ENTIRE EROTIC AFTERNOON EVENING & MORNING IN WEST ORANGE (EROTICA NARRATIVE)

 

AN EROTIC AFTERNOON

IN WEST ORANGE

PART 1--4

ROBBIE APOLLO  & ALLE

VISIT HONEYWELL MANSION

(EROTICA NARRATIVE)

Written

By

Ara Fig

2026

"Who is this "Long Drink of Water? Anthony?" (Roberto: "Robbie")

"I'd like to see him Naked!" (Excuse Me?) Robbie swivels his head around.

"He is a god!--A Human Apollo!" Claire continued to praise Robs appearance & physical features. (What?) Robbie gives A.J. a questioning look as Claire hung from his shoulder.



"Don't Worry Rob!--Claire is an Artist & she's only Objectifying You as a Male Model! She paints male nudes--among other things."

Canonical “Apollo Origin

From *The Young Sopranos

(J. Beck, Part 4–XIII):

Claire Honeywell’s first reaction to Roberto “Robbie” is pure, unfiltered artist’s hunger:

- “Who is this ‘Long Drink of Water’?”

- “I’d like to see him naked!”

- “He is a god!—A Human Apollo!”

A.J. immediately covers: Claire is an artist and gallery owner who paints male nudes; she’s objectifying Robbie as a model. That moment is the birth of his private nickname "Apollo". 

CONTEXT:

- A coke delivery for the Honeywell siblings is the original pretext for the visit.

- Claire specifically asked Robbie to bring Alle along to surprise Devon.

- The “Human Apollo” praise is already in Claire’s mouth the first time she lays eyes on him.

AN EROTIC AFTERNOON

IN WEST ORANGE

The afternoon sun poured down in thick, golden sheets across the limestone patio of the West Orange mansion, bleaching the pale stone until it shimmered like the surface of a heated blade. Sharp shadows stretched long and dark across the pristine pool deck. The air was heavy, almost syrupy, laced with the perfume of Mediterranean blooms—jasmine, lemon blossom, and a richer, overripe sweetness—cut through by the bright citrus sting of lemonade that still carried the clean medicinal bite of vodka.

Devon Honeywell, twenty-six, reclined on the oversized lounge nearest the stone balustrade as if the heat itself had been poured over her. Voluminous blonde hair was gathered into an elaborate, high-volume bun that caught every ray and flung it back in bright sparks. The sleek white one-piece clung to her like wet silk, thin enough to map the soft, heavy swell of her breasts and the deep valley between them, the high-cut legs framing the generous curve of her hips and the smooth mound beneath. An open white silk robe drifted around her in the lazy breeze, edges slipping farther apart with every idle shift of her body, baring more of that creamy Italian-American skin to the sun.

She turned, smiling with that bright, restless energy of hers as Alle Pontecorvo approached. Alle, twenty-two, moved with the quiet certainty of a woman who knew exactly the effect she produced. Glossy black hair fell past her shoulders in heavy waves, framing sharp, elegant features. Her matching minimalist white swimsuit was barely more than two triangles and a narrow scrap of fabric—thin enough that the dark shadow of her nipples showed clearly, the bottoms riding high on the firm curves of her ass. She stepped in without hesitation.

The hug they shared lingered past politeness. Breasts pressed soft and yielding through the thin white material. Devon’s hands slid down Alle’s back, palms settling over the firm swell of her ass, fingers digging in just enough to draw her closer. Alle’s lips brushed the shell of Devon’s ear as they laughed, low and intimate against the green hills rolling beyond the balustrade.

“Missed you,” Alle murmured, voice already roughened.

Devon’s answering laugh was breathy. “Prove it.”

A few feet away, Claire Honeywell watched from the adjacent recliner, long blonde hair spilling over one shoulder like liquid gold. Twenty-four, Italian-American, transgender—her body a deliberate composition of soft curves and retained hardness. The form-fitting white swimsuit hugged every line: small, soft cleavage lifted by the structured top, the fabric stretched taut over the unmistakable ridge of her cock resting against her thigh. She sat with easy confidence, one knee bent, a glass of iced lemonade sweating on the side table.

