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1953

Damn her, Peggy thought, which was not something she ever thought she’d think about Sharon when she first saw her, eleven years old and gawky and intellectual, no dirt under her fingernails or scabs on her knees.

She was the daughter of Peggy’s sister-in-law; no more father. But a girl as fiercely intelligent as her needed all the help she could get and honestly, Peggy was in the habit of herding cats, after years of Jarvis and Angie and Howard.

So she ended up something of a mother to little Sharon. Chalk it up to bad influence—she grew into a little tomboy. Then a hellraiser. Then those big eyes finally fit her, as did those towering legs, and she grew a naughty smile and that power engine behind her eyeballs started thinking on all the ways she could enjoy herself now that the years of overenthusiastic schoolwork had fallen away from her gorgeous face.

Two hours past curfew and somehow Peggy knew more about what the Soviet premier was doing than a damn American college girl. Until finally something tripped the alarm in her flat and the live feed to her compact showed that it was Sharon. With a boy, bearded, leather-clad, looked like and probably thought he was Marlon Brando in that new J.D. movie…

And after Peggy had been out half the night, trying to find the little—Peggy refused to use the word for what Sharon was. Because she’d feel bad for using it, even inwardly, and that would sully her rightful indignation with how Sharon had behaved.

Christ, how could a girl be so beautiful and so smart think so damn little?

She parked and jingled her keys loose at the front door, because Sharon had locked it behind her—Peggy didn’t know if that pissed her off or pleased her. It was a luxury to be mad instead of having to keep cool and she relished it.

The spy game was a man’s world, it was fair when she didn’t want it to be and unfair when she didn’t want it to be. When it was inconsequential, she could be petty.

Then, with the front door closed but not locked (Marlon Brando would not be staying long), Peggy heard a strange groan that brought her to a dead halt.

Her mind leapt back to the SSR, the sound of men dying or needing a doctor not to die. She moved quickly up the stairs, towards the sound, and found the door to Sharon’s room partly open.

She went to look through the crack, thinking that Sharon might’ve taken something bad for her, that her boyfriend might’ve hurt her, that her appendix could’ve burst and thank God she wasn’t in the middle of the Arctic like Peggy had been when it had happened to her, because whatever help she needed, Peggy could get it for her.

Then she saw Sharon. “Crikey o’riley,” she said, unable to think of anything more.

What Sharon needed, she was already getting. In abundance.

Without clothes, there was no hope of Sharon being a tomboy. She was pretty and delicate and sculpted, her newfound muscle only making her toned and sleek and dangerous enough to make up for how she could’ve been porcelain. (Even with an American birth certificate, she still tanned like a Londoner.) And those soft brown eyes flashed sparks of passion up at a ceiling she couldn’t see, so glazed with enjoyment that Peggy didn’t think even tapping her on the shoulder would get her to notice her aunt.

And what Peggy really noticed was the openness, the wantonness that held Sharon’s hips up as high as a model on a pedestal, that carried her legs far apart—God, it looked so easy for her to want things and get them and have them and enjoy them. Her pubic hair like butter decadently spread over warm bread, her inner pinkness something Peggy saw only when it wasn’t being kissed.

Peggy was aware of Sharon’s prettiness, her beauty, her rapaciousness now when it came to motorcycles and flattering clothes and even, worryingly, new guns at the shooting range. But she’d never imagined Sharon-the-woman in place of Sharon-the-girl. Certainly nothing Peggy herself had done lately had given her reason to suspect that things like Sharon’s acts were being committed.

Still, as obscene as it was, Peggy was helpless to turn away. To not think of the possibility of how good something might feel when it was this debauched.

A headiness filled the room, unfamiliar to Peggy and yet she knew it couldn’t be anything but sex. A small, flexing, pleasured womanhood like Sharon’s couldn’t possibly smell so strong that it was outside the room, at Peggy’s nose as she stood in the doorway, but how else would Peggy know her scent?

