That freak was back again! Loitering around in her ugly leather jacket and big black boots... Acting like she owned the place… Probably a dyke, by the look of her. Martha didn’t know why the punk girl had started hanging around in her neighborhood, but she knew one thing for certain—it wasn’t for any good reason! She was probably planning on mugging an old woman, or vandalizing a car, or… or… breaking into someone’s basement and doing a Satanic ritual, heaven forbid!

As the possibilities rolled around Martha’s head, her hand tightened its grip around the curtain, knuckles turning white. No, this wouldn’t do at all. She would have to discuss it with the others at her party tonight. Other neighborhood mothers had seen this girl recently too, and their reports had been the same—a girl with a sideshave and venomous green lipstick, practically declaring a one-woman reign of terror across the entire suburb. This couldn’t wait until next week’s meeting!

“You’re going to tear the curtains down again if you keep yanking at them like that, dear,” Martha’s husband called out from across the room.

“‘Yanking’? Oh, don’t be so crude, Jerry,” the housewife snapped back. She continued before he had a chance to retort. “She is a menace! A menace! I guarantee, if I look away for a single second, she’ll start pulling up my petunias and hiding drugs in the flowerpots.” Her sort loved to do that sort of thing. Martha had seen it on the news.

Jerry’s newspaper rustled as he lowered it, rolling his eyes. “Sweetie, she’s not going to do that. If you want, I can go and ask her to move alon—”

“No!” Martha’s head snapped back, brow furrowing enough that it made her typically pleasant expression take on a sour appearance. “I’ve told you before, people like that are dangerous. They carry guns and knives, and they don’t hesitate to use them! I’m going to call the police.”

“Again?”

“Again. I trust they’ll handle it,” she said, turning back to the window. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw the woman gone, the butt of the cigarette she had been smoking smoldering on the ground. Martha craned her neck, looking up and down the street. “Oh, H-E-double-hockey-sticks! I told you I had to keep an eye on her!”

Bolting to her feet, Martha rushed to the front door, nearly knocking a framed photo of her son from the wall as she did. Her heels clacked furiously against the ground beneath her as she stepped out onto the sidewalk, glancing up and down a street lined with countless identical houses. There was nobody to be seen. Silence, save for a gentle breeze attempting to tousle her hair and the distant sounds of lawn sprinklers.

Martha ground her teeth together. That miscreant always managed to slip away somehow. Probably vaulting fences through backyards, ruining flowerbeds as she went… No respect for the hard work all the good families of the neighborhood put into maintaining their pristine homes… Even just thinking about it made her sick!

While she stood around, silently seething, she noticed a glimpse of a curtain twitch from the Johnsons’ house. Self-consciousness flooded in. Standing out here alone, fists clenched, face scrunched… And with no makeup on, to boot! She probably looked like a ridiculous mess, and she didn’t want to give Birdie Johnson, of all people, any excuse to start gossiping about her, let alone at Martha’s own party. Didn’t she know she was trying to save the neighborhood from a descent into chaos? That woman enjoyed all the benefits of Martha’s hard work keeping the community safe and pleasant, while contributing nothing of her own, that ungrateful…

Deep breaths. Save face.

Martha opened her mailbox and peeked inside, feigning exaggerated disappointment at the lack of deliveries, before turning on her heels and marching back inside. How humiliating… Wandering out into her yard for no reason… If anyone saw her, she would be the laughingstock of the neighborhood!

“Well, thank you very much for that, Jerry. What a help you are!”

Her husband lowered his paper once more and let out an exasperated scoff. “Honey, you told me not to—”

Martha snatched the paper out of his hands, crumpling it up and tossing it aside. “I don’t have time for this, Jerry! Our guests will start arriving in two hours. The wine is still in the basement, you haven’t put the hors d’oeuvres on those trays like I asked, and worst of all, I haven’t even started putting my face on yet! Do you want the Bennetts to think I can’t outdo their pathetic attempt at a get-together? Do you want Wilma Callaway to spend the whole night laughing at us?”

Jerry sat up a little straighter and rubbed his brow; an excuse to block the intensity of Martha’s gaze, without making it obvious. Of course, she knew that little trick of his. But still. Good. That meant he understood the severity of the situation. “No, dearest. I’ll see to it at once.”

Martha waited until Jerry headed off to the kitchen before going upstairs, straightening an askew family portrait as she did. Goodness, she must have looked like such a fool out there... Martha realized she was still scowling as she sat down at her vanity and quickly corrected that—she didn’t want to end up with wrinkles early, of course. She started to apply her makeup. That would calm her.

Primer. Foundation. Blush. It was a routine she must have done thousands of times over the years, never deviating from it once. The last time she had done anything different was her wedding day, although she supposed that was a makeup artist doing that, not her.

Eyeshadow. Eyeliner. Mascara. She skillfully applied each in turn. The products changed from time to time, of course, but that couldn’t be helped—some were discontinued, others were made by companies that ran out of business. So long as they were close enough, it didn’t matter that much

All but one. One she couldn’t do without. Her favorite lipstick. Number 03, Thornless Rose color. A rich, dark red that gave off an air of sophistication. She puckered her lips and traced it along them slowly and precisely, filling the area in with a familiar crimson until they were the most noticeable feature on her face. A few, gentle blots with a tissue later, and she looked perfect.

She went downstairs and poured herself a glass of wine. Tonight’s party was going to be wonderful. The talk of the neighborhood! She just knew it.

_____

The Andersons were the first to arrive. 5:47pm. A little early—their drive from the next town over must have been shorter than they expected. Robert was a doctor specializing in kidneys. Peggy was a housewife.

“Oh, I’m so happy the both of you could make it,” Martha cried as soon as she flung the door open. “It’s been far too long!”

“It’s been, what, four years? Five? I’m just glad you even remembered us enough to send an invite!” Peggy teased. “Where are the boys? They must be so grown up by now!”

“Jerry dropped them off at summer camp on Monday. I love them dearly, but it’s always nice to have a little break from the little rascals.”

“Oh!” Peggy almost seemed surprised. “Goodness… Are they still young enough for that sort of thing? I always forget how old you were when you had those two.” She turned to her husband, clinging to his arm and speaking in a barely hushed tone. “Martha had a terribly hard time conceiving, you see, Robert. We’re the same age, but she didn’t have hers until she was in her thirties.”

Unbelievable. Martha downed her glass of wine as the Andersons wandered off to greet Jerry. That absolute… witch, making a jab like that at Martha’s own party. She didn’t bother correcting Peggy that she was a year older.

The Joneses were next. 6:01pm. Punctual and predictable as always. Jonathan was the pastor at the church Martha and Jerry attended every Sunday. Nancy was a housewife.

“A wonderful sermon on Sunday, Pastor,” Martha said as she shook Jonathan’s hand. “Very inspiring. And Nancy… You look as radiant as always!”

“Oh, thank you, Martha… I just had my hair done yesterday. I would never want to turn up to one of your parties looking any less than my best!”

“Well, it looks wonderful!”

“I can give you my stylist’s number, if you like. He’s, you know, a homosexual…” She gave Jonathan a reassuring pat on the arm as he tutted in disapproval. “But I think he could do wonders for you! Yours looks a little… Overdue, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Oh, really? Do you think so, Nancy?” Martha reached up and brushed her fingers through her hair slightly. “I might take you up on that, you know!”

As the Joneses headed off to get some canapés, she gripped her glass tight and took a heavy sip. She’d had her hair done yesterday, too.

