Who gives a flying fuck about rules on the last day of school? Not Sara; nor her besties. For they were the Coven; that self-styled moniker proclaiming us-versus-them defiance. Hitching tartan St Joseph skirts centimetres above a generous interpretation of buying into school or indeed maternal standards, they began burning their bridges.

On the school’s main quadrangle, Loretta, using a lighter she’d nicked from her dad, set their shredded study notes ablaze. Flames flickered; students assembled. The foursome high-fived, shimmied out of white school blouses and tossed them onto the funeral pyre of their schooldays.

She’d never own up to the obvious, but Sara was her father’s daughter. In her schoolbag was the frayed ‘School’s Out’ t-shirt he’d bought at an Alice Cooper concert sometime last century. Only worn on school’s last day, the textbook sartorial start to the summer holidays.

But this time school wasn’t just out, this time really was forever. The Coven had chosen Alice Cooper’s hymn for summer as their fin de siècle theme song. The quartet’s singing echoed off the classrooms, drowning out calls of, “Show us your tits,” from the high testosterone half of the spectating students.

Amanda upped the ante, slipping off her Clarks and tossing those scuffed shoes into the conflagration. Sara and Loretta followed suit; then, with pinkie promises of colourful socks forevermore, they cremated their despised white ankle socks.

Acrid smoke from smouldering footwear drifting through the administration building alerted the principal. Marching across the playground, the stunned head saw Bianca holding her bra. On hearing Hugo’s piercing wolf whistle, her priorities had changed. To register her ongoing interest, she’d given him, along with most of the senior school, an eyeful of b-cups topped with perky nipples.

Having been firm with year twelve about the irresponsibility of last-day-of-school shenanigans, the principal was totally pissed. She ordered Bianca to put her bra on, then focused on Sara, the suspected ringleader.

“Sara Sommerville, why can’t you be the outstanding school prefect your brother was? Leadership is about the whole school, not your friends.”

Sara’s blood boiled, loathing the comparison with her over-achiever of a brother. Loretta, fearing Sara’s razor-sharp tongue would say something slanderous, blurted out the first thing that came to mind, “Merry Christmas, principal.”

“And a happy New Year,” Amanda and Bianca chimed.

That bought Sara time to reconsider a pithy observation about the head’s hypocrisy. Instead, growing into the joys of subtle recalcitrance, she unsnapped her bra and tossed that into the flickering flames. In an all for one, one for all spirit, three other bras fuelled the fire, followed by Bianca’s disreputable shoes and white socks.

Linking arms, the Coven watched the head take a fire extinguisher to the detritus of their school years. They took pride in the gobsmacked looks on the faces of years eleven and twelve, who, while critically evaluating the principal’s firefighting skills, also were keeping an eye on boobs ranging from a-cup to d-cup, an appropriate metaphor for the foursome’s grades during the year.

They were so over school and the principal was so over them. After waving to the crowd, the Coven raced out the school gates for the last time, the applause ringing in their ears.

Sara was a bit weepy as they pulled on t-shirts. Not that this was the end of the Coven. They’d all be starting at Sydney University in March, no doubt more acquainted with the Manning Bar than the library. Rather, Bianca’s family were leaving for Byron Bay in two days, while Amanda and Loretta were heading to Bateman’s Bay.

“Everyone’s at Byron this summer,” she’d whined to her father.

“Weren’t you bored by Byron last year?”

Parental logic, even when alliterated, got on Sara’s nerves like fingernails scratching across a blackboard. “Whatever. Bianca’s parents are cool if I go with them.”

“Your brother’s American girlfriend is coming for Christmas.”

“Andrew discovering a girl without taste means I have to put my life on hold?”

“Stop it! Melanie will be lovely.”

“But Melanie’s from Minnesota. Granted not her fault, someone’s got to be. But seriously!”

Her father had smirked. “Get those smart-arse comments out of your system before she arrives.”

In a geographically inappropriate mix of valley girl meets southern belle, Sara had trilled, “Summer Christmas. So weird. Didn’t think to pack a bikini.”

