Pigmailion: First Draft (Only Three Chapters)

[EddieDavidson]

I am going to share my first draft of this story with the caveat that I may never go back to this family and finish this version of it.

I was inspired largely by a British TV program set in Runcorn (Just outside of Liverpool) called Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps. It's very cheeky, the girls are oversexed, the guys are often nobs. I had written another story along the same lines but it was too insular and the cast was too small for me to truly enjoy it.

This story had an expanded cast - a much larger family in a much smaller flat, and privacy was at a minimum. The Mum from this story would certainly have gotten along quite well with the Mum from the previous story called "A Little Humiliation Never Hurt Anyone, Love". They both largely believed that girls didn't need modesty -"What would they do with it all, ey? never get a husband, that's what."

The daughters in this story play a "Game" - sort of a goofy/naughty/saucy game and today the main character (as the youngest daughter) is being told that she's no longer able to sit it out.

I was also inspired by this video of a real life family where the woman is explaining to her parents what an O-Ring gag is and the mom translates to the father "So you can put your woohoo in there and she can't close her mouth"

https://youtu.be/mzG4flGQYUI?si=to5hvlwtXdIPgFGh

just the audacity/sheer cheekiness of the video was kind of what I want to capture.

I did create some AI pictures for this, but I wont' post them here. This is just a rough draft for your edification. It may contain a few rough patches. I tend to "Free Write" and just get my ideas down and then go back and edit and refine. The toughest part was nailing the accents and the culture. I am an American, but I love the saucy way they speak.

I picked a location for the story, and had a lot of fun with the first few chapters. I subsequently decided that there would be an Avant Gard Ballet School opening nearby that teaches nude ballet to impoverished young slags/offers free tuition and trips for the performers and their mum (as chaperone) so she would push them into auditioning. I am currently working on that version and will try to post a few chapters.

I realize often I don't complete a story before starting a new one, and for that I apologize. I have every intent to finish but sometimes I either write myself into a plot hole/real life intrudes and I lose the plot and have a tough time getting back in the saddle or I just get inspired to write something else and have to get on it. It takes discipline to stick with one story when you aren't feeling it.

It can lower the quality as well because it lacks that muse of inspiration.


In any case, if you are bored and want a saucy vignette - here you go.

[EddieDavidson]

The original title was "Tails Out, Love" but I subsequently used a play on the word Pygmalion to change it to Pigmalion.

Here is Chapter One

“Punty, you're old enough now to play Tails Out with the rest of the girls. Even your Gran plays it,” my mum insisted firmly. “You’ve been sitting out for years, which is a bit rude, don’t you think?”

It was hardly rude from my perspective. My Dad and brothers weren’t being told they had to play and they sat and watched the game all the time. Mum had different standards for girls though and she had decided shortly after my most recent birthday that I could no longer be a wallflower – I had to participate with her, Gran and my sisters.

They regularly played what I'd describe as naughty dare games and the rest of the family were more like the audience. There were times we might judge the winner of a contest but the women of the house largely ran the game and everyone else (including me) just went about our lives or sat on the couch and had a laugh.

These games were so regular and frequent, that they were woven into our everyday life, that no one in our family ever questioned them.

All the girls played—except for me. I was more of a passive observer, too shy and bashful to join in. Nobody ever forced me, and honestly, I didn’t want to. The games often got saucy, so I'd usually just sit back and watch with my brothers, Pod and Simon.

Mum was quick to laugh, quick to anger, and always a bit larger than life. She'd been a bartender at the Wellington for the last few years, and calling her the life of the party was an understatement. Most people didn’t just go into that third-rate pub for a pint—they went to listen to her gossip, joke, and giggle.

It was difficult now to look Mum straight in her big, bright blue eyes. She was seated at the kitchen table in our flat, holding court like the Queen of England herself. She wore nothing but joggers and a faded T-shirt that read “Free Willy.” Mum’s sense of humor had always been a bit bawdy, and Tails Out was a game I think my mum had been playing for as long as I could remember.

I’d always been left out of the games—not required to take part, not even asked. I wasn’t sure if it was because I was the shy one, or if I was just expected to speak up for myself. Either way, I’d never volunteered. But today, Mum was insisting I give it a shot. Apparently, it was time. And according to her, I’d be having a great laugh once I did.

I wasn’t so sure about that. I didn’t usually say no to my mum, and I hadn’t said I wouldn’t play Tails Out—I was just asking why now. What had changed?

My two sisters were flanking her at the kitchen table, both halfway through a mug of tea and picking at cheese. Their nicknames are Taffy and Baps, which suit them, really. I’ve never liked mine—Punty. My real name’s Penny Nobbs, and this is the story of how I started playing Tails Out with the other women in the family.

“Fanny-Boo only plays when she wants to,” I stammered, glancing over at my gran. Her real name’s Fanny Price, and she’s lived with us for as long as I can remember. She doesn’t like being called Gran or Nan, so we just call her Fanny-Boo.

She’s not some doddering old maid, either. She’s tall and thin, and unlike Mum or my sisters, she doesn’t have big tits. People say she’s like a female Rod Stewart—leathery skin, cig always in hand, spiky blonde hair, and that tawdry grin like she’s sat on some dirty secret and won’t ever let it slip.

“I play Tails Out all the time, love,” Fanny said, taking a drag on her cigarette and leaning back in her chair at the kitchen table. She gave me a sharp look through the smoke. “It’s for laughs. Life’s too short to give as many shits as you do about every little thing, Punty. I’m with my daughter—it’s time you joined in. “You’ve always been welcome, but today you’re not just welcome—you’ve got a proper invite. Call Willy Wonka, love. You’ve just won a golden ticket to the chocolate factory.”

My gran made it sound like this was a coming-of-age rite of passage, and I should be proud that I had the invite. I was about to respond, but at the mention of chocolate, my little brother Simon made a disgusting smarty-farty noise with his mouth. Everyone cracked up. We've always had a crude sense of humor. I even had to laugh at that one. It was well-timed.

“How come Pod and Simon don’t have to play?” I frowned, glancing across at my twin brother Pod, who was already grinning like he’d won something.

My twin’s name is Peter, but everyone just calls him Pod. He’s everything I’m not—handsome, outgoing, gobby. A bit taller than me, leaner, athletic. We’ve got the same face, more or less, but he got Mum’s light blonde hair and keeps it short and spiked up like some lad off Love Island. He’s Mum’s golden boy. Can do no wrong in her eyes.

“It’s not called Wankers Out,” my older sister Taffy teased the boys, but they didn’t seem to mind. Simon didn’t even seem to get the joke. He looked like someone had crossed Pugsley Addams with Cousin Oliver from the Brady Bunch. Massive round glasses, always a bit grubby—he was the baby of the family.

“This is a game for girls, love,” Mum said, frowning at Taff for stirring her brothers. “You lot bicker and fight and tease non-stop. The boys are outnumbered. Two peckers to five quims,” she added, counting off on one hand.

Did I mention she was crass and vulgar? Our kitchen table was rarely proper or polite, and she wasn’t wrong—we argued and bickered constantly. Just this morning, Taffy and Callie had a row over a boy they both liked, which somehow turned into whether or not Callie was wearing Taff’s knickers. It never ended.

Dad rarely said much at the table. More often than not, he sat there grinning like he had a secret. Today was no different. I’ve heard people say he looks like someone crossed Del Boy with Benny Hill and a bit of Michael Caine thrown in. Being Saturday, he was off work at the smithy and proudly wearing his Everton FC shirt. It’s his favourite team—and his bookie’s too, since they couldn’t stop losing.

“Oi, have you forgot about this wanker right here?” Dad folded his paper and pointed at his lap with a stupid grin. “I bloody made all these other quims and wankers, didn’t I?” He gestured at the five of us like we were trophies in a betting shop window.

Mum laughed, tossing her head back like she was already halfway through her second pint. Her body language said she’d have happily fooled around on Dad if the mood struck. That was just Mum. Flirting came naturally to her. As a bartender, she was a magnet for attention, and half the blokes at the Wellington lined up night after night just to get an eyeful and a cheeky grin.

“You didn’t create my quim, Knobsie,” Fanny said, pointing to her waist like she was giving a lecture. She was in a white robe with a blue T-shirt underneath. Nothing on show, but she didn’t exactly sit like a lady either.

Even though his name’s Del, everyone calls my dad Knobsie. Doesn’t matter where we are—Tesco, a service station, even once in bloody Brighton—some old mate from way back will yell, “Oi, Knobsie, you still owe me that tenner!”

And Dad, without missing a beat, will flash a grin and go full Michael Caine. “I’ve been avoiding you. How’d you find me? Doesn’t matter. Get in line. I owe the best and the worst. Take a number if you want your ten quid. But while you’re here, I’ve got a tip on a horse that can’t lose. Lend us another?”

“Aye, I didn’t make your quim, Fanny,” Dad muttered, shaking his head and offering a wry “I don’t have a shovel big enough to dig that deep of a hole. I’m talking about these lot, going on about knickers and who shagged who and whether they’ll play the bloody game or not.”

Then he looked straight at me. It was hard to tell if he was being serious or having a laugh.

“I don’t give a rat’s arse if you play, Punty. But your dear old mum won’t shut up about it until you do. What’s the harm? It’s not like you’ve got anything the rest of us haven’t seen before.”

That got a round of laughs. Taff and Baps piped up with jokes about my twiggy legs or my tits being smaller than Fanny’s, which wasn’t saying much.

“You’ve no reason to be modest. You don’t have anything boys are really going to fawn over, Punty,” my big sister Taffy said, shaking her own big bazooms for impact. “You could walk down the street in just your knickers and the neighbors would probably think you’re some little girl off to play in the sprinklers.”

Mum’s also given me her opinions about modesty plenty of times, and it’s no surprise that my sisters feel the same way. It’s how we were all raised. Mum’s dead set on the idea that girls shouldn’t bother with it. Everyone knows what we’ve got on our chest—boys have the same bits, just smaller. Everyone knows what we’ve got between our legs, too. As far as she’s concerned, the female body’s no big mystery. If you’re that curious, there’s plenty of it in magazines for a couple of quid.

Some people in the UK are repressed and get worked up over nudity. But technically it’s legal, so long as you’re not shagging in public or causing a fuss. Mum’s one of those who reckon if you don’t like it, don’t look.

