Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Teenagers, BiSexual, Fiction, Mystery, Brother, Sister,
Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1 - The Snyder matriarchs - - Cyan, her daughter Ivory, her daughter Delft, and one day 8-year old Cinnamon - - handed Miss Latimore down, generation after generation. The 61-year old woman was brilliant, strong-willed, tough. She managed the business and personal lives of each household she was given to. Although when Cyan first bought Leticia, before she evolved into Miss Latimore, the little girl was just pussy. Far too talented to be merely a toy, she was elevated into family management.
Delft Snyder, a New Yorker from birth, relied on Miss Latimore for ... everything. Miss Latimore had been at New York Presbyterian 19 years ago when Delft had been born. Was her nanny, her friend, her mentor, her confidant.
Miss Latimore, trim, confident at 61, was Delft’s assistant, was manager for her two children, was still her friend, still her confidant. She organized Delft’s social and business calendars, scheduled her lovers -- male and female. In general, Miss Latimore ran Delft’s busy life.
And, she served a similar oversight function with Delft’s 8-year old daughter, Cinnamon (called without irony but perhaps with foreshadowing, Sin) and her 6-year old son, Rusty.
Delft’s grandmother, Cyan, had purchased Miss Latimore when the little girl was 6. Yes, purchased. The little girl’s mother, a heroin addict, had wanted $100,000 for Letitia. Which Cyan was more than will to pay -- Letitia, who would became Miss Latimore, was to be a surprise gift for one of Cyan’s boyfriends.
But the mother was such an insufferable bitch that Cyan negotiated the price down to $78,000.
Selling children, in certain urban circles, was more common than most people realized. Although the number of American children wasn’t large enough to warrant enough attention for very much scholastic inquiry. An NYU sociologist tracked four girls and two boys for a few years, curious how they’d turn out.
Too small a sample to project anything substantial. But it was interesting. One girl, too old to be of further interest at 12, was simply put out on the street. She turned out to be a tough little number and ended up running her own string of whores.
One of the two boys died early on of HIV/AIDS. The other boy became a highly-recruited engineer in Silicon Valley. Go figure.
As she was leaving Cyan, the mother said, “Want any more kids? I still got four at home.”
“I’ll see how this one does.”
Then, after a messy argument, Cyan decided she didn’t like that particular boyfriend enough to gift him with fine young pussy. She resolved to keep Letitia around until a more worthy guy showed up.
After a couple of months, Cyan realized that Letitia was one exceptional little girl. She hired a tutor and the future Miss Latimore’s career was launched.
Over the years, Cyan did loan Letitia out to friends -- men, women, couples -- from time to time. By the time she gave her to her own daughter, Ivory, Letitia had become Miss Latimore. The indispensable Miss Latimore.
It was fairly unusual, but not unheard of, for a family to keep a little girl, or boy, they had purchased and pass the kid down from generation to generation. As was the case with Miss Latimore.
Now, Miss Latimore met with Delft seven days a week at 8 in the morning. Delft would have been up since 5, dictating memos, working out, showering. The two women would have a cup of tea, nibble on toast or bagels and then get Delft ready for her day.
Sin and Rusty couldn’t remember a time when they hadn’t seen their glamorous mother standing, nude, in front of her full-length, three-sided mirror.
Talking with Miss Latimore. The children also couldn’t remember a time when their mother and Miss Latimore weren’t talking. Business. Social. Lovers to schedule.
They talked openly in front of the kids, always had. Delft’s mother, Ivory, had been the same way. As all the Snyder matriarchs had been going back eight generations.
At 5’ 10’ and over 6’ feet in heels, Delft was a stunner. Everyone noticed the lush auburn hair that framed her pale oval face. Long before most women started abandoning the natural, undone hair phase, Delft had moved on. She had never paid much attention to loose waves and laid-back braids. No, she wore structural updos, casual and elegant at once.
Delft had striking green eyes, often with a humorous cast to them. She found life to be generally amusing.
Wide, swimmer’s shoulders capping a slender frame. Smallish boobs with perky, pink nipples. A waist that most men could span with both hands. Taut butt, long, long legs.
