The Wash

After parking as close as they could, the crew walked along the bank of the concrete storm water channel toward the gathering. Busybody adults always preached about the dangers of setting foot in them, but for the 361 days of the year that they were dry, the channels belonged to kids: as bike freeways, skate parks, and meeting places. Only idiots would get caught in a monsoon flood.

A half-dozen darkly-clothed kids were hanging out under a bridge, passing a joint around. The Cure was playing on a boombox at a volume that experience had shown wouldn’t quite provoke the nearby home owners. Four bikes and one skateboard were stacked against a support.

Beth stood when they approached and smiled viciously at Barry. “You just can’t get enough pain, can you?” She teased.

“Don’t,” he said, holding up his hand. Beth pouted, realizing that he wasn’t going to play the game any more.

“Is one of you Chris?” Candace asked.

“Me,” one of the boys declared. His hair was gigantic, black, and unruly.

“I’d like my photo back please,” she said plainly.

“That’s you? The girl with the dog?” Chris asked. Elliot managed to hide his shock at the statement; Barry grinned.

Chris took the picture out of his jacket and held it up, comparing faces. He nodded and grunted.

“Give it to me please,” Candace said again.

“I think I’m going to keep it,” Chris told her.

Candace sighed. “It belongs to me. It was never Gus’ to give you.”

“Maybe, but come on...,” Chris sneered.

She sighed again. “What’s it going to take?”

Elliot wondered how bad the “dog” photo was, and how far Candace was willing to go to get it back. A week before, they could have counted on Beth to help broker a deal, but since the breakup she seemed more likely to work against them, out of spite. He wondered if this one would end up being solved by violence. He wished he’d had the foresight to bring the Maglite from the wagon.

Sydney wasn’t paying attention to the negotiations: she was enthralled by the three teens puffing and passing around the joint. One of them looked the same age as her. She liked the idea of checking one more box from her list of things to do before she died.

“Make her fuck you!” Chris’ friend emphatically suggested. His hair, like Chris’, relied on an obscene quantity of ozone-layer-depleting hairspray.

Chris’ face soured. “Are you kidding? Look at her: that shit is contagious. A week after touching her I’d be calling myself Tad and making reservations at the tennis club.”

“Good point,” Chris’ friend admitted.

Chris outlined his alternative. “No, I want to see some girl-on-girl action: tits smashed together, fingers up cunts, and all that good stuff,” he said. “I want to see you fuck her,” he finished, pointing to Candace and Sydney.

Candace scowled with contempt. “Okay, one, she’s my cousin. Two, she’s too young. Three, she’s drunk. And four, we’re both straight.”

Chris narrowed his eyes but remained silent.

Beth stepped in to the conversation. “I’ll fuck her,” she said. “I’ve been wondering what’s under that shirt all night. Didn’t you have a bra on earlier?”

Candace frowned but considered the proposition.

“The other option is four hundred bucks,” Chris suggested.

“Fifty,” Candace countered.

“Four hundred.”

Candace turned to Beth. “Have you done this before?” She asked.

“Don’t worry - I’ll be gentle,” Beth said before pulling the blonde girl into a kiss.

Beth pulled the taller girl’s shirt up above her breasts and set about devouring them. Candace likewise lifted Beth’s top, and began groping her oversized breasts, with their peculiar sloped tops and round undersides. The two women together looked like a study in opposites: a tall, leggy blonde girl, seemingly proper apart from the exposed chest, and a petite buxom malcontent.

Beth reached her hand under Candace’s skirt. She was surprised to find no panties there. “You come prepared,” she observed. Her fingers slid around inside the other girl’s labia. She wasn’t ready yet, Beth concluded: not wet enough for the things she had planned.

Beth sat Candace down on a large sheet of cardboard and then threw herself across her lap. “Spank me,” she instructed. “And finger me. Make me hurt and make me love it.”

Candace tried, first pulling down Beth’s tights and panties. She began with two light swats, and then she stuck her fingers into the goth girl’s cunt. Beth moaned pleasantly. Candace pulled her fingers out and gave her another couple swats.

“Harder,” Beth insisted.

Candace did as she was bid and smacked Beth’s butt cheeks hard, four times, before pumping her fingers in her pussy again. Beth moaned more. Candace developed a rhythm, and Beth became more vocal: “Oh, yeah! Oh yeah! Fuck me hurt me!”

Barry was panting and pacing. He was in pain: his balls hurt, his dick hurt, his stomach hurt. He was losing his grip on humanity, being overtaken by need. “Jesus Christ, Beth, if you don’t let me fuck you now, I will not survive this night,” he begged.

“Oh, fine!” Beth surrendered. The small dark-haired girl relieved Candace of her clothes and then took position between her legs. She knelt, sticking her still-bare backside in the air while she lowered her face to the ground, half a tongue’s distance from Candace’s pussy. The blonde girl was opened up now: wet and ready. She might have been straight, Beth smiled to herself, but she had become aroused fingering a girl. Beth drove her tongue up into Candace while at the same moment, Barry penetrated the goth’s pussy.