Beside her, Robbie Pontecorvo sat barefoot on the edge of the lounger, twenty-eight, dark hair greased back from a sharp, handsome face. Shirtless, the sun gleamed across the defined planes of his chest and the dark trail disappearing beneath the waistband of crisp black dress slacks. The fabric pulled slightly at the crotch as he poured a stream of cold, spiked lemonade into a waiting tumbler. The liquid caught the light, clear and golden.

He offered a light remark about the heat, voice low and amused. Claire’s soft chuckle answered him, but her eyes never left the two women. The way Devon’s silk robe had slipped completely off one shoulder. The way Alle’s hand had drifted lower, fingertips tracing the high-cut leg of Devon’s swimsuit.

The hug ended, but the contact did not. Alle sank onto the lounge beside Devon, thighs brushing. Devon’s robe fell open further. Without a word Alle leaned in and kissed her—slow, deep, tongues sliding together with wet, deliberate hunger. Devon’s hand cupped the back of Alle’s neck while the other slid down to palm one full breast through the thin fabric, thumb circling a hardening nipple until Alle arched and moaned into her mouth.

Claire’s breath caught. She set the lemonade glass down with a soft clink. Robbie’s dark eyes tracked the women, then flicked to Claire. A small, knowing smile curved his mouth. He reached over and rested a warm, calloused hand on Claire’s thigh, fingers spreading possessively over the white fabric, right above the thick ridge of her cock.

“They’re putting on a show,” he murmured, voice rough with interest. “You going to just watch, or are we joining?”

Claire’s answer was to shift closer, long blonde hair brushing his bare shoulder. She took the tumbler from him, sipped slowly, then leaned in and kissed him, transferring the cold citrus-sweet taste from her tongue to his. Robbie groaned into her mouth, hand sliding higher until his palm fully cupped the heavy bulge in her swimsuit. He squeezed, slow and firm, feeling her cock twitch and begin to swell beneath the tight white fabric.

On the other lounge Devon had guided Alle onto her back. The silk robe lay discarded now, a white puddle on the hot stone. Devon straddled one of Alle’s thighs and ground down slowly, the friction darkening the thin swimsuit bottoms between them. She peeled the straps of Alle’s top down, freeing small, perfect breasts with dark nipples already tight. Devon’s mouth closed over one, sucking hard, teeth grazing, while her hand slipped between Alle’s legs and tugged the crotch of the swimsuit aside.

Alle’s pussy was already slick, dark curls glistening. Devon’s fingers slid through the wet folds and pushed two inside without preamble. Alle gasped, hips lifting, one hand fisting in Devon’s elaborate bun and pulling hard enough to make Devon moan around her nipple.

“Fuck—yes,” Alle breathed. “Deeper.”

Devon obliged, curling her fingers, the wet sounds of her thrusting audible even over the distant cicadas. She shifted so her own swimsuit-covered mound pressed against Alle’s thigh, grinding in time with the thrusts of her hand.

Robbie’s zipper rasped open. He freed his thick, already hard cock from the black dress slacks, the heavy length resting against Claire’s hip. Claire didn’t hesitate. She rose onto her knees on the recliner, long blonde hair cascading forward as she leaned down and took him into her mouth in one smooth motion. The head of his cock slid over her tongue, the salty taste of him mixing with the lingering lemonade. She hollowed her cheeks and sank lower until her nose pressed against the dark hair at his base.

Robbie’s hand settled on the back of her head—not forcing, just holding—guiding the rhythm as she bobbed. With his other hand he tugged the crotch of Claire’s white swimsuit aside. Her cock sprang free—thick, flushed, already leaking—and the soft, small cleavage above it rose and fell with her breathing. He wrapped his fingers around her shaft and stroked in time with the wet slide of her mouth on him.