Delft didn’t comment on it, but she was rather pleased with her tiny bald pussy. It looked like it could belong on Sin.
Both children, Sin and Rusty, were so used to seeing Miss Latimore brush their mother’s thick hair, it would have startled them if Delft did it herself.
And they were used to listening to their mother dictating to one of her many assistants, via cell, as the grooming process continued for almost an hour every day. Miss Latimore would frequently pause to instruct one of her own two assistants, this was done in person.
One of Miss Latimore’s assistants concentrated on Delft’s career, the other on her personal life. Cathy, 55, was career. Penny, 52, was personal. Both Cathy and Penny would be in and out of, mostly in, Delft’s dressing room during the get-ready-for-the-day routine.
Delft wore makeup so subtle that, except for lip gloss, it was almost invisible. Penny had been artfully applying it ever since Delft was Sin’s age -- 8.
Penny also did Delft’s moisturizing and, right before Delft began to dress, she sprayed a faint, barely detectable flowery scent into the air. The kids watched as Delft strode, her usual confident step, through the mist, turned on her heel and paced back through the scent a second time.
Then, Sin grinned and nudged Rusty. Penny sat crosslegged on the floor and used a second delicate spray directly on Delft’s pussy. Next, Cathy pulled delft’s butt cheeks apart for Penny’s final spritz of the morning.
Delft winked at her two kids and they spoke the familiar words along with her, “Just in case.”
Just in case Delft decided to fuck someone that morning. Or have someone lick her.
At night, when Delft was going out on the town, which was more nights than not, the ritual was repeated. Miss Latimore brushing her charge’s hair, Penny applying makeup, moisturizer, scent.
Except, and Sin and Rusty knew this well, Penny would use her fingers to apply the special flavor inside of Delft’s pussy and butt. The kids spoke in unison with their mother, “Just in case.”
Delft Snyder was a hedonist. Selfish about her own pleasures -- food, wine, sex, dope. A confident, elegant hedonist. She had a naturally throaty voice, a purr almost. Except that when sexually engaged, that purr turned into a roar.
She straddled the worlds of fashion, media, Wall Street, Silicon Valley, Hollywood, Bollywood, art, Broadway. She was a mover -- social and business. A fixer. A finder. A mingler who put the right people in touch with the right people.
Yes, Delft was well-bred, well-endowed, well-connected.
Her personal and professional interests were international. In America she concentrated mostly on:
NYC ... money.
SF & LA ... technology and entertainment.
DC ... power.
This fiery young woman would use any and every asset -- money, sex, connections -- available to her. Any and every.
Delft’s roving eye, her curious mind, would take her on projects involving the Rustbelt, the Middle East, agribusiness ... anywhere major opportunities could be imagined.
One small example of her creative energy -- the train survey. Faith Popcorn-like in its ingenuity.
Delft had spent a long weekend in Greenwich and was taking the train (New Haven line) back to Grand Central Terminal. Cinnamon and Rusty were with her, having been invited because of the hostess’s swimming pool.
Most people skinny dipped, as did Delft’s kids. With Sin keeping a watchful eye on her younger brother.
On the train, during that Monday morning commute into the City, most people were glued to their devices. But a surprising number of Gold Coast commuters were reading newspapers -- NY Times and WSJ. Others were perusing trade journals.
Because Delft was in magazine publishing, she became curious what physical documents were popular. As the train pulled in, she and her children gathered every publication that had been left in the car. Most train riders had been conditioned to deposit their papers and magazines in the large recycling bins on each platform. So Delft took a representative sampling from there as well.
At work, she assigned an assistant to put a team together. Ride the morning and evening commuter trains from Connecticut and New York counties. From Long Island and from Jersey.
Who was reading what?
For Metro North, the three lines -- Hudson, Harlem and New Haven lines -- each had distinct reader profiles. As did the New Jersey commuters. And the LIRR had its own fairly distinct makeup.
Delft did her usual half-page memo which resulted in micro-targeting some of the most affluent readers in America. And, from a business-to-business standpoint, some of the most effective influencers.
