Incest/Taboo Prom Night

In Prom Night Josie Luker tells us about her did-not-go-exactly-as-planned senior prom. In the course of her story we'll meet Cherokee Canseco, Josie's best friend, Josie and Cherokee's fathers, Eric Luker and Robert Canseco, their dates for the prom Tim and Tom Oxley, and a certain limousine driver.

It's been awhile since I posted a story. There are number of reasons, but the primary problem has been my health. At the moment things have plateaued. I enjoy writing these stories and have a few ideas in mind. I hope I can continue to write and post.

I want to thank everyone who has taken the time to write me and comment on my stories over the past few years and look forward to your thoughts on this tale. And to give credit where due, the kernel of the idea for this story was found in the Daughter.Swap video series.

As always, all story characters are eighteen years of age or older.
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* * * * *​

Studying her reflection in the mirror, Cherokee adjusted, re-adjusted, then re-re-adjusted her gown. "Do men have any idea how hard we women work to give them what they think is a fortuitous glance at a slice of cleavage or bit of side-boob?"

"Not any guy we know. Heck, when any of them gets a peek at your girls whatever bit of brain he has shuts down."

Still looking in the mirror, turning to the left, then the right, Cherokee ran her thumbs along on the hem of her halter top, revealing a hint of the outer swell of her magnificent breasts, and with a sparkle in her hazel eyes said, "Well, whatta you think?"

What did I think? I thought my best friend was stunning, gorgeous, sexy, and classy. Her gem gown (for you guys, that's a dark green) accented the smooth muscles of her shoulders and arms, her perfectly formed "D" breasts, and 36-26-38 figure. And while her gown hung loosely to her ankles, its slit was long enough to let dance all night long. She loved being the center of attention and in that dress she would be.

Stepping towards her I said, "You and that dress will be the hottest things at the Prom," then squeezed my best friend's full round breasts. My sex spasmed; Cherokee let out a sharp breath of air.

We'd been waiting for this night for months.
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* * * * *​

Senior Prom promised to be the perfect end to a perfect day. That morning our dads successfully defended their city/county doubles tennis championship. Afterwards, as we congratulated them with a hug and a kiss, they'd sprung a surprise: we had reservations at Violet's, the most exclusive spa in town. After several hours of preening-- manicure, pedicure, massage, the works -- our dads took us to our favorite restaurant where, obsessed with how we'd look in our gowns, we'd only picked at our salads.

I'm of Scandinavian descent, a fair-skinned blue-eyed blonde whose 126 pounds are spread over a slender five foot eight inch body and 31-23-33 figure. The contrast with Cherokee is striking. She, of Cambodian, French, and Native American ancestry, has thick brown hair that hangs to the middle of her back and a creamy skin several shades darker than mine. And while she's not that much bigger then me -- an inch taller and a few pounds heavier -- she managed to turn it into a curvy figure with breasts impossible to ignore. Despite my purple floor length column dress's spaghetti straps and V-neck, my small B's would be no match for her girls.

Our looks reflect our personalities. Cherokee, big eyes and big mouth, is always the first to laugh, to cry, or take a dare. When something has to be done she's always ready, literally and figuratively, to get her hands dirty. Me? I'm more detached, stand-offish. People say I let Cherokee charge ahead, then follow in her wake. There is some truth there.

Tonight, however, Cherokee and I were on the same page.

I checked my phone. Forty-five minutes to the Oxleys arrived. Time to show our dads.
​

* * * * *​

Cherokee shouted down the stairs. "You guys ready?"

"Yes, we're ready. We can't wait to see our little girls."

"Not so little, and worth waiting for. Now close your eyes, and no cheating."

,

"Is that necessary...."

"Yes, Daddy, it is, and you too Mr. Luker."

With a groan of mock displeasure: "Okay, eyes closed."

"Swear?"

"Swear."
​

* * * * *​

Eyes closed, our dads were waiting in the living room. Suddenly nervous -- would daddy approve -- I reached for Cherokee's hand and we started giggling like twelve year olds until, getting a grip on herself -- we were, after all, young women -- Cherokee said, "Whatta ya' think?"

I'm not sure what I was expecting. I mean, what's the big deal, Daddy sees me a thousand times a day, but when he opened his eyes his focus was intense, almost tactile. Starting with my eyes, which filled with tears, then the rest of my face, his gaze flowed down my body. It took only took only a second, but felt much longer. When finished his eyes returned to my face and in a voice full of pride and love he said, "Josie, the dress, it's perfect, like you."