Devon lifted her head from Alle’s breast, lips shiny, eyes dark with lust as she watched Claire suck Robbie only a few feet away. She pulled her fingers from Alle’s dripping pussy, brought them to Alle’s mouth, and Alle sucked them clean without being asked. Then Devon shoved her own swimsuit down her hips, the white fabric pooling at her knees. Her bare pussy was flushed and swollen, the blonde landing strip above it dark with moisture.

She crawled up Alle’s body and settled her weight over Alle’s face, lowering herself until her cunt pressed against Alle’s open mouth. Alle’s tongue went to work immediately—broad, eager strokes over Devon’s clit, then thrusting deep. Devon’s head fell back, the elaborate bun loosening as she ground down, riding Alle’s face with slow, rolling hips.

“That’s it,” Devon panted. “Eat it. Fucking eat me while they watch.”

Claire pulled off Robbie’s cock with a wet pop, a shining string of saliva connecting her lower lip to the glistening head. She looked over at the other pair, eyes half-lidded with hunger, then climbed fully onto Robbie’s lap, straddling him. She guided the thick head of his cock to her entrance—tight, hot, already slick—and sank down in one continuous motion until she was fully seated, her own cock trapped between their stomachs, leaking onto his abs.

Robbie’s hands gripped her ass hard enough to leave marks, spreading her open as he thrust up into her. The wet slap of skin on skin joined the sounds of Alle’s tongue working Devon’s cunt and the soft, broken moans rising from all four of them.

Devon came first, thighs locking around Alle’s head, a long, shuddering cry torn from her throat as she soaked Alle’s chin and lips. Alle kept licking through it, greedy, until Devon finally lifted off and collapsed sideways onto the lounge, chest heaving, robe forgotten, swimsuit still tangled around one ankle.

Alle barely had time to recover. Claire climbed off Robbie’s cock—leaving it shiny and throbbing—and crawled across the short stretch of hot stone on her hands and knees. She pushed Alle’s thighs apart and buried her face between them, tongue plunging into the same slick hole Devon’s fingers had fucked earlier. Alle arched hard, black hair spilling across the cushion, hands fisting in Claire’s long blonde hair as Claire ate her with filthy, enthusiastic precision.

Robbie moved behind Claire, cock in hand. He pushed the thin white swimsuit fully aside, lined up, and drove back into Claire’s tight heat in one powerful thrust that made Claire moan loudly into Alle’s pussy. The force of it rocked Claire forward, pressing her face deeper, and Alle cried out, coming hard around Claire’s tongue, thighs trembling, a rush of wetness coating Claire’s chin and the heavy swing of Claire’s own cock between her legs.

Alle recovered enough to roll and settle beneath Claire in a sixty-nine. She took Claire’s neglected cock into her mouth, sucking the thick length deep while Robbie fucked Claire from behind.

The dual sensation—Robbie’s cock stretching her open, Alle’s hot mouth working her shaft—made Claire’s entire body shake. She came with a muffled, desperate sound against Alle’s cunt, thick ropes of cum pulsing across Alle’s tongue and spilling from the corners of her mouth onto the white swimsuit still clinging to Claire’s hips.

Devon crawled up behind Robbie, spread his thrusting ass cheeks, and buried her face between them, tongue working the tight, closed ring of muscle with deliberate pleasure.

Robbie followed seconds later, arching under the double assault, driving himself harder and deeper to the hilt until he erupted, flooding Claire’s insides with white-hot, pulsing jets. He stayed buried through the aftershocks, through the fluttering grip of Claire’s walls, until the spasms finally eased and Claire’s mouth released him.

They collapsed together in a tangled, sweaty heap across the two lounge chairs—limbs overlapping, white swimsuits shoved aside or discarded, skin flushed and marked, the scent of sex mingling with lemonade and sun-warmed stone.

Devon’s robe lay crumpled like a white flag on the deck. Robbie’s black slacks were open and shoved halfway down his thighs. Claire’s long blonde hair stuck to her damp shoulders and small cleavage. Alle’s black hair fanned across Devon’s bare thigh.

The pitcher of spiked lemonade sat forgotten on the side table, condensation pooling beneath it, as the four of them caught their breath under the relentless afternoon sun, already reaching for one another again.

