Rather irritably, Philip Crosbie glanced up from the book he was trying to read, squinting his eyes against the early evening sun glinting off the surface of Lake Stray beyond the big picture-window. He'd been trying not to look in that direction ever since he'd sat down. His fifteen-year-old daughter, Diane was sprawled cross-legged in another chair facing him, her back to the window so the light fell on her magazine-not that she was paying much attention to it-and apparently she hadn't noticed that her miniskirt was spread so far apart by her thighs that her tiny white panties were clearly displayed. Philip had made it a matter of principle all his life, not to encourage inhibitions in his daughter. But there were times . . .
"Yes?" he said, more gruffly than he'd intended. "Dad, why haven't you ever tried to screw me?"
It took some while after that before Philip could convince himself he'd heard her correctly. He was something of a stranger to his daughter. His marriage had broken up about four years before, when Diane was eleven, but his ex-wife hadn't remarried immediately, and they had remained in moderately friendly contact. Diane had lived mainly with her mother, but had come out with her fairly frequently to visit him-especially during the summer-at his new home, this smart five-room lakeshore house an hour's run by freeway from the city where he had used to live and still worked. It was one of about a dozen, recently built, all occupied by well-paid executives from Bassettville . . . and their families, if any.
This summer, Philip's ex-wife Tonia had broken the news that she was thinking of marrying again, and wanted to go off to Europe for a couple of months with her prospective second husband to see whether things would work out between them. She'd left, a week ago, and Diane was scheduled to stay here until her return.
Customarily, Philip had had no shortage of girlfriends since the divorce. He was thirty-nine, but he kept himself in good shape, especially by swimming, and being nearly six feet tall and dark, with all his own hair-as well as being prosperous-he'd found plenty of temporary partners.
During Diane's stay, though, he'd felt he was going to have to be abstemious in that respect. He knew-at least on the theoretical level-that mid-adolescents are touchy, unpredictable people, and he didn't want to spark off any disagreements. The past week, however, had been hard work. He'd assumed that since two of her school-friends were also spending the summer vacation nearby, Diane would be out of the house most of the time; however, she'd been here on each evening so far, when he returned from work, and, according to the cleaning woman who came in every other day, she'd been in the house during his absence too.
He'd been wondering how to broach the sensitive question of her being bored, when she sprang that incredible question of her own on him.
Incredulous, he stared at her for a long moment. Then he reached for his tall, cool glass of vodka rickey-his usual after-work choice, now about half empty-and had to take a gulp of it before he could trust his voice to answer clearly. Not that it was much of an answer. He said, "What was that you said?"
"You heard me!" Diane said, pushing her magazine over the chair's arm so that it fell to the floor, crumpling some of its pages on the carpet. "Screw-lay-make love to-fuck. You heard."
Jee-zowse kee-riced!
Philip stared at her, his disbelief even greater than before. Half his mind was in the usual mode of operation; that went with compliments like the one he'd had last week from Dolly Penwell, wife of the man who owned the last house on the lakeshore line, when she'd said, "You must be very proud, Philip, having such a lovely daughter! I do wish Peter and I had children, I really do!"
But the other half was in a complete daze. He was aware of what he was seeing, and aware that Dolly Penwell was right-Diane was lovely. She was currently about five-three tall, still growing, so that she'd probably wind up around five-six. She was slim, but not thin, with a well-developed bosom and thighs that (he admitted it to himself) had already provoked disturbing thoughts. Hadn't he been on the point of asking her to pull down her skirt, several times? And then he'd realized there wasn't enough to pull down. Like the rest of her current skirts, this one came to barely halfway between hip and knee. Apart from that, she was wearing open sandals on bare feet and a lightweight summer top of English cashmere, in dark blue, which contrasted magnificently with the long tresses of her fair hair falling on either side of her oval face.
And, as he knew only too well, she was wearing tiny white panties . . . and presumably a bra. But he hadn't investigated that point.
Being aware of what he was seeing, though, wasn't much help. On the instant of her speaking, his brain seemed to have become fuddled. Had he really heard her say what he thought he'd heard? Or had something catapulted him over the edge of sanity without warning?
He said, finally, with some effort, "Di, that wasn't very funny, you know."
"Wasn't meant to be!" she riposted, with a sudden, unexpected grin.
Philip set his book aside, confused worse than ever. He said, fumbling for a cigarette, "But-"
"Light?" she interrupted, jumping from her chair and running to fetch the table-lighter which was on the broad, low marble-topped table before the open fireplace. That wasn't likely to be lit before October, the way this summer was going.
"Ah . . . Thank you," Philip said a little feebly, and bent his head to the flame. Diane stepped back to replace the lighter, then dropped on her knees before him with an impish grin and a cock of her head which made her fine fair hair ripple in the lake-reflected sunlight.
"Sorry," she said. "Of course, if you don't want to . . . But I have been rather looking forward to it."
All right. It was established that she had meant precisely what she said, hard though that was to believe. What on earth was one supposed to say in reply? Philip's mind raced frantically. And, simultaneously, to his great embarrassment, his body responded on a completely different level. Try as he would, he couldn't prevent his subconscious from picturing to him with lascivious delight the image of a slim, longhaired girl asprawl on his bed awaiting his arrival.. .
The girl should have been his affaire of last summer, Lucy Marsh, who was twenty-two and thoroughly independent. Somehow her features refused to appear in the proper place . . .
Philip was aware of himself as a man of healthy physical appetites. One of the reasons for his breakup with Tonia had been that he wanted more than she could offer. For that reason he'd known that a celibate summer would be a trial to him; occasionally late at night he felt pangs of jealousy for the man-whom he hadn't met-who had proved capable of exciting Tonia to the point of considering a second marriage. But he had never expected to have his good resolutions torpedoed this rapidly.
They had been. A sense of very high pressure indeed was gathering between his legs. He said, summoning maximum self-control, "Di, what on earth are you talking about?"
She dropped back on her heels, gazing up at him sunnily. "I don't think you don't want to," she announced. "Remember when I came up here last year and you had Lucy around? That time I was here without Mom? You blushed all over the place, but there wasn't any need. Hiding something like that from me is ridiculous. I'd feel ashamed of you if you were the kind of man who lost his wife because he couldn't-well-do what she wanted. But I don't think that was the problem that separated you from Mom . . . was it?"
Philip said, after another gulp at his drink, "Well . . . no." He'd always told himself he was going to be frank with any children he might have. He'd hoped for a son, as well as a daughter, but there'd been that trouble during Diane's birth, and he'd never really found the determination to insist.. . .
"But," he added after a tense pause, "what you just said is . . . "
"What I just said," Diane broke in firmly, "is perfectly good sense. I know. Charmian Foyle makes love with her father. She told me."
There was this feeling of the universe grinding to a halt, preparatory to taking off in an entirely new direction, rather like an airliner taxiing to the end of its runway and waiting for permission to leave the airport. Philip said feebly, "I don't believe you!"
He knew Graham Foyle well; ten years before, they'd been in the same firm for a spell, before resigning within a few months of each other. Now Foyle was area vice-president for a department-store chain, and the owner of a house here on the lakeshore about five plots along from his own. His daughter Charmian attended the same school as Diane, and was one of her closest friends.
The claim Diane had just made was ridiculous. Penelope Foyle-Graham's wife was living there, too, and she was apparently very happy with her husband. Sometimes he'd envied them their placid family life.
"Suppose I prove it," Diane said. She glanced at the little watch on her suntanned wrist, a parting gift from her mother, before going to Europe.
"Prove it?" Philip barely recognized the voice he heard as his own, so loud was the blood thundering in his ears.
"Sure," Diane said, getting lithely to her feet. "Come on-get out the car."
"Di!" Philip also stood up, but in trembling agitation. At the back of his mind were horrifying concepts of psychiatric disorder, instability, treatment. . .
"Oh, you nitwit," Diane said fondly. It had been a more-or-less affectionate insult between them since she was six. "Anybody'd think I planned to blow you up or something. Will you get out the car?"
"Uh-"
"Yes," she said with finality. "Hang on just a second and I'll be right with you."
She vanished in a flurry of long brown legs.
II
Never in his life had Philip Crosbie felt so completely at a loss. He watched himself complying with his daughter's instructions, rather than willing it himself. He drained his glass, feeling the chill kiss of the ice cubes against his lips, and obediently went out to the carport where the Buick was parked. He got in, started the motor, and was literally on the verge of switching it off again, with a cry of, "Am I crazy?" . . . when Diane came dancing out of the house, slamming the door behind her, and jumped in beside him. She dumped something large and dark on the ledge above the dash. "What--? "
But Philip didn't need to complete the question. Binoculars. Diane had brought some for herself as well, which she had looped around her neck on a leather strap.
"Okay!" she said blithely. "Drive around the lake to the far side. I'll tell you where to stop. There's a little stub-end of a dirt road you can see all these houses from, and right now the light's just about right."
There was a dead pause.
"Well, come on!" she said impatiently. His hands moving like a zombie's, Philip put the car in reverse and rolled back on to the roadway.
As he shifted to forward, he said diffidently, "Look, Di, I don't mean to-what's the word? Ah!-put you down, but what you told me about the Foyles doesn't make sense. I mean, Penny and Gray Foyle must be among the happiest couples in the area!"
"Mm-hm," Diane confirmed, lounging back beside him on the broad soft seat of the car. She'd brought dark glasses, as well as the binoculars, and now put them on her nose as they drove around the curve of the lake through patches of tree-filtered sunlight. "Only the way Charmian tells it, her mom has this big hang-up. She doesn't dig sex too well. Though she loves the hausfrau bit."
Leaning forward as they came to a Y-fork in the road, she added, "Follow the lakeside, hm?"
Turning the wheel, Philip said. "How do you mean?"
"Oh, you'll see!" Diane promised. "Go up to that tall tree just coming into view ahead. Then turn, toward the lake. There's a spot where you can park clear out of sight of the road behind bushes."
"Look, you're not going to get us stuck in the mud, are you?" Philip rasped, having had much experience of that on badly-made roads.
"Nope," Diane said, smugly. "The ground's rough, but dry."
And there it was: a little level patch, hidden from the road as she'd assured him, bumpy where rocks protruded from the clay-ey dirt, but sound. He put on the brakes, and she pointed ahead through the windshield.
"See? We get a perfect view from here of what's going on in the living-rooms across the lake."
Philip had to accept that; the light was just right to slant through all the big picture-windows which formed a common feature of the ranked houses opposite. Lake Stray was quite small at this point, only some two hundred feet across, and shallow, and provided more of a pleasant outlook for people Living near it than a facility for sailing or swimming. He himself had never bothered to get a boat for the lake; he sometimes borrowed the Penwells', but mainly he was content to swim from the wooden platform he'd had built at the end of the garden. It was a delightful development, this; there was adequate privacy, thanks to trees, shrubs and bushes, and adequate social life. Except that, if Diane was right, he was about to find out just how completely the privacy could overshadow the friendships here. . . .
"See our house?" Diane demanded. "Yes."
"Oh, for goodness' sake! I mean, with the glasses!" Dropping her shades on the side of the seat, Diane impatiently thrust the binoculars she had brought for her father, into his uncertain hands. "Now look!"
He did so, seeing in clear detail the room they'd left minutes earlier, thanks to the slanting sunlight.
"How did you find this spot?" he inquired.
"Oh, last summer, of course," Diane shrugged. "I got a bit bored with you and Lucy. . . . Now turn and look at the Foyle's place. See it, the one with the green roof?"
Of course he recognized it. He'd been there often enough. But he'd never imagined that from this side of the lake it was possible to stare clear into the living-room-sited like his own to command a view of the water-as he found he could do now. Familiar sights leapt into the field of view of his binoculars: the abstract on the far wall, the big comfortable chairs, the low tables, the liquor cabinet, the grass-green carpet he had never much liked.
Detailed enough for him to imagine he could reach out and touch her, he saw Penny Foyle this very moment heading out of the room in the direction of the hallway. She was an attractive woman, a little older than her husband-around forty-five-with coarse dark hair that her daughter had inherited. Charmian Foyle was in his field of view too: sixteen, nearly a year older than Diane but in the same grade at school. (One of the things Dolly Penwell had complimented him on was having a precocious daughter. If she'd imagined how right she'd been . . . ! )
Charmian was lounging on the floor, in a very short dress of irregular black and white, with a gilt belt, and bright red sandals. She seemed to have been reading the papers, but was now sitting up and cocking her head with interest, gazing at the door through which her mother had just vanished. A moment, and the door re-opened to admit her father, upon which she scrambled to her feet and embraced him. The detail and lighting were so good, he could clearly make out the expression on his former colleague's face. A rather stern-looking man, Gray Foyle broke into a broad cheerful grin as Charmian kissed his cheek, pantomimed an exaggerated sigh. "It was hell at the office today!"-and flopped into a huge chair facing the picture-window with every appearance of exhaustion.
Turning to the liquor cabinet, Penny Foyle held her hand hovering over an array of bottles, received her instructions, mixed her husband a drink, while Charmian dropped to her knees alongside her father's chair. So far, nothing Philip had seen was out of the ordinary. Hell, Diane had instantly adopted the same routine for himself-the welcome kiss, the mixing of a drink-when she arrived at his own home a week ago.
He was just about to say so, and start the car up and drive back in an ill-tempered mood, when, from beside him, Diane said softly, "Char has her period this week. She told me."
"What?" Philip glanced distractedly toward her, his eyes a Utile blurred from looking across the brightly sunlit water.
"Sssh!" Not that anyone could have heard them, for heaven's sake. . . . "You'll catch on in a minute. Look again."
Philip, feeling more and more as though the world had gone into a new orbit and left him behind, did as he was told. And now, suddenly, the glasses showed him something he'd never have expected.
Clearly visible, taking, raising to his mouth, and then setting aside his glass, Gray Foyle's hand continued to rumple his daughter's curly black head. He said something, smilingly, which Philip couldn't quite guess at, and in response Charmian nodded brightly up at him: "Mm-hm!"
In the background, Penny also said something, moving away toward the door with a drink of her own in her hand. Gray Foyle lifted his hand briefly from his daughter's head to blow her a kiss, and the last glimpse Philip had of her as she left the room was of her apparently chuckling over some joke with which he'd accompanied the kiss.
But he didn't have much attention to spare to watch her. Simultaneously, he'd seen Charmian frog-hop a few inches across the floor to a spot between her father's legs. She reached up towards his waist, found and eased down the zipper of his pants, and carefully widened his fly to extract his penis.
Leaning back in his chair, closing his eyes with an air of utter satisfaction, Gray Foyle slid down a few degrees on the seat so that Charmian could more conveniently place her lips over the tip of his prick. in
What the--?
Abruptly, it came real for Philip. Up till this moment, he simply hadn't believed it. He'd had those vague visions of Diane proving to be (against all expectation) out of her mind; he'd been half-concerned about the need to find her a psychiatrist specializing in disturbed adolescent girls-and where was the money going to come from for that?
But she'd said that Charmian Foyle made love with her father, and there, across the glittering surface of Lake Stray where the sunlight was broken up into little diamond fragments, Charmian was doing precisely that.
He stared, with a lunatic mixture of horror and fascination. Against his will, he felt his own prick harden so quickly it hurt, being trapped by a fold of his underpants and prevented from springing out straight. Contorting, he released it, but without deflecting the binoculars. He was about to try to say something from a mouth which had instantly gone drier than Death Valley, when Diane pushed up against him, her own binoculars raised.
