The Nudists 2 by Olivia Palmer
( gf, mast, exhib, voy, sniff, feet, hirs, ws, light anal, light inc )
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This story is a work of fiction and does not purport to depict any real people, places, or situations. It is entirely fantasy and should be treated as such. This story describes explicit sexual acts between living entities of various ages and sexual persuasions. If this type of content offends you or if you are not of legal age to view adult content, then do not read it.
Do not repost or redistribute without prior written permission of the author. One copy may be saved for private use, insofar as that use does not extend to personal or financial gain by use of the author's work without consent.
Copyright 2017 by Olivia Palmer, all rights reserved.
Please email the author with comments or questions (or story suggestions!): olivia.octavia.palmer@gmail.com
For the next three days, Annabeth and I repeated the pattern. We ate lunch in her room, we watched each other masturbate and come, once with a lot of spritzy pee from both of us, but the other two times mainly just from me. After calming down a while, I would lick Annabeth's feet and we would masturbate and come again.
Then we'd take a nice, long, warm bath. I would soap her back and rinse it off, and she would do mine. We washed each other's hair. I loved seeing Annabeth's chubby belly, her little rolls of fat so shiny in the bathwater, suds running down from her puffy breasts over her slippery, wet, pale skin. She would lean back and stretch, making the rolls disappear, and allowed me to run soapy hands over her pink creases, get her nice and clean. I could feel grit beneath my fingers every time. I knew I was beginning to fall in love with how just-so-perfectly fat she was.
She would lean over onto one hip, sooner or later, and fart. The entire tub seemed to rumble, and then a bubbling blurp rose from beneath her, the gas escaping the water with little plips and plops that echoed in the otherwise silent bathroom. I didn't know if I was supposed to be grossed out or turned on.
I mean, officially. For whatever reason, she liked to fart in front of me. And, I realized, for whatever reason, I actually kind of liked it.
Watching me with hooded eyes, Annabeth simply grunted and farted as much as she could, and I sat very still and very alert. I watched the bubbles instead of her. I tried to secretly sniff the air, and just as secretly I tried to slowly pull her fart water toward me, my hands working beneath the surface, so that I could eventually and oh-so-casually splash it over my flushed, nearly-flat chest. I would sneak a hand down to my pussy after doing that for a while, and then we'd just watch each other as we mutually masturbated, once again.
I really liked that.
Eventually, Annabeth would roll fully onto her hip and start sliding a soapy hand down between the round dimpled cheeks of her ass. Then she would shift back onto her butt and stick a heel up out of the water and onto the edge of the tub. Lying back on one elbow, Annabeth would then slide her soapy hand down over her pussy, just beneath the surface of the water, and I would watch her moving her chubby fingers all over her hairy folds.
In return, I did all of the same for Annabeth to see, minus the farting. I could not bring myself to do that. Odd, I know, but it was one thing to like watching and hearing and smelling Annabeth as she did it – it seemed like a whole other kind of thing to do it right then and there, my own self.
Annabeth didn't seem to care, though. She scooted back to her end of the tub and let me have as much room as I could, and she would play with her nipples and pussy as she watched me going through my own washing.
Of course, in the claustrophobic tubs we had back in those days – not the made-for-two huge garden varieties in so many homes today – it was a given that our legs would be sliding back and forth over one another quite often, feet digging into hips and under asses. Eventually Annabeth would lift one of her pudgy, pretty feet from beneath the water and slide her toes across my belly. Up my slender, panting torso, and tickle beneath my chin.
I knew what she wanted.
I wanted it too.
I took her foot in my hand. I slid her toes in my mouth.
Oh God. Clean, tub-scrubbed, fat little toes in my mouth!
We ended every bath that way. I licked and loved on Annabeth's feet, one at a time – from toes to soles to heels, on top and underneath, up to her ankles and even sliding my teeth beneath the edges of her water-softened toenails if the angle was right. She masturbated to a full come every time, her head back against the tiles, her eyes closed, dark wet ringlets of heavy brown hair all over and around her flushed face, the pulse in her throat going wild. Her puffy breasts were pink from heated water and from my mouth's work, too, but not on her boobs of course. From my mouth on her feet – licking and sucking her wrinkled, sweet piggies for all I was worth!
I was so proud of how carelessly she gave herself up to me, to letting me work my mouth as much as I wanted. I still didn't fully understand why I liked her feet so much, and of course the "good little girl" part of me thought it was really, deeply weird. But the situation was so simple, even my conscience couldn't deny it: there I was, free to explore that part of her, and she liked it, I liked it, and it made us both happy. So we did it. I took full advantage of that moment, every time, with as much joy and gratitude as my skinny little self could muster.