I smiled -- my teeth had cost him a fortune -- stepped into his arms, hugged him, whispered, "Oh Daddy, I love you." Then, remembering how long I'd spent getting my dress just right, I stepped back and looked at Cherokee. I hadn't heard what Mr. Canseco said to her, but watching her wipe a tear from her cheek I knew it was the right thing. It always was.

It was Mr. Canseco who brought us back to earth. "Your fellows are lucky, they'll have the prettiest dates at the Prom. Eric and I have been thinking how to commemorate this special night. After much consideration we decided we couldn't improve on tradition. We also didn't want to waste an opportunity to toast our beautiful daughters."

It was only then that I noticed the bottle of champagne sitting in a crystal bowl on a side table. Next to it was a row of tall slender glasses and a towel. Mr. Canseco theatrically covered the bottle with the towel, picked it up by its neck, and with a twist of his wrist -- I heard the muffled pop -- opened it.

"This is Dom Pérignon, the champagne for special occasions. Now ladies, this is the good stuff. If you really want to appreciate it, and I promise you do, there are a few simple rules to follow.

"First, hold the glass, which is called a flute, by the stem, never the bowl. The heat of your hand will effect the champagne, and not in good way. When pouring minimize the foam by holding your flute at a forty-five degree angle, letting the champagne flow down the side of the glass. Do not fill your glass to the brim, stop when it's a less than half full. You can always go back for seconds. Also, always recap the bottle. If you don't, the bubbles, and with them much of the flavor and bouquet, will escape. What is left is flat and tasteless."

Carefully following his own instructions, Mr. Canseco poured a glass for each of us, passed it around, then held his up in the air. I did the same. The light accentuated the champagne's golden color and tiny dancing bubbles. I also noticed the intricate elegant patterns cut into the glass.

"Daddy, I don't remember these glasses, or bowl. They're beautiful: are they new?"

"No, Josie, just the opposite: a family heirloom. Waterford Crystal, hand made in Ireland. They were my great grandmother's, then my grandmother's, then Mom's. Mom only brought them out for special occasions, maybe once a year. Otherwise they were kept in her closet; only she was allowed to unpack, clean, and re-pack them. Whenever you touched one you felt her eyes on you, making sure you were careful."

I remembered my formidable grandmother's formidable look. She could be scary.

"I'd forgotten about them. Then, a few months ago, I was cleaning out her storage unit and there they were. I figured tonight was perfect for bringing them out of hibernation."

"They're, it's all so beautiful. Thank you Daddy. You know how to make me feel special."

"You are special Josie. Now maestro, please continue."

Taking his cue, Mr. Canseco said, "Ladies, never gulp champagne -- it ain't Red Bull. Start by smelling the champagne; it's a wonderful experience and will help you appreciate the taste. Take a deep whiff, hold it, let the scent wash over you. There will be multiple odors. Try picking one out."

Tilting his glass forward, Mr. Canseco brought it to his nose and inhaled. Cherokee and I did the same. At first all I noticed were bubbles tickling my nose -- it felt silly -- but remembering what Mr. Canseco said, I focused. After a few seconds I saw he was right; there were a bunch of smells. I tried separating them, found one, concentrated.

"I see what you mean Mr. Canseco. What I'm smelling is sweet, like... like... like flowers in bloom."

"Very good Josie. How 'bout you babe?"

Cherokee said, "What I noticed Daddy was a fresh citrusy smell."

"Excellent, and you're both right. Now the final step, drinking it. Start with a sip, just enough to cover your tongue; inhale as you drink, make sure to capture the aroma. Let the champagne roll over your palate. The taste is complex, take the time to enjoy all of it."

Holding up his glass Daddy said, "Robert if you keep this up our daughters may yet develop sophisticated palettes. I just hope they can afford it. A toast, to Josie, my beloved daughter, and Cherokee, whom I've known from the moment she came into the world. Ladies, I marvel at the women you've become. Beautiful, strong, intelligent, often wise, kind, and decent. You're beautiful women; you're beautiful souls. To Josie and Cherokee."

For the second time that night my eyes welled with tears. I brought my glass to my lips, took a quick sip, swallowed. I barely tasted it. Telling myself to chill, I took another sip, closed my eyes. The champagne flowed through my mouth like liquid velvet, coating my tongue in pure goodness. There were a kaleidoscope of flavors. I focused... not sweet like I expected, but... fruity. What fruit? Grapefruit, apple, a berry of some kind? No, more like all of them.