"Can't quite see!" she complained. "That damned branch is in the way-" She made a gesture at one of the overhanging trees, which would have screened them and the entire car they sat in, from the view of anyone on the other side of the lake: in the eye of the declining sun, this spot was effectively invisible.
Distracted for an instant from the hypnotic spectacle on the other side of the water-by now Charmian had shifted position, rising a little on both knees so she could move her head more freely, and her father's head was tipped right back, his mouth ajar! Philip glanced at his own daughter. Since they had stopped here and she'd handed him the binoculars, she had tugged up her exiguous skirt past her bottom and splayed her sun-browned thighs. At the point of their meeting, he saw in flashes, because her right hand was darting back and forth across it while her left held her binoculars steady, a tuft of crisply curling fair hair.
"You-uh-you don't have any panties on!" he said foolishly.
"Of course not!" She didn't spare him a glance. "Why do you think I ducked out just before we got in the car? I took by bra off, too. Here, feel!"
Her right hand left its business for an instant, stabbed across her body to snatch at his and caught it by the wrist. Ducking her head under his arm, she brought his fingers around her while pushing her body hard against his side. Before he had a chance to object, he felt the rounded firmness of her right breast, the nipple peaking under the sleek cashmere of her top, between his first and middle fingertips.
"Ah, I can see better now!" Diane added, and withdrew her hand again, to return it to her crotch.
Starting to withdraw his hand also, Philip said, "Now look, Di, I-"
She trapped his arm with the inside of her own, clamping down, so that willy-nilly he could not pull clear of her breast. "Go on!" she said. "That feels groovy? I never did this before with someone holding my breasts!"
From the base of his belly a shaft of sensation that approached agony razored up to his brain. But he retained some vestige of self-control, some trace of rationality. It was incontestable that, thanks to whatever kink of upbringing, here was his daughter, Diane, with her cunt bare, masturbating furiously next to him on the front seat of the car while both he and she looked at a neighbor's daughter blowing her father.
It was fact. It had to be coped with in some levelheaded way. And because the shock of discovering that Diane could behave like this, was too great for him, his only resource was to turn back to the scene opposite.
Which he did. And received a colossal extra shock. During the brief moment he'd been distracted by Diane, Penny Foyle had walked back into the room, presumably from the kitchen, where she'd gone to see how supper was coming along. If, at that point, she'd done the predictable thing-screamed in horror and fury and started hurling things at her despicable depraved husband-Philip could still have retained his by-this-time nominal self-possession.
But she did nothing of the kind. At the moment when he looked back, she was turning from putting her empty glass on the liquor cabinet and making to collect Gray's, also empty, for a refill. In passing, she bent to bestow an affectionate kiss on his forehead. Meanwhile, still down on her knees, Charmian had briefly withdrawn from sucking her father's prick -which stood up pink and improbably large, perceptibly glistening from the moisture of her mouth-to tug up the skirt of her minidress. She had little black panties on, the twin, it seemed to Philip's astonished gaze, of a pair which he knew Diane possessed.
Putting her right leg over her father's left, she settled down with his shin clamped between her thighs so that, as she resumed her rhythmical sucking, she could rub herself up and down against it.
In the meantime, Penny Foyle had mixed the fresh drinks and set her husband's down alongside his chair. He opened his eyes for a second as he thanked her, then relaxed back into unconcealed enjoyment.
"My God!" Philip said at last. Without his realizing it, his right hand, clamped around Diane's breast, had started to adopt the rhythm he could see Charmian using: back-forth, back-forth . . .
"Like I told you," Diane murmured. "It's her period this week. She can't screw. But it always makes her terribly horny."
"But-but Penny!" Philip whispered. Through the glasses, he could see that she had crossed the room, as though everything were perfectly normal, and was checking the current issue of TV Guide; he recognized the glint of color on the cover.
"I told you!" Diane said again, this time with slight difficulty because her breath was coming in rapid gasps. "She's got all these, like hang-ups, Dad! Char explained to me. She had this kind of bad time when Char was born-same as Mom did, didn't she? I remember her saying. . . . So even with the pill she gets sort of scared, you dig? So she likes having Char-uh-take the job off her!"
And, without drawing fresh breath: "Hey, do that again!"
"What?" Philip glanced down.
"What you just did! Wow!" Diane's face was flushed, and her lips, parted, were brightly shiny, while she kept the binoculars glued to her eyes. "Here, just a second-I'll make it easier."
She detached her right hand from her cunt again for a moment, thrusting her top up under her arms, so that within a single heartbeat, Philip found his fingers transferred from soft cashmere, to bare, sleek resilient skin. Her nipple was hard as a nut.
Across the lake, Penny Foyle decided there was nothing right now on television to justify switching it on; she took up her glass and moved to a chair from which she could watch her husband and her daughter. Charmian was moving in frantic heaves now, her thigh-muscles visibly tautening and relaxing, and Gray was uttering sounds Philip could guess at: "Ah! Oh! Ah-ohhhh . . . ! " The fingers of his right hand were buried in Charmian's curls, imposing his own preferred speed on her moving head.
Diane's breast, ridiculously, reminded Philip of a newly-distended rubber balloon. Christ: how long was it since he'd last touched a breast as firm as this one? Even Lucy, at twenty-two, had been fuller and softer
"Do it again!" Diane insisted, her hand dancing over her cunt.
"What did I do?" Philip whispered. "You must know."
"Ah . . . "
He thought, frenziedly, for an instant, and inspiration came. Perhaps while he was concentrating on the spectacle in the Foyle's home his subconscious might have led him to do something Tonia had liked in the early days of their marriage. He pressed his thumb down on the upper side of his daughter's breast, as though trying to expel nonexistent milk from the nipple, and at the same time rolled the nipple against his long middle finger, curled back toward the palm.
"Oh, yes!" Diane cried, her upper arm tightening on his forearm as it passed around her body. "Oh, oh, oh-oh!"
You're insane, a distant voice seemed to be saying to Philip Crosbie. It was barely audible through a rush of blood in his head. Soon it was drowned out altogether.
Across the water, Gray Foyle stiffened in his chair, his back arching, his eyes tight shut. Gripping his leg between hers, his daughter plunged her mouth back and forth ever faster along the shaft of his prick, once or twice, pausing to withdraw and snatch a deep breath, so that it could be seen hugely pink, gleaming, beginning to throb.
Penny Foyle emptied her glass a second time.
Philip felt his right hand, devoid of conscious control, kneading and stroking Diane's breast. Her breath pumped ever more rapidly, and so did her hand between her legs. Abruptly she said, "Hey, look at that!"
He hadn't needed the injunction. He was looking hard. Without warning, Gray Foyle had convulsed like an electrocuted frog, almost springing up to a straight line from the seat of his chair, and Charmian had grabbed the arms with white-knuckled hands, trying to prevent his prick from escaping the sucking of her mouth. She nearly succeeded, but in the final instant of his orgasm, she let it slip away, and the last pulsation was in empty air.
There was a terrifying silence, a few heartbeats long. It lasted the same time it took for Penny Foyle to rise from her chair, head toward the door again, and say over her shoulder with such clear lip-movements that Philip read the words as distinctly as plain print, "You two get washed up, hmm? And I'll have supper ready in five minutes."
Relaxed, looking supremely happy, Gray Foyle urged his daughter to lift her head to the level of his. She complied with the tight-lipped expression Philip had often seen on girls he'd persuaded to blow him, who hadn't quite summoned enough courage to swallow his seed. That look was still on her face when he tugged her mouth down violently against his and thrust in his tongue.
"Ho!" Diane said suddenly, in a voice an octave deeper than normal, and rammed her hand down into her cunt in a trembling spasm. And then again: "Ho!"
Across the water, Gray Foyle released Charmian and stood up. Not bothering to re-zip his fly, he put his arm around her shoulders and led her toward the door. She grinned at him and gave him an affectionate hug as they went out.
"Rrrow!" Diane said at length, contentedly. "Rrr-rrow! Dad, that was more than just groovy, that was very far out. Gosh, I'm practically limp!"
She put her binoculars on the ledge over the dash and turned shining eyes toward him.
"You're good!" she said. "You know that? So I'm going to kiss you."
She pushed aside the glasses he was holding, leaned forward against his chest and planted her mouth wide open on his.
Oh Christ.
I'm sitting here in my car with my tongue in the mouth of my fifteen-year-old daughter, who's rolled her top up under her armpits so I can see she's not wearing a bra and pulled her skirt up over her hips so I can see she's not wearing panties either. . . .
It was too much. A vast eruption gathered at the base of his prick and came spewing out inside his pants, as he clasped his arms around Diane and forgot himself in the violence of their kiss.
IV
"You-uh-you kiss pretty damned good, too," Diane said in a shaky voice, when she finally pulled free and leaned back against the dash. "Have you made my Up bleed? It feels puffy."
Philip stared at her dazedly. Yes, hell, it was his daughter, bare-breasts, bare-cunted. For a second there he'd been certain he must have dreamed the lead-up to this event, and would wake to find himself kissing an accomplished whore. As though the dream were still in command, he said, after a grave inspection, "No, your lip isn't bleeding."
She ran her tongue over it, seemingly doubtful, then abruptly forgot that minor matter, and caught his right hand in both of hers.
"Oh, Dad!" she said, with something close to a sob in her voice. "That was wonderful!"
All kinds of post-coital recriminations were burgeoning in Philip's mind. They hesitated and withered at the words. He was convinced she meant it.
It was the craziest thing . . .
Before he could say anything, a thought struck her, and she tensed.
"Say, did it-uh-do anything for you? Did it?"
What was the point of trying to deceive this incredible new person gazing at him? Philip gave a rueful smile and a nod.
"Right in your pants? Isn't that kind of wet and messy? Here, I have some tissues in the glove-compartment!"
She twisted around, produced them, and tore three or four loose with her left hand. With her right, she reached for his zipper. He was reflexively inclined to prevent her, but she was deft and quick, and without the least trace of self-consciousness her fingers found his prick and brought it out, glistening a little at the tip.
"Oh, you are circumcised," she said. "I thought I remembered seeing you when I was a little girl, but I was never quite sure . . . And that's what it looks like, is it?" Curiously, she closed her fingers around his penis, urging the last drop of semen from the meatus. He was still fairly stiff in spite of the violence of his orgasm, and the blob which emerged was large and opaque.
"What does it taste like?" Diane said suddenly, and . before he could stop her, she had bent her head to touch the broad upper side of her tongue to his prick. Smacking her lips, she sat up again.
"Hmm! Doesn't taste of anything very much," she opined at length. "Charmian says she likes it, you know. Could her dad's be any different from yours?"
This was getting wilder and wilder. Philip could only shake his head. But the mere touch of Diane's tongue had cancelled the impulse toward limpness overtaking his penis, and he felt it stiffen again. She, having kept her hand lightly on it, also felt that.
"Ah!" she said in high delight. She dropped the tissues, tugging at his arm.
"What do you want me to do?" he demanded.
"Come this way, of course! Get out of the way of the steering-wheel!"
But he did as he was told, and the moment he was in the center of the wide bench-seat, she agilely straddled him and guided his newly revived prick under the tuft of fair hair at her crotch.
"Di, are you out of your mind?" he exclaimed, trying to force her aside.
"It's safe!" she declared. "I have the pill-Charmian's doctor gets it for all us girls! No need to worry!"
And, with finality, she dropped her full weight on his lap, his prick sliding into her silky tight cunt. "There!" she said. "Is that good?"
He could read in her eager face, so close to his, that she wanted him to say it was. Since it was, he confessed the truth.
"And I thought you might be an old square," she whispered, leaning forward to kiss him on the forehead. "A-what's that lovely silly word? A curmudgeon! But I was sure you couldn't be. I mean, you'd imagine Charmian's dad was square, if anyone, and you just saw what he and Char got up to!"
"You-uh-you've seen that before?" Philip ventured, his last shreds of repulsion fading as he resolved to enjoy the unskillful but enthusiastic wriggling of his daughter.
"Nope. Heard about it, though. Want me to tell you?"
"Ah . . . " Philip licked his lips. But why not? Even if this fantastic occasion was the only one in a lifetime when he fucked his daughter, after this there could hardly be any secrets between them. And ever since he was a boy he'd loved to hear about other people's sexual exploits.
"Lick my breasts a bit while I'm telling you," Diane said, pivoting slightly sideways and tilting her shoulders back. "If you can . . . Ah, yes!"
Her last twist had put her right nipple in range of her father's mouth, and obediently he began to suck and lap at it.
"Oh, boy," Diane said in a little trembling voice. "Are you ever good! It's never been like this with me before. I really do believe Charmian now."
Philip waited for her to explain. His mind was as filled with delight as his mouth was filled with her breast.
"Char's been doing that with her father since last winter, she said," Diane explained after a pause. "I told you: her mother doesn't care for sex too much, and apparently she's kind of ashamed about it because she does love Char's dad very much. It all started around Christmas, I think, though I get the idea it may really have been going on for a long time when Char was just a kid, because she says she's taken showers with him and gone skinny-dipping and always liked to snuggle up with him for a goodnight hug. But what she told me back at school lately was that one night she found her dad sitting very sadly all by himself in the living-room there-where we were just looking-after a row which led to her mom walking out to go see friends. Was it you she came to, or the Penwells?"
Diane wrinkled her fair forehead in a parody of a frown, keeping up her gently rhythmical motion from side to side and up and down. If Philip hadn't already come, he'd have been coming by now; as it was, he felt himself happily teetering on the edge the whole time, his stand rock-solid and reliable.
"So, anyway, Char asked what the trouble was, and her dad was maybe a little drunk because he told her, and he sounded so miserable she came over and sat on his lap and put her arms round him and gave him a bit of a kiss. She says she only meant it to be a friendly dad-type kiss, but she aimed wrong-at least, she says she did-and found she'd got him right on the mouth, and he opened up and started pushing his tongue in and weaving back and forward on the chair, and just wouldn't let her go. She felt him get all hard under her leg, and then . . . Well, like you can guess, he came. Same as you did just now."
She paused to adjust her position and offer his mouth her left breast instead of her right. Continuing, she began to stroke her wet right nipple, steadying herself with her left elbow propped against the dash. In time with her self-stroking, Philip felt little waves of contraction creep upward within her cunt, and when he glanced up he saw her eyes were drifting out of focus, her concentration overwhelmed by the massive sensations she was absorbing.
But her voice remained quite steady. "Well, Char said being kissed like that made her pretty horny too. She was just a day or two short of her period, and I told you that's when she's at her peak. So instead of fighting him off or anything, she pulled down the zip of her dress and let him feel her all over. In the end she took off her panties and put his thumb up her cunt to make her come, too.
"And there he was saying how much he wished her mother was the same as her, and her mom came back, and they sort of fell apart all guilty, and neither of them said or did anything for a solid week. But she said, in that time, she heard row after row between them-for all you said they were one of the happiest couples around here!-and what it turned out to be due to, she says, was that her dad wasn't getting any sex. Her mom had made him come in her hand once that week, and that was about all he was managing most of the time. And like I say, it was during her period and she was all worked up by listening-she said she made herself come nearly three times a day that week-and the night after the period was over, she just walked straight into their bedroom where they were having this screaming-match, and said, "Here, dad, come into my room, instead."
Philip's mind, by now feverish, could picture that scene in perfect detail. At parties in the Foyle's home, he'd occasionally sought privacy in their bedroom to neck with a girl he'd picked up-a pretty adolescent sort of thing to do, but sometimes the best available. He knew the setting, therefore. And, naturally, he knew Gray and Penny Foyle well, and he could conjure up a vivid picture of Charmian too . . .