It's not like we were really clued in about what we were doing, anyway. Neither of us had much of a plan in mind – at least I definitely didn't. We masturbated together. Watched each other. I licked her feet and sucked her toes, and a good deal of the time we squirted pee while coming and didn't care one bit about any of it. Her bedroom reeked by the end of that first week, but in the best sort of way. We took baths together and didn't come out until the water was dead-cold and we were shivering, teeth chattering, giggling to get dry as fast as we could.
We were horny little animals, happy to have found each other.
It didn't occur to me that there was more we could do. Not at first. Annabeth didn't seem to want to share about that, at least not then. I doubt she'd hatched any real scheme to seduce me or anything. She was so laid back and easy-going, always. She seemed content to let me fumble along figuring it out as I went. I, of course, assumed she was just like me – that she knew (or didn't know) exactly what I knew about feeling good and touching yourself and being with someone else all naked and excited and sweaty.
How wrong I was!
And how patient – and wicked, in a way – Annabeth was, to just go with the flow, letting me figure it all out one weird moment at a time.
She did help things along sometimes, of course, but mostly that was just Annabeth being Annabeth. It became my job to pay close attention to ideas and opportunities as they emerged. By the time we'd staggered out of the cold bathwater on the third day, I'd begun to notice that Annabeth liked to wiggle a finger into her butthole when she washed herself down there. So the following day, for the first time ever, I wormed the tip of my own little finger into my bottom-hole, too, as Annabeth watched and rubbed on her pussy, grunting approval.
Soapy, slippery, easily, I slipped the first two knuckles right in. I couldn't help but gasp at the sensation.
And I was hooked.
That night, as thunder rumbled in the distance and a light rain began to fall on our neighborhood, I lay on my hip in the bathtub at home, taking my second bath of the day. My daddy didn't know I'd bathed earlier at Annabeth's – how could I explain that? – so every evening for four straight nights I'd dutifully run the water and hopped into the sudsy bubbles a second time. But alone. And so lonely.
But that fourth night, I had my butthole to keep me company.
I filled the tub only about a quarter of the way, so that when I rolled onto my hip my butt crack was entirely out of the water. Sliding my knee up toward my chest, I rubbed the bar of soap all over my round, soft ass cheek, enjoying the titillation of knowing what a naughty, thrilling thing I was about to do to myself.
With my fingers completely soaped, I gently rubbed around and around over top of my wrinkled, crinkled, tight little hole. I pressed and held my fingers still. My pulse beat hard up against my fingers. My anus throbbed. A lump rose in my throat as I realized I was alone, behind a locked bathroom door, in complete privacy, doing exactly whatever I wanted to do.
I slid a finger in. All the way in.
I held it there and lay motionless, amazed at the pounding of blood around my finger, hammering through my anal ring as it slowly loosened. I wiggled the tip of my finger in the hot sponginess inside me, the close press of strangely sensitive flesh that I twiddled with each slight movement. I quickly became dizzy at the tickly-good sensations that went shivering throughout my body. I could barely breathe, and it took all my concentration not to moan and bring my concerned daddy to the door.
Eventually, I pulled the finger slowly out, until the tip was just barely splitting my throbbing ring.
Then I slid it back in, with another finger this time.
For the next several minutes I slowly pressed and pushed and twisted my wrist back and forth, working my first two fingers into my butt, concentrating fiercely on the sensation of being opened up, split, and entered.
It was my new favorite thing.
As my fingers finally settled in as deeply as my bending wrist and thrusting arm could get them, I opened my bleary eyes and focused on the new thought I'd had. The shampoo bottle. There it was, with its long tapering neck – a lot bigger around than my two fingers, though. Could that ever fit inside my butt? Then: what about my toothbrush handle? My hairbrush handle? The handle of the toilet brush? Pencils from my backpack? Hot dogs from the refrigerator? Carrots? Celery?
We had all of that stuff in the house right now! And it could all go in my butt!
I wiggled my fingers, deep inside my molten, needy ass, and I came. As the muscles clenched around my thrusting digits, I gasped, excited, almost overwhelmed by the powerful good feelings that pounded outward from that deep, sweet spot inside me. Who knew an asshole could do that? I'd been able to finger my butt my whole life. What had I waited so long for?!