My sisters get embarrassed sometimes during the games, and even Fanny Boo’s been known to blush now and then—but I’ve never seen Mum flinch. They all seem to love it. Probably because they’ve been playing things like Tails Out for so long, it just feels normal. That, and they’re all ridiculously competitive.

They turn everything into a contest, and it drives them to push things further just to one-up each other. My sisters play in a local girls’ rugby league, so they’re all a bit rough and tumble. They don’t care if they get muddy or scraped up.

Baps laughed and gave her mighty, watermelon-shaped boobs a bounce. Callie’s had recently come in, and they were even bigger than Mum’s. It was a whole thing between the three of them. Mum, Taffy, and Callie never let anything drop. They always had to outdo each other. That was one of the reasons I didn’t join in their naughty games.

The other reason for my reluctance was that I’d be mortified. Honestly, I got embarrassed just being seen near them in Sainsbury’s, or when they overflowed into Wellington.

“Mum’s not going to let up until you give it a go,” Taffy said. “What’s the harm? No one keeps score for Tails Out, you don’t have to beat us, but you should play as well. Just try it for a day. See how it feels.”

Taffy was Mum’s clone—same big boobs, big light blonde hair, upturned nose, bright blue eyes, curvy in all the right places. Only younger and, some would say, cuter. She was also Mum’s biggest fan and the enforcer. If our parents were out, Taffy was in charge. No question.

If Mum told her to do something—didn’t matter if she liked it or not—Taffy would just crack on with it. She had her own opinions, and she’d make them known, but she didn’t argue with Mum. None of us really did.

“Can I quit if I don’t like it?” I asked, scrunching my nose. I said it to the room, but really, it was for Mum. Dad might’ve paid most of the bills with his welding work, but Mum ran the house. She decided what was what, and who did what when.

You could argue with her until you were blue in the face, but it was like shouting at the wind. She always got her way. None of us questioned her will more than I already had. I was nervous, and feeling a bit guilty for not just giving in and doing what she asked.

“No, you can’t, Punty. It’ll do you some good to laugh at yourself, and it’s for fun. You can’t just take your ball and go home when things don’t suit. And you can’t just quit Monopoly when you’re losing.”

“Aye, and you can’t quit at cards when you’ve lost the rent. You need to pawn something and win it back before dawn,” Dad said, and his belly laugh rolled around the room. He drank too much and couldn’t stay away from the bookies, but he was funny about it. We always had food, a roof, and even if we never had much else—we laughed a lot.

Tails Out was one big source of those laughs. I just didn’t want to be the butt of the joke.

“Fine. What do I have to do?” I sighed. There was no point in holding out.

“She’s like a virgin on her wedding night—asking what she’s got to do just to get it over with,” Fanny said. Her Scottish accent drifted in and out like weather, but when she came out with something earthy like that, it always sounded like she’d just walked in off the Highland marsh.

“Are you daft, Punty?” Baps asked me like I’d just pissed in her shoes and she wanted to know why. “We’ve only been playing Tails Out since before we could bleed. Do you really not know how? Acting dumb is Taff’s thing,” she snickered.

“At least I’m only acting,” Taffy shot back. Then she gave me a supportive smile and broke it down. “It’s simple. When one of us says ‘Tails Out,’ you start doing something tawdry and making a proper arse of yourself,” she giggled, already halfway to mischievous.

I knew the game was simple. Mum usually kicked it off, and it was so chaotic and unstructured it had basically become part of our afternoons—especially on weekends. I’d seen the girls play it loads. Even Nan got involved, long as she could keep a ciggy dangling from her lips.

“I’ve never really questioned the rules. It just seems like there’s loads of hidden ones, and I don’t even know how you win,” I said.

“You win by playing the bloody game, Punty,” Mum chided, though she still wore a smirk. “It’s not about winning or losing. We all toss a bit of dignity in the bin, and whoever flushes the most down the loo wins that round. Simple as.”

“Is the reason you’ve never played really because you didn’t know how to win?” my twin brother asked. He wasn’t expecting an answer, and from his face, he clearly didn’t buy it either.

“I just don’t want to end up having to play poor pussy all afternoon while the neighbor pops in for tea,” I muttered, scratching my head and scrunching my nose.

My sisters both meowed like idiots and pawed the air like cats. They loved poor pussy. Could play it all day. I never knew what made them enjoy it so much, and I wasn’t about to be the one asking.

“Your mum was playing poor pussy in the parlor when she was younger than you,” Fanny said with a shrug, taking a long, sensual drag from her cigarette. “I was a wee lass in Edinburgh playing it, too. It’s a proper parlor game. Goes back to the bloody Victorians.”

Smoking was gross and definitely going to kill her, but Fanny Boo could work a cigarette like she was making love to it. She dragged slowly, like a noir film star—Garbo or Bogart or one of them black-and-white bastards off the telly.

“You used to play poor pussy all the time when you were little. What’s so wrong with it now?” Mum asked. Her expression read that she thought I was getting a bit too proud for my own good.

They never made the guys play as the poor pussy. My mum had different standards when it came to gender roles between guys and girls. She didn’t think girls should have tea — so even though we were called to morning tea, we had water. I love tea, but Mum thinks it’s a waste for girls our age.

Dad’s a bit of a skinflint, so he tends to agree, although he’s never said a word if we’ve snuck a teabag or two when Mum’s not home.

Mum thinks girls do housework, raise babies, and look pretty for men — and that’s about it. Guys get jobs and deal with bigger issues. The thing is, she thinks my sisters are too much work to manage, so she ends up doing it mostly herself. She’ll grumble and complain, but says we’re more trouble than it’s worth — checking to see if we’ve done our chores right, making us do it again properly, and then checking again.

The only time I end up doing anything is when Mum’s out at the pub. Then suddenly, it’s my job. I don’t mean to sound like Cinderella with two wicked stepsisters, but it’s always me stuck cleaning the kitchen while my sisters watch telly or gab with boys on the phone.

Phones are another thing. Girls have got the oldest models, and mine is the oldest because I am the youngest of the three girls. My brother Pod and even Simon have newer iPhones than Taffy, and she’s quite a few years older than them. That’s hardly fair, but Mum says it is, because all girls are treated equally and all boys are treated equally. She just thinks they have more need for the latest gadgets and technology.

Same thing with a ride in the car. With five kids there is never enough room in Dad’s old Austin Maestro. We don’t live far from Tesco, but it’s just across the Silver Jubilee bridge, so it’s a bitch to walk, and public buses can be slow.

If there’s one seat left in the car, one of the boys gets it. Mum doesn’t even ask. “You’ve got legs, it’ll burn some calories and tighten your calves and quim to get some exercise, and fresh air will do you some good,” she says. “Use those long legs for something other than showing off and hoof it, ya ditzy cows.”

Mum acts like we’re lucky for the chance to stretch our legs, rain or shine. She would never think of making her Golden Boy Pod do the same, and Simon — you can forget it. She’d be afraid he’d run out into traffic, even though he takes the bus to secondary school with the rest of us twice a day.

Once we make it home, huffing and sweating or freezing our arses off, she’ll expect us to unload the car if she hasn’t done it all already. Fanny Boo will jokingly lend moral support, but she’s not about to lift a finger to do more than light another fag and have a puff.

We’re not the only girls in Liverpool to be raised according to more outdated standards for girls over guys, and I am certainly not expecting any sympathy for it because some have it much harder than we do. It’s just important to explain that it’s this way in our family and we’ve never known any different. So we can whinge, but Mum and Dad wouldn’t lose a minute of sleep about it.

It’s a bit like some parents will let their kids play out past dark and not mind where they go in the meantime, as long as they are home by dark. Then there are some who make you text if you’ve passed gas on your way down the hall to let them know you are alright. My parents are more like old-fashioned parents who don’t believe in hovering, and believe strongly that guys and girls weren’t meant to be treated the same because they aren’t the same.

It’s something of a bias I’ve had to grow up with my whole life, so we just sort of lump it and crack on. Which is why I wasn’t going to rage and throw a tantrum about being told today was the day I’d need to ditch my knickers and play along with Tails Out, even if it was going to be the most humiliating day of my life.

They say there are five stages of grief when something new happens in your life. I skipped anger and bargaining because it wasn’t going to do much good, and pretty much arrived at acceptance.

“I used to play Poor Pussy?” I blushed when Mum said it like it was fact. I certainly didn’t think I’d been playing without knickers on like my sisters did. I cringed at the memory of wearing those cheap costume kitty ears and smudging black mascara on my nose while I crawled around the sofa meowing like a prat.

My sisters would swap out who was on the floor now and again, but the way I carried on, you’d think I was just being thick.

“The Poor Pussy has to get down on the floor and act like a kitty,” Baps said, talking to me like I was slow. “Everyone else pets Pussy’s head three times and says, ‘Poor pussy, poor pussy, poor pussy,’ without laughing. The pussy’s meant to get people to laugh. They can meow, crawl about, whatever. When someone cracks, they’re the new pussy. It’s fun. You’ve seen us play it loads and laughed with us — no one ever made you get down and paw about.”

Dad chuckled into his cuppa, proper enjoying himself. “Oh, poor pussy! Poor pussy!” he muttered like he was tasting the words and visualizing one of us wiggling our bums like an ignorant git like a court jester that can’t stop ridiculing himself until he makes the King and Queen laugh.

“I don’t see how it would be fun,” I said flatly. I wasn’t exactly thrilled at the idea of Dad getting a laugh out of watching me crawl about on all fours.

I was certainly not looking forward to my father having a laugh at my expense while I joined them.

“That’s because you won’t know if it’s going to be fun until you try it, love,” my mum encouraged me to just commit to the game and not be so uptight. “We don’t usually have consequences for Tails Out,” she explained. I felt butterflies emerging in my stomach — this was really happening. I finally had to play, after all these years of sitting on the sidelines and watching along with my brothers.

I have to admit, sometimes it was hilarious. Watching my older sisters and Mum get taken down a notch now and again was entertaining. Mum called it getting the hot air blown out of your arse and mouth at the same time, with a kick from reality to shake things up a bit.

My Nan almost never lost at any of the games she played. She played to win, or at the very least, not lose.

“However, it doesn’t matter, Pen. You are going to play the games just like the rest of the girls in the family do. You are old enough, and there is nothing bad that’s gonna happen to you.”