I opened my eyes. "It's wonderful. What do you think Cherokee?"

Cool and collected, as if posing for a photograph, Cherokee was leaning back, her rump rested on the back edge of the couch, an exquisite leg protruded through her gown's slit. She took a sip and, after a long moment, said, "It is good. What's the name again Daddy?"

"Dom Pérignon."

Now the center of attention, Cherokee, moving effortlessly on her heels, slinked to the table. I knew this, it was her, "I'm about to do something a little bit naughty, but you'll forgive because I'm beautiful," walk. Setting her glass down, she picked up the bottle, studied it, returned it to the bowl.

"I'll have to remember that."

With all eyes on her she turned, and now standing between our fathers, folded her arms into their's.

"Daddy, Mr. Luker, thank you for the champagne, thank you for everything. You guys are the best. And I know all the attention has been on Josie and me, which it should be, but I gotta say you two are lookin' good; those clothes," -- they were wearing neatly pressed slacks and button down shirts -- "do show off those championship physiques. Whatta ya think Josie?"

"Best looking men I know."

"I may be wrong, but I'm also thinking Mr. Luker is wearing a new cologne. I like it. Very much. So you guys have hot dates tonight?"

My dad, who has never quite sure how to handle Cherokee's forwardness, explained the clothes. "Cherokee, your Dad and I dressed for the club. After the match this morning it wanted to take some photographs to hang in the building, for publicity, the usual stuff. After that we bought the Violet sisters a drink to thank them for getting you into the spa."

A smile on her face -- more teasing was on its way -- Cherokee said, "I was wondering how you got us in. For the day of the Prom you need to make reservations a couple of years in advance. Guys would never think to do that and you two are as guy as it gets. Still, last second entry to the spa must be worth more than a couple drinks. I think you guys owe the very attractive Violet sisters dinner at least, and perhaps some additional services."
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* * * * *​

Growing up Cherokee and I were the center of our dads' universe. They never had girl friends, they never dated, and why would they? They had us. During the last few years however, it's become clear our dads were perhaps not the monks we'd imagined. Nothing definite, but overheard snippets of phone conversations, the smell of perfume on a shirt, the mother of a friend's over-the-top insistence that we say, "Hi," to our dads on her behalf, all indicated that our dads had lady-friends happy to cater to their needs. They never talked about it, said gentlemen never did, but when Cherokee teased her dad about his love life, he took it in stride. Tonight was no exception.
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* * * * *​

"Additional services? Young lady, I have no idea what you're talking about. The sisters are friends. We made a special request and yes, as a way of saying thank you we may take them to dinner. It's what gentlemen do. But for tonight, you know the Rule. Prom makes no difference."

The Rule: when we were on dates our dads stayed home. If we had a problem they'd be immediately available. We thought they worried to much. They said they were in the security business; they worried just the right amount.
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* * * * *​

Making our dads swear to be nice to our dates, Cherokee and I returned to my bedroom to primp and wait. We primped; we checked the time. We primped some more, checked the time: where were they? Primp, time: where the fuck were they? More primp, more time. Our dates were seriously late. What was going on?

Cherokee wanted to text them; I said not cool.

We went downstairs. Our dads could always make us feel better.
​

* * * * *​

Cherokee and I had been best friends forever. It came naturally. Our dads were best friends. They met on the high school tennis circuit before teaming up at the University of North Carolina, where they won several Atlantic Coast Conference championships. After a decade in the corporate world and failed marriages they decided to go into business together, opening a security firm in Broomall, Pennsylvania.

Broomall was the perfect place to raise two girls: safe, stable, first rate schools. You knew every kid, mother, and father in town. Even better, while most parents worked in Philadelphia, our self-employed dads were local and available. They made every tee-ball game, every class play, and never grumbled about playing suburban taxicab for us and our friends.

Early in our senior year we were accepted by the University of Pennsylvania and signed up for a Friday afternoon course offered by the university's Young Scholars High School Program. At first we drove to school, went to class, drove home. As we got to know a few people and with our fathers' encouragement, we started spending the afternoon on campus. It was fun. Something was always going on: open-ended bullshit sessions, bands, impromptu parties. And then there were the guys; lots and lots of guys.