It was my first orgasm without needing to touch my clit. Even in the immediate afterglow, as I kept my fingers in deep and lay panting as I recovered, I was already imagining being able to finger my butt and rub on my clit at the same time. How wonderful would that be?!
And I didn't wait to try it. I did it right then and there.
OH GOD!
When my daddy finally came to the door, gently knocking and asking if I was all right, I managed to answer with a sorta-normal voice. One of the babies started crying again, and he went away.
So I ran more bath water.
Slowly, enjoying every sensuous, slithering inch, I pulled my fingers out of my butt.
And I sniffed them.
They were slick and clean-looking, but they smelled of rich ass. My ass. I felt a thrill run all through me as I held my shiny fingers right up against my nose for endless, wonderful minutes. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. My butt had made that invisible scum, that slimy layer all over my fingers, smelling so strongly. Not of poop, not really, but it stank of ME – the deep hot inside of me. Where my poop came from. Where all those tingles had been.
Finally I shuddered, unable to hold back, not caring what might happen to me, and I licked my slippery, stinky fingers. The flavor quickly filled my mouth – a musky, wild kind of natural nectar. Somehow, some way, my ass juice tasted sweet.
Oh. God.
Swallowing, I felt my eyes roll back hard and my body go rigid for a moment. I groaned even more. I felt like such an animal! There were no more rules. I could do whatever I wanted with myself. It was my body. It was my life. I wanted to follow wherever my horny instincts were going to lead.
I rubbed on my pussy as I sucked and sucked my butt-rich fingers deep into my mouth. The new infusion of warm water in the bath sloshed up against my loose, slightly-opened anus, and suddenly a new inspiration hit. I lay back in the water and let the spigot pound on my butthole.
With my feet flat against the tiled wall, I licked my ass-slicked fingers and rubbed at my slippery pussy as the water hammered my tender, de-flowered anus. In what seemed like an instant, in a huge thrill of new sensation, I was coming. Pissing up into the air, urine rained down all over me, mixing with the warm water that was splattering off of my trembling narrow ass.
I panted, groaned, and hoped that the crying baby had my daddy's full attention. Because I couldn't stop my noise.
Oh God, there was no way!
By morning the sprinkling had become a full downpour, and for the better part of the next two days I was confined inside my own house. At first, lying in bed in a daze, listening to the rain hammering the roof and blowing against my bedroom window, I felt a slow surge of panic. I didn't even have Annabeth's phone number! I wondered how I could survive without more playtime with my chubby new best friend.
But then, just as the sky began to lighten a little beneath the dark heavy clouds, I heard my daddy leaving. I remembered: he still had to work. In fact, since the babies had arrived, he was working just about seven days a week. I wondered if my mommy would want me around on a rainy day. Even in her weird sad state I didn't think she'd send me out into that storm. Would she make me help her? Would she still make me stay away? I had to find out.
The house was dark and cool as I crept out of my room, through the kitchen and den and into my parents' bedroom. Mommy and Daddy kept a pair of baby swings in the far corner, where my two newest siblings usually slept. They had their own room, of course, on the other side of the house next to mine, but I'd only ever seen them in it during their first week home. Ever since, my parents had kept them in the swings, close to their bed. My little brother had a crib in the same room as the twins, and he did sleep in there some of the time at night; however, he had a playpen in the master bedroom, too, so that my mother could keep him close during the day.
The best I could tell, Mommy spent her days in her bed, staring at the TV, crying, and nursing my little sisters and brother. I'm not sure how she had enough milk, but I guess she did. All three were nice and fat and really didn't seem to cry all that much when they weren't hungry or needing a fresh diaper, and she sure snuggled with the twins an awful lot. My little brother was just starting to pull up and cruise around his playpen, and he babbled like crazy at our mommy and at his toys and at the TV and at the twins. He was smiley and patient. I kind of thought he knew what Mommy was going through, trying to handle three babies all at once, all alone.
Looking back now, of course I feel guilty for not helping more. For not caring more. But I was eleven, almost twelve, and I had this soupy-goopy tingly feeling down in my pussy almost all the time. When my tender nipples rubbed against anything – the inside of my t-shirts, against my little bras (if I ever wore them), beneath the thrum of the shower or the light breath of the air conditioning as I changed in my room – I couldn't help but notice how warm and juicy I would quickly begin to feel down low, a dizzy kind of excitement that I didn't understand at first.