“Well, there is Darty bums,” Baps joked, and the others laughed. My family had created and named several games over the years, and they usually had a saucy name like Filthy Bugger or Dippy Wanker. They also created several standard consequences for losing a game and named those, and the most infamous was the legendary Darty Bum game. I wasn’t there to witness it, and in typical Nobbs fashion, my family has a tendency to embellish and exaggerate every story in the retelling.

I suppose that’s everyone from the United Kingdom, though.

Anyway, my mum and sisters are keen on the American television shows Jackass and Trigger Happy TV. I quite like Trigger Happy TV as well. It’s a bit more British, deliberately entering into ludicrous or embarrassing situations in public places and filming the reactions for entertainment value.


I was never quite sure how much of the show was staged, but my sisters and Mum were basically daredevils and loved to take chances. I think Baps, in particular, got an adrenaline high from the excitement, something close to sexual gratification. I’ve also wondered if that was staged, because haunted houses and roller coasters were usually too much for me. She was an addict for that sort of thing as well.

Darty Bums wasn’t the most risqué consequence, but it was maybe the scariest. Mum, Fanny, and my sisters mooned my father one night down at the Wellington. He’d tossed back quite a few pints and probably wasn’t aiming straight at the dartboard. They invited him to have a toss right at their bums, and after assuring him they wouldn’t be mad if he stuck one of them in the rump, he threw three darts in quick succession and missed every shot by a mile.

The chance of being hit, the chance of others seeing their bare bums—it was all exciting to them but needlessly risky to me. I was glad to be tucked in bed back at home while my older sisters were out playing their games.

Now, Mum said I’d have to play every game—and that meant the ones with consequences.

“Mum! I don’t want to play Darty Bums!” I told her. I felt my asshole clench tight, swallowed hard, and blushed like mad. The rest of the family found my nervous freak-out hilarious.

“With a narrow arse like yours, you’ve got a small enough target that I’m sure Del would miss,” Mum said. She called my father by his first name. She was the only one I knew who did. He was Dad to me and Knobsie to the rest of the world—even Fanny Boo called him Knobsie most of the time.

I guess I should have been used to humiliation, growing up with the last name Nobbs. It’s a proper insult in the UK, but strangely enough, not many people at school ever used it on us. I think it’s because there were five Nobbs all attending the same secondary school, and we had each other’s backs. It was fine to take the piss out of each other, but we’d come together in a flash if anyone else tried. That’s one of the benefits of having older sisters who’ve got my back. I’ve rarely ever been bullied, and if I was—it never lasted long once Taffy and Baps found out.

“Aye, with a tight bum like you’ve got, you can just clench those buns of steel and the darts will shatter, Sis,” Taffy giggled. She stood up and shook her big arse at the table, and then Baps and Mum joined in, dancing about like twats. “It’s just a variant of William Tails. It’s not that big a deal — you’ll get a nick or a bruise at most. You won’t break, you aren’t a porcelain doll, Punty”

Taffy and Baps played Rugby – they were not afraid of a little pain, and Mum wasn’t shy about it either. I was the type who wouldn’t even look when I had to get a shot in the arm by a nurse.

William Tails also wasn’t really a game they played – it was more like a consequence for losing one. I’d seen the girls play it enough to know that much – it wasn’t fun, and it wasn’t meant to be. William Tails was a play on William Tell. His governor imposed a silly rule that everyone had to bow to a hat he had hung on a pole.

Tell refused, and as punishment, the governor ordered him to shoot an apple off his own son's head using a crossbow. William Tails is one of the consequences for losing one of Mum’s dare games. There are many variations, but usually it involves being target practice while the winner fires spitballs through a straw at your bare bum, and you being the target.

I cringed a little, realizing I’d probably have to take a turn in the lineup just like my older sisters did – and sooner than I thought. I’d probably never live this down once I started playing.

No one else seemed to think it was more than a little bit funny. No one seemed worried about it – in fact, I’m sure the serious look on my face only made it seem more amusing to my family. This was something they’d been doing for so long that they were ingrained into our family’s everyday activities, and Saturday afternoon was the prime day for them.

Saturday mornings and afternoons, we were all home from school, and later my mum would be at the pub, my dad would be at a pub – not necessarily the Wellington – and my sisters would likely be off on dates of their own. They didn’t tend to keep steady boyfriends, but they were quite popular for two obvious reasons – both hanging from their chest.

Baps agreed with Taffy that I’d be just fine, showing no trace of sympathy for me. She shook her rump in time with the silent music. She wore tight scrunching yoga pants that rode up her ass, so her cheeks slapped together. It accentuated Callie’s hips and made her seem so much more physically mature than me, even though we were very close in age.

“I guess that means tea is over then,” Fanny Boo stood up with the rest of them and danced like a punk rocker from the 1980s in a disco. Fanny Boo wasn’t about to do without tea, and neither was my mum. The ban on tea was only for girls our age, not for them, and the double standard drove me crazy.

I continued to sit while the girls danced about and giggled playfully. It wasn’t uncommon for my mom to switch on the stereo and dance about the kitchen to her favorite songs along with my sisters. “C’mon, Punty, you aren’t a little baby. Stand up and crack a smile, have a bit of fun!” Mum encouraged me to dance, and I did, awkwardly.

“Now that we are all having fun,” Mum waved her hands from side to side and glided across the kitchen floor, bopping along to the beat of music playing only in her head, “we’ll do an easy Tails Out for Punty, but there will be a consequence. Loser cleans the table and puts away the tea service.”

“Mum, you just said there were no consequences for Tails Out!” I stopped dancing and gave her a flustered expression.

“First lesson in life is that the description on the tin may not be what’s inside,” Mum laughed and placed her hands on her hips. “I said we usually don’t have consequences.” Mum thought for a moment, as if trying to recall what she had said, and decided that was what she actually meant. “The tea service needs to be put away, and this is a fun way to decide who has to do it.”

“Can I just do that and not play?” I blushed again. I didn’t want my father and brothers to watch me make a fool of myself or strip down. We lived in a three-bedroom flat with one bathroom, so privacy was at a premium, and I shared a bedroom with my older sisters. Still, I wanted a modicum of modesty.

Mum narrowed her eyes at me like I was truly becoming annoying, and I knew I was on thin ice. She wasn't bargaining with me, and dancing was her way of saying we needed to stop gabbing and get started. She didn’t raise her voice or argue, just gave that smug little tilt of her head that meant the decision was made, and it wasn’t mine to question. Whether I liked it or not, I was playing.

“You can strip down starkers, then put away the tea, and play strutty tea strumpet for the rest of the day and into Sunday, until you’re ready to just let your hair down and ham it up like the rest of us – we’ll be doing it with you,” Mum promised as consolation.

“Trust me, you’ll be loving it before long — you’re acting like we’re going to make you sit on mouse traps and stick your fingers in the electric socket,” Mum said, smiling with a hint of compassion for my feelings.
“Aye, electric sockets and mouse traps on the cunny is a Sunday thing,” Fanny joked. Surprisingly, her dark gallows humor made me giggle more than I expected. The rest of the family had a proper laugh as well. “You’ll do alright, lass — we’ll be in it together: taps aff, tits up, tails out!”

“Taps aff, tits up, tails out,” Mum and my sisters shouted in unison. I’d heard them say that before, so I assumed that what they said might be the proper name of Tails Out. I’ve heard their games collectively referred to as 'Tails Up' and 'Tails Out' interchangeably. Tails Out is one of many games they play, though, and she has short and snappy names for all of them. Tails Out is just the one that they play around the house pretty much all the time.

I smiled. My gran was right about one thing. All the other girls in the family played the game all the time, and it wasn’t that shocking to my brothers because they’d grown up around it. It still felt strange to be a participant instead of an observer — like I ought to be screaming and insisting I wasn’t going to do it.

At the same time, somewhere in the back of my mind, I had to admit I was a little flattered that Mum insisted I play. Up until today, I’d often felt like the invisible middle child. Pod was special and charming—talented, athletic, and popular. It was as if every bit of attention and praise he soaked up made me disappear a little more. I felt even more ordinary. A true plain Jane.

I wasn’t particularly bright or bookish like my little brother Simon, either, so I couldn’t even claim to be off reading quietly in my room. Simon was a bit of a wonderkid when it came to math and science, but he always seemed a bit clueless, mouth slightly open, wide-eyed, and lost in some imaginary thought.

He loved to read, sure, but he just as easily lost hours outside with the butterflies, flying kites, chasing frogs, and tumbling about in the woods. The trouble was, we lived deep in the city—Hallwood Park in Runcorn, just outside Liverpool.

Simon would’ve rather been down at the Runcorn Promenade, running through that little gash of trees along the Mersey, pretending he was on safari in the jungles of Africa or exploring some alien world. He looked up at me now, folded his arms, and gave me a quiet, encouraging nod.

“Right then. How do I start? I haven’t the foggiest what to actually do,” I said, trying to gather my courage. I focused on calming the butterflies in my gut and steeling myself to actually take part.

“My big sisters sighed in frustration. “Just tart it up, it’s not a big deal – it’s just Tails Out in the kitchen for a bit -we’d be done by now if we started before you started whinging.” Taffy lifted her top and flashed her big boobs before pulling them down to help make her point.

Tails Out was more involved than a simple flash of the boobs, but I got her meaning that it never took more than five minutes or so before they were done and moving on to something else.

“That’s just it. I’m not a tart, and I’ve no idea why or what I’m even meant to be doing. Why not take your top off completely if you’re trying to win?” I had so many questions.

“Gah, you’re going to suck all the fun out of it,” Baps moaned, before flashing her own tits like it was some competition. Callie’s massive nipples swung free while her big jugs hung out just a bit longer than our older sister had. She pressed her body up to Taffy as if Baps was challenging her to a duel or trying to intimidate her by pressing her bare tits to Taffy’s shirt.

“How is whipping out your fat udders spontaneous? You just copied me, and not very well, I may add,” Taffy flashed her tits – this time holding her top up to reveal her knockers while the two of them bickered -pressing bare nipple to bare nipple and standing nose to nose.

“Enough,” Mum said, flashing her own enormous tits just by opening her white housecoat and showing she had nothing on underneath. That wasn’t unusual for her. She hated wearing clothes around the house and always went on about how bras were torture. I wouldn’t know — I didn’t have any. My sisters’ hand-me-downs would never have fit me, and Mum said my boobs were just bee stings that didn’t need a bra, like she was doing me a favor.

That meant I often had to wear shirts where my puffy nipples showed straight through the fabric — even at school, when I took my blazer off, which is why I almost never did. I kept it on even when the sun was blazing.

