questions about each other. If the one being asked about or accused chose not to respond, one of the other sisters offered an answer. If any of the girls tattled correctly, the one being tattled upon had to fess up. We didn’t even have to rely on the honor system.
Sandra, a criminology major, borrowed a lie detector device from one of her professors. She had to blow him every time she borrowed it but “No big deal” is what she had to say about that.
The lie detector said Truth Machine on the front and had all these red, yellow and green lights, wires and other stuff that resembled the inside of a computer. It looked like something out of a science fiction flick.
“This is how the Truth Machine works,” Sandra explained, “at least this is what Dr. Marshall told me as I sucked his little dick after his 8:00 in the fucking morning class Tuesday. He said I could borrow the box for blowing him but he wouldn’t tell me how the damn thing works unless I swallowed. So I swallowed. The things I do for you girls. You know me, I’d rather spit, but I thanked the professor for breakfast anyway.”
“So the nutty professor,” Sandra continued, “after I swallowed as much as I could and he shot the rest all over my face and tits, he made me take off my blouse and bra, starts giving me the scoop. Some jive about this thing is both a psychological stress evaluator and a voice stress analyzer. I wrote this shit down so I wouldn’t forget it.”
“Hey Sandra,” I asked, “how do you turn the damn thing on?”
“That knob on the bottom, the one that says ‘On’ above it. Even I figured that out. Anyway, so the dude says, ‘micro tremors in the voice that are often not detected by the human ear produce frequency modulations which are measured by the Truth Machine. The amplitude of the upper and lower side bands from modulations is also monitored. The results are analyzed and shown visually by the columns of LED lights which range from green, representing low tension, to red, which represents high tension.’ Get it? If the light is red, you are a fucking liar.”
One of our sisters, Paulette, seems so mysterious. She would go out at midnight dressed in all black and no one knew where. We just chalked it up to a goth thing. Her room took on the appearance of a laboratory.
I had no real cause to ask other than suspicions, but I posed the question, “Is Paulette a witch?”
No sooner did I get the question out, Rhonda tattled and blurted out, “Yes! She has a witch’s tit, a third one right between the other two. I saw it in the shower. She didn’t think I peeked.”
Paulette unbuttoned her blouse and slowly removed it, displaying her three-cup bra.
“No point in trying to hide it any longer,” Paulette said matter-of-factly. “Not only do I have a witch’s tit, I … well, I’ll just show you.”
Slowly and seductively Paulette wiggled out of her tight jeans. Then she slipped off her panties and sat on a chair with her legs spread. Her clitoris appeared quite large, and began to resemble a small penis as she stimulated herself.
“An abnormally large clitoris,” Paulette explained, “became an important piece of ass, ‘er I mean evidence, in the witch hunts conducted several hundred years ago. Usually those with attributes like mine and found out met with a death sentence. Sometimes the woman received mercy and amputation of the clitoris resulted instead of hanging or burning at the stake. Most of the torture and persecution of witches back then was prompted by the woeful ignorance of female anatomy on the part of men. Some things never change do they?”
“This story is bullshit!” I cried. “Yeah, Paulette has a big clit but I’m not buying the third tit. Hook her up to the Truth Machine, and Rhonda too. They are fucking with us.
Sure enough, the box lit up red for both. I ripped Paulette’s bra off, revealing that the third cup contained tissue and not boob. “Hey, at least we know the lie detector thingy works!”
That night Tattletales got put on “hold” temporarily. After we quit laughing about the stupid prank, we became intrigued with feeling and licking Paulette’s huge clitoris. She kept talking all the time, telling us wild and crazy witch stories. What a fucking imagination!
The next night, even though all of us had exams to study for, we decided to pay Tattletales again. Only fair that Paulette got to ask the next question.
Paulette looked around the room and then asked, “Who among you has had sex with your father? Or brother? Or any other fucking relative?”
Karen looked at me, I looked at her, we pointed at each other, and we each shouted, “She has!”