PART 2


The evening settled over the West Orange mansion like a velvet curtain drawn slowly across the sky. Dinner had been a lingering affair on the terrace—grilled seafood, citrus salads, bottles of cold white wine sweating in silver buckets—followed by darker, slower drinks: aged bourbon for Robbie, chilled vodka sodas for the women, the ice clinking soft as conversation thinned into glances and half-smiles. The heat of the day had broken into a warm, dry night. Crickets stitched the darkness. Somewhere far below, the distant glow of the corridor between New York and Newark pulsed like a low, restless fever, but up here the light pollution thinned. Stars burned clear and sharp above the treeline, cold white points against the deep indigo.

They drifted out onto the wide stone balcony that wrapped the upper level of the house. Low outdoor furniture waited in the shadows: deep cushioned loungers, a long daybed piled with dark linen throws, a pair of wide armchairs facing the open dark. The air smelled of cooling stone, night-blooming jasmine, and the faint sweetness of the earlier lemonade still clinging to skin.

Robbie—Apollo, as Devon sometimes called him when the mood turned private—caught Devon’s wrist as the others moved ahead. His dark eyes held hers for a beat, then he guided her toward the daybed farthest from the glass doors. Claire and Alle drifted the other way, already close, already speaking in low voices that carried only the shape of intimacy.

Devon’s white silk robe had been traded for a thin, open-knit cream cardigan that did little more than frame her body. Beneath it she still wore the same high-cut white swimsuit, now faintly rumpled from the afternoon. Apollo’s black slacks were open at the waist, shirt still discarded; the night air moved across the planes of his chest. He sat first, drawing her down astride his lap so that her knees pressed into the cushions on either side of his hips. The fabric of her swimsuit bottoms met the hard ridge of his cock through the open fly of his trousers. He exhaled against her throat.

“Still tasting the sun,” he murmured, voice rough. His hands slid up under the cardigan, palms spanning her waist, thumbs brushing the undersides of her heavy breasts. “And that little show you put on earlier.”

Devon’s laugh was quiet, breathy. She rolled her hips once, slow, feeling him thicken further beneath her. “You were watching hard enough.” She leaned in, mouth finding his, the kiss tasting of bourbon and the residual citrus of the afternoon. Apollo’s hands moved higher, peeling the swimsuit straps down her shoulders until the fabric sagged, freeing her breasts to the cooler night air. His mouth followed, open and hot, drawing one nipple between his lips while his fingers worked the other, rolling, pinching just enough to make her arch.

Across the balcony, Claire and Alle had claimed one of the wide loungers. Claire sat with her back against the armrest, long blonde hair spilling over the dark cushions. Alle straddled her thighs, already half out of her minimalist white swimsuit. The top hung loose around her waist; the bottoms were tugged to one side. Claire’s hands rested on Alle’s hips, thumbs stroking the soft skin just above the high-cut edges. Their mouths met in a slower, deeper rhythm than the afternoon’s urgency—tongues sliding, soft sounds lost under the open sky.

Alle broke the kiss only long enough to look down at Claire’s swimsuit. The white fabric still strained over the thick outline of Claire’s cock. Alle’s fingers traced the ridge through the material, then slipped beneath the crotch and freed her fully. Claire’s breath hitched as the night air touched her. Alle wrapped her hand around the shaft and stroked once, slow, watching Claire’s eyes darken.

“Stars are out,” Alle whispered against Claire’s mouth. “No city haze. Just us.”

Claire answered by pulling her closer, one hand sliding up into Alle’s black hair, the other guiding Alle’s hips forward until the slick heat of Alle’s pussy dragged along the length of Claire’s cock. They both shuddered. Alle lifted just enough to notch the head at her entrance, then sank down in a single, controlled glide. The stretch drew a low, broken sound from both of them. Alle’s head fell back; Claire’s hands gripped her ass, spreading her, steadying her as she began to move—slow at first, then deeper, the wet sound of their joining soft under the stars.