Which, for Runcorn, wasn’t really that often.

Today was one of those rare days when the weather was quite fair — sunny, not too cold, not rainy. Just nice. I knew what that meant: we’d be heading out soon, either shopping or on some errand, and I’d have to keep playing the game in public. It played differently outside — Mum didn’t fancy getting arrested.

It was doubtful that would happen for a couple of reasons. Mum was a well-known local figure and everyone from Weston Street to Halton proper knew of my mum and, to some extent, our older sisters. She frequently rode her bike without any knickers. People around these parts wouldn’t clutch pearls about it – they’d just be dismissive and cheeky. They might say something like, “Oi, look — it’s bonkers Mag Nobbs, arse to the wind! Pedaling like mad without any knickers on,” and then go about their day.

Technically, full public nudity was completely legal in Britain. It just wasn’t all that common. Every year, a bunch of wankers would paint themselves up and ride bicycles bollock-naked through London and across half the country. Mum wanted to do it — said it was just a matter of getting the time off.

My mum was the bartender at the Wellington Pub — her whole livelihood. The place was owned by some old geezer who’d helped raise her, and she felt obligated to work for him seven days a week. She was the Wellington, really. Without her, it might as well be boarded up. It wasn’t much of a pub — Runcorn had plenty better — but it had its loyal drunks who came in every night, mostly to chuck back pints and gawk at Mum’s tits while she laughed at their jokes and took their meager tips with a smile.

There was a darts league, but let’s be honest — it was just an excuse to stare at birds and drink lager.

Mum frequently calls herself “a munter with a nice rack,” and a tavern slapper who thought nothing of flashing her bazooms at the bar just to see an old geezer smile. She’s never been shy about letting them pinch her rump, though she’ll chide them and say she’s got to charge extra for the privilege of “having a go at my rump all night until it turns purple.”

She doesn’t fish for compliments — if anything, she acts like being put on a pedestal makes her itch. That suits our dad just fine. If she calls herself a proper tubby with a butter face, he’s happy to nod along, and she’ll just laugh like the joke’s on someone else.

Mum frequently spoke in double-entendre and sexual innuendo, and it never stopped at the pub. That was just her saucy nature—so the games we played were more or less an extension of that. Her mum was just as crass and vulgar as she was – perhaps more so. Fanny was blunt and wouldn’t hold back or try to sound proper and dignified because she made no pretense that she was.

“Give the girl some guidelines,” Fanny chided my mother. “You can’t just tell Leonardo da Vinci to create, or Pixie Lott to sing a song. As good as they are—the first time they ever did it, they needed some direction.” She said it in a thick Scottish accent, then added, “Give her the tempo and a theme. Don’t just stand there with your great tits out like you’re ready to be milked. Her and I can’t compete with that, and I am not bloody well picking up after your tea.”

“Punty is no Leonardo Da Vinci, but point well taken, Fanny,” Mum let her robe fall shut, and my older sisters stopped showing off their boobs to one another—standing practically nipple to nipple. I wondered if I’d ever have the audacity to refer to my mum by her first name the way Mum did to our Nan.

Then again, Nan preferred we all call her Fanny Boo. Fanny had something of a crude connotation but when her parents named her it was still a popular name and many actresses and women from her generation were named Fanny.

I believe that my Nan felt old being called Nan – and Fanny made her feel youthful and hip.

“Tails Out is supposed to be free form. It’s about showing your creativity, not being boxed in by rules or structure,” Mum explained. “But when we’re out and about in town, obviously we’re not as bold as we are at home, when it’s just us.”

She shrugged, taking Nan’s point. “We’ll play with some training wheels until you’ve got your chops about you. Then we’ll crack on like big girls and have a laugh before I’ve got to fuck off to the Wellington for another night of stale beer and staler jokes.” Her pretty blue eyes twinkled as she giggled.

Mum has called herself a munter, a pig, a slapper, and a cow, but she’s actually quite attractive—even for an older woman in her forties. I’m not even sure how old my mother actually was. Every birthday I can remember, she says she’s 39, and nobody bothers to correct her. We even give her 39 candles and 39 bare-arse birthday spanks, like it’s gospel.

Mum finished the last of her tea and thunked the empty cup down on the worn old kitchen table, clearly reaching a decision that I am sure impacted me and I doubted she was changing her mind about expecting me to participate like all the other girls in the family.

[EddieDavidson]

“Punty, you are making far too much of this. We’ve been doing this for years around here, and we are not about to stop. You are expected to participate. It’s only polite and proper that you stop lollygagging about with your mouth open and hemming and hawing about it. It’s not like we are insisting you to empty the bins or get a job or something,” Mum half joked.

“Heaven forbid,” Dad laughed sarcastically that he’d never expect me to do something like that. I wanted to argue that I’d be happy to get a part-time job or take out the rubbish if I could avoid playing the games, but I was afraid they would make me do both, along with it, and the games would continue at my work.

Mum has brought my sisters to the pub on several occasions on slow nights and they’ve come home pissed after a night of drinking cheap beer and playing their little games around the bar patrons.

“The games we play around here are just for fun, sure—but they serve a purpose too,” she said. “The fellas get a laugh, we let off steam, and it keeps us from getting too uppity or big for our knickers. Losing a few dares will do you some good, love. It’s going to be strange at first for ya, but you’ve nothing much to see anyway and all the other girls in the house have to drop the linen and start grinning. It’s all for a laugh, innit?”

I nodded – what else could I do but agree with my mum? She wasn’t really asking my opinion. She was making me confirm that I understood what she told me and that she didn’t need to continue explaining.

“We’ll throw a few softies your way today so we don’t throw you in the deep end. My dad threw me off the pier into the Mersey as a little girl, and it was sink or swim. I am standing here today because I learned to swim, and he was right there to fish me out if I started going under. We’ll all be here to help ya, Penny.”

It was rare that my Mum called me Penny. Even my teachers in school sometimes call me Punty. I felt Mum was being honest, dealing straight with me and not setting me up to fail.

I still had butterflies quivering in my tummy, with butterflies of their own in their stomachs, but it was reassuring that my mum told me that she was going to throw me some easier games to begin with. I wasn’t thinking about the long term – my plan immediately shifted to dragging ass through the easy bits today so that eventually she’d be off to the pub and I’d get through this with minimal shame.

“We won’t be keeping score and you’ll win some, you’ll lose many – we’ve been playing far longer and we know all the little tricks and bits that work. This is more to learn how the games are played, but don’t think to run out the clock by stalling, Punty. I’ve a long list of games I want to play today and whatever we don’t do – I’ll see that Fanny puts you through it when I am at the pub.”

“Maybe, we’ll just pop down for a pint or two and play there,” Fanny grinned.

I began to get the inkling that my mother was inside my head. She had guessed my strategy without even scratching her head.

“Punty, I am a girl just like you – same slit between my legs you have,” Mum said.

“Your gash just has a might more miles on it than Punty does,” Dad joked – and even Mum laughed.

“As I was saying,” she got serious again. “I have already tried all the sneaky, underhanded things you may want to try and a few things you haven’t even thought of and your sisters thought to do the same when I told them they were playing whether they liked it or not as well,” she assured me.

“Callie and Taffy have always played the games,” I shrugged.

“Yeah, since they were wee, but there have been times they said they didn’t want to have at it, maybe it was rainy or they were on their time of the month, or they had a hot date, and I’m not having it. It’s like being part of a sports team. If you are a starter for the club, you can’t just decide to call in and tell them to cancel the game. The fans, the other players, they all came to play, and the show must go on. If I had to wait and reschedule every time your sisters said they had a stomach ache or broke a nail, we’d never play.”

“As I recall, you’ve also had times when you needed a swift kick in the arse to get up and play,” Fanny reminded my mum.

“Aye, when I was their age,” Mum admitted. “You were relentless and made us crack on. You told us we’d have fun whether we liked it or not.”

“I wasn’t the ruthless bitch you make me out to be,” Fanny acted like she wasn’t the least bit concerned if my mom painted her as one, anyway. “I just wasn’t going to have lazy twats lounging about the house. You’ve evolved the games completely different from how we used to play back then anyway,” she smiled with pride. “I am talking about you wanting to take a break more recently, Mags.”

Mum blinked hard and let out a sharp “Caw,” like she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. Her hand hovered near her chest like she was deciding whether to clutch her pearls or throttle someone. “Are you talking about my birthday? Yeah, I didn’t want to take the cake directly in my face and be teased for my thirty-ninth birthday!”

My mum’s games transform on holidays like Boxing Day and birthdays. The tradition is that she receives bawdy gag gifts and gets spanked once for every year she’s celebrating by everyone at the party. Then it ends with someone smashing the birthday cake in her face and making her eat it anyway. It’s always done tongue in cheek and Mum usually laughs the loudest of anyone at the party.

It was a surprise to learn she wanted to change it up, as it’s been that way for as long as I can recall.

“There’s always the next time you turn thirty-nine, love,” Dad said. From what I understand, Mum used to say she was twenty-nine until that got too silly, and now she just says thirty-nine every year. I’d guess she was about forty-five, but I doubt even she knows. Anytime someone asks her age, she says she just turned thirty-nine.

“The next time you tell me you aren’t up for the games, I’ll remind you that you are playing whether you like it or not,” Mum laughed dismissively at her mother.

“Aye, taps aff, tits up, tails out!” my gran said like she was reciting a chant from the British Royal Marines. My sisters and mum answered her back in unison.

“That settles it then, we crack on, everybody plays, nobody quits,” Mum looked at me to indicate she meant me as well. I have to admit that a part of me felt a swelling of pride that I’d come of age to be included in the games and that they wanted me to participate.

I’d grown so used to being chosen last for teams in girl sports in physical education, and overlooked by handsome boys who would rather a girl with a little more up top and a less plain face, that it was nice to be chosen.

I also had to admit to myself that unless Mum had made a big deal of confronting me, I’d have been happy to quietly sit with the boys on the sidelines and ignore most of their antics and spectacles. I really didn’t even know all the rules, even though it was a big part of our family’s daily life.

“If you win a few games today, it’ll just be for bragging rights. I don’t want to introduce consequences and winnings until you know the point of it all, and you won’t do that until you’ve tried a few different games.”

I nodded – even though I didn’t fully understand what my mother meant.