She might’ve been able to answer that question—might’ve chalked it all up to memory and imagination running as wild as Sharon was—only Peggy was transfixed. She couldn’t see much of the man, with him crouched in the shadow of the bed, but she could see what he was doing and it transfixed her completely.

He was shirtless but he wore a bomber jacket (had he put it back on after he’d taken his shirt off or had he not been wearing a shirt?) And he was completely enthralled by Sharon’s cunt, slipping his fingers into it and kissing it and sucking at it, when he wasn’t examining it and the motion his fingers made inside of it.

Peggy could see over his shoulder, thanks to the way he was kneeling at the edge of the bed, between Sharon’s smooth thighs. She could actually see right into Sharon’s pussy. It was splayed open, pure pink, and—to Peggy’s astonishment—he kissed her there! Where a woman was most tender!

More than that, he shoved his face into her open valley, burrowing his devouring mouth right into the soft pink folds of her labia—mouthing her clit as well—then driving his tongue deep into her sex. Nothing he did accomplished anything less than driving Sharon wild!

Just watching, Peggy’s own sex began to thrum, its nerve endings conspicuously untouched, her walls seeming to scream with how much tightness held them closed. She felt a smear of wetness between her legs and wondered if it would be enough to let this man into her as Sharon seemed to be allowing him to enter her. Or if he’d like the taste of Peggy’s femininity as much as he was clearly enjoying Sharon’s!

Her knees felt weak, ready to collapse just from the thought of her and Sharon sharing the same lover. It was perverse! Absolutely the most unhinged thing that had ever occurred to Peggy!

And still the man was giving his most ardent attention to Sharon’s pussy, licking it and sucking on it, his lips loudly smacking while she ground her cunt into his kisses. Tongue lavishly pushing through her folds, increasing the strong smell of femininity that hung over Peggy’s senses.

Sharon, panting and gasping in luscious excitement, tossed her head from side to side. Her eyes were closed and her gritted teeth sang with a hum that proved the intensity of her rapture. Her body rippled with an orgasm flowing out of her cunt, making her curl her toes and pound her fists on the bedspread.

Stunned beyond belief, Peggy reached out to catch the wall for support. But in her blind shock, she hit the door, her weight making it crash loudly against the wall.

With the reverberation of the sharp sound, Sharon’s eyes snapped open, trying to focus on Peggy. But her lover just kept at her spasming womanhood, his tongue still making lick after lick, guiding Sharon deeper into her orgasm.

And soon, despite plainly seeing her aunt through those glazed eyes, Sharon dropped back to her pillow. Eyes shut. Surrendering herself to the ecstasy she felt, without a care in the world what anyone saw.

“Oh my giddy aunt,” Peggy uttered in awed disbelief… knowing that as impossible as it sounded, that her niece was enjoying herself too much to even care that she’d been caught in this most illicit activity.

And somehow she felt, now, as if it were her doing something wrong, not them! Peggy actually blushed furiously—like Sharon had caught her, not the other way around.

Peggy actually took a step back, prepared to flee, her conscience conflicted, her morals shocked at how they were treating something so degrading as… absolutely normal! No! She wouldn’t relinquish Sharon to such debauchery!

Peggy charged fully into the room, just in time to see Sharon let out one last shrill shriek, then fall against her pillow. Eyes crossed and unseeing, lips numb, her tongue poking absently between rows of pearly teeth. She looked at though she’d been struck senseless—as overcome as Peggy felt!

Brando climbed onto the bed, lying down next to her, and Sharon only moved an iota to give herself to his embrace, cuddling up to him with a bare minimum of movement. It was clear she was too close to unconsciousness to summon up any initiative.

The man looked at Peggy. His face was slightly flushed, not with shame, but from being held so tightly to Sharon’s cunt. It shone with moisture—Sharon’s juices were spread all over his cheeks and chin.

“Hi there,” he said calmly, his eyes brazenly regarding Peggy. “I’m Chase. You must be Peggy. I’m seeing your niece.”

Under the circumstances, Peggy felt she could be forgiven a measured profanity: “No shit.”