6:09pm. The Bennetts. Thomas was an accountant. Betsy was a housewife. “What a wonderful dress! Have you gained weight, Martha?” she asked. Martha refilled her glass.

6:14pm. The Greens. Richard was a schoolteacher. So was Carol, actually. “Oh, you must come see our new house sometime. It’s much bigger than this one, Martha,” she insisted. Martha took another swig.

6:22pm. The Callaways. Ronald was an architect. Wilma was a housewife. “Ronald is hoping to run for city council next year. We’re really moving up in the world, Martha,” she explained. Martha opened another bottle.

By 7:30, Martha was more than a little tipsy. Not that anyone would know, of course. She was subtle about it. She had only bumped into Nancy Jones twice, though in truth, one of those was on purpose. And she was fairly sure she had been able to brush off the time she mistook Richard Green for Jerry smooth enough.

But even Martha had to admit she could get a bit belligerent when drunk, and it wouldn’t do for a host to insult her guests. No, no. She would have to grin and bear it, and save her most devastating material for someone else’s party. So, she had (very gracefully, if she did say so) snuck away to the garage to take a moment to compose herself after asking Peggy Anderson when her daughter was getting out of rehab. Martha had, for what it was worth, done so after overhearing Peggy describe her as “a bit of a lush,” so it was fair play, though based on the gasps from some of the others, not everyone agreed.

She had been there about ten minutes and was preparing to head back in when Jerry poked his head around the door. “There you are, Martha. I’d been wondering where you wandered off to.”

“Yes, well, I was just having a private moment, if that’s allowed in my own home, Jerry.” She picked the bottle from the floor and refilled her glass. “I didn’t realize this was—"

“Martha, I’m not arguing with you when you’re like this.” Oh, of course. Of course he would act like he was taking the high road! What a waste of skin. “I just wanted to let you know Birdie’s here.”

She immediately perked up. “Birdie? Birdie Johnson? That… That… bitch is turning up this late?”

“Martha! Language!”

“Oh, hush, Jerry!” Martha immediately stepped forward, shoving the bottle into her husband's hand and splashing him from her glass as she barged past. She ignored glances from her guests as she marched past them.

Birdie Johnson didn’t fit in with the others. Birdie Johnson was easy prey. Birdie Johnson would take the heat off her.

“Birdie! Oh, I’m so glad you could make it. I wasn’t certain you’d turn up, considering what a recluse you’ve been since becoming a divorcee, but…” Martha turned the corner into the foyer and cut herself off. Birdie Johnson was there alright, but just behind her was a familiar face. A tall girl, with green hair and green lipstick, dressed in a black leather jacket and jeans.

“Well, I’ll admit, I wasn’t certain, but I figured—”

“I don’t know how you got in here, but you’ll have to leave at once.” Martha’s heart was pounding. Not content to loiter around her house, this… intruder was intruding on her party. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. This was supposed to be Martha’s perfect party, and it seemed everyone was determined to ruin it! “I mean it! I’ll call the police!”

Birdie glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, Martha! Goodness! I see the confusion, but that won’t be necessary. She’s with me. This is my daughter, Willow.” She reached out and patted the stranger on the arm. “I’m sorry about her fashion sense. I tried to tell her to wear something more suitable, but you know how people her age can be.”

“It’s good to see you, Mrs. Taylor.” The woman in leather extended a hand, a wry smile across her face. “I kept telling Mom she should get out of the house more, and I figured it’d be easier if I was here.”

Martha glanced from the hand to Birdie to the other woman and back again, blinking slowly. A laugh bubbled up from her chest, emerging as an unappealing snort. Birdie Johnson was losing her marbles? Delicious. “No, she’s not. You don’t have a daughter, Birdie. Goodness, only 47 years old and your mind is already going.”

“Oh, Martha! You misunderstand! I never used to have a daughter. But I do now!” Birdie wrapped her arm around the stranger’s shoulder, smiling warmly. “She used to be my son. Then she went off to college. Now she’s my precious girl.”

Willow grimaced and rolled her eyes. “Mom. Please. I’ve told you to stop framing it like that so many times now.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie.” Birdie leaned in towards Martha. “I’m still learning how all this works. It’s all new to me. You know how it is.”

Martha’s eyes continued to linger on Willow, glancing up and down and up and down. She tried to process what Birdie was saying. That wasn’t right. That didn’t make any sense. She didn’t look the part, even in such… mannish clothes. How would…? Was it…? No, none of this added up. She would have heard if Birdie Johnson’s son was…

“…You mean your son is a tranny?”

Birdie froze. Willow cocked an eyebrow, folding her arms. The chatter from the living room went utterly silent, followed by scandalized murmuring. It was a hushed whisper, but its constant hissing and droning surrounded her. What was the problem? She wasn’t allowed to say that all of a sudden? She knew for a fact that Carol Green cut off her freak of a cousin for being one. And Pastor Jonathan had decried the practice in church plenty of times. So why was everyone acting like Martha was suddenly the problem for saying it?

She tried to save face. “W-what I mean is… All I was saying is… Nobody had told me that he—”

“She,” Birdie interjected.

“That she… I wasn’t—”

“Hey. Look. It’s whatever, Mrs. Taylor.” Willow reached out and placed a hand on Martha’s shoulder. Far too familiar for her liking. “Go on and say hi to the others, Mom. I’ll join you in a minute.”

“Sweetie, you shouldn’t have to—”

“It’s fine, Mom. Trust me.” Willow smiled gently with her venomous green lips. After a moment, Birdie relented and carried on through to the living room, greeting the others.

Martha waited without a word, hearing the conversation elsewhere resume. The intruder turned her gaze to her, and her heart started pounding. What was this? A threat? An attempt to intimidate her? She wouldn’t stand for it in her own home.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave, ‘Willow,’” she said, mustering all the confidence the wine could grant her. “Your mother can stay, but—”

Willow stepped forward, and Martha instinctively leaped back into a corner, wriggling her shoulder out of the grip holding it.

“I’m not going to apologize for what I’ve said! I—”

A finger, nail tipped with acidic green polish, reached up and hushed Martha. “I don’t need an apology, Mrs. Taylor. ‘Tranny?' Please. I’ve had far worse yelled at me than that.” Her finger slowly trailed down Martha’s chin and soon found itself twirling around the lipstick-stained rim of the wine glass. “It was just the booze talking, right? You didn’t mean anything by it, did you, Mrs. Taylor?”

Martha suddenly realized just how close Willow was. Had her hand not been holding the glass out between them, they would have almost been pressed against one another. Willow raised an eyebrow, as if anticipating a response, her vibrant green eyes gleaming even in this dark corner of the foyer.

It was too much. Too intense. Martha lowered her gaze, watching the finger twirl around and around and around the glass, over and over and over.

“Of course not.” Martha’s upper lip quivered as she held back an audible sneer in her voice. It wasn’t true, obviously. She didn’t think so, at least. But admittedly, it was hard to tell, brain ever so slightly foggy from the drink. It was the answer that kept the peace, so she said what Willow wanted to hear. “But I’m still going to have to ask you to leave!”

“Oh? And why’s that?”

Martha searched her head for an answer, one that would actually work. Her eyes followed the finger twirling around the glass, then glanced past them. Willow’s clothing was scruffy, and quite unladylike. Completely inappropriate for a classy get-together like Martha’s. “You’re not dressed properly. I expect my guests to dress nicely. This…” She tugged at the sleeve of Willow’s jacket. “...looks like you found it in a thrift store, and your lipstick is completely inappropriate.”