“She’ll bring a bikini, Sara. That American accent is faker than a winter tan.”

Eventually, after a torrential downpour of irreverent remarks about her brother’s loser girlfriend raining on her summer, Sara had run out of sarcastic steam. Seizing the moment, her dad had insisted she promise not to be an arse-hole to Melanie, a deal only sealed when cash changed hands.

For the year’s last time, Sara hugged her friends, and yelled Merry Christmas at their dispersing backs. Pumping her fist, she skipped home, skirt swirling, boobs bouncing, happily humming, ‘School’s Out.’ So ecstatic that she vowed to be sweet-as to Melanie of Minnesota who’d flown into Sydney overnight from Hogwarts or Harvard, whatever university it was that was silly enough to have offered her brother a post-graduate scholarship.

Dumping her schoolbag where it belonged, beside the rubbish bin, Sara grabbed a cider from the fridge and waltzed into the lounge. Her schoolgirl-gone-bad appearance, despite the addition of sprigs of the late-blooming jacaranda flowers behind her ears, brought conversation to a shuddering halt.

Sara smiled sweetly at her parents and offered her brother a cheery, “Welcome home.” They were taking tea with an elegant epitome of a preppy princess; Melanie of Minnesota, presumably. Pretty, bespectacled and brunette, she was sipping genteelly from a Royal Doulton cup that had been Sara’s great-grans. If that wasn’t ridiculous enough, the fine china looked ludicrous in her father’s larger hands.

Appraising maternal eyes traversed her daughter’s over-exposed body, before settling on the mauve, starting-to-rot, jacaranda flowers stuck between dusty toes. “Sara, we have a visitor! You’re a mess. Where are your shoes? And bra?”

“Incinerated; school blouse and socks too. Would have burnt my skirt, but prefects don’t do that, apparently.”

The brunette giggled. “I’m Melanie. Andrew has told me so much about you. ‘School’s Out,’ where did you get that t-shirt?”

“It’s Dad’s. An Alice Cooper concert.”

“Who’s she?”

Amused, Sara watched her father juggle his heirloom cup and saucer, only just saving it from crashing onto the floor. “Need a beer, dad?”

“Sure, honey. Melanie was saying she didn’t think to bring a bikini.”

Father and daughter exchanged knowing glances; her dad wiping the smug ‘I told you so’ look from Sara’s face by rubbing his fingers together as if counting fifty-dollar notes. Having focused Sara, he added, “Can you take her bikini shopping this afternoon?”

“It’s Christmas Eve, dad.”

“The bikini shop you like closes at six.”

“Wicked Weasel?” Andrew interrupted. “Isn’t that a bit risqué, Melanie?”

“It’s mail order,” Melanie replied.

“No; it’s an Australian brand. Retail in Surrey Hills, not far from here,” Sara said.

“Open and not far. It’s my only chance, Andrew. Would you mind, Sara?”

One glance at the new Tigress bikini in the Wicked Weasel shop window, sheer stretch lace overlaid with gorgeous tiger stripes, had Sara craving it. Only two colours, but one was the mauve she loved and, having adjusted the ties, the tri top and micro bikini bottom fitted perfectly.

Stepping out of the changing room, she gave Melanie a slow, showy twirl. “What do you think?”

“Super-hot. You do realize I’m seeing glimpses of nipple pigmentation and your grooming downstairs through those sheer stripes?”

“I flashed my tits at the senior school today; modesty may not be my middle name. Getting to like letting my meow out to play. If this is too racy for you, the floral print bikinis are cool too.”

Melanie smirked. “Maybe I should live a little; try the Tigress.” She took her time, adjusting the ties so the fit looked as if she’d painted the black bikini onto her smaller frame.

The pirouette outside the changing room left Sara gobsmacked. Melanie’s physique was deliciously taut, and the Tigress bikini gave glimpses of pierced nipples and shaved cunny. For the first time, she actually suspected her brother of good taste. “I love it. Will Andrew approve?”

Melanie giggled conspiratorially. Turning her back to Sara, she bent over, touching her toes. “See anything?”

“Oh! A butt plug; seasonal red.”