Which brings me to the confession central to this story: Cherokee and I were virgins. I'm not saying we were innocents. There were sex toys in our lingerie drawers, we'd fool around with each other, and in the years since junior high school had a few more make-out sessions with guys than either of us would like to admit, but they ended, at best, with oral sex or a hand job.

It's not that we wanted to be virgins; we just couldn't find the guy we wanted to do it. The boys in our high school? We'd known them forever. It would be like fucking your brother, and not in a good way.

Like every other woman on campus Cherokee and I were invited to the Friday night keg parties on fraternity row. Cherokee asked her dad if we could go. She got an unequivocal, "No." To make their point the next day our dads unfurled a longish list of citations issued to the fraternities for a variety of offenses since the start of the school year: disturbing the peace, public nudity, serving underaged customers alcohol, etc. etc. etc.

No frat parties for us.

Until, that is, a few weeks later. Our fathers were scheduled to present the keynote paper at a weekend conference in San Francisco. Cherokee saw this as our opportunity to hit fraternity row. I, the good girl, objected: what if the party veered out of control, what if something went wrong? What would we do, drive home in the middle of the night, sleep in the car? Cherokee was having none of it. She said drop the bullshit and she was right. I was as eager as her to check out fraternities packed with guys as she.

So, we lied and told our dads we'd hang with friends in Broomall that night. Instead we were pushing our way through a drunken crowd at Delta Sigma Delta, where, I'm afraid, Cherokee and I became cliches: spanking new coeds at their first fraternity party, drunk, and looking to hook up. Fueled by a beer, a shot, more beer, a purple thing called Jungle Juice, a couple more shots of something, a jello thing, Cherokee and I were gyrating on a packed dance floor with an ever changing cast of partners until we latched onto two guys, or they latched onto us. In any case they were cute and said they were seniors, which in our inebriated state seemed worldly. At some point the four of us headed upstairs.

Informed consent? Hardly, but to be fair the guys were as drunk as we were; none of us were capable of making, much less executing, a plan. And to be even fairer, we'd come to the party hoping to finally find a guy we'd want to fuck. Not necessarily that evening, maybe after a date or two, but still a guy we'd want to fuck. Can I blame these guys for picking up on it?
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* * * * *​

The room stank of stale beer; the morning light played on my eye lids. My arms, my legs, my back, my neck, and, oh god, my head hurt. Something had crawled into my mouth and died. I rolled over, buried my face in my pillow. When was the last time hed washed this thing? I wanted sleep, sweet catatonic sleep, but that wasn't going to happen. The sound of a fraternity waking up -- voices, people moving around the halls, toilets flushing, doors slamming -- filled the air.

My memory was spotty. Cherokee and her guy and me and mine had come upstairs. What was his name? Frank. No..., was it Hank? Tank? Fuck, I didn't know.

I remembered the four of us stumbling into this room. There was kissing, disrobing, groping, more kissing, more disrobing, some caressing, some licking. What's his name played with my breasts. I touched them: crap, they were sore as hell. No, he'd not played with them, he'd mauled them.

I reached between my legs; my panties were on. I touched my vagina, flexed the muscles of my core. I wasn't sore. It seemed I was still a virgin. I took a sigh of relief. Who'd want to carry this wreck of an evening around as the treasured memory of the night she lost her virginity?

"You awake?"

It was Cherokee. I rolled over, reluctantly opened my eyes. She was laying in a bed across the room. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her guy was on the bed behind her, facing the wall, snoring. I reached across my bed, it was empty.

Cherokee said, "He left awhile back, woke me up."

"Do you remember what happened last night? I mean, y'know."

"Last night? Well, these guys ushered into this palatial suite, took their pants off -- no underwear of course -- but couldn't get it up. We used our mouths, got them hard, but never long enough for anything to happen. I guess we all finally passed out. So congrats, we're still virgins."

"Let's get the fuck out of here."

With a herculean effort I sat up. Our clothes were piled atop a desk. Holding onto the bed frame for support, I stood, paused, and took two rocky steps to our clothes, my bare feet crunching on the dirt on the floor. I tossed Cherokee her's, sat down on the bed, pulled mine on.

Downstairs we poured two cups of (god awful) black coffee we found in the fraternity's kitchen. A guy offered to give us a ride to our car. I thought he was nice. Cherokee said he was scared; the look on my face said I was not one to fuck with.