A little thing, but little things add up.
Delft had, in medical terms, in technical parlance, a hair trigger. She was a fast cum. Exceptionally fast. A fortuitous trait handed down through the Snyder generations. In bed, she wasn’t one continuous orgasm, although it could sound like that. Her relatively small clit was enormously sensitive.
And, Delft was vocal. She enjoyed climaxing and let the world know. Loudly.
Miss Latimore explained it to Sin when she was old enough to sort of understand it. Miss Latimore expanded on the subject as Sin grew older. For her part, Sin explained her mother’s sex life to Rusty. As she did with every other aspect of his life.
Sin talked, Rusty listened. And obeyed.
Miss Latimore no longer bothered to check on Rusty, the boy simply did as his older sister told him to.
Sin bought Randy’s clothes, told him what to wear every morning. As she did when she took him out, exploring the town. She also selected his reading material, his music, his entertainment access.
Delft’s two children had grown up, were still growing up, hearing their mother’s howls of delight, pleasure-yelps, screams of joy. They were used to having Miss Latimore introduce them to new men, new women, at breakfast. Sometimes the overnight guests wore robes, sometimes they didn’t bother.
Guests or not, Delft and Miss Latimore were constantly murmuring to their assistants, constantly organizing and reorganizing Delft’s day.
Delft Snyder had willfully, cheerfully given up her cherry at an age far younger than proper society would approve. Delft’s mother, Ivory, genially told her friends, “Fuck society.”
Against the odds, Delft found herself pregnant at 11. Ivory and Miss Latimore went through Delft’s calendar and figured out that Chip Featherstone, at 14, was probably the father.
Neither Ivory nor Chip’s mother was particularly bothered. Miss Latimore would continue to care for Delft. And then hire a nanny for the baby. After Cinnamon was born, Miss Latimore put Delft on the Pill.
Then ... fuck me. Another unplanned pregnancy.
Ivory and Miss Latimore decided that Chip was, once again, the father. In fact he could have been. So could have another two boys. And three men. But, it turned out that Chip was, indeed, the father of both Sin and Rusty. DNA.
Ivory and Miss Latimore decided the two kids would marry. Chip’s mother didn’t have a strong opinion either way. Chip was now 16, he could do what the fuck he wanted. She said, “I’m sure Delft knows this already, but Chip is just like his father, can’t keep it in his pants.”
Miss Latimore smiled, “Delft doesn’t mind, Margaret. She has her own group of friends.”
For their honeymoon, Delft left the babies under Miss Latimore’s savvy double-nanny care and went skiing in the Italian Alps.
To this day, Delft isn’t 100% certain that Chip actually died in the Monte Nevoso avalanche. His body was never recovered. It pleases her to think that he was just bored with her. Or bored with being married. Or didn’t want to be a dad.
She hoped that was it anyway.
But this was one of the few illusions that Delft allowed herself. She was a realist. A pragmatist.
Especially regarding her career.
Magazine publishing was a cutthroat business. Survival of the fittest applied to both the magazines themselves and to the people who worked on them. And that was before the digital revolution that turned the entire industry upside down.
Delft had started interning during the summer at a chain of national magazines -- MegaMax Publishing -- headed up by a friend of her mother’s. No pay, long hours, stressed out coworkers. Delft had started as a gofer when she was 10. Before her first pregnancy.
No one in the Snyder family, going back through eight generations, had ever been in publishing. They had owned timber, pulp mills, printing plants. They made money from publishers, many of whom were going under as ink-on-paper interest waned.
The magazines that Delft worked on were, for the most part, the exception to the downward trend. The magazines were in a mostly recession-resistant niche -- upscale.
Upscale readers, both subscription and newsstand. Upscale advertisers -- fashion, automobiles, furnishings, yachting, art, society. Resulting in an upscale product line -- magazines on fine stock, printed to the highest degree of tolerance. Coffee table magazines, not kitchen table.
Mega published both trade (business to business) and consumer magazines. Delft quickly decided the consumer side was more interesting.