“I adore a plug’s delicious burn. Have a collection at home.”

“Andrew?”

“I love him, but he’s a bit straight-laced. I’ve not had cause to mention my butt plug obsession.”

“He’ll notice the revealing Tigress.”

“Maybe two bikinis, then? A modest floral print for his eyes. And this bikini for whoever might like my meow being let out to play.”

“You’re so not what I expected.”

“It’s a cliché, but still waters run deep, you know.”

“An English post-grad resorting to clichés. I shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.”

Melanie giggled. “I just knew I’d like you. Exactly as Andrew said you’d be. A not-so-secret Santa is paying for your Tigress.”

“You don’t have to. But I really appreciate it.”

The inescapable tradition of midnight mass kicked off the Sommerville’s Christmas Day. Upstairs to get ready, Sara found a small package on her bed. Puzzled, she tore off the wrapping paper, then smirked on seeing the purple glass crystal butt plug and a small bottle of lube.

Her phone pinged; unsurprisingly, texts from Melanie.

On the second day of Christmas, my secret Santa sent to me

Two plugs a stretchin’ And a micro bikini showing off my slit!

Ever get bored in mass? Wear this plug; its twin is a stretchin’ my ass.

‘Twin’ wasn’t strictly accurate. The plug in Sara’s hand was the smallest Melanie had bought to Australia. She knew from experience that ambition was a grievous fault when a plug first pressed into a pucker.

Sara carefully lubed, then slowly twisted the plug against her virgin arse. The eye-watering intensity of the burn as her anal ring stretched open and then contracted around the bulbous head, liquified her pussy. Clearly more absorbent knickers had to be de rigueur for plug wearers.

With an early arrival at church, the Sommervilles nabbed the pew in front of the open side door as it caught whatever summer breeze was around. Despite sitting still singing carols, Sara couldn’t help but focus on the delicious stretching sensation in her arse. Any movement on the wooden bench seat had ripples of achy pleasure zeroing in on her clit.

As Silent Night, Holy Night finished, Melanie whispered, “Ever present, isn’t it?”

“What? The chirping cicadas, the oppressive humidity.”

Melanie’s giggle drew a shocked glare from Andrew. Sara smirked, her pussy gushing as she imagined his reaction to learning his girlfriend had inducted his sister into her Secret Society of the Plugged Ass.

If sitting and standing were delightfully achy, Sara was startled when she knelt. As she rested her bum on the edge of the seat, the pew pressed directly on the plug, ratcheting up the arse-filling pressure.

Melanie noticed. “Lowering one’s eyes in prayer rocks one’s ass directly on the pew. Meow.”

Both women were pictures of piety, their hands clasped prayerfully beside their faces. But, with every subtle bump of the plug against the seat, an increasingly intense burn cascaded against Sara’s swelling clit. She bit her thumb to prevent an outbreak of whimpers, grateful for her most absorbent knickers.

By communion time, Sara was barely in control. With every step to the altar, her arse throbbed and her sodden panties slid against her sensitive clit. As she placed the communion wafer on her tongue, a hand slapped her skirt directly on the plug. Melanie, accidentally on purpose, had driven the toy deeper into Sara’s bottom as she piously raised her own hand to receive communion.

Sara lost it. Too lust-crazed to say, ‘Amen,’ she marched past her parents, muttering, “Bathroom,” and headed out the door. Behind the bathroom was a semi-private alcove that Bianca sometimes used to blow Hugo between communion and mass ending. If that was discrete enough for oral, then it surely was private enough for Sara.

Tugging her knickers down, she shoved two fingers deep into her slick, needy pussy. Her thumb mashed against her swollen button. As her knuckles slid along velvet walls, they pressed against the plug intensifying her pleasure. Sara fucked herself without restraint; scissoring fingers stretching her squelching pussy, her thumb pounding on her pearl.

As the congregation started singing, ‘O Come All Ye Faithful,’ Sara’s curling fingers tapped her spot in time with her thumb’s bumps on her button. A monster orgasm crested and surged through her. She muffled her screams by biting her forearm as her fingers flooded with sticky cum-goo.