Thirty minutes later we were heading home.
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* * * * *​

What remained of the first semester of our senior year was uneventful. There were no more fraternity parties. Instead we hung with classmates, went on a few group dates with the gang, but with college looming in our immediate future safe stable Brooomall had become boring.

The day after finals Daddy asked if I remembered Tim and Tom Oxley. Damn right I remembered them, every girl remembered them. They were gorgeous: clear blue eyes, strong chins, high cheek bones, perfect hair, built, wearing the right clothes in just the right way, and exuding the confidence that comes with a privileged life, wealthy parents, and a lifetime of being told you're Adonis.

There was also this rumor, repeated so often it'd become gold-plated. The Oxleys were good in bed.

Trying to sound nonchalant I said, "Yeah. I went to high school with them. They were seniors my sophomore year. Why do you ask?"

"They called the office, asking if they could interview Robert and I. They're working on a project about friends who form an entrepreneurship and remembered us from high school."

"What did you tell them?"

"I told them sure. They'll be here tomorrow, we'll take them to lunch at the club. They have a flight out that night for Florida."

I called Cherokee.
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* * * * *​

Dressy, but not too dressy -- leggings, two inch heels, tight but not too tight tops -- we accidentally bumped into our fathers and the Oxleys the next day at the club. They were better looking than I remembered. Being polite, they asked if we'd join them for a cup of coffee. We did. They mentioned their flight to Miami. By a happy coincidence Cherokee and I needed to check on something at the university. We could drop them at the airport, it was on the way.

By the time we reached the airport Cherokee and I had dates for the senior prom.

I told Daddy the next day. Shaking his head he said, "Congratulations angel, those poor boys never had a chance. I have one piece of fatherly wisdom. Pretty packages don't make men."
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* * * * *​

Okay, that's enough background, let's get back to the story. When we left, it was prom night and the Oxleys, our dates, were late and unaccounted for. Cherokee and I, primped to the point where we could primp no more, were sitting with our fathers, primed for a fatherly, "I told you so."

We didn't get one. Instead, aware of our anxiety, our dads told us we were beautiful desirable irresistible, that our dates would soon arrive, confirmed a few minutes later by a text, and had us laughing at oft-told tales of our childhood. They even employed the ultimate weapon, passing around pieces of my favorite European dark chocolate. Chocolate makes everything better.

A car pulled up outside, doors opened and closed.

We looked at our fathers, started to say, "Be...," but they were a step ahead of us. "Don't worry ladies, we'll be nice."

And they were, gregariously greeting the Oxleys, inviting them inside. Tim and Tom, at their glib charming best, apologized for being late, told us we were beautiful, complimented our fathers and the house. Something, however, wasn't right and when they pinned on our corsages their breath made clear the reason for their glossy eyes and slack jaws. Our dates had been drinking, and not just a couple of beers. Still, they seemed okay. Their gaits were sure and no one was skewered by a corsage pin.

Our dads, of course, noticed and after a few minutes of small talk Mr. Canseco asked, "So how are you boys getting around tonight, rent one of those big party vans?"

Tim, my date, took the opportunity to show off. "No Mr. Canseco, we have a Picklesdorf, nothing but the finest for your daughters. It's waiting outside."

Mr. Picklesdorf, a friend of our fathers, ran the best, most in-demand, limousine service in the county.

Excusing himself to check on something in the kitchen, my Dad left, returning a moment later and nodding to Mr. Canseco. The Oxleys hadn't noticed, but I had. Daddy had confirmed there was a limousine parked in front of our house. Our dates wouldn't be driving. That was good.

Which is when Tom, Cherokee's date, spotted the champagne on the side board.

"You guys drinking the old bubbly tonight?"

Giving Daddy my best, most plaintive, do-not-make-a-scene look, I said, "Yes, our dads proposed a toast earlier in our honor."

Picking up the bottle Tommy said, "Dom Pérignon, I hear this stuff is good. I'd like to propose a toast."

Both Cherokee and I gave our fathers our do-not-make-a-scene look and, after a glance at each other, Mr. Canseco said, "Sure," spreading what remained of the champagne among six glasses.

Tommy held his up. "I propose a toast. To a fun evening with these lovely ladies."

We drained our glasses, cell phones were exchanged, pictures taken, and our fathers escorted the four of us to the door.
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* * * * *​

Our dates held the limousine's doors open. As Cherokee and I slipped inside I was struck by the odor: cigarettes, ingrained dirt, alcohol. I ran a fingertip on the seat. The fabric was greasy. Looking at Cherokee I raised my eyebrows. She nodded, then shrugged. She was right; there was nothing to do but go along for the ride.