On the daybed, Apollo had shoved Devon’s swimsuit fully aside. His cock stood thick and dark against his lower stomach. Devon rose onto her knees, guided him to her entrance, and sank down with the same unhurried certainty Alle had shown. The heat of her closed around him. Apollo’s head tipped back against the cushions, a low groan vibrating through his chest. His hands locked on her hips, not forcing, just holding as she began to ride him—long, rolling strokes that made the daybed creak faintly.

Devon’s cardigan slipped off one shoulder. Apollo’s mouth found the exposed curve of her breast again, sucking hard while she worked herself on him. Every downward grind pressed her clit against the base of his cock; every upward pull let the night air cool the wetness between them for a fraction of a second before she took him deep again. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her ass, spreading her wider, the wet slap of their bodies joining the quieter sounds from the other lounger.

Claire’s hips lifted to meet Alle’s descending weight. The two women had found a rhythm that was almost languid, almost worshipful—Alle grinding in tight circles while Claire thrust up in short, deep strokes. Alle’s small breasts swayed with the motion; Claire’s long blonde hair stuck to the damp skin of her throat and collarbones. Alle leaned forward, bracing her hands on Claire’s shoulders, and kissed her again—messy, open-mouthed, the kind of kiss that tasted of earlier lemonade and new arousal. Claire’s cock pulsed inside her; Alle’s walls fluttered in answer.

Apollo’s control frayed first. He sat up suddenly, arms banding around Devon’s waist, and rolled them so that she was beneath him on the daybed, knees hooked high over his elbows. He drove into her harder, deeper, the change in angle tearing a sharp cry from her throat. Devon’s hands clawed at his back, nails scoring faint lines across the muscle. The stars wheeled above them, indifferent and brilliant. Apollo’s mouth found the side of her neck, teeth grazing, breath hot.

“Devon—” His voice was wrecked. “Fuck—stay with me—”

She came with a broken sound, thighs locking around his waist, inner muscles clamping down in hard, rhythmic pulses. Apollo followed almost immediately, burying himself to the hilt and spilling deep inside her in thick, pulsing jets, hips stuttering through the aftershocks.

Across the balcony Claire’s rhythm had turned sharper. Alle was close—Claire could feel it in the way her body tightened, in the desperate little sounds she made against Claire’s mouth. Claire slipped a hand between them, found Alle’s clit, and rubbed in tight, firm circles while she thrust up hard. Alle shattered with a muffled cry, walls spasming around Claire’s cock, wetness flooding the space between them. Claire lasted only a few more strokes before she came too, spilling inside Alle with a low, guttural groan, forehead pressed to Alle’s shoulder, long blonde hair a tangled curtain around them both.

For a long moment the only sounds were cooling breaths and the soft night insects. The four of them stayed where they were—Devon limp and open beneath Apollo, his cock still softening inside her; Alle collapsed forward onto Claire’s chest, Claire’s arms wrapped loosely around her back. The city glow far below remained a distant, muted smear. Up here the stars held the sky alone.

Apollo brushed a damp strand of blonde hair from Devon’s temple. His voice was quiet, almost private.

“Still hungry?”

Devon’s answering smile was slow, satisfied, already edged with fresh interest. On the other lounger Claire’s fingers traced idle patterns along Alle’s spine. Alle turned her head just enough to catch Claire’s eye, dark hair spilling across Claire’s small cleavage.

The night was far from finished.

PART 3




The next morning arrived soft and gold through the tall windows of the master suite. The four of them had migrated sometime after the balcony—limbs heavy, skin still marked and salt-streaked—into the vast king-size bed at the heart of the mansion’s private wing. White linens tangled around them like the aftermath of a slow storm. Devon lay half across Apollo’s chest, her elaborate bun long since collapsed into a wild blonde cloud. Alle was curled against Claire’s side, one dark-haired leg thrown over Claire’s thigh, cheek pressed to the soft swell of Claire’s small cleavage. The air still held the faint ghosts of the night: jasmine from the open balcony doors, the clean mineral scent of skin, and something warmer, sweeter, left over from bodies that had not wanted to separate.

