WAYWARD BRATS by Jaymee Pizzey

Fantasy One: F/F/M
    I got my first good sleep in weeks curled up in an old Victorian four-poster bed, locked in the topmost room of Charity Stone’s Home for Wayward Girls.
    I didn’t care, Matron Smith’s punishment suited me to a tee. It was the first alone time I had had since being dumped here by my stepparents.
    Imprisoned and alone was way better than being blown away by the massive tropical storm that had come in from the coast.
    Matron Smith was too busy looking like a blown away umbrella in her black dress, chasing peacocks and yelling at the gardener, to think of me.
    She had made me mark her words and waved her fist in my face for a good half an hour last night, so it was rather delightful to watch her suffer now. All I had done was mess around with Lisa and Abby instead of weeding the garden and she had reacted like I had murdered someone.
    Of course, she had made an example of me and let the other two get off with a warning.
    Story of my life.
    It rarely happened, but today, for some reason, God had my back.
    All work and no play made Ariana Trout a dull girl, and dull was something I refused to be. I was destined for stardom – lightening cracked outside followed by a boom of thunder as if God agreed – I would become a star and overcome them all.
    I fingered my clit, my go-to fantasy of the principle bending me over his desk, already playing in my mind –
    “Coucou, it’s Sarah.” She knocked on the door and entered with a tea tray. “I thought y’all might be hungry,” she said placing the tray on my bed and sitting next to me. “I’m sorry ‘bout Judith. She don’t mean to be mean. It’s this place.” Sarah spread jam on a slice of toast and waggled it under my nose. “It gets to you after a bit.”
    I sighed and pulled my hands out from under the sheet. Principle Maloney would have to wait until after breakfast.
    “Judith’s a bitch. She’s always going to make trouble to get herself out of it,” I said taking a bite. The jam was scolding hot, the toast stone cold.
    Sarah lost her accent between one sentence and the next. She liked to pretend almost as much as me. “Sorry. By the time I got the hens cooped up,” she pointed at my toast. “I should have warned you. The toast was cold so I thought if I heated the jam it would even things out.”
    I had to smile.
    She was too cute to resist with her curly straw blonde hair hanging loose and her merry blues eyes.
    Like me, she was a sex-starved, 18-year-old orgasm waiting to happen.
    “Why do you pretend, though? Surely life would be easier for you, with Matron, if you spoke well.”
    “Because–” Sarah pushed me back into my pillows and straddled me. “I like to pretend. You know that.”
    She kissed me.
    “What are you doing?” I managed to get my hands up under her shoulders and push her away.
    “Matron Smith told us you were here because you liked girls and needed fixin’.” She sat up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Don’t you want fixin’, Ari?”
    “Ariana,” I corrected her for the millionth time.
    She shrugged sending the thin cotton straps of her sundress sliding down her shoulders, her ample breasts strained the press-studs inches from my face.
    The rain against the windows, the softness of the bed, the whispered atmosphere created by the velvet curtains that hung down from the canopy, set the perfect scene for a secret tryst.
    Sarah’s innocent, willing smile, pure seduction.
    Her breasts were warm and full under my palms. My touch strained the press-studs until one by one they popped open and her breasts popped out. Caged in a lace and cream bra, her nipples were two hard, dusty pink candies waiting to be sucked.
    “I’m here to reform,’ I whispered, brushing my lips against her collarbone, I breathed in the scent of lavender soap.
    “If you’re so far gone that you ended up here. What’s one last time gonna hurt?” Sarah pulled her dress over her head, “We can be damned together.”