““We’ll start with something easy—something gentle to get your tiny little bum warmed up,” she smirked, reaching round and giving my backside a pinch. I flinched, more surprised than hurt, and she rolled her eyes like I was being precious.

“Pinches on the bum and cheeky gooses—you’ll have to get used to that as you fill out,” she muttered.

I mumbled something about having been goosed before—at school.

My sisters looked at each other, unimpressed and largely unsympathetic because they put up with much more inappropriate gropes and butt pinches than I did. I must’ve sounded pathetic, because I’m sure they had lads brushing past them all the time between classes, trying to cop a feel. Me? Not so much.

Mum turned to our brothers, both of them still nursing their mugs like kings after a feast. They were grinning, and why wouldn’t they be? They never had to take part in these daft games—just sit back and watch while the girls got roped in. Now, with me dragged into the morning lineup, I was officially part of the entertainment. My stomach started doing somersaults, and my legs itched to bolt as Mum opened her mouth.

I caught the look on their faces—more curious than cocky. Usually, Mum ignored them during the antics. We never went out of our way to hide from them, but it was never for their benefit either. We were just girls being girls. They got to observe without consequence, and we got to pretend we didn’t care they were looking.

“You two can play as well,” she said, flicking the words off her tongue like it was nothing.

“What? You said this was for girls,” Simon squawked.

Pod groaned louder, throwing his head back like she’d told him to squeeze into a tutu and dance Swan Lake over a pit of flames.

Mum raised one eyebrow. “I’m sure you’ve goosed your share of girls in the halls at the Heath.”

They didn’t answer. Pod tried to swallow down a grin, his ears already red and climbing. Simon gave a nervous little snort and buried his face in his mug, like the rim might save him. He fidgeted in his chair, knees knocking together.

“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter,” Dad said from behind his paper. He didn’t even glance up, just gave a dry chuckle. “Every lad your age has copped a feel in the corridors. It’s the law of nature.”

He said it like it was nothing shameful, just a fact of life. Not encouragement, exactly—but not disapproval either. The kind of tone that told you not to get caught, but he’d still pat your back if you did.

Mum, already standing, clicked her tongue and gave her hips a twist like she was limbering up for a dance class. The robe swayed open just a bit, the hem brushing her thighs.

“Right then. While we girls clear the tea and tidy the kitchen, the lot of you can have a go. And not just Punty—fair’s fair. All girls get the same treatment. Pinches, gooses, cheeky brushes. But make it slick. None of this gorilla-grip bollocks.” She paused, fluttering her eyelashes in mock innocence. “Treat us like dainty little tarts in the school canteen with trembling lips and legs too long for their skirts.”

She spun, pointing a lazy finger round the table at Dad and the boys.

“Your goal is to make us squirm. Maybe let out a grunt. But sweet bleeding jackpot if you can get one of us close to slapping you. That’s the real win. Only rule is we’ve got to pretend like nothing’s happening. Rinse the mugs, act sweet, not a peep about what cheeky little pigs you’re being. Then we’ll judge who pulled it off best.”

She raised one leg slightly and smacked her own arse—solid, sharp, like the crack of a starting pistol.

“Wait,” Simon blurted. “Are you going to wear knickers?”

“I’ve got none on,” Mum said, casual as air. She tugged her robe open at the front, flashing tuft and tit like she was showing off a new belt buckle. “But you knew that.”

Pod sat forward, all performance now. “Yeah, but Baps and Taffy are wearing them tight scrunchy shorts, right? And who knows what iron fortress Punty’s got wedged between her thighs—Fanny and you are wrapped up like blooming presents. Can’t get our fingers under anything. That’s bollocks.”

He acted like it was a proper inconvenience, like someone had asked him to do brain surgery with oven mitts.

“Lad’s got a point,” Dad said, lowering the paper. He was laughing silent, shoulders bouncing up and down like that wheezy cartoon dog, Mutley. His lip curled back like he was trying not to let the laugh out but couldn’t stop it from shaking him.

Mum gave her arse another sharp smack—louder this time, like a judge bringing down a gavel. “Right then. Shorts down or off, I don’t care which—but no half measure, but no covering. If they’re still clinging to your thighs, yank ’em right off. I want cheeks out, tails up. Proper bare-arsed and that includes you as well Punty.”

Taffy groaned but peeled her tight green shorts down anyway, letting them drop around her ankles and revealing she wasn’t wearing knickers. She had a tight row of pubic hair above her slit, but otherwise she was completely exposed. I’d seen my sister’s vagina so many times in the past I could describe it to a police sketch artist from memory.

Baps took her time, tugging hers down with a dramatic sigh, like she was expecting someone to beg her not to. No one did. Her shorts were tighter than sense, and it took some real wiggling to peel them off her thick hips. Once they dropped to her thighs, she gave her arse a bounce—maybe hoping the jiggle would earn her some mercy. It didn’t.

“Fanny, you and I can just let the robes hang open,” Mum said simply, not even glancing down as hers parted again, tits and bush fully on display like it was second nature. She’d stood bollock naked in the kitchen more times than I could count, so it was hardly shocking—but it still felt a bit rich that she got to dangle her bits in peace while I had to strip bare from the waist down. If I ever pointed that out, Mum would just laugh and tell me life wasn’t fair.

“Oi, are those my knickers you’ve got on?” Taffy barked, face flushing—not with shame for being half-naked, but pure rage.

Baps didn’t flinch. She just shrugged, eyes blank with boredom. “These are so ugly, why would you care if I wear them?”

“They’re mine, that’s why! And I don’t want your fat arse skidding them up or stretching them out! Didn’t you just give me grief because I wore your new pair out with Marty Bimble?”

“That was different,” Baps snapped. “Marty was into me. And those were twenty-quid silk knickers, not some Tesco throw-aways I’ve got wrapped round my beaver right now.”

Mum gave her arse another solid smack through the robe she wore half open—crack—loud enough to make us all flinch. “There. That’s the sound I’ll make on your flabby arses when this is all done if you don’t stop your back-and-forth bitching about whose panties are whose! I can’t keep up with the laundry wars! It’s tails up, Stow it until later, girls, and try to be a good role model for your little sister!”

Baps and Taffy initially ignored our mum, and it quickly became less about stolen panties, and it was obvious that Baps liked Marty but he liked our older sister better. However, to hear Taffy’s side, Baps wanted Marty to make Barry Brimble mad with jealousy because she really liked him, and Marty was just a stepping stone, which Baps didn’t deny.

“Honestly, you two are more trouble than you are worth. I’d sort you out if I had the will and the time,” she promised. Mum said that often, but despite being strict with me today about playing Tails Up, her bark was far worse than her bite. She’d promise a spanking but never deliver and my sisters often took advantage of that because they knew it.

“What’s it matter, Taff? I am taking them off, and you can have them back after! We share a bedroom and a dresser – it was an honest mistake,” Baps offered an olive branch and tried to defuse the argument.

“You are full of biscuits, Callie-Baps! You knew they were not yours, doesn’t matter if we share a panty drawer,” Taffy got in the last word but her anger fizzled as both of them began to step out of their shorts completely.

I was still dressed, working up the courage to ask if I could wear my joggers without knickers. I had an incredibly hairy minge and hadn’t groomed in a long time. I wasn’t a nun, I knew boys and got around a bit, but I didn’t have anyone steady, and I was too shy to go out like my older sisters did with anyone with a car and a little bit of money.

“Fran, you and I can just hang our robes open,” Mum let her robe hang open in the front – reinforcing her double standard for her daughters and chiding me because I wasn’t bare ass enough. “No, you can’t just keep your joggers on, minge out – don’t care if it’s hairy or not,” it was as if she was reading my mind. “Let’s test your grope tolerance – put a smile on, behave, pretend not to notice – fingers and fingers, doesn’t matter whose they are.”


Mum bent slightly to give the boys an eyeful of her arse and unbothered bush but waited for all of us to be bottomless before she’d clear a dish on the table. “Right, lads. You’ve got until the table’s cleared and the dishes are rinsed to sneak in your best cheeky grabs. But do it like you’re in line for sausage rolls at the school canteen—not like you’re trying to wrestle a pig. If you make one of us squeal, that’s your win. Any questions?”

“I don’t recall being told I could ask questions about playing the game,” I interjected while taking my time removing the jogging pants..I might have to take them off, but I theorized that if I did it slowly, that was less time I had to play the game today, and eventually my mum would have to go to Wellington to open it up.

“It didn’t stop you from asking, though, did it? It’s your brothers’ turn to ask a few,” Mum said firmly before adding, “Stalling won’t shorten the games, I’ll leave Fran in charge to keep it going until I get back,” she promised – my mother was reading my mind and knew what I was plotting.

I realized later that my mum probably just saw that I was moving in slow motion and added it up – she was infinitely clever that way and was always one step ahead of my sisters as well.

“Ignore your sisters’ squawking, it makes them feel powerful when their bits are on display because they think they are the show- I’ll take em out after this to run the block and it’ll help remind them not to run their mouths,” Mum offered cheekily to my brothers and asked politely if they had any questions about the request.

“If we’re meant to sneak in a proper goose, it’d be a laugh if you birds had your shorts tangled round your ankle. We could watch you stumble and shuffle about and keep your balance while pretending nothing’s going on -and it’d make it tougher to dodge,” my mild-mannered, often quiet and shy little brother Simon suggested cooly.

My little brother pushed his glasses by the rim up the bridge of his nose and asked if that was alright in the awkward silence that followed. Everyone was caught off guard. Simon rarely talked about anything other than kites, frogs, butterflies, computers, science fiction, drawing, and imaginary adventures.

Taffy huffed and shot our little brother with the evil eye. She and Simon had a strange relationship. As the eldest of the family, she really didn’t know Simon all that well and still thought of him as a helpless baby. When she was left in charge while our parents were out, she’d call him Wormlet, Skids, Bumble, Dampnut, and other far from complimentary nicknames, but nothing stuck.

In case you hadn’t noticed, everyone else in the family, from my Nan to me, has a nickname as a term of endearment. I’ve also been called Peg, Pegs, Peggo, Peglet, Piggy, Piggo, Pagger,and Pugsy by my siblings, but it’s done out of love – it’s just our strange sense of humor.

I don’t fully recall how I got Punty to stick. I was told that the origin of my nickname was when I was barely out of nappies, I went about holding out my hand to every geezer in the Wellington for a coin or a crisp. My Nan was working there with my mum back then. I was told someone said ‘Oi, cheeky wee punter you are,’ as they handed me a packet of crisps.