Despite the fact that other fingers pointed besides ours, that bimbo Karen kept right on talking and pointing at me. “Yeah, and she fucked my family too!” Well, we simply had to tell our stories first, the subject matter of which you can find in “Sugar Daddy” (posted on Literotica). No one even suggested we be hooked up to the Truth Machine. From the looks on the faces of the other girls, I suspected either shock at our story or they had something even worse to tell.
Kathleen, always the shy one and reluctant to interrupt, raised her hand.
“Yes, Kathleen, what is it?” I asked impatiently.
“I want to tattle,” she replied.
“OK,” Rhonda spoke up, “whom do you want to tattle on and what is it to have to say? We’re not a bunch of fucking dentists here and we have no intention of pulling teeth like we usually have to do with you. Let’s hear your tattle tale.”
“Well,” Kathleen began, “it’s about Amanda. Her father does her laundry.”
“What the hell kind of story is that?” Rhonda demanded. “My boyfriend does my laundry. So what?”
“Let her talk, Rhonda,” I insisted.
“Well,” Kathleen continued, not only does her father do her laundry, he wears it! I opened the door to her room with the burger and fries she asked me to pick up, and what did I see? Her father, the cop, wearing her panties and bra. Apparently he stopped to get her dirty clothes like he does every Tuesday after his shift. He only lives 30 miles away you know.”
“That’s interesting, Kathleen,” Rhonda commented sarcastically, “but what’s the big deal about wearing panties and a bra? It’s not all that unusual. I wear my boyfriend’s boxer shorts and t-shirts. I even paraded around in his jock strap once.
“But that’s not all,” Kathleen whined, “Amanda had donned her father’s uniform, the shirt and the hat anyway. No pants though. Below the waist she only wore a strap-on.”
Kathleen paused and looked around the room to measure our reaction.
“OK, Kathleen,” I inquired impatiently, “and Amanda did what I wonder with the strap-on?
Amanda became very pale, nervous and fidgety as Kathleen spoke.
“Amanda had her father bent over and restrained with his own handcuffs as she gave it to him anally. He whimpered and cried and called her Daddy as she shouted obscenities. Something like, ‘Fuck you, you little bitch, this is what you get for being a bad girl. This will teach you to disobey me. You won’t be able to sit your sorry ass down for a week.’ She shoved that fake dick that looked about 10 inches long right up his ass.”
I’m sure we all looked quite shocked at that moment. I didn’t even look around, I just looked at Amanda. She cried uncontrollably.
“Hook Amanda up to the Truth Machine!” several of the girls shouted excitedly.
Amanda did not protest. She composed herself, took a deep breath and told us her story.
“My mother died ten years ago in a car accident along with her clandestine lover as they returned from a rendezvous. Daddy took it out on me. I look so much like my mother. Often someone will remark ‘identical twins’ when they compare pictures. In a way I kind of understand Daddy’s need to punish me for my mother’s infidelities. I can’t help but think of her as a real slut myself because I walked in on her and her boyfriends on numerous occasions at an age when I really shouldn’t have been exposed to that stuff.
“It started with the spankings. Daddy delighted in putting me over his knee and smacking my bare ass with his big paw. Then, as I got older, he began to force himself on me. First, he made me do oral sex and then intercourse later, and nothing but anal in my senior year of high school.
“But when I began college everything changed. Daddy asked me to do him, probably I guess due to his overwhelming guilt. I love it! You wouldn’t believe the rush you get, the power trip, when you fuck your own father, and he’s a big mean old cop to boot!”
No one said anything. We couldn’t speak.
Finally I said to Sandra, “Hey girl, you got the Truth Machine for us. Anybody you want hooked up to it for a few questions?”
“Sure. Hook up Marcia!” Sandra begged fervently.
“Wait just a fucking minute,” Marcia protested in jest. “I suggested the game. What kind of gratitude is this?”
We grabbed Marcia and hooked her up to the box.
“Marcia, tell us how you got an A in Philosophy of Religion,” Marcia asked. I doubt you’ve ever even read the Bible from cover to cover and you’re not exactly the brightest bulb in the lamp. All you do is watch TV game shows and soap operas, and feed your fat face.”