"Was she dressed or in her pajamas?" he asked.
"In a nightie, she said." Diane took the question in her stride, apparently finding it perfectly logical. "And there was this sudden sort of tableau thing. Char told about it so well, I could almost imagine I'd been there myself. Her mom sat with her face absolutely blank for a long moment, and her dad kind of froze on the point of telling her to get the hell out, this was a private quarrel and she was terrified, because she'd never planned on doing such a crazy thing, and then suddenly it all melted. That was her word: melted. Her mom said, 'Char, are you sure?' and she nodded, and then her mom said, 'Gray, do you want to?' and he nodded, and then she got into bed and blew them kisses and put out the light. Hey, I think you're going to come, aren't you?"
Interrupting herself, she looked down at him excitedly. Indeed, there was preliminary throbbing in Philip's prick. He hadn't expected to make it a second time so quickly; it had been years since he'd made it twice in under an hour, and he was almost resigned to having passed the youthful period when that had been possible.
Now, though, it felt as though it was going to happen, and he was damned well going to make it happen if he could. He planted his hands on either side of his daughter's hips and started to control the frequency of . her movements to match his reactions.
"You're-ah-you're not a virgin, are you?" he forced out.
"Of course not!" Diane said with a trace of contempt. "Not for over a year!" And added, a trifle mischievously, "Couldn't you tell?"
He grinned and nodded, working his own hips up and down now against her. His pants, on either side of the zipper opening, were getting soaked, but what the hell!
"Was Charmian a virgin?" he went on.
"Yes. Strictly. I mean, she'd had like lots of fingers up her, including mineoh, wow! Say, I didn't think I was going to make it a second time, so I was just going to tell you not to bother trying to wait for me, and . . . "
The words were wiped away by a blur of gusting breath as Philip's prick jerked frantically against the soft, fleshy sides of her cunt. "Oh!" he heard himself say, and then again, but her answer was louder.
"Stay stiff, please stay stiff just for a bit.. . I think . . . yes, I think I. . . Oh, Yes! Oh, groovy!"
Her fingers clamped on his shoulders like twin vises, and she writhed so frantically back and forth, his prick slipped out. He seized it to thrust it back, but she slumped away from him languorously, shaking her head.
"No need, thanks. I made it. Did I ever make it!" she added with enthusiasm. "Was it good for you too?"
Philip hesitated. He had to, to allow the world to stop rocking. He said finally, "It was fucking marvelous."
She laughed aloud and threw her arms around him, stabbing her tongue into his mouth again.
V
"It's incredible!" Philip said, across the remains of dinner, turning around and around a fat brandy-glass which Diane had just filled for him. She'd told him she liked to cook, the first night of her current stay-she'd just found out she liked haute-cuisine food-and so it wasn't the first time there'd been an air of celebration, though.
"What-us?" Diane laughed, turning away from the sideboard, where she'd been adding five parts of soda-water to the tiny drop of brandy she'd poured for herself, to keep him company. On arriving home, she'd changed into a bright red and yellow minidress with a lozenge-shaped cutout in the front, with nothing, underneath; she'd said, when she appeared in it, that she'd had it with her all along, but had not previously dared wear it, in case he'd objected.
Did he? Didn't he? Philip kept thinking he ought to, and somehow couldn't find any solid reason for doing so. She looked outright radiant, and that was a hell of an improvement over the past week, whatever had brought it about . . . Besides, he felt pretty good himself. He hadn't had such a screw in years.
"No, I meant the Foyles," he said, at length. "To think of something like that going on for months and months, right under my nose . . . "
"If you'd known about it, would you have tried to fuck me?" Diane demanded
"What?" Startled, he glanced up. Then: "Oh! Christ, you did shake me up with that question of yours, you really did!"
"Could I have an answer now?"
"Uh--! " Philip sipped his brandy to cover his agitation. Still, he was amazed by this unbelievable young woman. She was a lot more than a girl, that had been made plain. He continued at last, "Well, hell, I guess-I guess I never tried to screw you because the idea never entered my head!"
"It didn't enter mine until Char told me about her and her dad," Diane said comfortably. "Here, let's go into the living-room and sit looking at the lake, shall we?"
She rose and beckoned to him. He followed her compliantly. She didn't bother to put on the lights, but steered him to the long, soft lounge facing the water, and invited him to sit close by at her side.
"How-ah-how did you hear about Charmian and her father?" Philip ventured.
Diane gave a little tinkly laugh. "I wondered when you'd get around to asking that," she said. "She told me in bed."
"What?"
"Last Easter, when I had her down to stay in Bassettville with me and Mom. Mom wasn't there a lot of the time; she was off sleeping with Ricky." Diane checked. Turning to her father, she added anxiously, "Dad, you're not jealous of Ricky, are you?"
"I'm . . . not sure," Philip said, after a pause for thought. "I'd like not to be. I did love your mother, Di. Very much, for a long time. We just didn't operate together, that's the trouble. I'd like things to turn out well for her, even if it can't be with me."
"I love you," Diane said simply, and planted a quick kiss on his mouth. "I think you're nice. I think you're kind. I think you're generous. I think it's a hell of a shame you had to be made unhappy. And the same for Mom, naturally."
"Know something?" Philip said without intention. "You're a damned sight more grownup at fifteen than most people are by sixty!"
"You doll!" Cool, Diane's hand clasped his for a moment. "I hoped things would turn out like this, you know. Pve been planning it since Easter. Like I said, I had Char to stay, and Mom wasn't around, sowell. . . "
"So you went to bed together?" Philip suggested. It made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle to think of his daughter enjoying a lesbian affair. But presumably it was no more than a crush, he reasoned. There hadn't been anything homosexual about her reactions this evening . . .
Kinky, maybe. But not queer!
"Well.. . Could I have a puff of your cigarette?"
"Have a whole one, if you like!" Philip twisted to reach in his pocket.
"No, a puff'll do." She took the lighted one from him, sucked on it, gave it back. Looking out toward the dark, dull night-time surface of the lake, she went on, "Oh, hell, of course we did. We'd been left alone in front of the TV, so we got necking, and in the end, we stripped off and got in the same bed together. I told you: Char was theoretically a virgin when her father started screwing her, but I guess he didn't find much difficulty getting up-she said she'd been working on the hole since she was ten."
"But you had a boy?"
"Yes. Nobody you know. Does it matter?"
Philip hesitated. He said, finally, "No."
And then, to his own surprise, added, "But he must have been pretty good!"
"Wasn't a boy." Diane chuckled faintly. "More of a man. He was twenty-eight. And-okay, he was good. Been married, and all like that.. . And . . . "
She twisted around to face him sidelong.
"You want to know why I decided to seduce you this vacation?"
"Yes."
"Okay. It was because of what Char said to me that night. She didn't find her dad was anything special, even though-like you saw-it's become kind of a regular thing for him to come in from work, and either she blows him or they screw, not exactly every day, but like about four times a week, she said. She told me she was going to do it today, of course, which was how I knew to take you over to the place where we watched from. But she said she liked making love to him, and it meant so much to him it had kind of made him a different man, you dig? Instead of being bad-tempered and uptight the whole time, he got relaxed and easy-going and started making jokes all the time and . . . " A gesture finished the sentence.
"And you thought I was going the same way?" Philip suggested.
"You? Not exactly." Diane chuckled and helped herself to another puff of his cigarette before stubbing it out. "But Char said that she and her mom between them were making one complete wife for her dad. Like she fucked and sucked him and her mom ran the house. Still works that way, I guess. Only I read this bit which said a real wife is a-let me get it right-a lady in the parlor . . . "
"And a whore in the bedroom," Philip said.
"Yes, that's the bit," Diane nodded. "Did you ever have that?"
"In the same person?" Philip pondered. He said, eventually, "I guess not. I wish I had."
"You've got it." Diane put her hand on his again. "At least, that's what I promised myself I'd try and do for you this summer. I mean, I know you find girlfriends now and then-I've seen them, like Lucy, and some of them are nice. But they don't seem to be right, somehow. I'd like to be a real wife eventually." Her voice had suddenly turned serious. "For someone I haven't met yet, that's for sure. I want to like being a real wife. And here I am only fifteen. So-oh, hell, this is a terrible way to put it, I guess!"
"Go ahead," Philip invited.
"Okay." She took a deep breath. "I want to play at being that sort of wife. Just for this couple of months. Like I want you to take me to parties and I'll make with the grownup bit, sparkle and laugh at the right jokes and everyone will say what a charming young lady your daughter's turning into, Mr. Crosbie! And then we'll come back here and fuck each other blue, because that's part of it, too. I mean, it's going to be so much more damned fun, living like that, isn't it?"
Without warning, she skinned her dress up over her head and threw it aside, then fell back against him on the lounge, pillowing her fair head on his shoulder.
"Oh, it's going to be great sleeping together, Dad, and like bathing together and sharing a shower and all the rest of it!"
Philip's prick stirred again, inside the clean pants he'd had to put on when they came home from their astonishing car-trip. He said, "And I suppose you're going to tell Charmian all about us, same as she told you about her and her father?"
"Nope." The dismissal was absolute. "It's no business of hers, is it? Or anyone's but ours!"
"Aren't you going to want to sleep with her again on this vacation, then?" Philip ventured, after a brief hesitation.
"Oh, I laid her this afternoon," Diane said matter-of-factly. "When I went over to find out whether this was the right day for us to go around the lake and watch her blowing her dad." She stopped and sat up straight. "I get it! You dirty old man!" But she was laughing with the words.
"What do you mean?"
"I know very well what you mean! You'd like to see us together, wouldn't you? Okay, okay-a whore in the bedroom, like the saying goes . . . I'll see if I can fix it."
She fell back against him, still chuckling, and felt the front of his pants for his stiffening prick.
"Thought so," she murmured. "Come on-shall we go to bed?"
Exactly how he and Diane survived that summer, Philip was never wholly sure. Once, Dolly Penwell walked in when they were returning from a swim, and nearly found them, mouth to cunt and mouth to prick, which was the position they'd drifted into while toweling each other dry, naked. But in the nick of time, Diane contrived to vanish out through the back of the house, and-still naked but carrying her bikini-went loudly splashing across the lake again.
With her joyous distant cries as proof of the unlikelihood that she would interrupt them, Dolly Penwell teasingly deprived Philip of his towel, to reveal the stand his daughter had bequeathed to him, still not dissipated. With her lips very close to his ear, she confided that even though she was wearing a miniskirt this morning, she hadn't remembered to add panties, and he screwed her standing up, from behind, in the middle of the living room floor.
After which she recalled that she had dropped by to invite him and Diane to a barbecue supper on the beach, the following night. . . .
Wearing the bikini she'd taken with her, Diane returned and was delighted to accept the invitation.
And, on another occasion when they'd driven around the lake to watch Gray Foyle's return home and welcome by his daughter-it wasn't during her period this time, so he was happily humping her in the living-room, lying on top with his shirt on but without his pants-one of the local fuzz wandered by looking for a stolen car, which, he said he thought might have been dumped on the side of the lake down one of these here dirt roads. Philip persuaded him that he and Diane were watching water-birds, which-considering that the moment before the man hove into sight, he'd been fingering her cunt, and she was wearing neither bra nor panties, but only a skimpy white top and slacks which had wandered down to her ankles-was quite an achievement. It came back later on the grapevine that the officer felt it was fine to see a father and daughter as close as them two in this age of the gap between generations. . . .
And there was the party at which Charmian Foyle got a little drunk, and Philip came up on her and Diane, bare to the waist-Diane in a skirt, with her blouse unbuttoned over nothing, Charmian with her dress pulled up under her arms and her bra undone above a half-slip-furiously kissing, with their arms strained tight around one another. It was lucky he'd found them, not anyone else, he said severely. If they wanted to indulge in that kind of thing, though, there could be a chance of privacy . . .
Which they took, and on one memorable Saturday night, they were all in bed together when the phone rang, and it was Gray Foyle inquiring about his daughter, so Charmian had to go home. But Diane gave her father a consolation prize; she blew him to orgasm three times before dawn.
"Think I've made it?" Diane said, the morning of the day she had to leave, rolling lazily toward the edge of the bed, quite naked, with the reflected morning sun tingeing the bright blonde tuft of her pubic hair.
"Made . . . what?" Philip said muzzily, only half awake.
"Made the 'real wife' bit," Diane explained.
"Hell, yes!" Philip sat bolt upright instantly. "You're incredible, Di. I've never had such a wonderful time in my whole life. I've had more sex than ever before, I've eaten better meals, I've had more--Christ, if you're like this at fifteen, what are you going to be like at twenty?"
"Happily married, I hope," Diane said, sitting up and putting one slim arm around her knees. She didn't look at her father. "Now I'm going to go away from here, and I'm going to study, and I'm going to make straight A's in school, and I'm going to have boyfriends, and I'm going to write you letters once a month and let you know how I'm doing. And before you ask, no: I'm not going to let you screw me whenever you want. Maybe sometimes. Maybe if I find the absolutely right guy to marry, we could keep it up-but if I want to marry someone who'd be turned off by my fucking my father, that will take precedence."
"Would you want to go on fucking me?" Philip said, and waited for the answer with trepidation. It seemed as though a whole section of his life hung on her response.
"Yes." She looked him frankly in the face. "I think you're great. I think you're kind, and gentle, and rough at the right time, and you damned well ought to be happily married to a girl who absolutely oozes sex."
"I have been, for the past couple of months," Philip said.
There was a dead pause. Suddenly she leaned toward him and gave him a kiss on the tip of his morning-stiff prick.
"I love you," she said, her mouth's breath stirring the dense tangle of his pubic hair.
"I love you," he answered simply.
Again there was silence. At length she sat up, thrusting back her tousled tresses with her fingers, comb-fashion.
"Got to go," she said. "Today."
"One for luck?"
She hesitated, looking at his prick. Finally, she shook her head. "No. Not after what you just said, Dad. I've wanted to make you love me all my life, and that's the first time you've ever told me you did, and I'm so happy I-I want to cry."
She leapt from the bed and rushed into the adjacent bathroom. For the first time since their affair started, she locked it behind her.
Left alone, Philip thoughtfully lit a cigarette. He suddenly felt very proud of himself that he could take credit for having brought a very remarkable person into the world. And he felt a little ashamed at never having said before how much he loved that person.
But now he'd been, as he'd said, married for two months to a "real wife", he knew what to look for. Decision hardened as his prick softened: he was going to get married again, and his new wife would be a girl Diane could be proud of. Life was going to be great.
TWO
MOTHER-SON
I
It wasn't until I was seventeen that I discovered my mother was a member of a swap-club. And at that, I only found out by pure accident.
To be candid, I'd never liked her too well. She and Dad got married when she was very young-she was, like eighteen, I guess-and it didn't last. I'd been raised mainly by Dad and his second wife, except that ever since I was fourteen, I'd been sent to this very expensive prep school, which I'd better not give its real name, and I'd spent half the summer vacations and, like, a short week or so at Christmas and Easter with Mom. She never got married again, but she had a lot of alimony from Dad, who's kind of prosperous, because he bought first-issue stock in a company that inside ten years turned into a billion-dollar giant, making transistors and things, so she had this nice house in a small town in Florida, not too far from a big sandy beach, and she had two cars and let me use the old Hillman when I was staying with her.