I’ve suspected for a long time that my Nan just doesn’t remember the real reason, and she has a tendency to embellish cute little stories like that, sometimes merging in bits and ends from something she watched on telly. In any case, my nickname is pretty much set, and like it or not, that’s the one I’ve got.

Nothing really sticks to Simon and perhaps good for him – I’d rather Punty than be called wormlet. In any case, Taff loves him dearly but she also seems to resent him getting special treatment even though she doesn’t come out with it.

Baps was still working on getting the shorts down around her thighs. I had my joggers around my knees and started to take them off before Mum could agree with him hurriedly. It seemed ludicrous that she would. She barely seemed to register that Simon had said anything at all which was classic Cassie-Baps.

If Taffy resented my little brother, Cassie saw him just as invisible as I was. He and Pod shared the smallest room in the house – which was really just a space under the stairwell. It was meant more as a den or an office without even so much as a closet.

My little brother was either in his room reading, or outside flying kites and chasing after frogs and none of that interested Taffy or Cassie. It didn’t interest anyone else in the family, even his older brother Pod.

Pod already had his own social life, chasing girls, mucking about with his mates, and he’d long outgrown the days of sticking one of Mum’s pots on his head and playing King Arthur down by the Mersey with Simon.
I knew Simon was brainy in that bookish sort of way, but he came off a bit daft, quiet and naïve. You’d think since we probably had that in common we’d have been close, but I hardly spoke to him and knew him far less than I did my sisters, since we shared a room.

No one was more shocked than my mother that Simon had the audacity to recommend we wrap our shorts around our ankles and be made to stumble about. I’d never seen my sisters have to do that during the games, but it wouldn’t have shocked me so much if they had..

A big part of Tails Out always seemed to come down to who was willing to humiliate themselves and act like the biggest bimbo of the bunch. I’d never fully understood the point of it all but stumble-bumbling about with their shorts down around their ankles fit perfectly in the theme of the games.

What truly surprised most of us was that Simon had made a suggestion at all.

In all the years that I’ve been watching the game play out around the house, Pod and Simon usually sat on the sidelines like a couple of joking Magpies. They reminded me of Statler and Waldorf, mocking the Muppet Show from the balcony week after week, but never contributing to it.

If you asked them why they kept going even though they didn’t quite like the show, Statler and Waldorf would remind the audience that, as Muppets, they are bolted to the chairs and literally can’t leave.

In Simon and Pod’s case, just as I was never asked my opinion of what the others should do, they were never asked and never made suggestions. My father may make the odd joke or request when his mates are over, but usually the girls play it by themselves, and everyone else is just a passive observer.

That doesn’t mean they don’t participate at all. My brothers could tell the tea strumpet how much milk and sugar they wanted in their tea, and what sort of cheese, toast and jams they wanted on the side. They often helped judge the contests the girls had to determine who did it the best.

If they’d made a suggestion, I assumed Mum would politely tell them that this isn’t their game, they don’t know the rules, and crack on with it the same way a referee wouldn’t let some tosser in the stands tell them to change the rules of football.

“If that’s alright? You said you wanted us to participate,” Simon offered apologetically during the stunned silence that followed his recommendation. “You told us you wanted to participate in this one,” he reminded her as if he were defending the reason he said anything at all.

“Aye, I did,” Mum seemed impressed. She was impressed with almost anything Simon did. He loved to draw, and he was a fair artist, but he wasn’t anything special. He liked to draw elaborate three-point perspective space stations and elaborate maps of a fantasy world he explored in his mind.

Mum would treat it like Michelangelo painted it for his mum and hang it on the fridge. I’d never earned a spot up there when I used to draw; I never even asked to be considered for my drawing to be displayed.

Mum looked at her own mother with raised eyebrows as if soliciting a suggestion from her on how to respond to my little brother. I didn’t’ think much of it at the time because I was stripping down for the first time in front of my entire family.

I had to share the loo with my sisters a lot because we all needed it to get ready for school, but this was a first for me.

“I think it’s a proper idea,” Fanny Boo said as if she knew my mother did as well. “The girls should tie their shorts and joggers around their ankles and give the boys a little sport. They ARE participating after all,” My Nan added with a wicked grin.

“When I say participate, it’s to do what boys do naturally, like play a little grab arse. I want to know how Punty handles a little good-natured ass tickle or pinch before I cart her off to a busy shop or café this afternoon, and she lets out a yell and slaps the snot out of some dirty old geezer because he gave her a pinch on the bum.”

I should have been offended that my mum was suggesting I didn’t ordinarily get pinched, but I understood. My sisters dressed very provocatively and a lot their games involved making it easy for men to have a gander at what was under their skirts.

“I thought the whole idea was for you to be embarrassed anyway, Mum. You’ll be humiliated just taking Punty out without any knickers because she’s all skin and bones and knees and elbows,” Pod’s quip landed flat with our mother.

She’s her golden boy, but she was quite short of patience with him for some reason but remained affable and polite – even if just barely. “You are doing your sister a favor today, giving her a chance to practice before she’s out in public – so go at her like they would. She can scream her fool head off here, and get the initial shock out of her system.”

“You're welcome, Sis,” Pod teased playfully. I know he meant it to be a soft-hearted joke, but it came across so outrageously cocky that he’d think I’d thank him for tickling my fanny and goosing me.

I didn’t reply, and Mum didn’t make me actually express gratitude. I was already humiliated enough that I didn’t think I could be any more mortified.

Instead, My Mum thanked Simon for his suggestion and admitted that he had a very novel idea. “I wouldn’t have thought of that, well done.”

Mum turned to us, stone-faced, and instructed “You heard your little brother. You girls are to tie your bottoms around your ankles tightly. If they pop off while you are sneaking about around the table, then I’d consider that a loss of grace.”

I wasn’t sure what a loss of grace meant, but I assumed it was a point off.

Then, perhaps just as a polite formality, she asked Simon if he had any other requests.

“Well, you and Fanny Boo should have to do it as well. You are girls after all,” Simon said. It was so audacious, and there was no hesitation in Simon’s voice. Mum’s eyes flashed with anger – she played the games but she took no shit from any of us.

“I haven’t been a girl since you were a squirt dripping down Mags leg after your daddy forgot to pull out,” Fanny seemed amused and perhaps even curious. She opened her robe and invited him to see that under the blue top she wore, she had no bottoms.

“I don’t have anything to wrap around my ankles,” Fanny shrugged, as if that was the end of the request.

“Take an egg from the crisper box and hold it between your knees, that will have the same impact,” Simon suggested firmly. I’m sure most of my family thought he was naïve and quiet, so the fact that he had been so tenacious seemed to amuse our Nan and not offend her.

“I’m game,” Fanny said, starting to shrug off her robe. “I’ll take the whole thing off and manage an egg between my knees. I’ve got no modesty and you’ve all seen my bare arse plenty of times,” she added, now standing there in just a light blue sleep top. Her hard nipples poked straight through the material.

“Fanny, I don’t want the boys making rules for us,” Mum snapped, hands on her hips while her robe hung open in the front.

“What’s the matter, Mags? Are you chicken?” Fanny pulled two eggs from the fridge and tossed one to my mum. “Scared it’ll hatch and show you up? Or worried you’ll crack and dribble yolk down your thigh before the lads get a proper grab?”

That’s all that it took to goad my mum into playing along as well. She caught the egg gingerly and began to remove her robe.

Taffy wasn’t content to just let things lie, though. She was used to being the center of attention, and she had been bottomless and waiting for the game to begin for a few minutes, so she was already bored. I could tell from my older sister’s body language that she didn’t want to admit that she resented Simon getting credit for an idea.

“You are the one who invited Simon and Pod to play All in, right? You’ve got Punty over here with her minge so thick that it is casting shade on her knees, may as well have Pod since they are the same age and Simon’s not far from them,” Taffy said sarcastically. Callie-Baps covered her mouth and had a great laugh at my expense.

it was odd to see my sister be critical of our mum. She was usually her biggest cheerleader and supporter, so I quite liked the rebellion even though I was blushing now that everyone was taking a gander at my thick, black pubic hair. I covered it with my hands.

“Hands off the gash,” Mum chided me and told me that was a big no-no. “You aren’t going to hide it, anyway. It looks a bit like you’ve smuggled a wee guinea pig in your joggers, Punty. Your hand and all the gasping and gnashing of teeth just draws more attention. You’ll shave it down some after we finish. What’s growing between your legs is a proper mess, innit? How do you even find your clit in all that tangle?”

I grew increasingly mortified and wanted to shrink as I resisted the urge to hide my pussy with my hands.

Mum took off her robe quietly and confidently and then told the three of us to each grab an egg and hold it between our knees after we finish tying off our ankles. I felt strongly that it was punitive because Taffy had dared to question her decision to take Pod’s recommendation.

“This is a game for girls, even your father doesn’t really participate,” Mum said directly to Taffy. “Since you are so interested in fairness, Simon said all the girls have to grab an egg and hold it between your knees. Let it fall and crack on the floor, and you’ll be bending over to clean up your mess while the goosing continues.”

Taffy was frustrated and a little infuriated, but she didn’t argue. She squatted down and tied the stretchy shorts she was wearing tightly around her ankles.

“I am not sure what’s gotten into you, Taff. That you are questioning my decisions, but keep it up and see where else I’ll make you hold an egg,” Mum insinuated it would be in a far more personal and embarrassing place.

Pod decided to offer a suggestion of his own. I wasn’t sure if he was joking or just trying to pile on, but he pursed his lips into a playfully cavalier smile while curving two fingers together in a swooping motion. “How about pop another egg in their mouths so they can cuss us or yell at us for giving them the old two finger?”

“Brilliant, Pod. Are you going to want to have Mum cook you up the eggs after they’ve been in our mouths?” Taffy made a catty face, stuck out her tongue at him, and pretended to toss an egg at his head as she retrieved it from the fridge after waddling over from across the kitchen. “How do you want yours? Scrambled like your brains, I presume?”


“Taff, where is this coming from?” Mum wasn’t having any of it. “I tolerate you bickering with your sisters and brothers most of the time because it’s exhausting to act as referee and judge of who absconded with your favorite pair of undies. It’d be a full-time job just to manage all the conflicts and resolve them.”