Of course, at that age it doesn't take long to work out how to make those feelings stronger and so much better, and once Annabeth started playing with me, there was no turning my attention away from those thrills.
Mommy was up on her bed, lying still and quiet in the dim light of the rainy day early morning. I could only hear the rain and my little brother cooing from his playpen on the far side of the room, out of sight, blocked by the big king-sized bed. The TV was on but muted. Back in those days we didn't have a remote controlled television set, so my mother tended to keep it on one of the local networks that played the game shows and soap operas she liked the most. Yet she didn't turn up the sound. She would lean back against a small pile of pillows and stare with wet glassy eyes at the silent games and stories as she nursed the twins and my brother.
Not wanting my brother's attention – he tended to squeak and shriek with joy when he caught sight of me – I dropped to my knees as I crossed the threshold to the room, and I crawled over the near side of the bed and cautiously raised my head. I didn't want to awaken anyone up there on the bed if they were sleeping. The soft colored lights from the TV played across my mommy and the twins as I slowly raised my face above the top of the rumpled covers. One on either side of her rib cage, the twins were snuggled in and sleeping, swaddled tightly, snoring gently in that sweet way babies do.
Mommy slept with her her face framed by her mass of mussy, wild blonde hair – strawberried like mine, but just a little darker, a little stiffer. She was naked except for an old comfy pair of panties, her large boobs rolling out to either side, each one up against a baby's pink, warm cheek. Her nipples were huge, fat, and stiff in the cool air conditioned atmosphere of the room. Each nipple was easily as big around as my big toe. I couldn't figure out how my little sisters could even get one of those in their little mouths!
The covers were cast aside, and Mommy's legs stuck out straight, with her feet far apart – so far apart, in fact, that I could have curled up in between her ankles and still have had room to spare without touching her. Even in the dim flickering light of the TV-illuminated rainy morning room, I could tell that Mommy's panties were well-used and in need of changing. There was a layering of stains in the crotch, old dried rings of spurts from coughs, sneezes, and sobs. After my brother's birth, I'd heard her complain to my daddy that she hated how much she leaked, and apparently since the twins had come her leaking had gotten even worse. It was clear that she had very little control over her bladder or urethra anymore.
The sight made something catch in my throat. Those used-up, crusty, smelly-looking panties made my own panties suddenly much more damp. I wanted a better look. I wanted... something else, too.
Something I wasn't even sure I could admit to myself.
My heart began to hammer against the inside of my chest. My mouth went dry. It was like I was suddenly more alert, more aware of everything all at once, and yet making my body move was nearly impossible. I might have weighed a thousand pounds, I felt so heavy, so stuck. I didn't know if I could do it!
But I wanted what I wanted. So much.
And so, finally, I made myself do it. I began to move.
I carefully stood and bent at the waist, still trying to hide my presence from my little brother, and I leaned over Mommy's crotch. She was on the near side of the bed, away from my little brother's sight as much as she could get. That meant I could just bend down and sniff, sniff, sniff, as easy as that.
So I did.
And it was heavenly.
Urine. The strong scent of old, dried, re-wet and re-dried urine wafted up to me. I closed my eyes and inhaled slowly, deeply through my flaring, greedy nostrils. The fragrance filled my sinuses and seemed to set off little bombs behind my eyes and up into my forehead, an ammonia-laced aroma that made my whole body shiver. It was horrible and wonderful – so repulsive and yet somehow so intoxicating. For the longest time I simply bent over her and breathed, astounded at how strongly my body was reacting to that smell.
I couldn't stop trembling.
I snuck a hand up beneath my loose night shirt – just a thin old cast-off of my mommy's, from some concert back in her younger days, some band named Bad Company that she used to play on the new cassette player now and then in the kitchen when she cooked – and I pinched back and forth on my stiff nips and bit my lip, struggling not to moan. I shook and sniffed the air wafting up to me, my eyes shut tight and yet watering all the same, so close and so powerful were those acrid, amazing fumes.
Then she sighed. I rocked back for a moment, afraid that I'd awakened her. She groaned gently and rolled her head from right-baby toward left-baby, squirming her bottom deeper into the mattress and lolling her knees apart even wider. And another odor hit me.
Oh, her pussy was so ripe!
Her vagina must have opened a little behind the stiff old cotton gusset, her lips peeling apart and setting free the fragrant atmosphere of her still-recovering baby hole. I could smell it easily without bending back down, but down I went again anyway.
So very close.