As we pulled away Timmy shouted, "Okay, time to PARTEEE. Jeeves, we just had some rocking good champagne at the girls' house. Brut or something, I forget. Ya got anything like that?"

A disembodied voice from the front sheet: "I have an excellent champagne sir, every bit the equal of Brut, which, to be frank, is overpriced and overpraised. Should I add it to your bill?"

"Fuckin-A yes, four glasses please."

"Coming right up sir,"

The driver leaned to the right. I couldn't make out his features, but he was big. Bottles pinged against each other and our driver, somehow, managed to fill four paper cups and pass them to Timmy as he drove down the road.

I took a sniff, then a sip. It was sweet, but a saccharin lip-puckering yuck sweet. I glanced at Cherokee. She was swallowing, trying to wash the taste from her mouth.

Our dates drained their cups. "Fuckin' A. That was great. How about another round Jeeves? PARTEEEE."

"Of course gentlemen."

Cherokee said, "Nothing for us right now thank you, we're still working on ours. I thought Mr. Picklesdorf had a rule against alcohol in his limousines."

The driver: "The old man? For his best drivers, for special customers on special occasions like tonight, he makes an exception. Rules are made to be broken. The old man would prefer you keep it to yourselves. I can tell him he can depend on you, can't I?"

Maybe I was overreacting, but I thought there was the trace of a threat, a hint of warning, in his voice.

Tommy said, "Hell yeah, you can count on us Jeeves. Our secret. You got any more of this stuff?"

He did, of course.
​

* * * * *​

Cherokee and I had kept our dates a secret; people assumed we were going with each other. So when we stepped from the limousine with the Oxleys there was an intake of breath, followed by a collective hush. The senior girls were rendered dumb by the reappearance of these legendary, gorgeous, unobtainable, universally lusted for guys. Younger girls who didn't know the Oxleys still couldn't take their eyes off these impeccably dressed college-aged hunks.

The Oxleys were at their charismatic best. Confident in their appeal, arms around our waists, they worked their way through the crowd fist bumping, back slapping, exchanging snippets of conversation, feigning recollection of people they didn't remember. It was the entrance Cherokee and I hoped for; we loved the attention. By time we reached the dance floor we were ready to go, charged up, turned on.

We got more aroused. Good dates, the Oxleys complimented our dresses, our hair, our perfume, told us we were beautiful. When girls hit on them the Oxleys handled it with class, polite but uninterested. And most of all, those boys could dance. Dancing turns me on and while Cherokee and I were good, the Oxleys were spectacular. You had to remember not to stop and just watch them. During slow songs, while our classmates clumsily groped and pawed each other, the Oxleys gracefully slipped an arm around our waists, their palms on the flat of our backs, eyes locked on ours or our heads on their shoulders. I imagined that palm holding me in place when hard as steel, he spread the lips of my pussy.

The DJ announced a break. Our dates led us from the dance floor, then offered to get everyone drinks. While alcohol was banned, the prom was awash in it. Throughout the evening flasks emerged from coats, back pockets, people's hips. The Prom Committee's non-alcoholic fruit punch had morphed into a concoction of unknown composition and lethal potency.

I watched our dates -- they had great butts -- stop at the punch bowl and, not for the first time that evening, drain a mug of the stuff in two gulps before filling four glasses and heading our way. I slipped my hand into Cherokee's. "Babe, I'm having fun, but I need to get laid. How do they drink that much and stay functional?"

"I guess it's why everyone says Penn State's a party school, you go there to practice drinking. I'm with you, I'm afraid if we don't get our boys out of here this is going to be a sequel to the flaccid frat boys and I really don't want that. Tell you what. Next slow number get real tight with your guy, nothing crude, but close -- let him feel your nipples -- then lean in and talk dirty, real dirty, filthy dirty. Tell him every lewd thing you've imagined doing to him or anyone else since you were a freshman. And be graphic, don't play good girl on me."

The Oxleys returned, handed us our drinks. I took a sip; it was bitter, flavorless, with an alcohol content in the stratosphere.

