Chapter 3

Amber was full of excitement when they got home. "That was my first time doing something like that," she said. "I loved it!"

"Where did you go?" Mother asked.

"It was a Regency Ball," Amber said. Her eyes danced with excitement. "I had on this beautiful long, light blue dress and gloves that came up to my elbow. We danced, but we had to pay attention to what was going on around us."

"I was worried you'd gone some place you shouldn't," Mother said. Security was a real concern, and like it or not, they were potential targets. "We're having guests tonight, associates of your father. You may find some interest in their conversation."

That was a hint to get upstairs and 'freshen up'. Amber scurried up the stairs, her expression eager. Suzanne had to be a little more sedate. She was at that age where she had to project a certain image. Associates of Father meant a potential suitor, and not necessarily her boyfriend. This was potentially an alliance through marriage; that sort of thing was done all of the time, though no one liked to admit it. Dinner parties could almost turn into a meat-market, and she'd be expected to look her best and act perfectly.

"There was a rumor that you guys got more time off today," Amber said when they were alone.

"It's one of the Outdoor Modules," Suzanne said. "We were given a chance to visit the woods, the beach, or the ski slopes. I chose the beach." She grimaced. "I hadn't been in years. A proper Lady doesn't show any exposure to the sun, which means the best way to visit the beach is through The Construct. What about you? Did you enjoy the ball?"

Amber hugged herself. "I loved it. I can't wait to do it again!"

"You'll get plenty of chances to do it again," she said. She glanced at her door. "I've got to get ready for our guests."

Again, she locked the door to her bathroom. This time she took a shower, and directed the pulsing water stream between her legs. One hand held her breast, squeezing and twisting her nipples. After a bit, though, she dropped the sprayer and her fingers went to work. It didn't take long. She gasped through her completion.

That got rid of a lot of the tension she'd felt while coming home. She glanced at the time. She could do herself again, or she could wait until she went to bed. She took another look at the clock on the washstand. It would have to be later. She had to get ready to greet her father's guests.

The one trouble with Claiborne, as far as she was concerned, was the utter necessity to relieve the sexual arousal when you got home. Right now there were several hundred kids around the US and Canada who were doing that, and probably a few teachers, too. She'd originally done it at the Construct's offices, but then sanity had set in; she had more time to do it at home. Of course if her mother caught her ... That was a complication that didn't bear thinking about.

She showered briefly—the water had been running long enough to attract attention—and spent a few minutes pondering what to wear. Dinner guests. That wasn't enough of a clue. Should she dress formally? That might be too much. However she didn't want to appear in anything that was too informal, either. Then she had it: a cream skirt with a white silk blouse. She put on her blood red pendant with the matching earrings and lipstick. Nylons—no, this probably wasn't that formal, but why take chances? The only ones who would notice would be the other women, but they'd express disdain if she didn't. That left just the problem of shoes. She finally selected a discreet pair of pumps, her black ones with the rounded toe and the moderate heel.

She spent a few minutes on her make-up, and longer on her hair. At least bouffant wasn't still in style. Finally clothed, coifed, and made-up, she gave herself one last inspection. This would have to do. She'd have to take her father to task for not giving her more warning.

She thought about that last boy. A lot of kids liked to have sex after the last class, and before their bus came, and she was no exception. She thought of it as a (mild) rebellion against the role forced on her at home. She'd avoided Roger, her boyfriend at Claiborne, and instead settled down with Ken, a boy from her Differential Equations class.

He was fractionally taller than she was with dark hair and a lean face and body. He was known around school as having a tongue to die for. It was long—he could touch the tip of his nose with it—it was agile, and he knew what to do with it. He'd spent some quality time with her breasts, but a lot of the older boys did. They'd learned how much girls liked that sort of attention. But when Ken began teasing her slit, she'd closed her eyes and just enjoyed. He went down to her entrance, then back up to her bud, and back down again. Over and over. He fastened his lips around her bud, pressing down. At the same time he slipped a finger into her, crooking it, touching a that special spot. It was like he concentrated on just the most sensitive place on her body, and the rush of feeling swept her away.

Then he replaced his finger with his dick. That felt even better, and she focused on bringing him off. He returned the favor, and she popped almost right away. He felt the walls of her channel grabbing at him, and sped up. She was burning up, and he did his best to quench the fire with his juices.

They spent a few minutes caressing each other and trading kisses. She considered a shower, really something that wasn't necessary, but symbolic. Instead she'd pulled on her skirt—no underwear!—and walked out to the bus with his come oozing down her legs. She consciously rubbed her thighs together, feeling the cool stickiness on her skin. She felt wicked and sexy at the same time.

That was a far cry from the way she felt now. She was the ice princess, the perfect Southern Belle, the kind where butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. She smiled as she came down the stairs. If only they could have seen her at Claiborne!

Amber had on the dark green dress she favored for dinner parties. She had a pearl necklace—her real pearls—and a bracelet studded with pearls. She looked like the Young Southern Woman, just on the verge of ripening into maturity. People would note her, and begin to factor her into the web of family obligations that governed the life of people at their level.

"Not bad," she told her younger sister when they were in the drawing room.

"Pretty good yourself," Amber replied. "I'd have preferred that Regency dress, but I don't have one. I'll have to order one."

Suzanne was about to say more, but a commotion in the other room silenced her. Her father entered, and there were two older couples with him. A younger man about Suzanne's age, and two younger girls about Amber's age, followed them.

Suzanne kept the smile on her face as she assessed this. Meat market time. The girls were nulls, about like where Amber was, not quite old enough to be dated, but close enough to invite some speculation. The boy was another matter.

Her mother came over. "Suzanne, may I present Kenneth Guilford. Kenneth, my eldest daughter Suzanne."

Suzanne held out her hand, reminding herself to be polite and slightly reserved. Kenneth looked exactly like a boy she'd had sex with earlier that day at Claiborne.

"I'm pleased to meet you," Kenneth said, bowing ever so slightly.

"As am I," Suzanne replied. She raised an eyebrow fractionally as her mother ushered them to a corner to 'get better acquainted'. Yes, Meat Market time. Normally her mother wasn't this blatant.

"I believe we have something in common," Kenneth said when they were alone. "Our parents seem almost frantic to push us together."

"What does your father do?" she asked.

Kenneth shrugged. "He's a drone. Mother's the power. She's a Senior VP at the Southern Broadcast Network."

"Ah. I see." She let the tip of her tongue just barely show. He nodded, and showed the tip of his tongue, too. Yes, he was the Ken from her class. But this wasn't the time or place to admit that.

"Father normally doesn't care for that much publicity." She shrugged. "We get it anyway."

"It seems odd that someone in his position doesn't like publicity."

"That's a personal quirk. However, he knows it's necessary. You don't have to like something to be good at it."

"True." He cocked his head in a familiar gesture. "They tell me you're attending an e-school."

"I view it as a challenge," she replied. "It's a family trait: we don't like things to be handed to us."

"I've noticed. I'm attending an e-school myself. My parents are curious what they're like, and have been badgering the Construct people to open them up to public inspection. I think they're going to succeed."