Come to think of it, on the surface you might imagine it was a deal to be looked forward to, this Florida trip, all expenses paid, three times a year, but funnily enough it never seemed to turn out that way. There was always this kind of edgy atmosphere, and when I took off for the beach to escape the pressure, I never did seem to find a chick to go with-I always seemed to be a week late or a week early, and someone else had staked out all the claims. Back in good old P-A, where we hailed from, I had three nice chicks to call up who were always glad to hear from me.
So, anyhow, it was the summer I turned seventeen, when I got involved in this crazy, ridiculous situation I'm going to tell you about. And I wasn't feeling too cheerful the morning after I checked in, and I got up around nine or so and fixed myself some coffee and juice and . . .
Well, I'd heard the phone, and I'd thought maybe I should answer because I figured Mom was still asleep, but the ringing had stopped, so when I went to Mom's bedroom, I swear all I had on my mind was to find out whether she wanted some of the coffee I'd just made. I didn't go in. I stopped at the door, where it was barely ajar, and I could hear what she was saying through the gap.
I could also see. But I didn't find that out for a good half minute.
Because what I did hear as I was on the point of marching in, was this.
"You bastard, Jerry! You're trying to make me horny, aren't you?"
Upon which, I thought: Wha-a-at?
The guy she'd called Jerry, said something back, and she chuckled. Then she said, "No good, baby. No good! So save your breath. I .told you: Bill checked in here yesterday and you know I never do anything like that when he's around."
Never do anything like what?
I leaned forward and peered in through the gap of the door. Holding the phone, Mom was getting out of bed to go find the cigarettes she'd left on her dressing-table. She was wearing a shortie nightshirt, down to about the crease of her bottom, the kind you see in store windows, with matching panties, but as she reached for the pack of cigarettes, I saw she wasn't bothering with the panties right now. She said, "Jerry, I don't care if the king stud of all time is going to be there-I won't be! You fix a return match for October, hm?"
Me, I just stared. Like I said, Mom and Dad got married when she was very young. At thirty-five, she was goddamn gorgeous, better-looking maybe than when she was a young chick. She'd be-oh-around five-five, with bright chestnut hair and huge brown eyes and a huge wide mouth, maybe a bit like that French actress you see in European movies now and then, Leslie Caron. Mainly, in the past of course, I'd seen her with a bra on, so if I'd thought about the point at all, which I probably hadn't, I'd imagined she needed to have her tits held up to keep their shape. Well, she didn't have a bra on fresh from bed, and the shape was there, that was definite.
She dropped into an easy chair, facing the dressing-table with its mirror tipped so it showed her to me full-length down to about her knees, lit the cigarette, and said into the phone again, "You bastard!" But she was half-laughing with it. "You are trying to get me horny, like I said!"
She shifted a little on the chair to put an ashtray within easy reach, and the mirror showed me her crotch. The hair around her cunt, a bit redder than her head, absolutely shone in the early-morning sun which leaked through the shades.
"Okay!" she said into the phone. "I know I like it in the morning! I like it in the afternoon and at night as well, don't I? But right now Bill's staying with me, and until he's gone-nada, Jerry, baby. That's final! Give my love to the Parrishes and the Freemans, though, won't you? And tell Cissy to give you an extra screw from me at the next party. 'Bye!"
She put down the phone. For a moment she just sat there, drawing on her cigarette and rubbing a last trace of sleep from her eyes, while I stood rock-still behind the door. I was almost afraid to breathe for fear of the upset I might cause if she spotted me. Luckily, the light was wrong for showing my face at the door; Mom was in the brightest part of the room, facing the window, and I was behind her, in deep shadow.
Also in a considerable state of confusion. I recognized a couple of those names she'd just cited. Don and Cissy Freeman were old friends of Mom's that I'd met on two or three earlier visits. And I'd also met Joe and Frankie Parrish, who ran a nightclub, fronting on the beach, too expensive for me to patronize, with my allowance.
Not thinking very clearly, I was on the point of withdrawing and coming back making lots of noise, pretending I hadn't been there before, when suddenly Mom's face went sort of determined, like when you make your mind up to do something you've been trying to put off. She crushed out her half-smoked cigarette, leaned back on her chair, and spread her legs wide so I had a perfect view of her cunt, and started masturbating.
XI
Now, at seventeen, I'd never seen a chick-or a woman-do that before. Believe it or not. I'd seen a good many boys masturbating, and, to be quite candid, I'd helped out now and then, because in a prep school the atmosphere can get pretty heavily pressurized, but it had always been the result of talking about chicks and there wasn't anything homo in it, more the kind of "wait till we get out of here" scene you're alleged to find in prison-camps and jails.
Watching that thin, delicate hand of my mother's, though, raking up and down over the lips of her cunt with the base of their thumb resting in that deep, crisp clump of pubic hair: that was a genuine 24-carat first for yours truly. I was dressed-at least, as much dressed as I ever am for a Florida summer, in a T-shirt, and jeans and sandals-and all of a sudden I very much wanted not to be. I got the king of all hard-ons in about two seconds flat, and before I realized what was happening, I found my hand on the way to my zipper to let it out.
I stopped right there, an inch away, and backed off. I was more than slightly shook up. When I come, I always make kind of gasping noises. Can't help it, any more than a chicken can help cackling after she's laid her egg. And there was no guarantee that Mom would be too wrapped up in her own-uh-thing to miss hearing me.
So I gave one final, very long stare into her room, trying to fix on my mind like a photograph exactly what it was I was seeing. I was not quite looking over her shoulder, at the mirror before her. Her eyes were closed. She was leaning back on this chair, which was kind of low, with her legs bent at the knees and planted firmly apart. Her shortie nightshirt was up some place around her navel. It didn't have any sleeves and it was cut in a slit down the front to just about the bottom of her breasts. As I watched, she raised her left hand and slid it inside, taking hold of her right breast and rubbing it up and down. Her mouth opened a little, her lips all shiny pink. Meantime, her right hand, first and third fingers holding open the sides of her cunt, middle finger pumping insanely up and down so fast by this time, I could barely follow its movement, was driving her over the edge toward coming.
Yow!
I was just about to make it myself, without having to stroke my prick! I stepped back as quietly as I could, but fast, and got no further than the other end of the hallway before it was too much. I had to stop dead where I was, haul my zipper down frantically, grabbing my handkerchief out of my back pocket at the same time, just managing to wrap it around my prick before I exploded. I thought it was never going to stop; I almost lost my balance, and literally had to reach out for a wall to lean on.
One moment later, I was thinking, "Christ, this is crazy! That was Mom! You're not supposed to get worked up over your mother!"
But . . . Well, I guess the real point was I'd never regarded her as being my hundred-per-cent genuine mother-type mother. She was half a stranger to me. Like I said, I'd only been seeing her a total of six or seven weeks out of the year, since I was fourteen, and, at least as far as my subconscious was concerned, what I'd just been watching in the bedroom there was a damned good-looking woman stroking herself, punkt.
Which is kind of liable to turn on a guy my age, or any guy, hm?
Well, I got myself calmed down, sort of, after another few minutes, and went on back to the kitchen and poured some more coffee, then took a deep breath and went to the door and shouted, "Mom!"
She came down the passage from her room, belting a robe around her, ankle-long but very flimsy and opening at every step to show most of her legs, with nothing on her feet. She said good morning same as always, thanked me for fixing the coffee and asked if I wanted pancakes for breakfast, because if I did, she'd cook them before going to shower. I said no, I didn't have much appetite and I'd settle for cornflakes. So we sat in the morning-sunny kitchen and went through the normal routine, just like nothing had happened.
Well, on the outside maybe nothing had. But on the inside-that was a different story.
I'd figured out by this time the implications of what Fd heard her say to this mysterious "Jerry". The references to the Parrishes and the Freemans, and, above all, that instruction to have Cissy give him an extra screw, added up to precisely one thing as far as I could see.
Mom was in one of these swingers' clubs I'd read about in the papers and magazines, and while I was around she kept up the old appearances. But once I'd gone away again . . .
I kept trying not to be seen staring at her, but I was having trouble. My imagination threw up all kinds of wild pictures which I'd never dreamed of before. How about that plump, comfortably rounded body which I'd seen so much, often in a bikini, spread-eagled on a bed under some husky stranger? How about that big wide smiling mouth closing on someone's thick cock?
How about . . . mine?
It was making perspiration prickle all over me, and I could barely hold my spoon steady as I ate my breakfast. Luckily, Mom didn't seem to notice anything wrong, and after eating her own food, she went off to shower. I thought of trying to get a sight of her naked in the bathroom, but there wasn't any way of doing it, and, in any case, once she was out of sight I started to feel a bit more normal. I lit a cigarette and I pushed my chair back and I sat thinking.
I thought about all sorts of things that hadn't meant anything in the past but now suddenly shifted into a different perspective. I thought about her putting her arm through mine as we walked along, which I'd regarded as an annoyance and tried to get away from. Or her holding my hand. Or her always wanting to kiss me good-night on the lips, instead of on the cheek, which I'd similarly attempted to dodge.
And, going further and further back in time . . .
The year before last, I'd been here over Christmas because Dad was in the hospital with appendicitis. As always, Mom had made a big point of us going places together, and that time she'd excelled herself, coming very close to breaking down my permanent barrier of reserve toward her. We'd gone to some great parties, and the night of the last one before I had to go back north, I'd been feeling so cheerful I hadn't minded her putting her arm around me as we walked in from the car, or her sitting next to me on the big lounge in the living-area while we had a final nightcap. I could picture her again now, shutting my eyes. She'd looked terrific that evening in a very tight, very short red dress with no sleeves. And she'd kicked off her shoes and curled around with her back against my shoulder and sort of sighed and relaxed, and this morning, a year and a half later, I'd just interpreted the signals she'd been sending me. After that fine party, she'd been ready to screw, and it could-without her objecting-have been me who did the job.
I went on thinking, very, very hard.
And at long last I reached a conclusion. If Mom got into that sort of mood again, I wasn't going to overlook the signals this time.
Why in hell should I? Was I a cynical and depraved young devil? No, damn it-I was the houseguest of a very attractive woman, aged thirty-five, and if any other male but her son hadn't tried to screw her in the course of a month's visit, everyone around would have been making meaningful comments about his perverted predilections! And, unless what I'd read and been told was entirely wrong, women who joined swap clubs tended to fall into one of two classes: either they were pressured into it for fear of losing their husbands, and didn't much enjoy it but suffered being mauled around, or else they were above-average in their sexuality and really dug the variety and frequency the club offered.
Being effectively single and highly independent, there wasn't much risk, I thought, that Mom belonged in the former category.
I have to admit practically all of this was in the head, for me. I'm . . . Oh, shit: I hate describing myself. But I guess I have to. Well, I'm not repulsive, but I'm not handsome either. I'm five-ten, about a hundred and twenty-two, and softer than I might be-I have my bones from Mom's side, not Dad's. He's built very solidly. But I'm on the school track team for the three miles because I have stamina, though I never in my life dreamed of making the team in football or anything that needs speed, and I swim pretty well. My hair's the same color as Mom's, chestnut-brown, and, all in all, I can make myself very presentable. Everyone says so. My one trouble is kind of an endemic disease in the prep school I go to. I'm damned well educated, can quote you Latin poets and chunks of Racine's plays and all like that. I've read Freud and Krafft-Ebing and Masters and Johnson and all the rest of them and people say I have the best collection of hard-core books in the school, and, with all that, very nearly no practical experience. (Not quite none: there was that chick Kitty, and there was Louise, and there was Myra, but it was all kind of grab-while-you-can stuff, with no promise you'd get the same if you came back tomorrow.)
Figure the ratio one hundred to one jerking off versus screwing, and you'll get the picture.
So the thing that bothered me, sitting there at the table and listening to Mom hum a happy tune as she dried off after her shower-the bathroom was just next door and the wall was thin-was simply this.
Suppose she does get back to that same state I now thought she must have been in following that party the Christmas before last: will I be able to recognize the signs for sure? Or will I do something utterly disastrous and fuck things up good?
My brain, which had been getting overheated, cooled down. No, I must have been out of my skull even to think such a thing! I could imagine myself making a pass at her, and having my face slapped and being thrown out of the house and having Dad told what I'd tried to do . . . Ah, shit! That was a danger not worth the running! Because Dad was quite capable of bending me over his knee and whaling the daylights out of me. And would, too, given what he regarded as adequate cause.
What I'd been through this morning receded, became dreamlike. I couldn't even recall the intensity of feeling which had made me come in the hallway. I detachedly accepted that Mom did in fact belong to a swingers' club, but given that, I found myself asking all kinds of other questions. Wouldn't a sex-starved woman be more likely to respond to her son screwing her than one who for about ten months of every year could rely on a whole gang of different men? In the course of the month I was due to stay here, I couldn't expect her to find chastity intolerable, even if that call this morning had wound her up so much she had to make herself come. She never had before. That post-party scene wasn't evidence; she could just have been showing a bit of affection, regular mother-fashion. She hadn't climbed into my bed and tried to rape me.
On the other hand . . .
There remained that sneaking suspicion that she'd wanted to.
I heard her come from the bathroom and return to her bedroom to get dressed. I crushed out my cigarette. If this was going to be played at all, it was going to have to be played by ear. But I didn't think it was going to be played.
And I was wrong.
III
Over the next two or three days we did exactly what we always did when I came to stay at Mom's place. We went and called on friends for lunch, or dinner, or to have a swim together. The friends didn't include the Parrishes and Freemans, by the way. Nor did I meet anybody called Jerry. We did go to see the Parkers and the Hallenbackers and the Woods, and the Woods had a girl staying with them whom I hadn't met, a friend of their daughter, Chessie, whom I didn't like because she was too fond of talking about herself. But this visiting chick seemed all right; she was about my age, give or take a couple of months, and she was pretty, and she was called Rita, so I made a date with her and we went to a drive-in movie and necked a while on the way home, but that wasn't too much, because when I put my hand down her dress, she told me to quit, cold, and drive on.
So she wasn't quite so "all right" after all . . . even though, leave us face it, those cramped little British cars like Mom's Hillman, are bad for screwing in, compared with ours over here, and she couldn't take me home with her to a proper bed.
It had occurred to me, though, that there wasn't any good reason why I shouldn't take her home with me. If Mom were to raise any objections, all I'd need to do would be to reveal that I knew about her swingers' club scene-in passing examinations, I've learned a lot about presenting all you know so as to suggest you know ten times as much-and argue that if it was okay for her to sleep around, she couldn't reasonably complain about my having a girl in for the night, now and then. I was ready to try my theory out, believe me.
Only Rita utterly and positively refused to cooperate, in spite of having gotten me so worked up I almost had to stop and jerk off on the way home after dropping her. I didn't, though. It was a steaming hot night, and I felt I'd rather have a cool shower and stretch out on a comfortable bed.
Feeling more than a little ill-tempered, I put the car away, slammed the door loudly as I left it, and went into the house. Mom was by herself in the living-area, watching TV and drinking cold beer. At least it had been cold. The conditioning wasn't up to keeping it that way.
"Have a nice time, Bill?" she said, glancing up.
"Not very," I shrugged.
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Bad movie?"
"Average," I sighed. In fact it had been pretty good-a double-header of an old favorite of mine, which Rita hadn't seen and a new British comedy I knew nothing about, that had turned out to be very funny.
But.
"Well, help yourself to a beer if you like," Mom invited.
"I don't want to interrupt," I said.
"Oh, hell, I'm not watching this!" She reached for the remote-control and snapped the TV set off. "Just passing the time with it."
Picking up her own glass, she sipped from it and pulled a face. "Damn, it's gone warm and flat. I'll get another. Do you want one?"