Willow’s green lips curled into a smirk. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s too…” Martha searched for the word. Ugly? Weird? “Different.”

“I wasn’t aware there was anything wrong with being 'different.'”

Martha gave an exasperated sigh. “No, what I mean to say is… You don’t fit in here.”

“Because of the lipstick?”

“It’s not just about the lipstick!" Martha insisted. "Just look at the rest of you!"

Martha had been looking at the rest of this ‘Willow’. She couldn't bring herself to meet the intruder’s gaze. Instead, she was following the first movement that had caught her eye: Willow's finger, traveling round and round the rim of the wine glass. Martha's wine glass, clutched in the utterly perplexing colors of that deviant's nail polish. But they weren't red, like the wine. They were green, like her lips. And they traversed the glass like one might apply layers of lipstick in slow, steady circles.

"It’s about…” Martha trailed off. Martha tried to blink away the fog rapidly encroaching on her mind, but the alcohol made it so hard to focus. No matter how much she stared at the freak's finger tracing slow, steady circles around her glass, and tried to think of something else to say, her mind could only conjure Willow's last word: lipstick. "It's about, uh…"

“Being different. I understand.” Willow punctuated the words by wiping away a crimson stain from the glass held in Martha's hand with her thumb. She held it up to show, revealing it was Martha's own lipstick, looking so very pale, dull, and familiar against the background of Willow's venom-green nail. “Red lipstick only, just like everyone else. Anything else is just… different.”

"Yes," Martha breathed. Her eyes had followed Willow's gesture, but she could tell that finger was still making its journey around the other wine glass by the sound it made—its touch ever so light, glancing and spinning around the edge until it produced the quietest, faintest ringing. The tone was as sharp, and certain, and different from the soft muttering of the living room as the green of the girl's lips. "Too different."

“Not like all of them. They wear the same makeup, same clothes, same hair, same misery.”

Martha summoned enough indignity to balk at the claim. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on. This is supposed to be a party.” Willow nodded her head towards the door to the living room. Carol and Betsy, who had been watching, quickly turned away. “Everyone’s just standing around, whispering to each other and glaring at everyone else. There isn’t even any music. I wonder: are you dragging everyone else down to your level of misery, or are they the ones dragging you down?”

Martha resented the accusation. Angry heat battled against the red the wine had already put in her cheeks for prominence. "I don't need to explain how I spend my time to relaxing to some—

"So you'd say you're very relaxed right now," Willow pressed. "Or do you feel… different?"

"I…" Martha started. She wasn't sure how to answer. She knew she was supposed to be, but the day had hardly gone according to plan. She wanted to blame that on 'Ms.' Johnson here, with that incessantly annoying little habit of playing with her glass, but this feeling had started long before. She hadn't felt relaxed, no. She felt…

“Well? Do you?” Willow raised an eyebrow, staring firmly at Martha.

"What?" Martha meant to snap in anger, but felt the word move slower than her thoughts. It came out in a slow, sluggish tone. The result of the wine, no doubt.

"Do you feel relaxed, Mrs. Taylor?"

There was a moment’s hesitation. Of course she was! She had to be. For a host to be miserable at her own party… Well, that wouldn’t be right. And yet…

“Everyone around here seems so on edge. And you more than anyone. Just because they’re like that all the time doesn’t mean you have to be, you know. I’d much rather be ‘different’ than like them. You could be, too.”

"I suppose… they can be a bit… stiff," Martha relented. Anything to end this conversation, running in circles, like the finger around the glass. Like the gossip no doubt already circulating throughout the rest of the room. Like the sound in the air. Like a tube of lipstick gently spreading its color around a set of lips. "I mean… we can be." She was one of them, after all. She wasn't so different as all that.

Willow smirked even wider, like Martha had said something funny. It was an expression terribly unsuited to this sort of party, so of course it fit the color of her mouth perfectly.

“You still seem tense, Mrs. Taylor.” Willow dipped her finger into the wine. “I didn’t do anything to contribute to that, did I?”

Just say what she wanted to hear and she would leave her alone. “No, I—”

“That’s good to hear, Mrs. Taylor. See? You are different from the rest of them. You’re more relaxed. But that’s better.” Her finger resumed its dance around the glass. Even over the conversation from the next room, it seemed to fill Martha’s ears with a hum that drowned out all else.

"No," Martha repeated weakly. "I mean, maybe a bit, but I'm just—

"Relaxed. Different. And that’s better," Willow informed her.

"Yes…" Martha nodded. They were finally getting somewhere! She didn’t want to be different from the rest… But if that was better, then of course she was relaxed.

“And if you say you are, you must be."

Was she?

“I am.” She was. She hadn’t been, but she was now. Her arms were feeling heavy and started to droop slightly. Her grip on the glass became loose, slipping from her fingers, its contents splashing her dress. Willow caught it before it could fall further. Thank goodness—the carpet was spared.

“Then I’m glad we understand each other, Mrs. Taylor.” The faintest ripples danced across the surface of the wine, barely perceptible. Had she not been looking so intently, the surface would have appeared perfectly still to Martha. The hum engulfed them. “Just take it easy. Relax. Have fun. I’m sure you’ll have lots of fun tonight.”

Willow’s finger halted. The ringing stopped. The sound of conversation from the other room filtered in. Martha caught her arms as they were about to drop to her sides, as if stopping herself just before falling off a precipice. The girl smiled, lips curling at the corner of her mouth, and handed the wine glass back. She sucked the wine off her finger and headed into the living room without another word.

Martha blinked. By the time she opened her mouth as if she had something cutting to say, Willow was far out of earshot. Unbelievable! Martha had tried to tell that freak to leave, and somehow, she—no, he—had just… brushed her off. As if it was nothing, in her own home no less!

Martha returned to her party. She got a fresh glass of wine—one a stranger’s fingers hadn’t been all over. She mingled with the other guests. In truth, she said little and heard less. Her eyes were fixed on this ‘Willow’ Johnson, chatting to her guests. Nobody else was happy about this. She could see it on their faces. She knew these people, and none of them would normally put up with this. Cowards.

As Martha refilled her glass and took a large gulp, the Johnsons stepped over to chat with the Andersons. Willow snatched up a mini-quiche and shoved it in her mouth, hardly stopping to talk in the process. Of course Peggy Anderson was going to indulge this nonsense—her mind was always so open her brains could fall out. But even Robert was acting as if this was all normal.

“—and to be honest, I’m surprised. She got over the divorce faster than I expected, don’t you think, Martha?”

She blinked. Her attention was yanked back to the grating voice of Wilma Callaway. She hadn’t been following along at all.

“Hm?”

“Birdie. She’s doing well, all things considered, don’t you think?”

Even Wilma was suddenly Birdie Johnson’s biggest fan. Wonderful.

Martha scowled. “Do you think it was his fault?”

“Nathaniel? I wouldn’t know. I haven’t spoken to him since he left her, and besides, you know I’m not one to gossip about a marriage.” Liar.

“No. Him.” Martha nodded to Willow.

“Martha, please.” Wilma’s tone dropped down to a whisper. “He’s Birdie Johnson’s… kid. Her sister is head of the PTA, you know. Don’t antagonize her.”

“And what about me, Wilma? Why am I a free target to antagonize?” Martha clumsily motioned at herself with her glass, splashing more wine on the carpet. She didn’t care. “I go through ALL the effort to set up this party, and people like YOU spend the whole evening making your stupid little jabs. But then SHE turns up…” The whole room was looking at Martha now. Even Birdie Johnson and Willow. She didn’t care. “And suddenly everyone has to act all NICE and POLITE like SHE’S more important than me? I KNOW you don’t give a shit about her!”