She smelled of strong, sweet, musky stuff – overripe, overwarm, overspent. It was almost like raw juicy steaks left out on the counter a little too long before Daddy flung them on the grill. It was almost like tomatoes in our little garden out back, if we forgot to pick them, and they fell to the ground and lay in the sun for a whole afternoon. Almost but not quite. She smelled almost like my armpits after I played hard with Annabeth, before our baths. She smelled almost like Annabeth, when her feet were up on either side of me on the beanbag, when she was pulling herself open and rubbing. Almost, but more. So much more!
It was a wild, pungent, luscious perfume, and it intoxicated me. My sinuses seemed to tingle, and then my whole head felt a little melty, the room more than a little spinny.
I pinched my nipples even harder, bit my lip even deeper, and sniffed, sniffed, sniffed.
More than once I'd heard boys on the bus joking about smelling stinky fish, and I knew they were talking about loose women, sluts, teasing us girls and making us all roll our eyes in disgust. Fish. That's not how my mommy smelled at all! Years later I would recognize that stink from my own lush hole, after semen had cooked inside me for a while the first few times I'd experimented with the one man I ever let fuck me. It was that combination of his batter inside my oven that really brought out such a fishy, nasty stink. Then it never happened again, like his chemistry and mine got acquainted and decided to get along. At any rate, my mommy didn't smell like that. She smelled amazing.
My nose began to tickle, and I suddenly realized I was lightly nuzzling her panties. In terror I gasped and flinched back, glancing quickly up at Mommy's face. Thankfully, she was still asleep. Her breathing was the same, the rhythm of her chest unchanged. Her cantaloupe-sized breasts were still hanging over onto her sides, each pressed softly against a little baby's cheek, big blue veins easy to see against her translucent pale skin, even with only the dim flicker of the distant TV to see by.
I slowly inched back down, staring again at the graying, stained crotch of her old cotton panties. That was when I finally noticed her hair, the bushiness of it, filling out that tired old "V". It even sprouted out over the sides and spread along her groin and down the insides of her thighs a little – light blonde hair, curly, wiry, and growing wild. It ran up out of the top of her panties, too, a trail leading straight up to her belly button, encircling it like a little blonde beard. Up on her belly like that, the hair looked longer, fluffier.
Mommy was so hairy!
Distracted for the moment by this new wonder, I bent back up a little and inspected her armpits, half-hidden just above and behind the babies' sleeping heads. Yep. Darker, greasier-looking tufts of blonde hair were barely peeking out from those cracks, the damp-looking folded skin where her arms met her sides. Moving back down to her crotch, I followed the fur that ran down the insides of her thighs and noticed that, while it did disappear for a while, below her knees the hair sprouted once again – light blonde curls that covered her shins and calves and the tops of her feet. Even the tops of her thighs had a fair amount of it, enough to see plainly in the bad light.
She was like Annabeth. Annabeth was like my Mommy!
And that made me think of something else.
Moving down to her pretty feet, as if my body had a will of its own, I realized what I was about to do only a moment before I actually did it. I leaned my face over sideways, laying my cheek against the crumpled sheets, and brought my nose up close to my mommy's smooth sole. I inhaled, slowly, deeply, and then I did it again. And again.
My mommy's feet didn't look dirty at all. They were normal, regular, woman-sized, clean-looking, bare feet. But they smelled like she hadn't taken a bath in forever. Like she'd kept them stuffed under warm blankets a lot, sweated a lot. Sure, her feet were funky, strong with the old ammonia sourness of stale sweat, and yet they were almost buttery-rich in their odor. There was this warm aroma that rose up from her unwashed skin as well. It was a lot like the spice aisle in the grocery store, this strong melange of scents that combined to make your head spin, your eyes water, and your mouth begin to hunger.
So that was me – dizzy, bleary-eyed, and drooling – kneeling beside the big king-sized bed, sniffing my mommy's foot, completely overcome. There was this funny lump in my throat the whole time, this pounding of blood as my pulse threatened to erupt from ten points in my body at once. My ears throbbed. Goosebumps rippled across my arms and legs.
I raised my face and moved my nose up the length of her pretty arch and along the underside of her curving toes, pausing at the cracks between. Then I went back down, back up, back down. Over and over again. I sniffed her foot. I kept a hand working my nipples.
I slid my other hand into my panties.
