The Turning: Part Two

The next day, Mrs. Smith hadn't heard squat from her foster daughter in a day, so she got the jitters and rang up her pastor for advice. Maybe the bachelorette idea for Sara had been too much pressure, especially for fragile little Sara. The pastor told her the same thing: hold the line, family comes before everything except faith. While her stepmom chatted with the Holy Father, Sara flipped through wedding rags to kill time and cool her jets. Soon as mom hung up, they started up again, grousing over the party plans—until Halle bust through the door with a stupid-happy grin, waving around a brochure she got from a friend named Freedom. Retreat upstate. Real Zen shit. Sara clocked the booklet and blew a gasket, screamed bloody murder, said Halle was trying to kill the wedding. Something shifted. Halle stood taller than ever, threw it right back, and the two lunged at each other while mom got between them like a referee at a cage match. Then Halle staggered, dizzy, mouth suddenly dry as sand. Mrs. Smith dropped the hammer and called off the wedding unless Sara got in line. Cornered, Sara bit her tongue and backed down. Mom walked Halle to bed. Halle chugged water, stripped naked to breathe, and slipped under the covers while her foster mother prayed for mercy and tucked her in with a kiss—told her she was a real daughter now, not just foster. Halle smiled and drifted. Night fell, mind still spinning, heat rising between her legs. She didn’t even notice she was sliding out of bed and creeping barefoot across the hallway. Found her foster mother sleeping, pushed the door open wider, climbed in. What followed was the wettest, filthiest sixty-nine this place has ever shot—mom and her foster daughter turned battle into a sloppy, needy pussy feast, tongues buried, juices dripping off chins, until neither of them could think straight again.