The creek behind Lola Gentry’s place ran cold even in August. Virginia heat sat on the hollow like a wet blanket, cicadas screaming, kudzu climbing the porch posts of the old house that had been in the family since before anybody bothered with deeds. Lola was sixty-one and still had the kind of body that made men look twice if they weren’t raised right. She wore a faded house dress most days and nothing under it. Her son Clyde was thirty-nine, thick through the shoulders from years of odd jobs and worse habits. Her daughter Hattie was thirty-seven, sharp-faced, mean when she wanted to be, and just as comfortable in her mama’s bed as she was in her own.
They had been fucking each other for a long time. Nobody in the hollow talked about it because everybody already knew.
The new neighbor showed up in June. Cabin next property over, city money, the kind of place with a metal roof and no chickens. Her name was Miranda Shaw. Thirty-four, executive something-or-other out of Richmond, husband who only came up on weekends and sometimes not even then. First time Lola saw her she was standing on her back deck in a robe that didn’t stay closed. Second time she was in the creek at dusk with nothing on at all.
Clyde watched from the tree line with a beer in his hand and his dick already hard.
“She’s skinny-dipping again,” he told his mama that night. Hattie was on the couch with her legs open, Lola’s hand between them like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Lola just smiled. “City girl thinks nobody’s looking.”
They let it go on for two weeks. Miranda would come down after work, peel off whatever expensive thing she’d worn that day, and walk into the water like the hollow belonged to her. One evening she wore a black catsuit instead. Shiny, tight, zipper all the way down the front. She stood on the bank for a long time before she even touched the water, like she was deciding whether to take it off. She didn’t. She waded in wearing it, the material going slick and darker, clinging to every line of her.
Clyde couldn’t take it anymore.
The next evening all three of them were at the creek when she arrived. Miranda froze when she saw them. Lola was already naked, sitting on a flat rock with her legs in the water. Hattie had her dress hiked up. Clyde had his jeans open.
Miranda should have left. She was somebody’s wife. She had a title and a corner office and a husband who thought she came up here to decompress. Instead she stood there in that dripping catsuit and asked, “Y’all do this a lot?”
Lola laughed, low and easy. “We do a lot of things, sugar.”
Miranda unzipped the catsuit herself. It peeled off her like a second skin. She was pale where the sun hadn’t touched her, nipples tight from the water, a small patch of hair between her legs she hadn’t bothered to shave. She stepped into the creek and walked toward them like she’d already made the decision days ago.
Clyde got to her first. He put his mouth on her tit while the water moved around their thighs. Miranda’s head went back. She made a sound that didn’t belong to a woman who ran meetings. Hattie came up behind her and reached around, two fingers sliding between Miranda’s legs, finding her already wet. Lola watched from the rock, one hand between her own thighs, rubbing slow.
They didn’t last long in the water. Clyde turned Miranda around, bent her over until her hands were on the mossy bank, and pushed into her from behind. No condom. She was tight and hot and she pushed back on him like she’d been waiting for it. Hattie knelt in the shallows and put her mouth on Miranda’s clit while her brother fucked her. Lola got up, walked over, and took Miranda’s face in both hands.
“You ever eat pussy, city girl?”
Miranda didn’t answer with words. Lola sat on the bank, spread her legs, and Miranda’s mouth went between them like she’d been told. Lola’s granddaughter-age neighbor—somebody’s wife, somebody’s executive—ate grandma’s cunt while Clyde railed her and Hattie licked what she could reach.
Clyde came first, buried deep, groaning against Miranda’s back. He stayed in her a minute, then pulled out and let it run down her thighs into the creek. Hattie took his place. She wasn’t as thick but she was meaner about it, fingers in Miranda’s ass while she fucked her, talking the whole time.
“That’s my brother’s come leaking out of you. You like that? You come up here to get away from your husband and now you’re taking hillbilly dick in a creek.”
Miranda came with Lola’s fingers in her hair and Hattie’s hand on her throat.
They took her back to the house after that. The catsuit got left on the bank. Nobody went back for it until morning.
Lola’s bedroom smelled like wood smoke and sex and the cheap lotion she used on her hands. They put Miranda on the old quilt and took turns. Clyde fucked her mouth while Hattie sat on her face. Then they switched. Lola got on her back and had Miranda eat her again, slower this time, while Clyde pushed into his mama from behind. That was the part Miranda couldn’t stop watching. A sixty-one-year-old woman taking her own son, moaning like it was Sunday dinner, reaching back to spread herself for him.
“He’s been in me since he was old enough to know what it was for,” Lola said, not even out of breath. “Hattie too. We don’t keep secrets in this house.”
Clyde came in his mother. Hattie licked it out of her when he pulled away. Then they made Miranda do the same.
The husband showed up that Saturday. Miranda was already in Lola’s kitchen in one of Hattie’s old shirts and nothing else. She didn’t hide. She told him what she’d been doing. He sat at the table for a long time, face red, then he asked if he could watch.
They let him.
Sunday morning they were all in the creek again. Miranda, Lola, Hattie, Clyde. The husband on the bank with his dick in his hand, not allowed to join, just watch his wife take her neighbor’s son and then her neighbor’s daughter and then get on her knees for a woman old enough to be her grandmother.
Lola came on Miranda’s tongue with her son’s cock in her ass and her daughter’s fingers in her cunt. That was the image the husband took home with him.
Miranda didn’t go back to Richmond that week. She called in. Family emergency, she said.
They used her for three more days. On the porch. In the truck. In Lola’s bed with the window open so the whole hollow could hear if they wanted to. Clyde fucked his mother while Miranda sat on Lola’s face. Hattie sat on Clyde and made Miranda lick them both. They put the catsuit back on her once, zipper down, and took turns using the holes it left open. She came so many times she cried.
When she finally left, Lola walked her to the property line.
“You come back whenever you want, sugar. We ain’t going nowhere.”
Miranda did. Every other weekend at first. Then more. Her husband started coming with her just to sit in the chair in the corner. The catsuit stayed at Lola’s house. So did a lot of other things.
The hollow didn’t change. The creek still ran cold. Lola still sat on that same rock in the evenings, waiting to see who would come down the path. Sometimes it was just family. Sometimes it was the executive from the cabin next door, already wet before she even hit the water, ready to get on her knees for a woman who had been fucking her own children since before Miranda was born.
They never talked about it in town. They didn’t have to. Everybody already knew what went on at Lola Gentry’s place. They just never knew the city girl had joined in.
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