My pussy was drenched, and it surged instantly to life the moment I touched it. The sensation of my fingers opening myself up, of sliding that one long, knowing digit down between my lips... up and down, getting it so wet and goopy... then my first and third fingers spreading me a little while my middle finger bent and pulled up on my little button... and my nose against Mommy's heel, against her arch, dragging across the ball of her foot... my nipples on fire... my fingers pinching, twisting so hard... my mouth on her toes... kissing lightly... licking, tasting....
"Marlie? Is that you?"
I jerked my face away from Mommy's foot and flung myself down onto the carpet, scuttling around to hide beyond the foot of the bed. The salty taste of her skin was still on my tongue, still strong in my mouth. I swallowed hard, despite my terror, and slid my hand back into my panties. It felt so good, tasting her foot, and I was so close!
"Marlie?" Mommy's voice was barely a whisper, thick with sleep and confusion. I heard her feet shuffle on the sheets, then the rest of her, shifting around for a few seconds. One of the twins chirped a little in her sleep. Then the other made the same exact sound. Then all three were breathing deeply again. Sleeping again.
Still more or less trying to hold my breath, I lay back, spread-eagled on the soft shag carpet, and strummed myself with utter abandon. My toes dug into the fabric, my butt rose up into the air, and my back arched sharply. My shoulders, neck, and skull seemed to bear all of my shuddering, spasming weight as I dug and pulled and twiddled at myself, holding my pussy open beneath my panties with one hand while the other did the work of an eleven year-old masturbating maniac. Coming in a long, silent, stiff shiver, I peed hard against the inside of my panties, spurting in short bursts, hot piss dripping off my butt and into the thick carpet.
After a while I was lying fully on my own wet spot, my bottom soaked, my crotch soaked, and my slender body exhausted. I think I dozed for a little bit, too. It was still very early in the morning, after all.
Finally, though, I heard a stirring beyond my wooly head. I rolled over onto my hip and dared to peer around the far end of the foot of the bed. Sure enough, my little brother was there in his playpen on his belly, holding himself up with his chubby little arms, and he was staring straight at me and smiling in his adorable toothless way. He kicked his feet and squirmed like crazy in his cute little onesie.
I instantly did my own little belly-crawl backward, out of his line of sight. As I did, my t-shirt rode up my stomach and chest to gather at my throat, and my bare front dragged back through the piss-wet spot on the carpet. It couldn't be helped, and in that moment I didn't care anyway. The light rug burn of my nipples against the carpet threads was agonizing joy.
As soon as I was able, I spun around and darted from the bedroom, still on all fours, like some terrified hairless monkey, some scrawny blonde-headed little savage scrambling back to her cave.
I was just locking the door to my room when he began to bawl.
I was just back in my bed, under the covers, pretending to sleep, when I finally heard my mommy softly calling his name, singing to him ever-so-lightly, and clearly trying not to wake the twins. Of course that didn't work. Soon all three babies were in full voice, freaking out, doing what sleepy-headed, wet-diapered, hungry babies do.
I stayed in my bed.
I masturbated again.
I stank of my pee. I whipped off my piss-drenched panties and crammed them against my face. I sucked on the cotton. Chewed it. Mangled it in my mouth. My urine was so salty, but yet it was almost sweet.
I loved it so much!
I sucked and chewed and ran my hand over my pee-slicked nipples, my pee-slicked belly, my pee-slicked puss. I slid my hand back inside my folds. I strummed again. I came again.
A little more pee spurted out, but not much. I was still under the sheets, so it was caught and held by the fabric, splatter-spotted and quickly drying. Even as I rocked through the last few moments of my second orgasm in less than five minutes I thrilled at the thought that I'd soon be sleeping with that weird, bad, wonderful smell of pee all around me. I wondered if my daddy would notice. I was the one who washed my own sheets, after all. He'd only know if he came in and got up close, and he almost never did that anymore. I tucked myself in during those days. He was always at the other end of the house helping Mommy with the babies.
So I'd sleep in smelly sheets for a while, and in that smelly old t-shirt, and maybe even in those mouth-mangled, pissy old panties, too.
And maybe I'd make them all even smellier!
Hope you liked it!
Please email the author with comments or questions (or story suggestions!): olivia.octavia.palmer@gmail.com
Copyright 2017 by Olivia Palmer, all rights reserved. Do not repost or redistribute without prior written permission of the author. One copy may be saved for private use, insofar as that use does not extend to personal or financial gain by use of the author's work without consent.
My stories so far on Nifty: lesbian/young-friends/the-nudists lesbian/urination/called-to-the-hall lesbian/urination/alpha-annie transgender/college/geek-girlfriend