“Martha!” Jerry stepped between her and Wilma, leaning in and speaking quietly. “Right now, you are the one embarrassing both of us. You’ve had more than enough wine for tonight. Go calm yourself down before you say anything else you regret.”

“Oh, fuck you, Gerald,” she hissed, moving to storm off.

Before she could do so, he grabbed her by the elbow. “You are making a scene in front of everyone right now. You are embarrassing our entire family. It’s time for you to stop and cool off for a bit.”

“Says who?”

“Says your husband.” Before Martha could reply, Jerry turned to the room, wrapping a hand around. A few people were staring. Watching. Waiting. “Martha was just saying how we’re running a little low on snacks and was thinking about going to get some more. Is there anyone in a state to drive?”

_____

Good Lord, what a disaster… Martha felt a thumping headache coming on as she leaned against the car window, pinching her brow. Jerry was right. What the heck was she supposed to do after that? Nobody was ever going to come to her parties again. She would be the laughingstock of the whole neighborhood. She had tried so hard to make it all perfect. Everyone else made it look effortless, but she was the one who tried… And what did that get her?

“You okay, Mrs. Taylor?”

Willow turned the steering wheel, and Martha winced as a streetlamp shone directly in her eye. She didn’t dignify her with an answer. She wasn’t in the mood.

Another minute ground by, countless identical houses drifting past the windows, each with their perfect lawns and perfect picket fences. A warm, welcoming glow projected silhouettes from their windows.

“Seems like you’re having a rough night.”

“Yes. I wonder why.” Martha had no interest in talking with someone like Willow. Jerry would be sleeping on the couch for a week for this.

“Well. Your little crash-out almost made it seem like it’s because you exclusively keep the company of people who can’t stand each other.” Willow spoke dryly, not even tinging her voice with a touch of sarcasm. “But I’m sure it was my fault.”

“If you hadn’t… They don’t…” Martha stammered, slurring and tripping over her words. Why should she have to justify herself to Willow? What right did she have to talk like that about her… neighbors? “I work my fingers to the bone keeping that house in order! Cooking and cleaning for Jerry and the kids, making sure everything is perfect for them! Nights like this are the one chance I ever get to relax! You wouldn’t understand what it’s like to be a wife and mother!”

Willow’s fingers drummed idly on the wheel while they waited at an intersection, taking a deep breath and exhaling before speaking again. “Even then, it sounds like it was more work than relaxation. I mean, you did put a lot of work into it, didn’t you?”

“Like I said, I knew you wouldn’t understa—I…” Martha was caught off-guard. She couldn’t believe this was the first and only person to recognize her efforts all night. More mind games, probably. “I… put in the amount of work expected of me. As any good host would.”

“So, what’s relaxing about that?”

Martha knew the answer. She knew what she had wanted out of tonight. If nobody else, she was supposed to get it from Birdie Johnson. A pang of guilt, ever so small and long ignored, jabbed at her heart. “It was supposed to be my night. I was going to… blow off some steam.”

“C’mon… There’s no need to use euphemisms here. It’s just us. You wanted to be the center of attention while still having a chance to gossip and bitch about everyone, didn’t you?” The housewife glanced up, staring. Willow had stated it so matter-of-factly, with no malice in her voice, as if it were as true as the sky being blue. Her eyes didn’t leave the road for a second, but her expression was still perfectly calm. Friendly even. “Guess you didn’t count on them doing the same to you, but what did you expect?”

Martha didn’t know. It was the thing that was done. They all did it. Go to a party. Gossip. Get mean. Get personal. Push as far as you can. Try to make it get to them. Don’t let it get to you when they do the same. She had failed at that, she supposed. She had lost their little game.

Her mouth opened, mind sluggishly trying to formulate a response, when the car jolted to a halt.

“We’re here.”

This wasn’t the store. They were at a house, somewhere outside the confines of Martha’s suburb. Music was booming from inside, and people around Willow’s age were loitering outside. Delinquents. Smoking cigarettes, smoking… something else. Heaven knew how many more were inside.

Martha felt her heart pound in her chest. “This is not what I agreed to. We were going to—”

“I know.” Willow undid her seatbelt and shuffled in close to Martha. “It's just a quick little detour. I’ve got friends expecting me here tonight.. They'll have what we need inside. We can go in, hang out for a bit, and then grab a few things to take back.”

“But I—”

“Mrs. Taylor… I’m trying to help you out here, but I’m gonna look like a major asshole if I don’t show all night, so I’m going in either way. Either come in with me, or you’ll have to find your own way home.”

Martha swallowed. She rarely went out after dark without Jerry accompanying her. She wasn’t sure she could even navigate these streets without a car, let alone all by herself, and she dreaded to think what sort of hooligans might try and stalk this part of town at night.

Even worse, she thought back to her own get-together. No doubt everyone was chatting about what an embarrassment she was. She had no desire to return to that right now. Even her husband, the one who was supposed to support her, had shoved her out the door. Her fists clenched slightly, almost involuntarily.

“Just five minutes, and if you’re not enjoying it, I’ll drive you back,” Willow insisted. “Promise.”

“Fine,” she relented. She tried to think of something to add, something to express her displeasure, but the words got caught in her mouth. She reached out to open the car door, but Willow grabbed her wrist and stopped her.

“Hold on a sec. Your lipstick is a mess. Has been for ages.”

“It is?” Martha tilted the rearview mirror to look. It was. Red was smudged around her mouth from an evening of increasingly careless drinking, while forgetting to mind her appearance or slip away to touch up her makeup. Goodness knew how long she had looked like this. And none of her so-called neighbors, or even Jerry, had said a thing!

Before she could object, Willow had taken Martha’s jaw in hand and was wiping up the smudged edges with her thumb. It traced around and around and around her lips, torturously slow. When Martha attempted to speak, Willow hushed her. “Just let me. It’ll be easier.”

Willow reached over to the glove compartment and popped it open. Inside were a large number of tubes of lipstick. Each bore a label, ‘Rainbow Party,’ all in different, vibrant colors. Rather than taking one, she grabbed a handful and shoved them in her jacket pocket, leaving only the red between her fingers.

The cap came off with a loud click. It was a shade of crimson so bright it was outright garish… lurid, even. The kind of color that… unwholesome women wore. The sort that carried connotations. Martha pulled back a little. “Excuse me! That’s not a shade I would ever wear,” Martha insisted. “It wouldn’t suit me at all. Do you want me to look like a—"

“Oh, come on, Mrs. Taylor. Nobody’s gonna think of you like that.” Willow idly twisted the lipstick up and down, up and down as she spoke. “I mean, I’ve got other colors. Would you prefer orange? Blue?”

No, of course not. Those were ridiculous colors for lipstick.

“Why not try something different for once?”

Martha stared at the vulgar shade. Yes, it was new and unfamiliar. But at the same time, it was vibrant… Daring… Different.

“Okay… Go ahead.” Martha hesitated a moment, then pouted slightly. Her heart pounded in anticipation.

Willow’s lips curled into a smile, and she slowly reached forward. Just as her thumb had, the lipstick began to circle Martha’s mouth, initially with the lightest of touches, but gradually pressing a little firmer. “You know, Mrs. Taylor… Maybe this is why everyone else is able to get their jabs in on you. You’re too predictable. You play it too safe. You’re exactly like the rest of them. So they know exactly how to get under your skin.”

Martha moved to open her mouth and reply, but even as she did, Willow chided her. “Ah, ah! Don’t talk too much. Wouldn’t want to smudge it, would you?”