"Yes, please."
Now, for the first time since coming in, in that gray mood, I took a direct look at her. She was wearing a shortie robe, as she quite often did these hot evenings when no one but myself was around. It was pale green and frilly, and held together with a single sash around the waist, which had slipped a bit. As she got up, it gaped in the front and I had an absolutely perfect view of her left breast, nipple and all.
It was a lovely breast. It could have been in a Playboy centerfold.
And she knew I'd seen it. Neither of us said anything. She just tucked the robe a little more closely around her and continued to the kitchen.
I stood where I was. All of a sudden my heart was going like a trip-hammer. I felt almost giddy. I'd been obsessed, ever since making that date with Rita, with the notion of being able to bring a chick back here and sleeping with her. The mad idea of laying Mom which had hit me three mornings ago had struck me, on reflection, as totally ridiculous.
And yet, here I'd come on her wearing just that robe . . .
Did she have panties on? Usually she did, I knew that. But-
I stopped, staring at the lounge where she'd been sitting. I saw that one of the big cushions was disarranged. I took one fast silent step, Lifted it up and dropped it back in position.
Underneath, there was a pair of tiny, nylon bikini panties, rolled in a ball, as though upon hearing me return with the Hillman she'd decided she didn't have time to put them on again, but, instead just stuffed them out of sight.
I stepped back, equally silently, to where I'd been when she left the room. In my mind was a vivid picture, based on what I'd seen through the crack around the bedroom door. I could imagine her here on her own, sitting in front of the TV, feeling the buildup of pressure which finally became unbearable, so that at last, she had to strip off her panties and masturbate.
Question, ringing through my giddy skull: did she make it before I got in? Because if she did, she'd be on the down phase, and anything I did would probably turn her off. Or did I catch her before she'd finished? Because in that case she might still be steaming . . .
There was exactly one way to find out.
Here she was, holding out to me a tall glass with a high head on the light-brown beer it contained. I felt suddenly in control, careless of what disasters I might precipitate. I took the glass, but instead of drinking from it, I set it down on a handy table. Then I took hers as well, and set it down too, and I put my arms around her and kissed her very hard on that big broad-lipped, smiling, sexy mouth. I stabbed my tongue forward so there could be no mistaking this for an affectionate son-type greeting-kiss, and forced her jaws violently apart.
But she opened for me, and her arms went around me, too, her sharp fingertips jabbing into my back. She pushed hard against me, writhing, and I held her bosom against my chest with one hand behind her shoulders, while with the other hand I cramped her pelvis toward me. We kissed frantically until we ran out of gasping breath and had to separate, and she rolled her head sideways on to my shoulder, her saliva-smeared cheek wet upon mine.
"Oh, Christ, Bill," she said. "I'm so glad you did that!"
I didn't say anything. I didn't have anything to say. Back in the car, necking with Rita, I'd acquired a colossal hard-on. It had just come back, more demanding than before, and I could no more talk in competition with it than with a toothache.
But Mom could, and she did. She said, after a pause, not moving away from me, "I can guess what spoiled your evening, hm? Rita wouldn't come across! Right?"
I managed a nod, which she felt by the slither of my cheek on hers.
"Thought so. She's the same as I was at my age. And it isn't fair, is it? I used to do that kind of thing. I'd been taught all these damned lies about the things 'nice girls' didn't do. I honestly didn't know it was possible for a girl to get pleasure out of her body, same as a boy. I was-I was numb, know what I mean? I could just tell my boyfriends, stop now, that's all you're getting, take me home this minute, when there the poor devils were, hornier than hell, built up to a grand letdown. My God, I had some terrific boys taking me out, too! I was one of the prettiest girls in town; they all wanted to be seen around with me! And when I think how often I remembered at the right time that 'nice girls' don't screw . . . Christ, I wouldn't be surprised to find that a lot of that bunch grew up impotent. I mean, what would you expect after that kind of treatment from a whole string of girls? You'd never learn how to let go; you'd never learn how to come!"
Mechanically, my hands were wandering up and down her back. I could feel the sleek warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her robe.
Suddenly she pulled back from me, to arms' length, setting her hands on my shoulders. She looked at me searchingly.
"She's a fool," she said decisively. "I mean Rita. You're a beautiful boy, Bill. Oh, I don't mean you're pansy-beautiful! But you smile a lot, you talk nicely and your voice is pleasant, and you walk with-with confidence, know what I mean? And I think you're considerate, too, which is a great thing for a man to be. Not that I can be sure, but it's the impression I get. I mean, when you're staying here, you're helpful around the house, you remember to buy me a present now and then, and you write me interesting letters, too . . . And it's been practically driving me crazy having you around! I never expected you to do what you just did, but-Christ, yes, I'm damned glad you did!"
With which, she closed the gap between us again and fastened her mouth on mine, like a hungry starfish on an oyster. Wriggling inside my embrace, she pulled at the sides of her robe as she kissed me, making it fall open, and started to fumble my shirt up from my pants. At the same time, she pushed me backward toward the long lounge where she'd been sitting when I came in. Trying to keep my balance, I failed, and literally fell on it, and when she fell on top of me, my control ran out and I came furiously in my pants, heave and heave and heave.
I was all set to be apologetic a moment later, and in the nick of time I realized it wasn't necessary. She knew what had happened, and why it had happened, and she was delighted. She rocked back on her haunches, her robe hanging wide open down either side of her lovely, ripe body, and grinned at me in a way I hadn't seen since age nine, when I and a kid called Tessa Wormold found a private place where we could strip off and watch each other pissing and shitting. Tessa had had just that same expression when we finished doing something that would have horrified our parents.
"Thank you, Rita," she said. "She must have got you pretty worked up, hm?"
I finally found my long-lost-and by now rusty -vocal cords. I said, "Not half as much as you, that's for sure!"
"You're a sweetheart!" She leaned forward and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek; then she turned around, looking for the beers we'd abandoned, and went to get them and a pack of cigarettes. I shifted position to take the glass she held out, and felt the unpleasant stickiness of jissum inside my pants.
"Oh," Mom said. "Yes. Well, take 'em off!"
And she stood there, holding the beer-glasses, while I did precisely that, watching me with frank interest as I dumped first my shirt, then my jeans, and finally my undershorts on the floor. I used the shorts to give myself a quick wipe before discarding them.
Then, moved by a private devil, I lifted the pillow off the lounge, and pulled out her panties from under it, adding them to the pile.
She laughed aloud. "Oh, Bill! That's weird! Was it finding those which put the idea of kissing me into your head?"
She dropped down companionably beside me, handing over my glass, then setting down her own and shucking out of her robe so that she could lean back against me, naked. The touch of her hair on my shoulder was delightful, so smooth, so fragrant too.
"Ah . . . No," I admitted. "I heard you talking to Jerry on the phone the other morning."
She stared at me, twisting her head, and abruptly laughed again. "Well, then-thank you, Jerry! As well as, thank you, Rita! If only they knew . . . ! Cheers!"
She raised her glass in a toast and linked arms with me before drinking.
IV
I had to spell it out to myself, scrap by scrap. I had to say, "Hell, this is Mom right here beside me, and she's naked, damn it! And so am I! And she looks happy. And I don't know for sure about her . . . but I am!"
I was floating. I was on Cloud Nine. I mean, she'd been saying all those great things about my being thoughtful, and interesting, and so on, and no chick Td ever gone with had ever told me that, though it was exactly what I'd most dreamed of hearing, all my-uh-grown-up life. I mean, since I was about fifteen, two years ago.
I reached down over her shoulder and started playing with those beautiful, smooth breasts, and she wiggled into a new position to make it easier. That little thing finally made me connect properly with reality again.
Lighting cigarettes, she gave me one, and threw her right leg across mine. She said, "So you heard me talking to Jerry the other morning, did you?"
"And-uh-watched you afterward," I admitted.
"Did you? I never suspected!" She half sat up, turning to stare at me, then relaxed again. "So that was what put the idea into your head. Hadn't you thought of it before?"
"Not really. I mean, making a pass at your mother-it's kind of ruled out before you start, isn't it?"
"Isn't it better than making a pass at some pretty young chick who doesn't come across?" she countered. "And I'm going to come across, believe me. I'd have done it long ago, only I was afraid you'd be horrified."
"Like after the Woods' party, Christmas before last?" I suggested.
She frowned for an instant, then remembered. "Oh! That time! So you did get the message!"
"I got the message a year and a half late," I confessed. "The other morning, when you went to shower, after I'd heard you talking with Jerry."
And I added, "I was right, was I? Even though I caught on late?"
"Right? Of course you were. Let's see, now . . . You were fifteen and a half then, weren't you?"
I nodded.
"But you came on like a man. You really did. I was so ridiculously proud of you!" Once more she twisted around, to face me directly. "I've always been proud of you, Bill, and it's hurt me dreadfully to know you didn't care too much for me. Oh, of course, the way things are, I don't get many chances to improve the situation, but . . .
She made a vague gesture and dropped the ash from her cigarette on the rug. "Hell!" she interpolated absently, brushing at it with bare toes. "Yes: like I was saying . . . That Christmas you were here, I was goddamned pleased with you, I was all set to forget my prejudices and act out a mad little fantasy of mine, if only you'd responded. I really did intend to bring you back here, sit you down-well, where you are now, come to think of it! And then, after giving you another drink, I was going to ask you to unzip my dress because it was so tight, and then take your hand and put it down my dress . . . "
Her voice trailed away. Finally, she shrugged, and drank a little more of her beer.
"Only I lost courage at the last moment. Do you have fantasies like that, Bill? Or-wait, answer me another question first. You've had girls by this time, haven't you?"
"Some. None of them very satisfactory."
"Hmm!" She drew her finely shaped eyebrows together. "I wonder if you're expecting too much. That's another of the stinking lies they tell people, convincing them it'll all be miraculous if you just hold off until you're married . . . No, I think you're too sensible. What was the problem? Not having a decent place to screw?"
"That, and not really being sure how to do it," I said, at length.
"I'm not surprised." She chuckled unexpectedly, as though at some private memory. "Though, mind you, I've been laid very efficiently in some very unlikely places! It's not what you'd call an amateur skill, though. So-uh-do you have fantasies?"
"Have to," I answered gruffly. "What else is there, stuck in a prep school most of the year?"
"Boyfriends?" she suggested teasingly.
"Well . . . Yes. But I don't care for that kind of thing. I like girls!"
"Did I ever turn up in any of your fantasies?"
"Someone very like you," I said slowly. I'd never realized that before. But the moment I was asked the question, I saw the truth: someone very like Mom had haunted me most of my life, a girl with just such plump, firm round breasts, just such a big smiling mouth . . .
"It happens to everyone," Mom said. "At least, it's happened to nine out of ten of the men I've fucked. Often, they said I wasn't their 'type', but they liked me anyhow, of course, or else they wouldn't have been in bed with me . . . " A renewal of her impish grin. "And when I pinned down their so-called 'type', almost always it turned out to be related in some way to their mothers. Either it was a reflection of her, or else it was a kind of compliment to her. Not compliment: complement. I mean, providing the bits that they thought were missing from her."
And, after a brief pause, she added: "There was a lot missing from me, wasn't there, when I was still living with you and Dad?"
"I don't know," I said.
"I'm telling you." She stubbed her cigarette and leaned back against me again, taking my hand and replacing it on her breast. Staring into nowhere, she continued, "And I simply didn't see it at the time! I wish I had! I'd rather have stayed with you, you know, and brought you up. Although I guess it must be because I only see you now and then, that I find you so maddeningly attractive. If I were under the same roof all year around, I'd probably never give you a tumble. Or, if the idea occurred to me, I'd be ashamed, and worried, and probably go ask a psychiatrist what was wrong. When you hit on the idea of making a pass at me the other morning, did you feel ashamed?"
"Not at the time," I said. "More or less for the same reason you just gave. I remember saying to myself that if anyone else but me stayed here a month without making a pass at you, people would go around accusing him of being queer."
"I think that's quite true," Mom said emphatically. "I-uh-I guess you drew some conclusions from what you heard me saying to Jerry, didn't you?"
"I figured out you probably belong to a swap club," I said. "Right?"
"Yes. I've been in it for three years. It was after I broke up with your dad that I found out one of the reasons I couldn't be a proper wife. I . . . " She hesitated. "I-uh-needed something special to turn me on."
She waited for me to comment. I thought about all the texts I'd read on sexual hang-ups, and finally made an educated guess.
"Not the bondage bit?" I ventured.
"Christ. If it showed enough for my own son to figure it out. . . ! " She sounded bitter, and reached for her glass to cover her embarrassment. "I nearly got it right, picking on Hank-your dad-as a husband, because, having his hundred and ninety pounds on top of me was pretty much the kind of situation which turned me on, the being-helpless bit . . . Only it wasn't his scene, if you follow me. He didn't have the need to make his partner helpless, any more than I hope you do. It's a childish reaction, believe me.
"But after I moved out here I got to know the Parrishes, and the Freemans, and Jerry and Andy Klecker and their wives, and one time . . . Well, I got taken to this party which I was absolutely not expecting, and I saw Cissy-you remember her? Yes?"
I nodded, my mouth dry.
"Thought you would. Well, I saw her being stripped and held down by Jerry and Andy and two girls-that was what blew my mind: two girls helping! So that her own husband could screw her! And she was screaming and bawling and out of her head with lust, and . . . " Mom gestured in the air. "I found out that night that I wanted to try it. Do you mind me telling you this?"
Before I could answer, she'd put out her hand to inquire a reply of my prick, and by this time it was standing to attention. She gave a deep throaty chuckle.
"Darling Bill!" she said. "I just hope you're not one for the bondage bit. Are you?"
"Not that I know of," I said. "Why? You grew out of it?"
"Didn't exactly have to grow out of it," Mom answered, sounding smug. Her cool, smooth hand began to work gently up and down the shaft of my prick, pausing at the base of each stroke, to press lightly on the underside. On those few occasions I'd managed to get girls to handle me this way, they'd always had to be shown the right place to take hold, the right speed to rub up and down, and the right time to start hurrying me to climax. I realized the instant Mom touched me, she didn't need any instruction on points one or two, so it followed she wouldn't need any on point three, either. I leaned back and prepared to enjoy myself.
"No, I didn't have to grow out of it," she repeated thoughtfully. "I more kind of sweated it out. They told me afterward they'd always thought I was square except Jerry, who'd sworn all I needed was one traumatic experience to turn me on permanently, and-ho-ho! Was Jerry ever right!"
"How?" I said, reaching for the base of her belly and twining my fingers into that delicious springy hair between her thighs.
"I'd never come before," Mom said after a pause.
"What?"
"Truth." She looked solemn. "Oh, I don't think you could call me frigid, exactly. But I never had a proper climax-I just wandered vaguely up to a pitch of excitement and then I wandered back down again, usually after the guy I was in bed with had come, and I was half-convinced girls couldn't reach real orgasm, the kind that makes the toes curl. Yes, there I was, thirty-two years and a bit more, old, and I wasn't getting my-uh-rights."
"So what did you do?" I inquired. By now, my prick was beginning to throb to her caresses.
"I summoned up absolutely all my courage, and I asked for the same kind of thing to be done to me as had been done to Cissy, except . . . Well, I wanted it and I came, and I came, and I came, and in five short hours I practically made up for all those wasted years. When I went home in the morning, around dawn, the sky was brighter and the sea was bluer and the trees were greener than I'd ever seen them in my life, and I was tingling from head to toe, and I couldn't sleep like I'd intended to, so I called up a boyfriend around breakfast-time-not someone from the club, but someone I liked very much only I was sure 'all he wanted was my body', you get me? And I said come over and let's fuck. I said exactly that, on the phone. Which he did. And which I think we should, don't you?"