They woke in stages. Soft shifts. A sleepy hum from Devon. Claire’s fingers trailing absently along Alle’s spine. Apollo’s hand resting heavy and proprietary on the curve of Devon’s hip. No one moved to leave the bed.

Breakfast arrived on a wide silver cart wheeled in by silent staff: fresh orange juice beaded with cold, a platter of sliced fruit, warm croissants, soft scrambled eggs, and a pot of strong coffee. They ate where they were—Devon feeding Apollo a piece of melon with sticky fingers, Claire holding a glass of juice for Alle while the younger woman licked a smear of jam from Claire’s thumb. Mild, playful petting followed the food. Devon’s palm sliding under the sheet to cup Apollo’s half-hard cock in lazy appreciation. Alle’s mouth brushing Claire’s collarbone, then lower, pressing a soft kiss to the soft skin above the ridge of Claire’s cock. Nothing urgent. Just the slow, affectionate acknowledgment of bodies that still belonged to one another for a little while longer.

Eventually the heat of the morning and the memory of the night’s sweat drew them from the bed. The walk-in shower was a cathedral of glass and pale tile, large enough for four, with dual rainfall heads and a long built-in bench of smooth stone. Steam rose the moment the water turned on. They stepped in together, still naked, still marked.

The washing was unhurried and intimate. Devon soaped Apollo’s chest with both hands, fingers tracing the lines of muscle, then lower, cleaning him with deliberate care while he washed her breasts and the soft curve of her belly. Across from them Claire stood behind Alle, working shampoo into the heavy black waves, thumbs massaging her scalp until Alle’s eyes fluttered shut. Then Alle turned and returned the favor, soaping Claire’s small breasts, the length of her cock, the soft skin of her inner thighs, rinsing away every trace of the night with gentle, thorough hands. Apollo’s fingers slid between Devon’s legs only long enough to clean her, lingering in a way that made her lean into him with a quiet sigh. No one pushed for more. The water and the quiet and the simple act of caring for one another felt like its own kind of aftercare—affectionate, almost reverent.

By the time they dried and dressed, the day had fully claimed the house. Bags were gathered. Goodbyes were lingering, mouths soft, hands reluctant to let go. Claire kissed Alle once more at the door, long and slow. Devon did the same with Apollo, murmuring something private against his mouth that made his dark eyes heat one last time.

The drive back toward Newark began in comfortable silence. Apollo—Robbie again in the daylight and the ordinary car—kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift. Alle sat in the passenger seat, still faintly vibrating, thighs pressed together, the seatbelt cutting lightly across her chest. 

Every small bump in the road seemed to echo through her overstimulated body. The Honeywell mansion and its excessive comforts—fine wine, rich food, the Ecstasy and the blow that had loosened every remaining inhibition—receded behind them like a fever dream. The delivery of the coke had been the original reason for the call; Claire’s quiet suggestion that Robbie bring his sister along “to surprise Devon” had been the spark that turned a simple drop into something far more complicated.

After a few miles Alle spoke, voice still a little rough.

“You okay?”

Robbie glanced at her, then back at the road. “Yeah. Just… processing.”

Alle’s mouth curved. “First time with another guy. Or close enough.” She didn’t say Claire’s name, but they both knew. “How was it?”


He was quiet for a stretch of highway. Then, honestly: “Different. Not bad. Not anything I expected. You, though— you’ve done that kind of thing before.”

Alle shrugged, the motion soft against the seatbelt. “A few times. When I was younger. Girls mostly. Sometimes more than that. It never felt like a big deal.

Just… another way bodies can fit together.” She looked over at him, dark eyes steady. 

“You don’t have to make it mean anything bigger than it was. We were all high and happy and greedy for each other. That’s allowed.”

Robbie exhaled through his nose. “And you’re not going to—”

“Tell anyone?” Alle finished. She reached across and hooked her arm through his, resting her head briefly against his shoulder the way she used to when they were kids.

 “No. It’s our secret. Besides, it isn’t anyone’s business. Unless you’re in the mob.” A small, crooked smile. “Which you’re not. So we’re fine.”