The DJ started back up. Placing my drink on a table, I grabbed my date's hand and headed to the dance floor.
​

* * * * *​

I didn't play good girl. My arms around my Oxley's neck, my mouth on his ear, using my best throaty voice, I said, "Timmy I am so hot, so frigging hot for you. My pussy's wet, dripping down my thighs. My pussy lips are soft and swollen, waiting for your dick. My cunt's quivering needing you inside. Oh baby, the prom's great, but I need to be fucked and you're the man to do it."

A few feet away, her fat breasts pressed to her Oxley's chest, Cherokee whispered, "I'm gonna make tonight so worth your time. You like my titties? You want me to squeeze them around your big fat cock while you fuck them? You want to come all over them? They're yours and if you're a good little perv my blonde buddy might just lick the cum off them just for you. I shaved my pussy. No hair, just girl cunt. I can't wait until were sixty-nining and you're feeding on girl juice and your cock is stuffed in my face. And then you can fuck me. How do you want me? On my back, legs spread? You got it. Me on top, shoving my body down, squeezing my cunt muscles on your dick? You got it. On all fours like a bitch dog in heat? You got it. Fuck me baby, anyway you want. I want your cum inside me; I want your cum all over me."

I slipped my right leg between Timmy's legs, moved onto my toes, rocked my thigh on his erection. "By the time I'm through you'll forget how to walk."

When the lights came on the boys, hands on our butts, were giving us a deep sloppy kiss. Timmy retrieved his cell phone from his jacket, texted our driver, and the four of us headed for the door. Our progress was neither as quick -- friends stopped us to say goodnight, frenemies to make catty remarks, and we had to thank the prom committee -- nor as alcohol free -- at each stop our dates shared a last drink or took a nip on their flasks -- as I wanted, but we made it.

The limousine was waiting at the end of the parking lot; our driver leaning against it, smoking a cigarette. Several inches north of six feet tall, he weighed at least 250 pounds and while not chiseled, he was far from fat. There was a lot of strength in his big boned frame. Several long-standing stains were embedded in his white shirt; the jacket pulled over it wasn't much better. His black oily hair was combed straight back and it had been a couple of days since he'd shave. Mr. Picklesdorf had a sterling reputation. Had the labor shortage forced him to lower his standards?

As we approached the driver threw his cigarette on the ground, glanced at the Oxleys, then turned his full focus to Cherokee and me. "Gentlemen, and lovely ladies -- I don't think I got your names -- where to now?" I didn't like the way he looked at me or Cherokee. Oblivious, our dates said, "Back to the hotel, Jeeves," and giggling at their own joke, fell into the car laughing.

I hadn't noticed it in the noise of the prom, but our dates were slurring their words.

We'd barely left the parking lot when our dates started nodding off. Cherokee and I tried to keep them awake: we talked to them, poked and prodded them. I ran my hand on Timmy's crotch. It was a losing battle. A few minutes later Timmy, then Tommy, snored.

Then there was disembodied voice from the front seat: "Hey ladies, have fun tonight? It seems the Bobsey twins sure did."

"Yes, it was fun."

"I remember my high school prom; had a fucking ball."

Deciding to ignore the driver, I checked my phone. People were already sharing pictures of the prom, there were a bunch of the four of us. We did look good. Engrossed, I didn't notice when we'd driven by the first turn downtown until we whizzed by the second. Where was the driver going? That's when it hit me, I didn't know. The Oxleys said they had a suite. It had to be in one of nice downtown hotels -- that's where everybody stayed -- but I didn't know which one.

Trying to sound nonchalant I said, "I'm drawing a blank, what hotel are we in?"

The driver said, "Me too, it's the one.... Fuck, I'm having a brain fart. I should know this. Let me double-check," and started fiddling with his cell phone. As I waited for an answer he kept driving.

Finally, he said, "I got it," and turned left, heading north, away from town, on a two lane asphalt road running north into the country. There were no lights, there were no houses.

"The hotel is the Shady Inn."

I'd never heard of it. "Where is it?"

"Allen Street, in Stratford."

What the fuck, Stratford was thirty miles away.

Cherokee, who'd been listening, activated her cell phone, its dull light could be seen throughout the car, and said in a precise calm voice, "Well, that's not going to work. Why don't you turn this thing around and take us home."

"I'd love to ladies, but I can't. The boys are the boss, they paid the bill and they told me to take everyone to their hotel -- you heard them -- so that's where I've gotta go. I'd lose my license if I didn't. You wouldn't want that, would you ladies? I'm only a poor chauffeur. But don't worry, Stratford's fun. I know a bar near the hotel. If the boys aren't awake when we get there I'll buy you a drink. The way you two look, you'll be welcome. And while the guys who hang out there aren't as cute as your dates, they can hold their liquor."