Martha paused before shaking her head. Her lips slowly returned to their pout, patiently waiting as Willow continued, torturously slowly.

“You don’t want to just be like them, though, do you, Mrs. Taylor?”

She didn’t. “No…”

“Exactly. You don’t put THAT much of your heart into a party to be just like them. You want to be better than them, don’t you, Mrs. Taylor?”

She did. “Yes…”

“So how can you be better when you’re so concerned with being the same as them?”

The lipstick paused against her lower lip, waiting for a response. The logic made sense. She couldn’t. So what was she supposed to do about it? She didn’t have a good answer. If she—

“Don’t overthink it, Mrs. Taylor. Just say the first thing that comes into your head.”

“I… I can’t.”

“That’s better. See?” Willow smiled softly, and the lipstick continued its work around Martha’s lips, the layer of red coating them growing thicker and thicker, more obscene with every cycle. “You understand the problem. But the solution is so simple!”

It was?

“Stop being the same as them. Set yourself apart. Show them you don’t want to be anything like them. If imitation is the highest form of flattery, then the greatest insult would be to act completely different. Wouldn’t that be better?”

Martha swallowed. The thought was unsettling. Different was wrong. But was Willow wrong? Martha had done everything right, everything the same as all the others, and that wasn’t enough. And yet the whole time, she had assumed the alternative would be so much worse. So why did Willow make it sound so alluring?

“Just picture it… All the others, utterly unable to phase you because you’re not like them. You’re different from them. You’re better than them. Nothing you could ever say could ever stick to you again. It’d slide right off, and then you’d have the last laugh.”

That sounded wonderful. Turning things around on her neighbors… Twisting the knife, utterly immune to anything they could say… Her lips formed into a slight smile as Willow painted the corners of her mouth.

“And you know the best part? You’re already doing it, Mrs. Taylor.”

She was?

“You’re already trying a new lipstick.”

She was…

“You’re already enjoying spending time with a dyke.”

She was.

“Because you’re better than them.”

She was!

“Who knows what else you could end up doing? Things they never dreamed of. Things you never dreamed of. So why not just let the night take you where it takes you, rather than worrying about if it’s the proper thing to do? The proper thing—the same thing—only made you miserable. Different is better. Wanting the exact opposite of what you thought you did is for the best.”

“But—”

“You know it’s true, Mrs. Taylor. The same people. The same lives. The same makeup, same clothes, same hair. You know what that leads to, don’t you?”

Martha’s mind sluggishly searched for the right answer. She knew she had heard this one before. It was like trying to wade through an ocean of the thick, waxy substance that coated her lips more and more. With each loop around her mouth, it only seemed to get harder and harder to fight against the tide. “The same…?”

“That’s right,” Willow finished for her. “The same misery. The same miserable result, day after day, night after night, for the rest of your life. Do you really want to keep reliving this evening over and over?”

“No…” Martha shook her head. Or did the hand holding her jaw do that for her? She found it hard to tell anymore.

“Then there’s only one way to change things. You have to make the choice. The choice to do things…”

Willow let the moment hang in the air. The lipstick came to a halt, the smooth, gliding sensation stopping with it. An involuntary whimper escaped Martha’s mouth, the feeling that had quickly grown comforting now gone. She had to say it.

“Differently.”

Willow smiled, and rewarded Martha with yet more makeup. “Exactly. Because you deserve better than this. If the same is miserable, then different is good. Different is better.”

It had to be. Everything about this situation was different. The lipstick was different. Willow was different. The music outside, muffled twice by the house and the car windows until it was reduced to a mere vibration in Martha’s chest, was different. But she felt relaxed. She felt good. She felt better.

“And that choice is so easy. Being the same as everyone else is so hard. Constantly comparing and watching and being watched and trying to keep up… Being different is easier. It barely requires any effort at all. There are only two things you really need to do.”

Martha waited, half-lidded eyes firmly on Willow’s. She didn’t need to ask what the things were. She knew Willow would tell her. She knew Willow would be right. Everything she had said so far—about her neighbors, about her life, about everything—had been.

“First… Open yourself up to new people. Different people. Do you know why?”

Martha did. “Because… different is good.”

“Exactly. And second… Open yourself up to new experiences. Different experiences.” The tip of the lipstick pressed down slightly, tugging Martha’s lower lip apart from its pair. There was resistance—not from Martha, of course, but from the thick, sticky stuff that coated them, clinging together—but they eventually gave way, leaving her mouth parted ever so slightly. “Tell me why.”

“Because different is better.”

Willow smiled. “See? You understand what you need already. And a party is the perfect place to try that out. Full of different people. Different experiences. Are you ready to try? To see just how different your life could be?”

Martha nodded. She was.

At last, the sensation of lipstick gliding around and around halted, directly below her cupid’s bow. Martha hadn’t even realized the hand gripping her jaw was hardly more than a gentle caress at this point. Nor had she noticed that the lipstick had stopped moving long ago, leaving Martha’s head to gently twirl in small circles to paint her own lips. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. By this point, she was wearing a truly excessive amount of the waxy substance. She no longer had the air of sophistication she strived for. She looked like a cheap—

“You look perfect, Mrs. Taylor. Not at all like you did before.” Her eyes darted back to Willow’s. She hadn’t realized just how close they were, either, crammed together in such a small car. At some point, Willow had shuffled forward until their legs were pressing together. Martha hadn’t noticed. “Very different from earlier.”

Yes. She did look different. But different was good. Different was better.

“I’m sure we’ll have a great time.” With that, Willow pulled back and climbed out from her side of the car. After a moment, Martha did the same. She felt unsteady on her feet. Goodness… She had forgotten just how tipsy she had been, and her head felt even hazier.

_____

The music inside was unbearably loud, vibrations forceful enough for Martha to feel it deep within her chest. Empty cans and red plastic cups sat on every surface, with no mind paid to whether they found a coaster or not. The lights were dim, and the rooms were crowded, with countless people crammed close together, bodies pressed against bodies in an obscene mass of sweaty, lascivious stupor. There wasn't a single look of stiff, watchful distance between the guests the way there had been at Martha's party. Everyone was far too… relaxed for that. They were all around Willow’s age, which meant they were probably half of Martha’s—there couldn’t have been anyone over twenty-five. She was the odd one out. Even her clumsy tipsiness felt out of place compared to their comfortable intoxication. But nobody seemed to mind. Sure, there were some curious glances in her direction, but those who did quickly smiled and resumed whatever they were doing. It was hard to believe Peggy Anderson had tried to make a jab about her age—clearly, Martha fit in with this crowd just fine.

“Willow! You made it!” A voice called out from a head barely poking over the crowd. The stranger pushed through, people eventually parting to let her pass. “I thought you weren’t gonna turn up in the—” She halted as soon as she saw Martha. “Oh my God. No fucking way! Mrs. Taylor? From Oaklake Boulevard?”

The woman wore a tight-fitting dress that left little to Martha’s imagination. Every curve was on display, and she had plenty of curves to go around. Martha wanted to call her out for how inappropriate she looked, but suppressed the urge. It was so different from what she was used to. Different was good. Different was better.

“Yes, that’s me,” the housewife answered. “Do I know you?” Her own voice was nearly drowned out by the thumping of the speakers and the countless people themselves having to shout to be heard. Rather than speak louder, she just smiled nervously. Heavens, what was wrong with her? There was nothing to worry about. It was just a party. She was here to have fun.