She waggled my stiff prick back and forth so that it slapped against my belly, and before I knew what was happening, she'd thrown her leg over mine, forcing me to turn and lie on my back on the lounge, and slid me into the warm, slick, taut sheath of her cunt.
"You're the hundred and fifth man I've had," she said, looking down at me. "But I don't think I've ever wanted anyone more than I've wanted you."
V
After that, things were extremely crazy. I woke up next morning in her bed, both of us naked, of course, and lay with my head on the pillow, staring at her. She was smiling in her sleep. It being such a hot night, we'd had to move apart because we were getting sticky, but she'd reached out some time just before I woke-in fact, maybe that was what actually awakened me-and taken my prick in her hand, to hold it in a friendly manner.
I'd never slept the whole night with a woman before. I mean, not without needing to wake at some unearthly hour like five o'clock so I, or she, could steal out and creep home without being noticed. Now here it was-what? I glanced at the bedside clock. Eight-thirty. And I could stay here as long as I liked, doing what I liked.
Or rather, I corrected myself, what we liked. Last night . . .
Well, I'd come in my pants first off. Then she'd stripped and sat against me in the nude, I recalled that. And then she'd caressed me to another stand, and straddled me until I came, and then she'd invited me to bed with her and instead of cuddling up as I'd expected by that time so we could go to sleep, she'd peeled back the bed-cover and rolled me on my back so she could get at my prick with her mouth. That was a hell of a sensation, and another first! I'd once persuaded a girl to kiss my prick, but the most she'd done was give it some little pecks and then withdrew, shuddering. She'd never plucked up the courage to take the whole thing in her mouth.
It had been at that point that I reached for Mom's hips and pulled her around so her cunt was over my face, and tried kissing it. I'd been a bit diffident, but I needn't have worried. I figured the right thing to do at once-at least, I judged I had by the way she groaned and trembled in response. I simply licked up along the parting of those hair-fringed lips a couple of times, to make them open wide, and then pushed my tongue in as far as it would go, as though kissing her on the mouth. My chin was then just at the point where her pubic hair was fullest. It tickled a bit, kind of like having a false beard, I guess. But when I wrapped my arms around her hips and rubbed my chin back and forth in time with my tonguing, she came in about two minutes, her thighs almost cracking my head like a walnut in a pair of crackers. At the same, time, the sperm I'd spurted in when we were fucking in the living-area came streaming back to me, but it was all part of the lush rich juices I'd already been drinking, so I didn't give a damn. Like most kids, I'd tried the taste of my jissom before, as well as my piss and shit, and I knew one boy at school who loved it. For me, it was exciting not because of any taste it had, but because of the idea. All in the head, like so much of what turned me on.
After that, since she'd sucked me to yet another stand, I was all set to roll her over and fuck her in the regular style, face to face, but she prevented me. Resting her cheek for a moment on my belly, she said, "Stay where you are, Bill, baby! I just came in your mouth-it's only fair that you should come in mine!"
"But I've come twice," I said. "I'm not sure I can make it again."
Equally, I wasn't sure I couldn't. The first time, while we were just kissing, I'd had what I thought of as a "fat" hard-on-the kind I pretty often woke up with, grown in my sleep like a mushroom after rainy weather. The second time, while we were fucking, I'd had a "solid" hard-on-the kind which doesn't demand attention, but is just kind of nice because it means any pressure it receives is turned into pleasure-signals along the nerves. Right then, however, I had a third-time hard-on, the sort which is thin and agonizing and might as well be let to subside unless there's the certainty of corning at the end of it.
And, with Mom furiously sucking me, it felt as though I had something close to a certainty lined up. If there was anything she could do to make me come, she'd do it.
She did. My balls were drained, and practically nothing came out, but it was like a red-hot lance stabbing me when I finally reached a climax. It was great.
Then Mom crawled up to the pillow end of the bed and lay down alongside me, shaking her hair across my arm, and looked at me with this funny mixture of pleasure and pride. Neither of us said anything.
Abruptly, she flung her arm across me and kissed me very hard on the mouth, and when she drew back again, her cheeks were shiny with tears.
I couldn't believe it. I said, "Mom is--? "
"Is anything wrong?" she interrupted. "Hell, no, sweetheart! I'm crying because everything's so fantastically right!"
She reached to pull the covers over us, and put out the light. I guess I was asleep in two minutes, my face in the scented depths of her hair.
So now, in the morning, I felt a fresh hard-on growing in the nest of her hand. I worked gently back and forth an couple of times to encourage it, and then I caressed her breasts for a while.
"Mmmmm!" she murmured sleepily, and I transferred my hand to her cunt, stroking the curly hair around it and then rubbing gently at the lips. When she started grinning, her eyes still closed, I made to climb on top of her and start fucking. But she pushed me away.
"Bill, honey, you'll burst my bladder!" she whispered. "Let me turn on my side and you can come up me from behind."
She rolled over, facing away from me, and felt behind her back for my prick. Raising her right leg, she slipped me adroitly into her cunt, then found my right hand and cupped it over her breast, before reaching for her crotch and beginning to play with herself in rhythm with my pumping from the rear.
Gradually she became more wakeful; at first, she'd been content to enjoy the sensation. She said suddenly, "Bill, do you think I'm crazy?"
I thought that over, still sliding my prick in and out of her. I'd never kept going for this long before, because I'd never had the chance to screw at leisure in the morning before; it had always been a panicky scene, with the chick determined to get me off the premises as soon as possible. I said, at last, "Yes, but I like you a hell of a lot better crazy, than normal."
She gave a quick squeeze to the hand I was stroking her breast with.
"You know, I had a dream in the night," she said. "I dreamed I was going to wake up and find you'd gone back to your own room, and when I said good morning to you, you shouted at me, telling me I was disgusting. Am I?"
"I think you're delicious," I said, and nuzzled the nape of her neck.
"I'm glad," she said seriously. "I'm terribly glad. I was so frightened in the dream . . . Speaking of dreams, Bill darling!"
"Yes?"
"Are you-uh-full, like me? From that beer last night?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Can you . . . ? " She hesitated. "Can you piss in my cunt a little? Some men can't when they have a hard-on. Just a little, a couple of squirts."
Astonished, I said, "I guess I can try! But won't it make the bed all wet?"
"Oh, it won't take a moment to change the sheets. Come on, can you?"
And she added, almost apologetically: "I don't know if you've met a girl before who likes that, have you? It's-well, I guess it's kind of a hydraulic thing! It's not feeling the piss squirting out, you see; it's the feeling you get afterward, when your cunt's full of liquid. It gives this sense of pressure building up everywhere inside."
"Right," I said. I stopped my back-and-forth motion for a moment, and mustered my control over my bladder muscles. I was indeed very full of that beer. I bore down, and a thin stream escaped the stand-locked shaft of my prick.
"Feel it?" I said.
"Yes, it's lovely. A little more!"
I repeated the process. Abruptly I felt the hot wetness surrounding my prick, and a cooling trickle running down from its base across my balls.
"Oh, lovely!" Mom whispered. "Now go on fucking!"
So I did. And I understood clearly what she'd meant; her cunt was such a snug fit, with each stroke I was compressing the accumulated urine, and it was like filling every fraction of a cubic millimeter inside her.
"Oh, Bill," she murmured, "this is great . . . You know, a lot of men can't do that? Big studs who can fuck four or five girls in a night, can't piss when they have a stand on. Make it go on as long as you can, please. And-"
"Yes?" I said.
"Well.. . Well, I said last night I was going to come across for you, and I meant it. There must be things you like doing, or things you've always wanted to do but never found anyone to do them with. Come on, tell me, and I promise I'll do my best to make it come real for you."
I licked my lips, continuing to pump in and out of her. I said, "Well-uh . . . "
She twisted her head around to glance at me. "No need to be reticent with me," she said. "Surely you know that!"
"Uh . . . Well, we can shower together, I guess."
"You like bathroom scenes? How about if I piss on you first, when we get up? I love sitting on someone else on the toilet!"
The picture came real inside my head instantly: she with her legs apart, pressing her belly on mine, so that when she peed, her urine ran down the sides of my thighs. I said, "Yes, please. And-"
"Tell me!"
"Can I-uh-bugger you?"
"Now?" She was instantly all set to withdraw, but I hadn't meant that. "Some time," I said.
"Next time you have a stand, if you like," she promised. "I mean, unless it's somewhere outside, and we can't! And I'll tell you something else I like. You ever pissed in a girl's ass?"
"No!"
"I like having that done to me, too. We'll try it. And do you want to come to my swap club, and fuck me in front of all the members? You have to; it's a kind of initiation."
"Do you have any other--? "
"Mother and son teams? No, but we do have a father and stepdaughter-and a grandson and grandmother, believe it or not! She's about sixty-five, I guess, but she's got a great figure, apart from her breasts, and lots of the men like her, and a few months ago, we enrolled this couple, both about twenty-two, I guess, and the guy didn't have the least idea his grandmother was in the club-because his parents are very square indeed, but she was what they called a 'flapper' back in the twenties and she's kept right on swinging all her life, and when her grandson showed up at his first party, she said right out, come on, let's fuck. I mean that's what she actually said. So she laid him right in front of everybody, and afterward he said she was a terrific lay."
I thought for a while, and finally said, "This right in front of everybody bit.. . I don't think it's my scene."
"Nor mine, really," Mom agreed. "Though it's great for working yourself up to fever-pitch. But the real fucking bit is best when you don't have an audience. I mean, like now."
She clamped her cunt-muscles tight on my prick.
"So what would you rather do, apart from what you've already said?"
I hesitated. "Take you out without a bra on," I said. "Feel you up when I get the chance."
"Sure," she said instantly. "I like going without a bra. I go without panties too, quite a bit, except if I'm in such a short skirt it's risky. And how about going to a drive-in and necking there?"
I felt my prick start to quiver, but I stalled the reflex; I wanted to spin out this fabulous fuck as long as I could. I said, "Great. And let's have some people around for drinks-let's have the Woods in, with Chessie and Rita, maybe and go out in the kitchen, pretending we're off to collect sandwiches, and screw in there while they're waiting."
"That's a swinging situation," Mom agreed. "I've done that a couple of times. There was a couple down here from New York last summer, and I liked the guy a lot, and one time I was over there for drinks and did just that-screwed him up against the back of the kitchen door while he was calling out to his wife to say he wouldn't be a moment. I thought she never suspected a thing, and then"-Mom giggled-"I found out she was letting the landlord of the house they'd rented into her pants regularly every afternoon. Saw them at it."
She began to weave her hips back and forth more vigorously, her hand rubbing hard on her clitoris. "I'm about coming to the point," she said. "You?"
"Let's see if we can make it together," I said, shutting my eyes.
Which we did.
And we did the rest of it, too. We went to that drive-in, and as soon as the picture started Mom wriggled out of her panties-she hadn't put on a bra-and pushed my hand down to her cunt and unzipped my fly. And we stole down to the beach on the way home and fucked on the sand, and then she stopped the car on the street next to' ours and insisted on necking with me right there for a few minutes, saying she liked doing things under the noses of the neighbors.
I guess I'd known all along that this kind of stimulation was going to make me want to try this swingers' club scene, and nine days and nineteen orgasms after I arrived, she took me along and I met this cat Jerry she'd been talking to on the phone that morning: a big, handsome stud, an engineer, about twenty-eight. It was kind of weird watching him, and all those other men, fucking my mother, but it was even weirder the way it turned me on until I had to do it myself, audience or no audience. And they cheered, and Jerry came and joined in, kissing Mom first while I was screwing her, and then kissing me, which I hadn't expected to like, but which in fact, turned out to be pretty good. Later on, he blew me, as well, but before then I'd had this grandmother Mom had told me about, and it was really true-she was a hell of a lay, for all that she was in her sixties, and she had the most educated cunt I'd ever run across. The lips of it might look flabby, but the muscles inside . . . Wow.
And I got myself a girl out of the club. You might say that was the wildest bit of all. Nineteen. In college. Not too good-looking, but with that same big smiling mouth as Mom, and dark hair cut close around her head in a sort of helmet style, and big dark eyes, and little taut breasts and a-hell!-a delicious cunt. I mean practically scented. The first time I'd been licking it I got straight up off her and went over to Mom without swallowing and said, here, taste this! And Mom said it was amazing. Which it was. So we asked Dell-that's her name, short for Delphinia which she doesn't like-to come to our place, and we all screwed together and then sat down and talked until it was four a.m. Everything we mentioned, we had the same ideas about: music, books, art, politics, and, above all, sexual freedom. I was wondering about having to take her home, but it wasn't necessary. Her parents, here on vacation, were used to her staying out all night, and paid for her supply of the pill. Not swingers themselves, they said they thought all kids ought to have a chance to swing for a while so as to make their chances of a happy marriage better.
Well, it's not the right age to think of marriage: seventeen. Is it? But when Dell went to the bathroom, I said to Mom, "I think I'm in love with that chick."
She looked straight back at me and said, "I think I am, too. Keep hold of her. Don't lose her. You can't have me, and I guess you wouldn't want to. But she's a bit like me, isn't she?"
"A lot like you," I said, and leaned over to kiss her, and the kiss kind of stretched, and when Dell came back we were still at it, and it didn't faze her in the least. All she said was, "Have you a bed big enough for three?"
So I guess that's what I'm cut out for. Hell, I wish it wasn't so long until Christmas vacation . . .
THREE
BROTHER-SISTER
The reason I was jerking off in spite of being happily married to a very sexy girl, indeed, was simple: Sally had been away already, the best part of the week, staying with her parents in the north of England, and she wasn't due back until tomorrow, and I'd lost touch with all my other girlfriends following our marriage. It just didn't seem to be worth the trouble of going on with the bachelor bit, when I had a very gorgeous and continuously available chick living with me.
In, by the way, a big old Victorian house in a section of London where there are still these huge nineteenth-century gardens. I was right down at the bottom of ours, in an overgrown wilderness. It was a hundred and seventy feet overall, and the last thirty feet or so had been let run to seed; it was a dense tangle of un-trimmed shrubs and rambler roses. We had the lower two floors of the old house, and the right to use the garden-and the obligation to keep it neat-went with the lease. The people on the upper two floors were elderly and didn't care about gardening. And it was a marvelous, bright, hot spring day. When we'd moved in last autumn, we hadn't had the chance to do more than clear a few weeds from the ground nearest the house, but during this summer I planned to put the whole area in good order, and I'd been making a start by trimming the greenery and piling dead branches in a stack for burning.
Not that my efforts were liable to put the garden back in the condition it had been in once; almost all the houses on this street were let into rooms or small apartments, and on either side for a considerable distance, the same had happened to all the gardens. In particular, tree-roots had pushed over the old dividing walls and fences, and one could walk quite easily through eight or ten of the gardens before reaching a proper barrier. There was this kind of no man's land, you might say, well screened from anyone's view.
It being, as I said, a hot spring day, I'd drunk a couple of pints of beer with my lunch, and when they overtook the rate at which I was perspiring, I didn't see why I had to go all the way back to the house and find a toilet. So I had a pee against the trunk of a tree, and since my work had been interrupted anyway, I lit a cigarette, sat down on an old stump and looked around at the sun slanting through the dense foliage. I recalled that when we chose this home, Sally and I had laughingly promised one another we'd come out here some summer night and screw under the stars, and that more or less immediately gave me a hard-on.