Delft further surprised her family by electing not to go into the glamor side of publishing -- editorial. There the writers, art directors, photographers ... the creatives, were admired, revered even. The Devil Wears Prada.
Instead, Delft decided to go to the revenue-generating side -- marketing. These were the schemers, the ad sellers, the hustlers. Delft overheard one publisher (of the most famous fashion mag in the world) refer to editorial pages as ‘ad facings.’
Which infuriated the editorial side who saw their creative vision as the raison d’être of a magazine’s existence.
Both viewpoints were correct, of course. Ads couldn’t be sold at a premium price without a splendid editorial product. And that product couldn’t be produced without the ad revenue to support the editorial efforts.
In theory, there was a church and state separation between the elite editorial side and those crass marketing people who did ... whatever it was they did.
But revenue was revenue and ad sellers were constantly pushing editorial boundaries.
Example. One enterprising seller convinced a luxury furniture manufacturer to run a spread ad, two full pages, in all 12 editions. Plus the annual Special Products outsert. The package included a custom publication that would be sent, physically and digitally, to the magazine’s tony readership.
In exchange for the multimillion dollar marketing investment, Mr. Furniture was promised discrete product placement in a minimum of four editorial layouts throughout the year.
Editorial howled. It was against every tenet of the American Society of Magazine Editors. Editorial screamed. Editorial rebelled. Editorial refused.
Because of the amount of money involved, the dispute was taken to the magazine’s president. Known as Mr. Big. Before the “Sex and the City” Mr. Big. He listened thoughtfully and said, “Fuck ASME.”
That convinced Delft.
Editorial was more glamorous, no question. She had no interest in the physical printing of magazines, so production was out ... No interest in magazine distribution. Editorial, though was tempting. Money, however, more so.
So, the marketing side.
Where the action was. And, as Delft would learn, where the true creative geniuses resided.
Art, copy, photos, design ... all served by brilliant, talented professionals. But the true innovation, the on-the-pavement resourcefulness, the real inventiveness, came in separating businesses from their money.
When Delft first started working as an intern, she told Miss Latimore, “I’m giving them blowjobs of course, everyone does, all the interns anyway. I’m not so sure about fucking them though.”
“Use everything you have, dear.”
Miss Latimore’s advice was straight-ahead. Practical. To the point.
Miss Latimore continued, “And remember...”
Delft laughed, “To suck up to the secretaries. I mean, the personal assistants. Do them favors, bring them coffee, cultivate them. Men and women both.”
Delft wrote, unbidden, one memo that launched her publishing career. She had been allowed to sit in as a recent Harvard law grad interviewed for an editorial internship at Mega’s famous fashion magazine. The one that has only advertising for the first 50 or so pages.
That college graduates were willing to start as interns showed how glamorous the world of magazines was seen by some. How tough it was to break into the field at a topflight publication.
And, how severe the lingering effects of the recession still were.
But this applicant was in another league. Law degree for one thing. Millicent Hightower was also “Fluent in six languages, seven counting English, and conversational in Mandarin.”
She had graduated from every school she attended at the top of her class. Had the full complement of charity work in her resume. References that few career editors could match.
Millicent was hired, not as an intern, but as one of three assistants to the Editor in Chief, Alma Winter. Delft sought Millicent out, gained her trust, then her friendship. Millicent was the most intelligent person Delft had ever met.
And it was an unlikely church and state friendship. Editorial and Marketing. Necessary to each other. Scornful of each other. Millicent and Delft didn’t see the magazine business that way, though.
Sitting in on that interview had given Delft a new perspective on the inner-magazine rivalry.
As a mere intern, she didn’t have an assistant, a secretary, an office. But she was given a little cubby where she kept her own iPad. Based on the Millicent interview, Delft tapped out a short memo to her boss, Dick Flanders, an associate publisher for a tennis magazine.
In private, she called him Big Dick, which both flattered him and exaggerated the truth. Not that she minded sucking him off when she brought in his morning cappuccino, not at all. And she didn’t mind when he came back from a long lunch with a pal or two and asked her to blow them too.