Cherokee said, "I'm going to call my father, let him know where we are. I wouldn't want him to worry."

The driver, with a laugh, said, "Good idea honey. I gotta warn you, it can be hard to get a signal out here. I've heard it's because of the buried electrical cables."

I looked to Cherokee, who was staring at her phone. I looked at mine. No bars.

I nudged my date, hard, with my elbow. He sputtered, then returned to snoring.

I glanced at Cherokee; at least she looked more possessed than I felt. Taking a deep breath, I tried to calm myself. No reason to panic. The driver might be creepy, but it was nothing Cherokee and I couldn't handle. My pulse rate decelerated. We rode in silence for the next several minutes and then, "Damn."

"What is it?"

Guiding the vehicle onto a cleared area on the side of the road the driver said, "The check engine light came on. No reason to panic, the mechanic said it might happen. The part is supposed to come in tomorrow, but right now I'll need to reset the sensor."

Cherokee, doubt in her voice, said, "Which sensor?"

"I don't know, the fucking sensor, the one the mechanic showed me. Looks like I'm gonna need one of you to hold the flashlight. You, what's your name."

"Cherokee."

"You're nominated. I'll get the flashlight and tools out of the trunk."

Reaching under the dashboard the driver popped open the hood and trunk, got out, pocketed the keys, and lit a cigarette. I elbowed my date. Nothing. I did it again, harder. He moaned softly, resumed snoring. The driver laughed. "Blondie, frat boy there ain't gonna be of any use, he's out for the evening. But don't worry. I know we're stranded out here in these scary woods, phones don't work, no one knows where you are, but I'll take real good care of you. You don't need pretty boy."

The driver shambled behind the vehicle and started rooting around in the truck. Cherokee, digging into her small purse, said, "I know it's here, I know it's here, yeah," and handed me the Mini. "If he does anything out there...."

"You're not going out there, are you?

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because, because, because we're big girls, we can take care of ourselves, because the car might really be broken, because although he's a pig, he hasn't really done anything yet, because how will it look if we call in the cavalry and it's nothing."

Cherokee's door jerked open. "C'mon honey, I need you to hold the flashlight."

With the door open you could see it, you could smell it. Half the car was sitting in a sea of sulfurous mud. Cherokee said, "Give me a second to pin up my dress, I don't want to ruin it."

The driver, impatient, grabbed Cherokee by the arm, yanked her from the car and dragged her around to the front. "Don't worry honey, no one's going to notice a little mud on you. They'll be too busy looking at those tits,".

Okay Bub, message received. You're a lot stronger than we are and we're scared.

The driver opened the hood. I couldn't see him or Cherokee, he couldn't see me.

I turned on the Mini.
​

* * * * *​

While all dad's worry about their daughter's safety, our dads worry more than most. I think it's because their jobs makes them aware of every threat, no matter how rare, to young women. Before we were allowed to date they made us promise to call them if there was a problem, a threat of a problem, or the hint of a threat of a problem. They also gave us an Iridium inReach Mini. About the size of your thumb, designed for hikers, it sends location information through the satellite system. If something went wrong with our cell phones -- lost, broken, dead battery, towers down, whatever -- all we had to do is turn on the Mini. Our dads would find us.
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* * * * *​

"No!" It was Cherokee's voice coming from the front of the car.

"You've been showing those things off to frat boys and the rest of the world all night. Yeah, and I've noticed 'em, just like you wanted. But that's enough teasing. It's time to give a guy a look."

"Look mister, let's just get the car fixed.... What are you doing."

"Well bitch, I asked nice. Maybe you'll listen next time."

Forcing down the urge to panic, I scanned my memory: what had Daddy said to do in a situation like this? I could hear his voice in my head and... it came back to me. I set my phone on video, squirmed between the front seats, and wedged it in the corner where the dashboard and windshield end. It would record everything happening in front of the car.

"You embarrassed honey. Don't be, those are some titties. Y'know, you and blondie should be nice to me. After all, two young ladies stuck way out here with no one to protect them but me. Who knows what could happen? You girls need me, you need to be nice to me, you need to be real nice to me right now. Now bring those babies over here. I'm asking nice, this last time."
​