“No. Fucking. Way!” the girl repeated, hardly acknowledging Martha and instead turning to Willow. “You brought her?”

They had been expecting her?

“Told you I was good. Pay up!” Willow held out her hand expectantly. The other girl rummaged through her pocket and produced a $20 bill, which Willow promptly pocketed. Her hand reemerged, holding a tube of lipstick between each of her fingers. “You take blue. I’m gonna go give the rest out. Keep an eye on her.”

The woman snatched the blue lipstick from Willow, uncapping it and taking a look. It was just as vibrant as Martha’s, piercing through the low light with ease. No question it stood out. Martha’s lipstick must have stood out, too. No question that it must be why she grabbed so many peoples’ attention, walking in.

As Willow moved to push through the crowd, Martha reached out. “Wait! You’re coming back, aren’t you? What am I meant to do?”

“What, you’ve never been to a real party before? Just enjoy yourself!” Willow reached out, snatched the red plastic cup the other girl held in her hand and shoved it into Martha’s. A single finger gently but insistantly lifted it up until it was touching Martha’s lips and tipped it. Martha had no choice but to swallow, lest it spill all over her. Willow leaned in, green lips almost touching Martha’s ear. “I got some stuff to go set up. Mingle. Open yourself up to new people. You don’t have to worry about bitching about your neighbors or them bitching at you here.” Willow was right. Things were so much easier that way. “Just remember. This is a different kind of party.” And different was good. Different was better.

By the time Martha lowered the cup, Willow was gone.

“God. I can’t believe you’re here!” the girl yelled as soon as Martha turned back around. “Mrs. T, here! Everyone always said you were such a major bitch when I was younger.” So this was someone who knew her. She didn’t know she had a… reputation. And certainly not one like that. “But you know what? I always thought that was kinda hot. In, like, a mean MILF kinda way. You know what I mean?”

Martha swallowed. Was that appropriate to say? Maybe it was, at a party like this. MILF. She had heard it on TV once, and nearly fainted when Jerry had explained what it meant. Very demeaning. But clearly that wasn’t the intent here. Did others think of her like that? Did other women think of her like that? She could see two girls kissing across the room. Clearly, being… homosexual was no issue among their generation.

She decided to take it as a compliment. Who cared if it was from a woman? Jerry hadn’t been this enthusiastic about her in years. And it just proved Nancy and Betsy wrong—she still looked good. Hot, even. Completely different from the way they viewed her. Enough that this young woman wanted to… Well. The acronym spoke for itself.

Martha took another sip from the cup, seeking to distract her overthinking mind. It was something exceedingly sweet and fruity, but definitely alcoholic, based on the aftertaste. Much stronger than the wine she had served at her own party, too. God. She really shouldn’t be drinking more after earlier. But everyone else was. There were people far drunker than her here. A little more couldn’t hurt. Willow had said to mingle. That meant fitting in, and what was wrong with fitting in with people who actually wanted her here?

As the girl began to show Martha around, she eventually introduced herself as Farah. She was a student who went to college with Willow. Her major was in… something. The music (and the alcohol) made it impossible to parse the conversation, and at least half of what she said was lost in the beat. From what Martha could tell, she wasn’t like Willow (that was to say, transgender), but she was clearly some other sort of homosexual.

Plenty of them here were, though. An unusual number. Martha supposed that sort congregated together. It was almost exciting, being one of the few normal women at the party. Maybe the only one? No, she couldn’t be… She had seen at least one boy kissing a girl. Or maybe they were both girls? Or both boys? It was hard to say, being dragged through the mass of bodies as she was. Either way, she certainly stood out from the pack! Not unpleasantly so, either. Just… different.

As Farah showed her around, they all made her feel welcome, too. Martha had always assumed delinquents would be… less than pleasant, but it was quite the opposite. Very different from what she expected, and quite unlike her neighbors. Far better than them, in fact. These people seemed happy to see her. They complimented her appearance. They talked about how glad they were that she was here. They asked if she was going to stick around for the main event.

Two girls even openly flirted with her! Of course, she couldn’t strictly condone such behavior—that would be a step too far. But even then… For tonight, she ignored the little voice in her head that told her she should feel disgusted. Being hit on by a woman was different, but different was good, and heavens, it felt good for people to actually compliment her for once.

Eventually, someone came up to Farah and whispered in her ear. “Ooh, it’s ready,” she told Martha. Farah dragged her to a nearby bathroom, stepped in and reemerged moments later, lips now painted the same vibrant blue she’d seen her examining before. “How do I look?” Even in the dim hallway, it somehow caught the light, bringing all attention to her lips. Just as Martha had suspected, they looked garish and tacky. Was that how hers looked, too?

No. It couldn’t be. As they walked, people flashed them excited glances, and followed along. Martha wondered why everyone seemed to be heading in the same direction, when Farah told her, “Willow’s ready by now. Excited?”

“Excited for what?” Martha asked, but it fell on deaf ears. Had there not been people all around to catch her when she stumbled, she wasn't certain she would have stayed upright at the speed and energy with which the girl pulled her. Before long, they were in the center of the living room. The crowd had formed a small circle around something—some sort of party game, maybe? Farah pushed through to the center, shoving Martha in alongside her.

Several other women all kneeled in a semicircle. There had to be at least six of them—faces Martha had seen around the party, all at least twenty years her junior. Each of them sported a different, equally garish color of lipstick. Very different from anything Martha would ever wear. But different was good. Different was better.

And at the center of their focus stood Willow. Her jeans were unzipped to reveal an impressively thick cock, already hard and in the process of being stroked by a girl with violet lips. She thought people like Willow… got rid of those things. Was this even allowed? “Ready for the real party, Mrs. Taylor?” Willow asked, to whooping and cheering from the crowd.

Martha’s heart pounded in her chest and she slammed her eyes shut. She had never laid eyes on anyone else’s… member, besides Jerry’s. This was something she wasn’t supposed to see! Something she wasn’t even supposed to picture. And yet everyone else stood here, acting as if it were perfectly acceptable behaviour!

“I have no idea what’s going on here, Willow, but we really ought to get back to—"

“C’mon, Mrs. Taylor! Live a little! Do something new for once! Open yourself up to new experiences, remember?” She reached down and parted the lips of one of the girls before her with her thumb, as if to demonstrate.

Martha swallowed. Willow made it sound so simple. So alluring. Yet still, something deep inside her screamed that this was wrong. “But I—”

“You’d rather go back to hanging out with a bunch of women who hate you? Have any of them ever done a rainbow party? No way. You don’t want to be like them, do you? You want to be different. You want to be better. And besides, everyone here wants you to be here, right?”

Cheers cried out from around the room, the noise overwhelming as Martha’s head swam. Before she could respond, someone from behind her reached out and shoved Martha. She stumbled to her knees, in between the girls with green and yellow lipstick. She couldn’t contain her curiosity. She opened her eyes and found herself mere inches from Willow’s cock, intimidatingly big this close. Very… different from Jerry’s. Better. It felt surreal. She wanted to reach out and touch it, see what it felt like. To let her inhibitions down. Nobody would have to know.

No. Wrong. Countless people here would know. They didn’t mean as much to her as her neighbors, but they weren’t NOBODY. Surely not all of them were from Willow’s college. Others must be locals too—they’d recognize her, out and about. And her husband! Even if Jerry never found out, she would be breaking her vows to her husband!

But why should she care about what he thought? He was the one who shoved her out in the first place, too ashamed of the ‘scene’ she was making. And local or not, the people here had all been much friendlier than her neighbors… Why should she care what her so-called ‘friends’ thought over the people here? Things were different here.