“Sorry, Mumsie, it’s just, are you really going to let Simon and Pod start dashing off decrees and stipulations while we try to play? What about when you aren’t home? I barely get the boys to listen to me now. They’ll be inconsolable if they can pop an egg in my mouth anytime I have to say boo to them.”

Taffy rarely called our mother Mumsie unless she was trying to butter her up for something. I think Mum knew that and didn’t care for it. I also noticed how uncomfortable Taffy was with our brother's participation, while Baps and I stood quietly with our bottoms wrapped around our ankles, waiting to receive an egg from the fridge for our knees.

[EddieDavidson]

I joined the line right behind her, knees tight, egg gripped between my thighs like it was going to hatch if I let it go. I was worried that my brothers could see my butthole from behind because I often saw Cassie-Baps asshole peeking out between her butt cheeks when she was nude.

The other ladies in the house has a tendency to keep that hidden when they walked but there was no way to keep your modesty when you bend at the waist. I clenched my ass cheeks tight and dipped low to collect a half-eaten plate of cheese near Pod’s side of the table without knocking my egg loose. My knees wobbled from clenching too hard and I nearly tripped over a stray spoon.

“Watch it, twinkle toes,” Pod instinctively reached out to steady me, but his hand landed right at the base of my back. I cringed at my brother’s touch. It wasn’t’ the shock, it was that it felt good and I wasn’t ready for that.

Involuntary waves of lusty pleasure ran through my body due to the unexpected touch, followed by the tremendous weight of guilt knowing it was my own brother.

My sisters often performed dares with one another that got cheeky enough that they touched nipples, or kissed on the lips. We never really considered that incest because they’d be playing together for so long that it seemed quite natural.

My mum used to joke that it used worked for the royals to marry off cousins and sisters – but I never paid much attention to those jokes until I felt a sudden dampness rise in my crotch unexpectedly.

This was the worst- I was wet involuntarily, and there would be no way I could completely hide it now that I was naked. It was just a matter of time before I became drippy enough that someone noticed and called me a horny git.

My cheeks were flush with embarrassment, not only from the wobble and near tumble but because I knew I shouldn’t get that excited from just a single touch.

The feeling of being almost completely nude in the kitchen was new for me, and it was sending my pulse racing whether I wanted it to happen or not.

Simon’s eyes connected with mine to silently ask if I minded if he pinched my bum. I nodded gently, and he gave me the slightest pinch on the center of my butt cheek. It didn’t hurt, nor did it turn me on.

I was thankful for that much. I’d feel like a proper slutty whore if both of my brothers turned me on at the same time.

Neither of them said anything as I continued my slow procession forward. Mum fell in behind me, and while I kept my eyes forward, it became obvious that they politely pinched her butt as she made her way around the table unencumbered by something wrapped around her ankles.

Mum walked slowly enough that the rest of us could shamble along at a slow pace with her.

Fanny was up next. She tried her best to present her quim to receive the same kind of goosing that Pod had intended for our eldest sister. I wasn’t sure if it was just because Pod didn’t fancy our Nan enough to do it, or if he was put off the entire thing after the confrontation with Taffy but Fanny sighed in frustration.

Simon and Pod simultaneously reached up and pinched her nipples and gave them a twist. I turned my head in time to see my Nan squee with joy while holding the big white egg in her mouth like a gopher carrying off a golf ball.

The Music washed away the memory of the awkward confrontation and soon we were bopping our heads and making a second rotation. We placed the dishes we carried into the sink and continued on in a circlular pattern around the table.

My father gave me a huge grin as he watched me pass by, but his hands were folded across the table, and he made it clear he was passively observing, not participating. He seldom ever did more than smile and watch.


Slip and slide in your wet delight, feel the blood flow
Not too fast, don't be slow, my love's in your hands
I'm a man, I'm a boy
I'm a man, well, I'm your mother
Yes, I'm a man, I'm a one-night stand
I'm a man, am I bi?
I'm a man, I'm a slave

Pod let paused it there and we froze in place, smirks on our faces, the memory of an argument now completely forgotten.

Baps stood flat footed in front of Pod, her big ass near his face. She bent over without a second thought for her modesty and presented her parted ass cheeks. We’d all seen her great bum crack before, and Pod barely glanced -showing no interest in it.

My sister didn’t seem to care or give a second thought to whether or not Pod was staring at her – even though I knew she thrived on attention. Any kind of attention seemed to thrill her.

She scavenged a mug that had been abandoned near Simon’s elbow and gave it a sniff, eyebrows raised while holding her lips closed around the egg.

She pushed the white shell out enough to manage a mumbled request to have finish the tea. “I’m not sure whose tea this was, but there’s a bit left in it. Alright to finish it off?”

“Cold tea?” Pod spoke directly into her bum because it was face level with him as he sat in the chair.

She stood up and gave one of her massive jugs a scratch – forcing it to jiggle as she itched herself. “No point in wasting it,” she countered.

It wasn’t that Baps was a tea-fiend like my Mum and Nan. They had to have their tea three times a day or they would be cranky all day. Baps didn’t beg or squee like an excited bimbo. She was a full-figured rugby player with a fast metabolism, broad shoulders, and big jugs. She loved to eat, and she’d eat just about anything.

I knew she liked tea but I’d never seen her ask for the last dribbles in the cup before. If it was embarrassing to her, she didn’t let on.

Fanny Boo cackled an answer from the far end of the table, still bent halfway over, arse out. “Course you can, love—just don’t use your bloody hands. Lap it like the greedy mutt you are.”

Our Nan was obviously being facetious and a little raunchy about it to have a bit of fun.

Baps tipped her head back, egg still lodged in her throat, and gave the bottom of the mug another sniff like she was seriously weighing up how she might lap up the tea. She jutted her chin at Mum to suggest that she’d be willing to go that far for the contents of the mug.

“If you don’t mind,” Simon politely seemed to ask both his older sister Baps and our mother if he could make another recommendation. I don’t think it dawned on him that Taffy was already seething the moment he opened up his mouth. “Baps could transfer the egg to her thighs,” he looked between my sister’s legs just at eye level to her pussy and measured the short distance with his eyes. “She could lap up the tea while Pod and I goose her.”

Pod quickly added that it would keep the game going, but before my mother could answer, Taffy spat her egg out into her hand.

“Great. There go the rule-makers again to solve another problem that’s never existed. Mum said quite clearly Girls can’t have tea, you lard-arses.” Taffy huffed and placed the egg back in her gob.

That sounded much more like the Taffy that I expected -she could be a giggly bimbo but she could also be a harsh little bitch with my brothers and an enforcer of my mother’s will.

“I never said you can’t have the leavings of the tea after everybody else had theirs,” Mum seemed mildly amused by the idea. “Only problem is you aren’t goosing us. It’s like you are afraid our butts will bite you.”

Baps found that grossly amusing, and the others had a mild laugh, while she bounced slightly on her heels and made a biting sound while sucking on the egg. She had to reach down and hold the egg between her knees so it didn’t accidentally fall.

“After Taffy nearly snapped their necks for daring to give her a proper goose, we’ll all pay a bit of the price because the lads are afraid to piss us off,” Fanny observed.

“It’s always my fault,” Taffy frowned and said that was water under the bridge. “I gave them a free shot to do as they will – when I pass by they can play tic tac toe with my taco for all I care -after all, it’s just fingers,” Taff added with a trace of passively aggressive sarcasm.

“They can play tic tac toe on your taco because I asked them to help us out and you’ve a pissy little pink taco that’s been scratched, plucked, stretched and crossed off enough that it’s not going to be any worse for the wear, but you are making me regret inviting them to play,” Mum admitted.

I thought she’d add that she was just tired of the back-and-forth bickering, but that wasn’t it.

“I don’t like making participating in the game an imposition for the lads. I am sure Simon would rather be out flying his kite or hunting aliens on distant worlds, and Pod could be out mucking around with his mates.”

“What about us, Mum? I’d rather be off getting my taco played with by a lad I fancied,” Taffy said.

“You’ve plenty of time to do that later this evening, Taff. You’ve fuck all to do on Saturday afternoon and you girls know that. Do you think this morning that I was just talking to hear myself natter on when I said that if you play the game, Tails out is a team sport and we are only as strong as our weakest player. All the players have to show up. I am not going to give you the day off on weekends to get plowed and play with half a roster. Everyone is all in or they are out. Are you out?”

I saw Taffy cringe and wilt a little as she shuddered at the thought. It was as if my big sister had a sudden flash of realization that our Mum was asking if she’d give up playing the games entirely.

“If you give up, I’d have nobody to lord my victories over,” Baps mumbled with the egg in her mouth – sounding incredibly silly.

“Well, you’ve no chance of that, Baps. You won’t be rid of me any time soon. I am all-in,” Taffy assured my mum. “I’ve always been all-in, you know that. I just don’t think Pod and Simon should be all-in.”

Pod and Simon appeared crestfallen because my mom agreed with Taffy.

“Taffy, we can talk about it after the game, but I’ve no intention of ever asking your brothers to give up their weekends and evenings to play the game. They’re lads, and they need their freedom to do as they please. It’s a big imposition, and as we’ve learned from this one little Tails Out—they’ve little interest in putting up with five gobshite birds who fight and bicker like slaggy hens in a launderette. They’ll be relieved when we’ve made it through this song and they’re no longer put upon to goose our sweaty bums.”

I was incensed that my mum showed no concern for my time when she decided it was time for me to participate in the game. There was no mention of an imposition, just the forgone conclusion that I’d be one of the five sweaty gobshite birds she was talking about.

I might have spoken up, but I literally had no place to go, no money to spend when I got there, and no friends to speak of to meet up with. There was no handsome lad waiting for me this evening because I was a bit too shy to hunt one down, and all the pretty gals had the cute ones my age locked down.

I would have only managed to prove my mother’s point that we had no place better to be today.

“Actually, if you don’t mind, Mum. This is a lot of fun and I’d rather be here today than anywhere else. I am just a bit like Punty because I’ve never been asked to help before, and I don’t want to upset Taffy or anyone for that matter. You all seem to enjoy the game so much, I just wanted to help,” Simon offered warmly enough that even Taffy couldn’t have been shrewful and bitchy about it.

Mum slipped the egg half-way out with her tongue so she could talk plain. “Bless your little heart, Simon, that’s sweet, but I’m not chaining you to the monkey sluts in this circus. The girls play because they’ve nothing better to do for a laugh and need knocking down a peg.”