No, that was par for the course, simply part of New York’s magazine culture. A couple of times, at office parties, she’d gone down on Big Dick’s tipsy wife. No biggie, his office door locked.
Dick Flanders, fresh out of college, had been ranked the 124th best tennis player in the country. Killer backhand, average serve. He kicked around for three and a half years, playing lesser tournaments, hustling at country clubs.
Then his mother cut off Dick’s allowance. Time to find a real job.
He was hired at the first place he interviewed -- MegaMax Publishing. Was assigned as an assistant ad seller to Mega’s rather successful Tennis International Magazine. TIM for short.
Dick had the gift of gab, told fabulous stories, some of them almost true, about his tennis career. He had a natural ability to get along with people. He became a senior seller, then was promoted to assistant advertising manager for the consumer publication.
His buddy, Roger Forester, was on a similar career path. As a teenager he had had eight at-bats with the New York Mets. Only eight, but he had made the Big Show. Roger would dine out on that for the rest of his career.
At 28, Big Dick’s career was well launched. But as Delft told Miss Latimore, “I don’t mind blowing him, not at all. But he’s not going much higher than he is now. Pretty to look at, though.”
Cinnamon agreed, “He is a hunk.”
Dick was 6’ 2” tall, with a slender, whippy body. Blonde hair, good hair, worn longish.
Delft tapped out what she was already thinking of as her Millicent Memo and addressed it to Mr. Richard Flanders. But she believed he would ignore it. Her real target was Mr. Big. The ‘Fuck ASME’ president of the fashion magazine that now employed Millicent Hightower. In fact, Mr. Big was president of all the Mega magazines.
Delft, and this was noteworthy because she’d had only two summers as a lowly intern, and those had been on the marketing side, had a completely new slant on what might constitute the editor of the future.
Rather than work in an isolated Ivory Tower atmosphere, the new breed of editor would work directly with the marketers. Start with the easy stuff ... an editor would join the ad seller on sales calls. Mostly lunches and boozy dinners. Clients loved to meet editors. Loved to show off the latest products. Hoped for editorial coverage.
But that would be only a baby step for the New Editor. She would design client-friendly creative material. Some of it to run in her own (gasp) editorial pages. Some of her work would be product brochures, direct mail, websites, trade show booths, digital marketing for these advertising clients.
Of course the extent of editorial’s involvement would be directly related to the the amount of advertising revenue he invested in the magazine.
It was sacrilege. It was outrageous. It was whoring out the editors. Marketing would love it.
But Delft knew it would come down to Mr. Big.
As she prepared to suck Big Dick’s well, dick, she handed him her half-page note, “Will you read this when you have a chance? Thanks, Big Dick.”
Moments later she heard the sheet land on his desk and kept sucking until he let out that familiar sigh and gently touched her cheek. Delft noticed there was more cum than a lot of mornings. Must not have gotten any last night.
Delft opened his center drawer and used the breath spray Big Dick kept there for her. He said, “Cool idea, Delfty. New slant on editorial. But it’ll never happen. Keep thinking though, you’ll hit on something.”
Delft put her dress and panties back on and thanked him. His secretary winked at Delft. She took Big Dick’s trousers off the hanger and handed them to him.
Delft rode the elevator up six floors. She brought a sugar-free hazelnut latte and another copy of the Millicent Memo with her.
Smiling at Mr. Big’s gatekeeper, Delft said, “Hi Hattie. Pass this on if you think it’s worth it.”
Hattie gave fake grumpy, “You think my price is a latte, you little bitch?”
“Know it is. Thanks.”
Three days later, Delft was summoned up to Mr. Big’s office.
Delft Snyder, at 19, rarely got home from work before 10 or 11. Her kids were usually asleep. She’d shower, then Miss Latimore and Penny would help her get ready to go out or to receive a visitor.
This evening she was hostessing Mr. Big. As she did whenever he wanted some Delft pussy. Delft was now the youngest person to work on the Executive Floor. These days, Hattie rarely called Delft to blow the boss, she had a legion of young interns, young editors, young sellers to take care of that mundane task. And Hattie almost never called Delft to fuck Mr. Big’s out of town visitors any more.