As the argument raged inside her head, Farah dropped down beside her, arm locking with Martha’s. “C’mon, Mrs. Taylor. It’s gonna be fun. Don’t ruin this for everyone!” From this close, it was clear that she was breathing heavily with excitement.

“I—” Before Martha could even object, the girl at the far end of the semicircle, the one with purple lipstick, had shuffled forward, taking Willow’s cock in her hand and stroking it. A thick bead of precum dribbled from the tip and landed on Purple’s knees. She didn’t even flinch, didn’t even act as if there was anything out of the ordinary here.

“All you need to do is help the others paint a pretty rainbow for me, okay, Mrs. Taylor?” Willow reached out to Purple’s head, running fingers through her long, black hair and guiding her forward. Her tongue curled out, licking up the dribble of precum. She traced it all the way down Willow’s length, then back up again, slowly parting her lips when she reached the tip. With what Martha could only assume to be extremely well-practiced skill, Purple began to slide her mouth around Willow’s cock, slowly taking inch after inch with hardly any hesitation.

Martha had performed oral sex once, on Jerry’s fortieth birthday. It was an experience she had found difficult, unpleasant and deeply unfulfilling. But here, this girl made it look effortless, taking Willow as if it was the easiest thing in the world. The girl with yellow lipstick reached out to tuck a loose strand of Purple’s hair behind her ear, allowing her to focus exclusively on the task at hand. Her lips reached the base and pressed down, leaving a perfect ring of lipstick around its girth. With ease, she pulled back, a single string of spit leaving Purple connected to Willow’s cock, already throbbing with need. She let out a breath she must have been holding this whole time, and Martha realized she had been holding her breath, too.

“Me next!” insisted Green. She was already practically drooling.

Farah held her back, despite Willow’s cock already twitching at the prospect of the next mouth around it. “Wrong order, Emmy. You’re after me.”

With that, Farah shuffled forward, placing her hands on Willow’s thighs. She wasted no time, opening wide and taking her into her mouth. She held her lips apart, staring up with needy eyes. Compared to Purple, it was a far greater task, taking her effort and time to work down Willow’s length. Her eyes watered, and once or twice her head reflexively tried to pull back. Willow moved to hold her in place, but one of the other girls beat her to it, tangling her fingers into Farah’s hair and not giving her not an inch of leeway. With dedication, Farah continued, through bleary eyes and gentle gags, until her lips formed a seal around Willow, slightly back from the purple ring. Her mark left, she was finally permitted to pull back. Farah giggled through her deep gasps for air while wiping running mascara from her cheeks.

Martha’s heart was pounding and her cheeks were as red as her lips. Years of learned shame churned inside her, the very depravity and perversion that she had so often rallied against happening so close. But all the same, the enthusiasm of the party was infectious. How could something be wrong when so many were cheering it on?

“See, Mrs. Taylor? Isn’t this far more fun than your party?” Willow reached out and curled a finger through Martha’s hair. “There’s nothing to worry about. Besides, Red comes last. You get the easiest job.” Her other finger pointed to the tip of her cock. “Do you think you could manage that?”

As Willow spoke, the girl with green lipstick (or Emmy, as she was apparently called) was already getting to work. She seemed clumsy and inexperienced, her lipstick smudging itself along Willow’s shaft, long before she had reached the part she was aiming for. Was that what Martha would be like? Farah had persevered, but Emmy was struggling.

“She’s not as experienced,” the girl to Martha’s right, the one wearing the orange lipstick, whispered. “She’s only sucked, like, three people off before. But she’s got enthusiasm, at least.”

Three people was inexperienced? What did that make a woman who had only ever been with one man? The same was true for her neighbors, of course, but…

Willow gripped her tight, pulling her down her length. She wasn’t going to let inexperience get in the way of things, and Emmy dutifully allowed her. She almost didn’t make it, gagging and trying to pull back on occasion, but eventually she reached her point and left a messy ring of smudged green lipstick.

After tidying the smudges up, the party continued. Yellow took her turn, and Orange did shortly after. She kept glancing back at Martha, almost starstruck to see her kneeling alongside her in this situation. But with each new girl, the effort it took to leave their mark on Willow was smaller and smaller, only needing to take a shorter and shorter length.

From there, it wasn’t long before it was finally Martha’s turn. By now, Willow’s cock was a rainbow of color, each a ring placed down its length, all the way to its base. Moreover, it was slick with the spit and drool of all the others, leaving it glistening in the low light of the room. It looked almost perfect, save for one missing color—red.

“Your turn, Mrs. T,” Farah whispered into her ear. Her breath was warm and humid, smudged lips still wet with spit almost grazing Martha’s earlobe.

The crowd looked down at Martha. Their eyes watched her expectantly. Martha carefully shuffled forward. Even having watched all the others before her, she suddenly felt nervous and unsure of what to do. Her sexual experience lied in doing what was appropriate and necessary to maintain her marriage, not… this. Her hands reached up uncertainly, initially moving towards Willow’s member, but after realising touching it would ruin the rainbow all the others had so carefully ‘painted’, came to rest them on Willow’s thighs, as several others had before.

Her heart was pounding loud enough to hear her pulse in her ears, even over the expectant murmurings from the crowd. Her eyes remained fixed on what lay before her, to the point that the hand coming down to rest on her head was a surprise. The bodies of the girls to the left and right suddenly pressing up against her was less so, but that didn’t make it feel any less claustrophobic. Willow’s hand gradually guided Martha forward, just as she had with the others, stopping her just short of her cock.

“Go ahead, Mrs. Taylor. Your turn,” Willow insisted. She raised an eyebrow, expectantly.

After several moments, Martha leaned forward, opened her mouth, and wrapped it around the tip of Willow’s cock. Precum and spit mingled on her tongue, an unfamiliar taste, all while she made sure to leave a clear ring of her garish red lipstick. With how copiously it had been applied, it wasn’t hard. As soon as she felt she had left a satisfactory mark, Martha moved to pull back, cheeks as crimson as her lips.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Willow tutted. Her fingers tangled into Martha’s perfectly maintained hair, gripping it tight. “What’s the rush?”

“I-I thought we were done…”

“Oh, come on, Mrs. Taylor. Don’t you want to admire everyone’s work?” Willow took the base of her cock in her hand, laying it across Martha’s face. Vibrant colors painted on flesh filled her vision, and she could feel its warmth radiating from it. Every little twitch and pulse made it evident just how pent up she was from all the attention she had been given.

A flash went off as someone snapped a photo on their phone. The moment—a colorful, collaborative work of art—was immortalized, with Martha in the center, makeup ruined and hair tousled. She tried to duck away, to preserve some deniability or decency, but it was no use. There was nowhere to hide.

For her part, Willow’s confident voice hardly wavered. “And, of course, you wouldn’t want to leave a job unfinished, would you? I’m sure there’s enough people who are left unsatisfied in this neighborhood.”

She dragged it down, slowly and with intent, lipstick mixed with drool smudged across Martha’s skin, ruining what makeup had been preserved throughout the night. The tip of her cock came to rest once more on Martha’s lips, throbbing with lust. Jerry had never felt so… needy for Martha, even when she had made the effort. She parted her lips ever so slightly.

And then Willow pushed herself in. There was no tenderness to it, no attempt to ease herself into Martha, nor Jerry’s nervous uncertainty for a lack of practice. She simply tightened her grip and pulled Martha down. The waxy substance that had made such a pretty pattern soon smudged itself into nothing on Martha’s lips, more and more with each inch. Martha’s reflexes demanded that she pull back. The hand on her head refused to let her.