So I decided to make use of it. I threw away my cigarette and opened my fly again, and started working my prick up and down, thinking about Sally and wishing to heaven it were already tomorrow.
And, all of a sudden, this chirpy voice said, "What are you doing?"
My eyes had drifted shut. I slammed them open, and there, peering curiously at me from the middle of a sprawling bush alongside the broken-down fence supposed to separate this from the adjacent garden, was this bright-eyed boy of no more than thirteen, with a shock of gingery hair, freckles all over his snub nose. And not only him, but-peering past him-a girl maybe a year or so younger, with similar hair, a bit darker, the same crop of freckles, and enormous bright green eyes. She was tugging at his arm, apparently trying to pull him away, but he shook her off.
"Uh-" I said, frantically trying to jam my prick back inside my pants.
"Are you playing with yourself?" the boy demanded. "I thought only kids did that. I didn't know grownups did it too."
He pushed forward out of the thick-leaved bush, catching at his sister's hand-she was obviously his sister-and urging her to follow him. Which she did, very shyly. He was wearing a short-sleeved blue shirt and dark blue shorts and sandals, and she was wearing a short dress striped with red and blue and the same sort of sandals.
"Who are you?" he went on. "Uh . . . " I answered. It was the best I could manage. I'd contrived to catch my undershorts in my zipper in my haste to re-fasten my fly . . .
I took a deep breath and mastered myself. I reasoned that there wasn't any need to act so frantic. If this kid could be perfectly matter-of-fact about the situation, so could I. I pulled the zipper down again, freed it, and was about to close it once and for all, when the little girl took a shy step forward, staring at my crotch, and said, "It's big, isn't it? Goodness!" For some reason, that struck me as ridiculously funny. I burst out laughing, threw back my head and roared at the sky. They stood there, holding hands, grinning and blinking at me, until I recovered.
"Hullo," I said when I could. "I'm Tommy Carver. And you are--? "
"I'm David Lake. This is my sister June. Is this your garden? I'm awfully sorry if we're trespassing!"
He didn't look in the least sorry, and knew I knew he wasn't. But he had such an engaging manner, it didn't matter. I solemnly said hello, and asked if they lived around here.
"Oh, yes. We're from the house right at the end there." David gestured over his shoulder. "We came out to-uh-explore all the gardens we could get to. We didn't mean to interrupt, by the way."
"Or disturb anybody," June said timidly. "Dave, don't you think we'd better go back?"
He gave her an unexpected glare. "Well, we didn't find anywhere yet, did we? Maybe we could go on, instead. That is, if Mr. Carver doesn't mind us going through his garden . . . ? "
I was about to say no, of course I didn't mind, provided they didn't meddle with anything, and inquire what sort of "anywhere" they were looking for, when June bit her Up and leaned to whisper in her brother's ear. I noticed all of a sudden that she was looking a little tense. It couldn't have been the surprise of finding me masturbating which accounted for that, as I'd at first assumed.. .
I said, "Trouble?"
They exchanged glances.
"WeU, not exactly," David began, but his sister cut him short.
"I have to go to the toilet!" she exclaimed. "I'm bursting! And Dave made me come out with him because he wanted to watch me do it!"
II
Oh, well . . . !
I was suddenly carried back ten years in time. When I was around the same age as these kids, I'd been curious about bodies, too-and why not? There are a hell of a lot of things about being male, or female, you have to find out for yourself, because what you read in books and what other people tell you simply doesn't cover all the truth.
But I hadn't commented, when David said timidly, "I-uh-I hope you don't mind her saying that, Mr. Carver."
I said, "Of course I don't. And I like my friends to call me Tommy. So go ahead."
June stared at me. She said, "Do you mean you want to watch me too?"
"Not particularly." But contrary to what I'd hoped, I felt my interrupted hard-on turn around and start growing again. Christ! Being separated from Sally for a week was having some unforeseen consequences. I was sure these kids couldn't be older than eleven and twelve-thirteen at the outside.
However, it was clear at once that the idea of being allowed to do this kind of thing by a "grownup" appealed to David all right. He said warmly, "Thanks, Tommy! That's great! Come on, June-you said you were absolutely bursting!"
For an instant, I thought she was going to raise objections. Then she shrugged, and hooked her sandals free of her feet, with her toes.
"You want me to do it standing up, I suppose," she said to her brother.
"Yes, please!"
"I knew it," she sighed. She pulled up the hem of her dress, giving me a final, anxious glance, to reveal her panties. They were green and very tight, obviously too small for her-a pair maybe left over from last summer's wardrobe which she'd outgrown. Even before she pulled them down, stepped out of them and balled them up to thrust them in the pocket of her dress, I'd seen the clear outline of the lips of her cunt. To my surprise, her pubis was already well fledged with a fine dense down, rather than hair. I hadn't expected that; her breasts as yet barely showed under the thin fabric of her dress.
My hard-on stirred of its own accord. Christ! I licked my dry lips. All my life I'd subscribed to the ideal that one should be absolutely matter-of-fact with kids on any question that concerned sex, because my parents hadn't been honest with me and that had made a lot of trouble for me. But turning theory into reality was proving tougher than I'd expected. Maybe I ought to get up and move away, carry on with my trimming of those bushes I'd started, and let these two play the way they wanted . . .
I didn't get the chance. David rugged up the right leg of his shorts, fumbling inside. Glancing over his shoulder at me, he said, "I Like to play with myself while I'm watching June-do you mind?
He brought out his small, uncircumcised prick. It was, as nearly as I could recall, the size mine had been at his age: four inches or so long. Mine had grown to about eight by the time I was seventeen and it had stopped there. Staring, I saw that he, too, had a healthy crop of hair around the root of the shaft, and, because the weather was warm, his balls were hanging down loose from the opening of his shorts leg. I said, with some difficulty, "Hell, do as you like."
"Thanks, Mr. Carver-I mean Tommy! I'm awfully glad we found someone like you! Come on, June!"
She planted her legs as wide apart as she could on the soft grassy ground, bent her knees slightly forward, and put her hands on her thighs just above her kneecaps. She was face-on to David, which meant I had a good view also. With a look of infinite relief, so acute that she shut her eyes and exhaled, she let go a pale yellow spurting stream of piss. At first it shot straight out to the ground; as the pressure dwindled, some of it began to trickle down her legs. I saw why she'd had to take off her sandals.
Not detaching his gaze from the fascinating spectacle, David pumped vigorously at his prick. The glans swelled and glistened redly, the foreskin sliding aside from its tip. He said sidelong to me, "If you want to as well, Tommy, we won't mind-will we, June?"
The stream of urine subsided. She opened her eyes again and recovered her balance from the rather awkward posture she'd been standing in. Holding her dress up around her waist with one hand, she bent to pluck a handful of grass with the other and wipe away the wet from her legs. Not looking at either of us, she said, "No, of course."
"Don't you want another look at Tommy's prick?" David suggested, and without waiting for an answer, turned to me, his hand still going like the piston of a car-engine.
"I'd like it!" he added.
Of all the fantastic, ridiculous . . . !
I simply sat there, on the tree-stump where I'd been all along. Meanwhile, June let her dress fall-and David reached out with his spare hand and pulled it up again, urging her to come around and stand beside him so he could fondle her bottom. She didn't resist, but she did gaze at me anxiously with those huge green eyes, her mouth a little open, as though terrified I'd suddenly grow angry and tell them they were disgusting and awful and ought to be ashamed of themselves.
I had had a basinful of that when I was a kid. I was spanked for playing with myself; I was once caught playing hospital with a little girl from school, and sent to bed without supper every night for a week. I come from a good Christian family, as you may have deduced . . .
So, abruptly, I found myself thinking, "The hell with it!" I didn't like to see that expression of embryonic fear on June's pretty little face; it summed up the affects of years of being frightened of "what the grownups might think".
What this grownup thought was that he envied their self-possession, and their frankly revealed interest in each other's bodies. They had equally frankly revealed their interest in mine.
I opened my pants and took out my cock, hard to the point where it was nearly throbbing.
"Wow," David said. "June was right-it is big."
"Yours will grow," I said. "I was your size at your age."
There was a pause. Suddenly, June stepped forward and bent to take a closer look. She didn't say anything for a long moment-simply peered at it. Then she stepped back and raised her head. Her eyes were shining.
"Thank you," she said. ' Blankly, I said, "What for?"
"Well . . . " She licked her lips, glanced rapidly at her brother, then back at me. "Well, I've always wanted to see a grownup prick. And once I tried to get a sight of Daddy in the toilet, and-"
"And he caught her spying," David said. "He smacked her so hard he bruised her arm. He went on for days and bloody days about how unnatural she was. Do you think she's unnatural, Tommy?"
"I think you're a pair of the most natural kids I ever met," I said. And I meant it. I was bowled over.
Another short pause followed. David said at length, "Why don't you go on playing with yourself? I'd like to see if you do it the same way I do."
"Well . . . Okay!"
I put my hand around the shaft and began to work it up and down. Moving away from her brother, June came and sat beside me on the tree-stump, watching with hypnotic interest. David stood before me, continuing to rub himself.
"Pretty much the same way," he decided after a while. "Is it the same with everybody, Tommy?"
"I imagine so," I said. It was weird to be carrying on a sober conversation with this kid, given the things we were doing to ourselves, but-the watchword was "be natura!", after all. . .
And, funnily enough, I'd had almost the same conversation word-for-word, with Sally, when we first started to make love together. She'd had several boyfriends-it would have been incredible if she hadn't, because she's not only beautiful, she's very intelligent, and in matters of sex, she's what you'd call enterprising. So once, for about a week, she'd been insatiably curious about me personally, and what I knew of men in general, and made me jerk off while she studied me in much the same way as June was now doing, during which we talked about the things she wanted to find out.
Once I asked why she was putting all these questions to me, and she answered, "Because you'll never know what it's like to have breasts, and I'll never know what it's like to have balls, unless we talk about the way it feels."
"Mine's sort of greyish-white and sticky," David said suddenly. "Is yours?"
What? I came back from the reverie about Sally which I'd wandered into. Oh yes: he must mean his semen. I said, "Far as I know, everyone's is alike."
"Black men's too?" June said. "Yes." I nearly laughed at that. "I've been wondering," she murmured. "You've seen David's, have you?" I inquired. "Oh, yes! He showed me he could do it last summer, and there's much more of it now, he says."
"Like you're just about to see," David exclaimed in triumph. He gave a final ramming shove to his prick, and then clutched it tight as sperm came oozing-rather than jetting-from the tip. "Ow," he said. "Oh-ow. Wow." A few drops, maybe a large teaspoonful. I'd been so proud of the same achievement myself when I was that age . . . Yeech.
Td meant to keep some fragment of self-control. I failed. After a week apart from Sally, my balls were crammed full; I hadn't even had a wet dream since she'd left, and I'd been dismissing masturbation as absurd until today. So when I came, I practically doubled up. Jet after jet spurted from my cock, and I had to shut my eyes and my awareness was almost totally blotted out. It was like recovering from a fit of unconsciousness when I was again able to look around me.
Beaming, the two kids were standing before me, staring at my prick.
"That's something," David said almost reverently. "Yes, sir, that's really quite something!"
I'll
"How long does yours take to go down?" David inquired, after a pause.
"It varies," I said. In the aftermath of orgasm, I was very surprised to find that the presence of these kids wasn't the result of delusion, due to Sally's absence.
"Mine goes down almost at once," David said. "Look!" He jerked his pelvis forward to display his now-flaccid little prick, coiled back into a snail-sized stub. There was a drop of clear pre-seminal fluid on the tip; he wiped it with his finger, unselfconsciously, before dropping the leg of his shorts again. June had let her dress fall too, of course, but her panties still bulged her pocket
She reached out tentatively toward my prick.
"Can I?" she said, glancing up at me.
"If you like," I shrugged.
She touched it, as delicately as the brushing of a moth's wing. I was subsiding now, bending like a half-softened wax candle.
Unexpectedly, she giggled. She said, removing her fingers, "You know, when David first asked me to feel his cock, last year, I was-I was shocked!. That was in the spring, just after Easter. Of course, by the summer I didn't mind. In fact, I like doing it now." She hesitated. "Mr.-I mean Tommy: can I ask you a question?"
"You can ask any questions you like," I said. I meant it. The candor of these two was incredibly refreshing to someone like myself who'd had a repressed upbringing. It was all the more amazing because, according to that story of June being smacked by her father for trying to look at his prick, their upbringing wasn't much more liberal than mine. Yet somehow their manner didn't reflect repression.
I took out a cigarette, lit it, and waited for the promised question with my softening cock still hanging out the front of my pants.
"Well . . . " June bit her Up in the childish fashion I'd seen before. "Well, I suppose you have-uh -fucked, haven't you?"
She brought the taboo word out with an effort, but she made it.
"Of course he must have!" David exclaimed, with the superior worldly wisdom due to his year's seniority.
"Yes," I said, hiding a grin. "Of course. I'm married, actually."
"Is it--. "
"Did you--? "
The two eager questions clashed in midair. They exchanged rueful glances and grinned at one another. Suddenly, June sat down on the grass, shaking her dress out at the back and splaying her thighs apart so
I had a clear sight of her cunt. It was a very pretty cunt. In a few years' time it was going to be extremely fuckable. The idea, which might once have struck me as absurd, of examining the cunt of an eleven-year-old in such terms, appeared entirely natural in these circumstances. I even found myself hoping she'd retain that soft delicate down around it, rather than developing a later crop of coarser hair, but I knew that was probably inevitable; all the girls I'd ever enjoyed had had tight, springy, crisp hair-less they shaved, of course.
Crossing her arms on her knees, she said, "I'll go first! Tommy, is fucking as good as they say it is?"
This time the word came out without trouble. I endeavored to answer the question in the spirit in which she had posed it.
"If it's in the right mood with the right person," I said eventually, "it's absolutely fantastic. And even if it s not so good, like with someone who's not as excited as you are, it's still pretty good. Only once you've had the best kind, you tend to lose interest in the second-best, same as with anything else."
"Have you had the best kind?" she demanded, before David could interrupt with the question he wanted to ask.
"I've had a kind which made me forget about the second-best, sure," I said.
"With your wife?"
"Yes."
"But did you wait until you were married to do it?" David chimed in. Clearly this was what he'd been awaiting the opportunity to inquire.
I smiled and shook my head.
"There, I told you!" David said to his sister, and went on, "And was she-I mean was your wife-the only girl you did it with?"
"No," I admitted.
"There!" he said again to June, triumphantly. "So you don't agree that people have to wait until they're married!"
"As a matter-of-fact," I said, "I think it's a recipe for disaster if they do. Not always, but pretty often. I mean, people who find out too late they don't suit each other, quarrel and often wind up getting divorced."
"I think that's awful," David said in a burst of sudden vehemence. "And there's one thing worse, and that's people who ought to be divorced, and aren't!"
It was as though a cloud had passed across the sun. Instantly, little June's face had become dark; her smiling mouth turned to an unhappy downward curve, and she blinked rapidly several times. I studied both their expressions for a while, and finally ventured an educated guess.
"Are you talking about your own family?"
"Yes." Miserably, David half-turned to pluck at the grass, tearing up stems by the handful and tossing them aside. "I'm so glad I've got a sister, because if I was an only son I think I'd go mad. Our daddy and mummy are terribly respectable, and they're pretty well off, and nobody-not even our aunts and uncles-know how awful it can be at home sometimes . . . I'm at boarding-school, you see, and I just got home for the holidays, and in two days I've nearly been driven frantic. It's because of that that June and I have become so close."