Melanie, having told her boyfriend she’d check on Sara, had seen her disappear behind the bathroom. She was waiting when Sara sheepishly emerged, three fingers glistening in the moonlight.

“I’m such a minx, aren’t I?” Melanie said, lifting Sara’s wrist towards her lips. With little kitten licks, her tongue rasped over the digits that had just been embedded in Sara’s snatch, savouring the citrus notes in the cum-honey of her boyfriend’s sister.

Melanie then scampered off, walking home hand in hand with her boyfriend. Sara, having waited in stunned silence for her parents, followed behind; her totally sodden panties a tribute to the minx she now knew lurked in Melanie of Minnesota.

Settled in bed, Sara read Melanie’s new texts.

On the third day of Christmas, my secret Santa sent to me

Three cummy digits a lickin’

The fourth day is your call, Sara.

Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Sara wandered downstairs into the maelstrom of the Sommerville Christmas Day kitchen. Her mum, having finally decided it wasn’t too hot to eat outside, was fussing over the turkey. Her dad was shelling prawns. Andrew was putting wine and beer in the Esky, on the ice he’d just picked up from the nearby service station.

“Is there anything else I can do?” Melanie asked, coming inside in her floral bikini, having set the table beside the pool for lunch.

“You’re such a dear,” Sara’s mum replied, “Can you and Sara keep an eye on the turkey while we visit Andrew’s gran?”

“Sure, mum. Be prepared, Andrew. Gran has deteriorated since you went overseas. Give her my love.”

“You’re not going, Sara?” Melanie asked.

“No. Dementia is such a bitch. It always makes me cry. I only visit on my own; hoping against hope gran will remember, even scold me for my table manners. Anything, but nowadays, always nothing.”

After the other three Somervilles had left, Melanie hugged Sara. “Sorry about your gran. Will a swim help?”

“With you, it sure will.”

Melanie grinned. “Maybe I’ll change bikinis.”

Sara bounded upstairs; quickly returning in her mauve Tigress, Melanie’s fourth day of Christmas challenge preying on her mind.

Melanie came downstairs, strutted across the kitchen, and plucked an ice cube from the esky. She knew the black Tigress highlighted her taut body, but that wasn’t enough. Looking Sara in the eye, she rubbed ice across her nipples, making them even more prominent.

“I’m so into discovering what’s up your metaphorical sleeve, Sara.” Stepping out into the blazing sun, Melanie dived into the pool.

Inspiration hit Sara.

She watched Melanie emerge dripping, Phoebe Cates like, from the pool. The Tigress plastered to her slit was even more transparent when wet, the nipple bars accentuated her pokies. Sara whimpered; her brother’s girlfriend in meow-mode was beyond hot.

As Melanie settled onto a sun lounger, Sara, quivering with edgy excitement, sauntered to the other end of the pool. Diving in, she glided dolphin-like through the water, thinking about how she’d play a trump card, her best-in-Coven c-cup boobs. Not that she needed to worry; any residual nervousness in the Minnesota minx had evaporated on seeing the peachy derriere and long legs of her boyfriend’s hot sister.

Dripping, Sara emerged from the water, channelled her inner Slinky Malinki and minced towards Melanie, whose akimbo legs gave a delicious glimpse of her cunny. Reaching the lounger, she took a deep breath, untied her top and tossed it at Melanie, who smirked as she caught it. “Unwrapping my Christmas present for me, Sara?”

Emboldened, Sara crawled onto the recliner, creeping, cat-like, over Melanie. Bending at the elbows, the tips of her nipples scraped along the minx’s six-pack abdomen. Reaching behind, Sara untied her top, tossing it onto the pool tiles.

Sara’s tits traced the curve of the smaller breasts. Whispering, “Four nipples a throbbin’,” her rock-hard nipples teasingly circled Melanie’s areolas. “This is my Christmas present to unwrap,” she added, pulling on a tie of Melanie’s thong.

Rocking her shoulders, Sara slapped her stiff nipples against Melanie’s bars, dampening their pussies. “Touch yourself,” Sara suggested. Melanie fingers slid along her slick folds, scooping honey, that she smeared on her swelling clit.