The city haze began to thicken on the horizon. Alle shifted in her seat, still feeling every mile in the sensitive places the night had left her. 

Robbie kept driving, one hand steady on the wheel, the other covered by his sister’s smaller fingers. Behind them the mansion and its starlit excesses stayed exactly where they belonged—private, temporary, and already half myth.


. . . 

PART  4




The car cut through the late-morning traffic heading back toward Newark, windows cracked just enough to let the warm air move.

Alle sat in the passenger seat of her brother’s black sedan, one knee drawn up, the thin cotton of her sundress riding high on her thighs. No panties. Every small shift of the seatbelt across her chest made her hard nipples drag against the fabric; every bump in the road sent another low aftershock through her still-swollen cunt. She was trying not to squirm and failing.

Robbie drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, the quiet alpha calm he always carried when it was just the two of them.

He glanced over once, took in the way her nipples stood out under the dress, the restless press of her thighs, and said nothing. Just reached into the console, pulled a cigarette, lit it, and passed it to her first.


Alle took a long drag, exhaled through her nose, then handed it back. Their fingers brushed.

“Claire turned me the fuck on,” she said, voice low and still a little wrecked. “When she was eating me while you were railing her from behind… then when I got my mouth on her cock and she came down my throat while you were still inside her. After that it got blurry. Whether she was a him or a her. Didn’t even matter. Just felt good.”

Robbie took the cigarette, hit it, kept his eyes on the road.

Alle watched his profile.

“So you think you’re bi now?”

“No.”

“I like women.”

“And that’s why you fucked him?—Her!”

Robbie exhaled smoke.

“Okay. I see… I think?”

Alle winked, slow and filthy.

“As long as he looks like her, you’re okay with it?”

“No. I don’t know. It just fucking happened.”


“It sure did.” Alle’s voice went soft and mean at the same time.

“You were crushing it, Big Bro.”

“Enough, Alle.” He half-laughed, the sound rough, almost reluctant.

“Just keep your big fucking mouth shut about it.”

“Big mouth?!”

“Yeah. I’ve seen how you can unhinge that thing.”

“Alright!” 

They both broke at the same time—loud, real laughter filling the car, the kind that only siblings who had seen each other at their worst and still chose each other could share. Alle wiped at the corner of her eye, still smiling, still throbbing, and stole the cigarette back for another drag.

Robbie’s phone buzzed in the cupholder. He glanced down.

BARBARA – Riverside Condo

WHERE ARE YOU?

“Fuck. I forgot.”

Alle looked over. “What?”

“Corrine. I gotta take her to the airport. She’s flying down to Tampa.”

Alle nodded once, already shifting in the seat again, thighs pressing together.

“Drop me in Little Italy. Beppy’s Alley Tavern. Sophia’s side-hustling the lunch shift. I got my own shit to handle while you’re running Corrine  around for the Don while he’s out of town. I’ll grab a ride or call you later.”

Robbie flicked the cigarette out the window and took the next exit without argument. The alpha brother didn’t need to say he understood. He just drove, one hand steady on the wheel, the other briefly squeezing his sister’s bare knee before putting it back where it belonged.

Alle leaned her head against the window, sundress clinging to her damp skin, hard nipples still refusing to calm down, and let the aftershocks keep rolling through her all the way to the curb outside Beppy’s.

Alle had business of her own to address while he was off running Corrine around for the Don being gone out of town. Alle'd get a ride or call him later






.  .  .

(TO BE CONTINUED)

 

AN EROTIC AFTERNOON

IN WEST ORANGE

https://ededprose.blogspot.com/2026/08/an-erotic-afternoon-in-west-orange.html

ROBBIE & ALLE

VISIT HONEYWELL MANSION

NARRATIVE & STRUCTURAL

ANALYSIS OF

AN EROTIC AFTERNOON

IN WEST ORANGE

https://ededprose.blogspot.com/p/narrative-structural-analysis-of-erotic.html

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MMXXVI