Nor did those either side of her, girls half her age letting their hands across her body. Was this what Farah had fantasized about? Had others? A hand lifted up her dress—whose it was, she couldn’t tell, eyes as bleary as they were swiftly becoming—and another started to tease its way up her thigh. More and more fingers worked their way over her, some groping at her chest, others reaching up to help push her further down Willow’s length. Mouths pressed against her neck and collarbone, planting kisses and leaving marks that painted her flesh the same rainbow of color they had painted Willow’s. They worked in unison, ensuring she felt just as good as Willow must have, all while Martha helplessly gagged and choked, spit and drool flowing down her chin with each thrust. Willow was unrelenting, and the mix of alcohol clouding her mind and the difficulty claiming air left Martha feeling lightheaded.

The crowd cheered, seemingly the entire party now here to watch. What had started with a single camera flash had turned into a dizzying barrage of lights from all angles as people took picture after picture while Martha was helpless to resist. She had never had this much attention before. She had always feared that sex was something that could ruin someone. To do anything out of the ordinary was to make yourself vulnerable to the mockery of others. But here, she could see that wasn’t true. She was being celebrated, all while her mouth was used. Her inexperience mattered little either—if anything, with every choke and gag, Willow seemed to throb harder inside her.

Eventually, Willow stopped, pushing Martha all the way down to the base of her cock. She held her tight, despite how Martha’s gag reflex protested, and came, shooting rope after rope down her throat. Martha had little choice but to swallow, all while the hands between her legs continued to rub and tease her. When Willow finally pulled out, she gasped greedily for air, caring little for the spit dribbling down her chin or the lipstick smudged around her mouth.

The girls surrounding her didn’t stop. Their hands continued teasing Martha’s body, groping at her chest and between her legs. They rubbed and pulled and touched and felt as she weakly fell back into their arms. As Willow shot one last burst of cum across Martha’s cheek, the housewife cried out as the sensations overwhelmed her with pleasure.

_____

“I’m going golfing with Tom.” Jerry trudged down the stairs and peeked into the living room, a heavy bag of clubs slung over his shoulder.

“Tom? Thomas Bennett?”

“Yes. Why? Do you know any other Toms?”

“I don’t. I just didn’t know if you did.” Martha didn’t look up from her sewing. The boys would be back from summer camp next week, and she wasn’t letting them go back to school with buttons missing from their shirts or holes in their socks. “Don’t forget your hat. The ugly one.”

“I’m already wearing it, dear.”

She spared her husband a brief look. “Ah. So you are. Good.” She hated that hat, but it was the only one Jerry liked, so she put up with it. “I don’t want you coming back complaining you’re sunburned like last time.”

“I won’t, dear.”

There was a long, tense silence that hung in the air, only barely interrupted by the sound of a car driving past. Martha continued sewing, eyes occasionally glancing back up to see if her husband was leaving. He wasn’t.

Instead, he let out an exasperated sigh and asked the same thing he had been asking for two days straight. “Are you ready to tell me what happened the other night yet?”

If only he knew how ridiculous a question that was. Of course she wasn’t! What the H-E-double-hockey-sticks was she supposed to say? Absolutely nothing about that night was acceptable. It was a mistake, a shameful lapse in judgement, fuelled by inebriation and temptation, one she would have to keep to herself for the rest of her days.

Willow had, at some point, texted her mother claiming she had lost track of Martha in the store. As far as everyone else was aware, she had spent the night looking for her. How very helpful—leaving Martha to come up with her own cover story for why she turned up home the next day, body smudged with rainbow colors and looking like she had been… well, precisely what she had been doing. All while Willow got to cast herself as her oh-so-noble protector.

No question Martha’s mysterious disappearance was the talk of her own party for the rest of the evening. It probably still was. She hadn’t dared contact any of her neighbors since. And evidently, it was what had been on Jerry’s mind too.

“Look. You’ve barely spoken to me in days. I am your husband. When you go missing for an entire night, I have a right to ask where you went.”

Martha sat in silence, unable to answer. The situation was untenable. She could think of nothing to say that wouldn’t make things look far, far worse. Any lie she could conjure just made her sound even more pathetic than the entire neighborhood no doubt found her to be. And the truth was entirely out of the question! But she couldn’t avoid her own husband forever. What would the boys think if their parents weren’t talking when they returned?

Jerry sighed. Martha didn’t realise how long she had been quiet. “Fine. Maybe we can talk about it over dinner.” He didn’t wait for an answer, instead turning to the front door. As he opened it to leave, he scoffed and turned back to Martha. “Birdie’s useless son is loitering around outside again. Fat load of good he did, leaving you to fend for yourself like that.”

Martha’s finger slipped, and she would have pricked her finger had it not been for the thimble she wore. She slowly leaned back on the couch, putting her at an angle where she could glance out the window. Just as Jerry had said, Willow was standing around on the sidewalk by their mailbox. Martha’s cheeks turned bright crimson and her mind raced with… inappropriate thoughts about what she now vividly remembered she was hiding in those torn-up jeans.

No, no. She couldn’t think like that. She had a husband. She had a family. She was supposed to be a God-fearing Christian and a pillar of the community. She couldn’t let herself be swayed by temptation. One misguided night wasn’t going to ruin everything for her, no matter how hard her heart pounded in her chest or how much she still craved—

"Worthless little punk." Jerry began to roll up his sleeve at the wrist as he spoke, revealing pale arms that Martha had never seen push anything heavier than a pencil. "Want me to push him off before I go?"

Martha shot to her feet as Jerry opened the door, knocking her sewing kit from her lap to the ground in a tangle of thread and needles. She suddenly realized just how long she had been staring out the window as she looked back to her husband, unable to gracefully disentangle herself from the web of socks and string in time to shut the door on Jerry herself.

“No!" she called to her husband. Then, more calmly, she added, "No. Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of her. I mean him! You just… enjoy your golfing.”

“Martha, it’s no trouble. I—”

“Jerry, please! It’s fine. You ought to get going. You’re already keeping Thomas waiting as it is." Martha absentmindedly raised her fingers to her lips. "Besides, it'll give me the chance to scold her for just… just… abandoning me like that.”

Another moment. Eventually, though, Jerry relented. “Alright. I’ll be back for dinner. But I still want to talk."

"Yes, yes" Martha insisted, finally extricating herself from her sewing to begin pushing Jerry out the door. "Later. We'll talk about it after I have my talk with her."

With that, and an accompanying shrug, Jerry finally left. Martha watched him give Willow a withering glare that seemed rather impotent in the face of the younger woman's smug look of superiority, then listened for the car to drive off. She did not resume her sewing. Her fingers idly fiddled with a needle and a button in her hands, retrieved from around her ankles, and waited nervously by the door. She dared not glance out the window again.

Then, there was a knock on the door. Martha hesitated.Another knock. She knew who it was. She knew exactly what would happen if she answered.

She couldn't stop herself.

"Willow," she opened hotly as that smug, green smile greeted her. "I'm quite surprised you'd show your—"

All the anger died on her lips as her eyes caught the glittering plastic object Willow held before her. The next words she had intended to throw in the girl's face melted instead into a soft sound from a mouth that drooped and parted with instinctive anticipation.

“Heya, Mrs. Taylor.” Willow casually leaned in against the doorframe and held the little tube of garish pink lipstick closer to Martha's waiting face. “Mr. Taylor looks like he'll be gone for a while. Feel like doing something a little different this afternoon?”