When Delft was just an intern, Hattie regularly used to send her from office to office to suck cock. Long before Delft was moved up the Executive Floor.
Delft now knew Mr. Big and his wife socially. And Mrs. Big, Eleanor, knew full well that her husband sometimes spent the night chez Snyder. She called him at breakfast there once in a while to remind him of this or that.
Mr. Big enjoyed arriving a little early to watch the women prepare Delft for him. He especially liked flirting with Penny. A plump, jovial 52-year old married woman with six kids. As she placed emollients in Delft’s pussy and butt, Penny pretended to be insulted by his flattery and naughty propositions.
“I am married, you know. Happily so.”
“Run away for a weekend, I’ll make you happier.”
Cathy, Miss Latimore’s other assistant, carefully hung up Mr. Big’s clothes as he casually undressed. Cathy, in a long-practiced ritual, would give Mr. Big a refreshing shower to prepare him for Delft. The 55-year old mother of three patted him dry with his favorite towels.
Simultaneously, Penny would be gently sucking Delft’s deliciously sensitive nipples. Just a warmup, a little prelude for Mr. Big.
Who, unlike Big Dick, fully deserved his nickname. Big in his career. In his physical stature, in his endowment.
As he entered Delft, she flashed momentarily on that day seven years ago when she had slipped Hattie that Millicent Memo. That single act had launched a career that had already taken her to the magazine’s London, Paris and Rome offices.
The day she gave Hattie that sugar-free hazelnut latte.
The next morning, Mr. Big was in the kitchen flirting with Delft’s cook, Hannah. He was nude, leaning back against a kitchen counter, sipping a mocha frappuccino, his sizable penis dangling between thick thighs.
Sin and Rusty, toothpaste fresh, went into Delft’s dressing room to say good morning to their mother and Miss Latimore. They watched the woman they’d known all their lives brushing Delft’s hair.
Delft winked at Sin, “Uncle Big is in the house.”
Sin squealed and raced back to the kitchen, Rusty trailing in her wake.
Sin flung herself at the smiling man, wrapping her slender arms around his thighs. Well, as far around as she could. She wasn’t tall enough yet for his waist.
“Cinnamon, you get sexier every time I see you.”
Mr. Big stood at full attention and solemnly shook hands with Rusty. The 6-year old’s hand disappeared in the huge paw. But Rusty was grinning with delight. Mr. Big was a favorite of both kids.
Penny and Cathy drifted in to have another cup before they went back to organizing Delft’s day. Mr. Big put a lengthy arm around their shoulders and cupped a breast in each hand.
Sin grinned with the familiar refrain, “They are married, Uncle Big.”
Penny pretended to be miffed, “Listen to Sin, you molester.”
Hannah noticed that Sin was wearing her brother’s pajama top. Again. She lifted the tail. Nope, no panties. Again. Well, Mr. Big certainly wouldn’t complain.
Rusty, as usual, was wearing only the matching pajama bottoms. Sin had started the trend a couple of years earlier, Hannah wondered how long it would last.
Mr. Big tweaked Cathy and Penny’s nipples one last time and walked back to get dressed. He would go home, have breakfast with his wife and head in to work.
Miss Latimore said, “Want a quick BJ? I have time this morning.”
“No, thank you, I’ll catch up at work.”
Sin said, “Are you sure, Uncle Big?”
“Duty calls, my love.”
Miss Latimore texted Hattie, “He didn’t cum this AM.”
Hattie would have someone waiting. Along with his first office coffee.
Mr. Big had been fucking Miss Latimore back when she worked for Ivory Snyder, back long before Delft had been born. Miss Latimore had always been a full service girl.
Later, after her mother had left for work and Sin was drying off her brother, she said, “Miss Latimore, when will Uncle Big fuck me?”
Miss Latimore smiled, “Don’t wish for what you’re not ready for, baby. He’ll get around to you when it’s time.”
Sin was helping her brother into his underwear, “And Rusty when it’s his time?”