“So, I like to eat,” Marcia snapped. “Monica isn’t any twig you know, and look what ended up in her mouth besides food.”
“Don’t change the subject, Marcia,” chastised Sandra.
“I had an affair with Father Monroe, who taught Philosophy of Religion last semester.”
“You’re a fucking liar, Marcia!” Sandra shouted. “Look at the red lights. Besides, everyone knows Father Monroe is gay. We know frat rats who admitted to us they let him suck their dicks for an A on a test, but never for the entire course. What did you do, offer up your little brother?”
“Not quite,” Marcia giggled. “Do you know Father Monroe has a notebook computer? He uses it in class. A Compaq Presario 1255 just like mine. Well, he got the damn thing all locked up, couldn’t reboot or anything. Well, I fixed the sucker for him.”
The green lights on the box indicated Marcia told the truth.
“OK, Marcia,” Sandra protested, “but there has to be more to this story. You don’t get an A in Philosophy of Religion for fixing a computer. That class is a bitch.”
“Really,” Marcia agreed, “and it only took me a few minutes to fix it. Same thing happens to mine all the time. Yes, there is a little more to this tale. I threatened to tattle on the good father.”
“For what?” Sandra demanded.
“I found child pornography and gay sex pics on his computer. Some of the pics featured a few of those frat rats you mentioned and Father Monroe himself. He lives alone in one of those old mansions on the outskirts of town you know. Hey, somebody give me a drink, ‘eh? I can barely talk.”
Sandra quickly filled up Marcia’s glass with straight scotch and some ice cubes.
“Father Monroe had one of those confessional booths in his house. He must have copped it from his church. Father removed the doors. Guess why? So he could film the confessions. He also cut one of those glory holes in the booth, so dudes could stick their dicks through the wall separating the priest and the guilty party. I found about a hundred pics of Father Monroe sucking cock while he heard confessions. And let me tell you, that is one holy one who loves cock. You could tell by the look in his eyes. And you know how stern Father Monroe looks in class? Well, he really looks comical with cum all over his face.”
“Oh my God!” Rhonda squealed. “My boyfriend and I go to mass every Sunday and he always takes communion. I always wondered how he found time to go to confession every week, and he definitely did some sinning between Sundays. That dude always has a hard-on. I can’t remember a day in the past six months that I haven’t fucked him, sucked him off or given him a hand job if I didn’t want to mess up my hair.”
The tattletale stories kept better and better and everyone seemed stunned by the revelations. But when the clock struck midnight, Paulette suddenly stood up and said she must leave.
“Where are you going?” we asked, almost in unison.
“One legend about witches I did not tell you about is that they practice penis thievery. Since none of you have a penis, I don’t believe, I must go hunting.”
Naturally most of us thought this might well be another of her pranks.
Kathleen suggested, “Let’s hook her up to the Truth Machine!”
We did and all we saw was green.
“Well,” I muttered, “the damn thing isn’t infallible, you know.”
As Paulette walked out the door, I added, “Paulette, one last question before you go. You never said, did you ever have sex with your father?”
“My father,” she responded, “is Belial; the devil. Who hasn’t he fucked? Didn’t you ever wake suddenly from a nightmare only to find semen all over your face and body? With that Paulette let out a shrill cackle, turned around and walked out the door.
The next day around noon, a Saturday, we had all finally dragged ourselves out of bed and sat in the kitchen munching on a bit of late breakfast.
Amanda complained, “Yuck, soooo sticky when I woke up this morning. “ Heads nodded and we looked at each other knowingly.
Paulette came down the stairs and strolled into the kitchen. She had a big glass jar in her hand that contained sausages or some such meaty delicacy, sat down at the table and opened the jar with, “Here, have one girls.”
Marcia, the one with the insatiable appetite, quickly grabbed one and gobbled it down. “Hey, these are really delicious!”
I took one out of the jar and almost took a bite before I noticed it was circumcised.
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