I could see how my sisters might be accused of having TOO much self-esteem because they were sometimes a bit stuck on themselves as God’s gift to the lads. I could see how Fanny and my Mum might enjoy a bit of a well-played put-down to humble them. I hardly felt I had to be taken down a notch, or that I was having a laugh.

“You and Pod have things to do on the weekends, and your time is precious. You’ve got the telly, video games, whatever you fancy out in the woods, chasing after butterflies and frogs, and your lad has your own bikes. We’ve got to borrow them when we want to pop off to Tesco.”

That was true enough. My brothers had their own bicycles, and my dad did as well but he rarely used his. We had a couple of older bikes with low air in the tires, but none of my sisters or I had a dedicated bicycle for our own personal use.

It was another example of Mum’s idea of gender roles – “We’d have as much use for modesty as we would a bicycle,” she’d tell us.
“You can borrow my bike any time you like, Mum! You don’t have to ask,” Simon assured her.

“Oh no, girls are girls and all girls are equal,” Taffy snickered and reminded my mum of her double standard. “If she doesn’t have to ask then I shouldn’t either,” Taffy assured him.

“You never WANT to ride our bikes,” Pod reminded our eldest sister.

“I don’t have to ride a bike,” she motioned to her beautiful pussy, and added “with one of these – I can get a ride to any place I want to go. It’s just nice to know I can take it if I’ve a sudden wild hair and a need to get some place nearby without trading a little of this for the favor,” she smiled lustily.

“Look, we’ve always asked to use the bikes, and that’s that,” Mum said. She assured my little brother that while she thought he meant well, he didn’t know the trouble he was signing up for, which didn’t fill me with glee because I’d been drafted to the games this afternoon

“So, can I have the tea or not?” Baps had only been half paying attention to the conversation and had been singing a Lily Allen song called “Fuck You” to herself while it continued.

“We’ve drafted the boys to play this round, so they can decide,” Mom said – which made Simon and Pod giddy. “On one condition,” she stipulated. “You don’t pinch the bottoms of girls you actually like the way you’ve been pinching ours. If you want to be invited to play again, then you’ll give us a proper goose and not act like you’ll catch leprosy if you touch our naughty bits when we pass by.”

Simon tried to explain that they were holding back intentionally, but Mum said that she didn’t accept excuses from the girls. “If you were really playing the game then you’d know excuses are like assholes. I’ve no interest in sniffing or tasting yours so keep it to yourself,” she chuckled. “I don’t care for whinging, bickering, excuses, apologies, and lies. If you can prevent me from dealing with any of those, we can talk but AFTER the bloody game.”

“Delighted,” Simon smiled. He reached his hands up to Callie Baps face, and she stared at his fingers for a moment, absently, before she realized he wanted her to spit the egg into his hand. “Lap up the tea like Fanny said – you can clean out the mug.”

I noticed Simon’s happy expression turn to disgust as he felt his older sister’s all over the egg while she slurped and giggled, trying to drink the tea while Simon held the cup up to her face.

“Waste not want not,” Pod snickered. Baps shrugged, clearly unbothered by the tittering laughter.

“All you lot can finish off the plate as you pass by. You’ll pass it to one of us to hold your plate and egg, and finish it off before putting it in the sink and rejoining the line.”

I was surprised no one had a counter or refused. We waited quietly in the silence while Baps finished off the last drops of the cold tea.

Simon held the mug a bit too high at first, and Baps had to stretch her tongue up into it. Her shoulders rolled back, tits forward, tongue lapping at the rim like a dog getting at the last bit of gravy. Fanny gave a low cackle and muttered something about her granddaughter having learned that trick from her.

“I hope that’s not my mug,” Fanny quipped with a smirk. “I used it to put out the ashes to my fag earlier,” she said in a deadpan, raspy voice.

Baps giggled and nearly spilled the tea before showing her tongue to Simon to indicate she had finished it all. He held the egg back to her lips and she sucked it in. Pod started up the Berlin song where it left off, and our slow procession continued shuffling.

This time, Pod stuck a finger between Baps asscheeks and touched her somewhere naughty because her eyes widened in surprise. Pod flashed a devil may care smile at her when she looked over her shoulder.

Baps was turning back around in time to notice Simon reaching out to her clit with his thumb and finger to pinch it – but ever so slowly. She waited for him to do it but he lost his nerve and started to withdraw his hand.

Baps grabbed his wrist, and startled Simon – who thought perhaps this would be another situation like Pod had with Taffy. Except that Baps guided his hand to her clit, and quietly invited him to give it a pinch.

She smiled when he gave it the lightest twist and shifted forward. It was like Baps to be forward like that and generous with her body.

As she started to amble away, Simon’s mild-manners faded abruptly and he quickly grabbed her butt cheeks once her back was turned to him. He pulled them apart as wide as he could and she gave him a cheeky glance over her shoulder while holding her mouth open in mock surprise.

Simon bent forward and blew on her butt cheeks, making a raspberry sound, while bringing his finger up and poking her on the pussy lips.

“Oi, we’ve had our first actual goose today, someone notify Scrooge we’ve got one to hang in the window for Christmas morning,” Fanny laughed.

Baps didn’t seem to mind it a bit. She stumbled forward and even grabbed another dish with a paper napkin while heading toward the kitchen sink.

Taffy was up next, cute smile, bouncy tits, and bright blue eyes but she still had a sinister quality – intimidating. Her arms were loaded with crusty bread ends and a saucer with some half-melted butter on it. I doubt she intended to eat it before the rule was made.

She didn’t beg not to have to do it or make a fuss about it. She bent down at the waist and placed her head above Pod’s hand, ignoring Simon completely and giving him the cold shoulder.

Pod picked up on what Taffy expected and opened his palm flat, so that she could spit the egg she was holding out in her mouth. It took him a moment to realize she was waiting for him to hold the saucer with the bread scraps up so she could eat it.

She sighed with relief when he placed it in her face. “This looks like something you left on the table, Pod,” she observed.

“No, it’s actually mine,” Simon clarified, apologizing for the fact she had to finish off his scraps. “If I’d known we’d have this new rule I would have taken better care not to mush it up.”

Taffy didn’t roll her eyes, but her silence made it seem like she had when she didn’t reply to Simon at all. She looked deliciously sexy even though she was my sister. If I am being objective, she also gave off the impression Taffy might sink her teeth into Pod’s neck and have a bite of his blood if she fancied it.

She had an angel face, but a devilish attitude as she munched the bread and chewed it.

Simon goosed her from behind while she was bent over. My sister calmly flinched but kept chewing while never breaking eye contact with Pod. “Still having fun?” she asked Pod when she finished. She held her mouth open wide and let him see her tonsils – like our eldest sister was offering her mouth as a target he could jerk off on.

“Yeah,” Pod stammered, unable to stop looking down his sister’s throat and watching her pretty wet tongue.

“You can goose me if you want, but I need my egg back and you to start the music so I can keep walking, Pod,” she broke down the instructions as if he were an imbecile.

Pod clicked the remote back on and the music began to play. It was my turn to come before the two of them as I inched forward with my joggers around my ankles. I felt a deep share of fresh humiliation wash over me, and a quickening of my pulse as excitement as my pussy juiced up with fresh musk It was involuntary but I still felt like a naughty nympho who couldn’t control herself as I plodded forward to become the center of attention when I presented what I had in my hands to my brothers.

The music stopped just as I managed to shuffle between the two of them, and everyone else stopped along with it.

I have to admit, the entire game was silly and absurd, and a bit over the top. I’d seen my sisters do things like this plenty of times but never gave it much thought. It was quite another thing to be a participant. I wasn’t sure how to process my feelings about it but it wasn’t torture and it wasn’t fun as I knew it.

The fact of the matter was that I led a boring little life as a nobody who seldom talked to people outside of my immediate circle, and I rarely went anywhere or had any hobbies. I didn’t actually have “fun” the way that Pod and Simon did. It lent a bit of credence to my mum’s belief that girls and guys are just wired differently.

My quim was soaked, my ankles were hobbled but the jogger was starting to fall off. I’d almost lost the egg between my knees a dozen times and was managing to hold it while carrying a clinking set of plates that reeked of fishy water and vinegar. Someone had used it for pickled onions or maybe that weird fish paste Mum sometimes liked. There were crumbs and a weird gelatinous smear that looked like it had already been chewed once and scraped off someone’s tongue.

I stared down at it, then back up at Pod and Simon. I couldn’t say a word, not even half a mumble, not with the egg pressing down against the roof of my mouth. I pointed at the plate with one hand and raised my eyebrows at Mum, then tipped my head slightly toward it as if to ask, “Do I really have to eat this shite?”

Unlike my sisters, I could only speak in total gibberish, and nobody could understand me at all. The whole family had a good laugh while I turned beet red as I tried to repeat myself and had the same result.

I grunted around the egg, trying to whine, but it only came out wet and stupid as I gazed at my brothers in futility..

“Can’t understand you with that in your gob,” Pod pointed out, like that wasn’t obvious. He lounged back in his chair like an idle Prince holding court in his father’s stead, and he was bored with it already.

I turned beet red. The stink from the plate rose right into my nostrils and made my eyes water. It wasn’t going to kill me, but it wasn’t going to be pleasant either. I lifted it toward Simon with one hand, hoping he’d at least wipe it clean or maybe pretend not to see me.

Simon wasn’t sadistic, and neither was Pod. They were just having a laugh. Simon reached up and took my egg. While deciding that we girls would need to bend over and spit the egg out in their hands if we had something to finish on one of the plates or mugs we were carrying.

“Actually, I was going to ask if I had to eat this?” I asked more politely, while glancing over my shoulder at my mother, wondering if it was really up to Pod and Simon. I could relate to Taffy’s concerns that they’d insist we do this again sometime if we encouraged them. I scrunched my nose in disgust and shifted uncomfortably.

As fate would have it, the egg between my knees fell when I shifted and cracked but it didn’t spill everywhere. Taffy began singing “Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,” and Baps joined in playfully adding “Humpty Dumpty had a great fall!” as they laughed at my misfortune.

It wasn’t cruel, on their part – it was more like the were simply laughing because it was better it happened to me than them. I knew I was in for it now, and shame washed over me.

“What do you think, Mum?” Pod asked my mother what my fate would be, and I froze in terror without turning my head to look at her.

“You wanted to solve my problems, and let me be a monkey, now you lads are coming to me the first time you face a decision?”

[t0lstoy]

Another great story! Would love to see more!