Sara surprised her by strutting over to the esky and returning with ice. Ice that she held against Melanie’s nipples, chilling them. Lowering her mouth, Sara kitten-licked the pierced nipples, the contrast of a warm wet tongue on cold nipples delicious. Each tongue caress inexorably increased the circling pressure of Melanie’s finger on her clit.

Knowing she bewitched the minx, Sara’s lips tugged on a bar, testing the boundary between exquisite stretch and going too far. When Melanie started furiously finger fucking herself, she knew she’d found a sweet spot, so Sara held that stretch before releasing the nipple to a whimpered, “Fuck, yes.”

Confident now, Sara slurped hard on Melanie’s other nipple, the movement of the minx’s hand betraying the pounding her thumb was giving her pearl. One nipple continuously rolled between an ice-chilled finger and thumb, the other nipple repeatedly tugged into Sara’s warm mouth, drove Melanie to the edge.

The feel of Sara’s teeth grazing her nipple, then softly biting had Melanie exploding in orgasm, flooding her hand in nectar. Sara kissed down her tummy and rasped her tongue over Melanie’s sticky fingers, the molasses flavour of her brother’s girlfriend cum-goo exploding on her taste buds. “I need to taste you at source, Melanie.”

That plan was abandoned when they heard the Sommerville’s car drive into the garage. Sara hurriedly retied her top and, wrapping herself in a towel, rushed inside to check on the turkey. Melanie took a little longer to bury her Tigress in her bag and slip on her floral bikini.

Lunch began with barbecued prawns, everyone having, as per maternal Christmas rules, pulled a t-shirt over their swimwear.

“Have you masticated this morning?” Sara’s dad asked Melanie.

An old joke, but one that had embarrassed the Coven on first hearing it; particularly Loretta, who’d notoriously masturbated four times that day. But a postgraduate English student can defuse a dad joke. “Did you intend masticated to sound like masturbated when you said it?”

Sara’s dad was still giggling when her mother began serving the turkey. The family helped themselves to salads, vegetables and every accompaniment ever recommended by the world’s chefs.

Following pavlova, summer berries and Christmas pudding, the replete Sommervilles snoozed. Sara, needing the bathroom, headed upstairs. Melanie followed, slamming the door behind them.

“You’re watching me pee?”

“Yeah. We’re getting to know each other that well.”

Her soft wet lips brushed Sara’s and their tongues lazily swirled as they explored each other’s mouth for the first time. Kissing again and again, increasingly passionately until, during their fifth kiss, Sara’s dad called out, “Dishes time.”

“Another interruption. How can we get time alone, Sara?”

“Tomorrow. The Boxing Day test cricket is a family television tradition. Those from Minnesota will get a leave pass. Do remember that dad expects me to be nice to you.”

The next day, as the Sommerville’s sat in or beside the pool watching the Australian bowlers make Christmas mincemeat of the English batting order, Melanie received thong dampening texts from the girl sitting next to her.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my secret Santa sent to me

Twelve to seven… tomorrow let’s do our thinkin’

Six orgasms a shudderin’ (upstairs now during the cricket!)

Five luscious kisses!

Four nipples a throbbin’

Three cummy digits a lickin’

Two plugs a stretchin’

And a micro bikini showing off my slit!

“Hey, Sara, want to see the summer wardrobe I brought to Australia?”

“Love to.”

Sara’s parents already delighted in Melanie. She was helpful, polite and successful; just the perfect match for Andrew. They smiled indulgently as the two women went indoors, thrilled that Sara had kept her sarcasm in check and made her brother’s girlfriend welcome.

Had they known, they’d have been shocked to the core; so disappointed in their daughter for taking their son’s girlfriend upstairs with the aim of three orgasms apiece.

Andrew, however, would have been even more upset. For Melanie was about to discover a sexual over-achiever in the Sommerville family. And that wasn’t her boyfriend. Sara’s finger fucking, pussy licking, and anal action were, like that Tina Turner song, ‘Simply the Best.’