He sounded amazingly adult, and continued to do so.
"We're not really allowed friends, you see. The atmosphere in the house all the time is so tense, I think Mummy and Daddy are afraid of having the polite respectable screens taken away to show what's actually going on. Oh, I can have other kids in to tea, and that sort of thing. But neither of us ever has a birthday party, for example-there's always some sort of excuse, but really the reason is that Mummy and Daddy are prouder of the pretty house they have than they are of us children, and they don't want us playing games around the place in case we make dirty finger marks on the wall!"
His tone was growing fiercer and fiercer.
"I mean, June and I are a nuisance, and they put up with us just as long as they have to, during school holidays, and that's about it. The rest of the time, they don't care, and we can't talk to them, and we can't relax when they're around, and . . . " David made a vague gesture. "And if they found us doing what we just did here, they'd probably throw us in the looney bin and be glad to see us go."
It was frightening to hear such venom in that light, unbroken, boyish voice. I was shaken to the depths of my being. I'd been thinking just a moment ago that when the time came for Sally and me to have kids, I'd like them to turn out as uninhibited and uncomplicated as these two. And now I'd discovered they weren't that way at all-or, rather, if they were, they were achieving it against all odds.
"June was saying something just now about the first time I tried to get her to feel my cock," David went on, still idly scattering grass-stems. "But she didn't say how it happened. It was last Easter holidays, on an evening when Daddy and Mummy were going to have some business friends of his in for drinks. Mummy doesn't like them, but Daddy says he has to-to cultivate them. So the air was like a bloody iceberg, and poor June was so upset by it that when we'd been sent off to bed to keep us out of the way of the guests, I heard her crying. Isn't that true, June?"
She nodded, looking at nothing in particular, her face very sad.
"So I lay awake there, in the next room, and finally I just couldn't stand it any longer. I know it's soppy for a boy to be fond of his sister, but I do like June very much, you know, because we've been through so much together, and-well, when I heard the party going on downstairs and I thought it was safe, I crept out of my room and went into hers and put my arm around her and told her not to cry any more."
He glanced at the thick spring vegetation enclosing us.
"Funny! It was just about a year ago. Was it a very cold spring last year?"
I dug back in memory. "Yes, I think it was-we had frost on the first of May. Why?"
"I was so cold sitting on June's bed in my pajamas," was the simple reply. "They always screw the radiators in our rooms tight shut at the end of March, whatever the weather's like. Daddy says this was the kind of thing which made him tough when he was a kid, so I'm going to have the same treatment. Gosh, I hate to think what it's going to be like when he sends me to that school he went to, next year . . . ! "
June stretched her leg out and brushed her brother's calf with the toe. It was the most touching thing I'd ever seen: just a little message of reassurance. She seemed to be nearly crying right now; at any rate, her eyes were vaster than ever and gleaming brilliantly.
"Well, anyway," David resumed, "there I was on her bed cuddling her head and telling her not to cry, and shivering. I wanted to go back to my own nice warm bed, but she held my hand and said she wanted me to stay a while longer, so -uh-so the only thing I could do was get in next to her."
"Your feet!" June said suddenly. "You hadn't any slippers on!" Her sad expression gave way to one of amusement.
"That's right," David agreed. "She said my feet were like ice, and I had to keep them away from her. But it wasn't easy. That bed wasn't-still isn't-really big enough for her by herself, let alone both of us. Mummy and Daddy are so stingy! It's a tiny bed that June had when she was eight, and it was barely large enough for her then . . . " He gave a helpless shrug.
"So the only way we could get comfortable was with my arms around her, pressed up very close. And I liked it! My pajama jacket got pushed up while I was wriggling in, and she pushed hers up too trying to make room for me, so when I cuddled up to her I found her bare tummy pressing on mine, which was very nice. She wanted to pull her jacket down, but I wouldn't let her. I couldn't tliink of any other way to distract her, actually, except by starting to kiss her. I'd never tried that before. It just suddenly came to my mind. I'd been lying on the outside of the bed, you see, not really knowing what I could do to comfort her, and I'd been holding her hand and sort of rubbing my cheek against hers, and I thought, well, little kids talk about 'kissing it better', don't they? So I did."
"I was so glad he'd come in," June said. "I was feeling awful-so lonely, so miserable! Then when he started to rub up against me and stroke me all over, I was frightened. I don't think I'd seen his prick since we were little, maybe not since I was about four or five. And this time I felt it."
"I got all hard," David said simply. "It stuck out the front of my pajama pants. I wanted June to hold it. I didn't know why. I found a book later on which said most boys start being interested in sex about my age-is that right?"
"How old are you?" I countered.
'Twelve. Thirteen in November."
"That's about when I started," I agreed.
"How old are you?" June said suddenly.
"Oh-twenty-three," I shrugged.
"I see," David murmured mysteriously. I didn't know what he saw at first. Then I realized he'd meant that literally; my prick was stiffening again, and he nudged June and pointed at it.
"Look!" he invited, and she did.
IV
"Can I?" David said, getting up on his knees.
I mistook his meaning, thinking he meant could he come a second time himself. So I spread my hands. But he hadn't been referring to that. The moment I gave implied permission, he frog-hopped close to me and reached out to touch my prick.
"You let June feel it," he said half-apologetically. "I thought I'd like to. I mean, after that first night I've gotten her to do it to me so many times . . . "
Caressingly, he stroked up the shaft with interested fingers. It grew more solid by the second.
"It makes yours look tiny!" June said, from behind him, "Doesn't it, though!" he agreed. "Even though you said how enormous mine was, that first night-remember?"
She put the back of her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. Grinning up at me, David said, "Know what she said? I finally got her to touch me, like this"-he demonstrated, clasping his hand convulsively around my cock and then snatching it away again-"and she said, 'Dave, is it really true that a man puts that inside a woman to make a baby? Because I don't see how there could possibly be room!' " June giggled again, louder.
"So I said," David went on, growing bolder, "there must be lots of room-wasn't there? Could I feel her cunt and find out? And I put my hand down inside her pajama pants. She tried to stop me at first, but I told her if she made a noise, Mummy and Daddy would hear and catch us, and so she let me. And you know something?"
He cocked his head very seriously.
"I don't even now know exactly where it goes! Look at June's cunt! It's-it's . . . ! "
I was pretty well laughing again myself by now. Finding that this bright, intelligent kid was worried over a point which had had me confused in precisely the same way was putting the final touches to my state of perfect composure and relaxation.
Ah . . .
Relaxation with one notable exception, to be accurate. One portion of me was a long, long way from relaxed. It was standing up to its full eight inches in the afternoon sun, a bead of glad-come glistening at the tip.
"But it does really go right inside?" June said.
"I can assure you," I said solemnly. "Right inside. Not inside yours, maybe. You're not grown yet, after all."
She jumped to her feet. "Show me!" she invited. "Show me where it will go when it does!" I hesitated. David said, "Oh, please."
"Okay," I said finally, and June looked delighted, hoisting her dress up again around her waist as she hurried to stand in front of me.
"It'd be easier to show if you lay down on your back on the grass," I said, rising myself. She complied instantly, and as I knelt beside her, David squatted down too, peering interestedly into his sister's crotch.
"I can't see like this!" June complained.
"I don't know any girl who can, without a mirror," I said. "I'll show David, okay? And then he can explain to you later."
"All right!"
Tentatively, I put out my hand. I'd never touched the cunt of a kid this young before-at least, not since I was that age myself. Gently, I parted the full, fleshy, tight-compressed outer lips. I'd read about mothers aged eight, I'd read about child-brides in India and child-partners in Polynesia mating with full-grown men, but looking at this, I found it hard to believe anything larger than a pencil could be slid inside without causing major damage to the internal organs. However, one knew also that the head of a baby could come through the sung-fitting cunt of a grown woman, so there must be a hell pf a lot of elasticity in the muscles of this region.
Trying to sound didactic, which was tough because this was making my stand harder and harder, I said, "Well, this whole area up here, where the hair's beginning to grow, is full of nerves-it's tremendously sensitive."
David nodded vigorously. "I found that out," he said. June loves being rubbed there!"
"Mm-hm!" she agreed, sprawled on her back with her eyes shut against the bright sun between the tree-tops.
"And you see these lips?" I continued. "Technically, they call them labia, which is a medical term, like saying penis, instead of prick or cock. Now here at the top end, where they come together, you'll find this tiny counterpart of a prick, this little firm bit of flesh with lots and lots of nerves-"
"You mean that's the clitoris!" David burst out. "I saw about it in a book! June, is Tommy touching it?"
As it happened, I was: I'd simply intended to indicate the location, because both the position and the size of the clitoris vary so incredibly from one girl to another, but my fingertip had landed on it as accurately as if I'd been studying her anatomy for years.
"Yes!" June exclaimed. "It's the bit I like having rubbed most of all. I told you."
Whether she wanted me to start rubbing it now, she didn't say. I didn't, anyway. David said, "And is that where the man puts in his prick?"
"Nope. It's just the area where most girls most like to be stroked or kissed."
"Kissed!" David sat back on his haunches. "I . . . " He swallowed very hard. "I suppose I don't see why not," he added after a surprise-filled pause. "I mean, I know June likes me to suck her tits."
My turn to be surprised. I said, "I-uh-I wouldn't have thought she had enough yet to be actually sucked!"
"What?" June half-raised her head, staring at me. "How do you mean? Dave likes me doing that to him, and he's never going to have proper breasts, is he? And I've started growing up there, all right. Look!"
Jerking her body free of the ground, she pulled her dress up all the way to her armpits; it was the only clothing she had on right now. She was right. Her breasts were still small and close to her ribs, but they were indubitably girl's breasts, with the lower edge sufficiently sharply marked to make a little crease-line. And her nipples, carnelian-brown against her white skin, were standing up the size of hothouse strawberries.
"You said David likes you kissing his chest?" I said slowly, not taking my eyes from those budding paps.
"Just the nipples," David said. "When she does that, it gives me a stand straight away."
"You lucky little bastard," I said.
"What?"
I was thinking of all the times, after I'd given her an orgasm by licking her breasts, when Sally had lain across me with a frustrated sigh and said how much she wished I had sensitive nipples. Touching them has never done anything for me; they're as responsive as my toenails.
But I hadn't meant to speak so sharply. I said, "You're lucky, then! Most men don't have that reflex."
"I don't think you can be short of reflexes," he said slyly, indicating my new hard-on. "I'm getting the same myself, now. Just a second!"
He jumped to his feet, unbelted his shorts, and dropped them to the ground. His shirt barely reached below his waist. Kneeling beside me again, he put his hand back to his prick and lovingly stroked it.
"Go on!" he urged.
"Ah . . . Oh, yes." I remembered what I'd been talking about when I was distracted. I pointed at June's cunt again. "Now you've felt that sort of bony bit under there, haven't you? And you know it stops and there's the bit where you feel muscles underneath."
"Of course," David nodded. "Sort of"-judged the distance by eye-"halfway around toward her arsehole. Oh!" He caught on abruptly. "I get you! It's like her arsehole, held tight shut by the muscles until you force them apart!"
I nodded. It wasn't in the least surprising that he hadn't known about that, nor, indeed, that June hadn't been able to tell him. Sally herself had told me that until she was fifteen she'd been completely unaware of possessing a cavity between her legs large enough to accept an erect penis, and had assured me that a lot of other girls she'd asked had had the same experience.
T wish I could see what you're talking about!" June said, and groped her hand down between her legs to feel there instead of looking. With her forefinger, she probed between the lips of her cunt, moving down past the clitoris toward the vaginal area. All of a sudden, her finger plunged in.
T found it!" she cried. "Tommy! Have I found the way in?"
Eagerly David bent close to see what had happened. Peering past him, I saw she was correct. She'd located the opening with surgical precision, and sunk her finger clear to the base within her body.
"How does it feel?" David demanded.
"Oh, it feels great!" his sister exclaimed. "Except-" She withdrew her hand, struggled to a half-sitting position with her left arm out behind her to support her torso, and tried again. This time she got the spot instantly.
"Except," she continued, "it's a bit awkward twisting your wrist around to that angle!"
"Then how do girls usually manage, Tommy?" David asked.
"Ah . . . Well, when they want to play with themselves, they don't usually have to put their fingers up," I said. "Either they make themselves come simply by rubbing at their clitoris-the way my wife likes to, by the way-or else they put something else up."
"Is that why there are all these jokes about candles and carrots?" he said perceptively.
"I suppose it must be," I agreed.
"I see," he nodded, and went back to staring at June as she explored the interior of her cunt, a look of astonished delight on her face.
"It still feels awfully small," she said after a moment. "Is that becauee I'm not grown yet, Tommy?"
"Oh, it must be!" I assured her. And repeated the point which had occurred to me a minute or two ago, about the head of a baby coming out of a snug cunt.
She withdrew her finger and inspected the shiny wetness of it curiously. Suddenly she raised it to her nose, sniffed it, and then licked it.
"Do you want to feel, Dave?" she said.
"Of course I do!" Excitedly, her brother put his hand to her crotch and probed with his finger. "Is that right?"
"Not quite!" She reached down herself and corrected the angle of his finger, then pushed it firmly home. "There!"
"It's great!" David enthused. "Lovely and warm and-and sort of welcoming! Tommy!"
"What?"
"Tommy, you feel it too. And tell us if it's big enough for me to fuck in yet!"
He withdrew his own hand and caught at mine, driving it down in such haste I nearly scratched poor June with my fingernails. But he got it in, although she winced, and he was right-it was delightful to feel inside her.
"Well?" he demanded.
I looked at his youthful, half-grown prick, standing to attention again. I thought of the length of finger I'd managed to insert without paining June. I said, "Well, I guess I don't really see why not. But-"
I'd been going to say something adult and respectable about the risk of babies, when June forestalled me. She said, "Don't be silly, Dave. You know how difficult it's going to be for us from now on, don't you? Unless maybe we get left alone when Mummy and Daddy go out!"
David's face fell like a landslide. He let his hands drop to his sides, and even his stand failed him. He said, "Yes, I suppose so . . . You see, Tommy, since last time we were at home for the holidays, Mummy and Daddy have drifted even further apart. Now they have separate bedrooms, and Daddy's is next to June's and Mummy's is next to mine. Last holidays we managed to get into bed together in June's room-oh, maybe five or six times. The room next door was empty, and nobody could hear us whispering together. Or even hear when the bed creaked! And Daddy was at work all the time, too, so we got left alone a lot when Mummy went out during the day, and we managed to do lots of things together, like taking off all our clothes and running around the house. But Daddy retired last month, and now he's there all the time, and he objects to Mummy going out without him, so she practically doesn't go out at all, and . . . " He finished the sentence with a helpless scowl.
I said, after a lot of thought, "Well, if that's what you like doing, you could always come down to us."
"Could we?" The question burst from them both simultaneously. June sat bolt upright, and they regarded me with excited expressions.
"That would be wonderful!" David said. "You really mean we could come down and-and take our clothes off, and watch each other peeing, and things?"
"Well, I suppose I'd have to check with my wife," I said. Their faces fell.
"Of course," June muttered.
"But-"
Would Sally agree? I didn't know. I really would have to ask her; I dared not guess. I compromised. I said at last, "Well, she's away, but she comes home tomorrow. Can you be here at the same time the day after? I won't promise anything, but I don't see why Sally should object. I think she feels the same as I do about most things."
I was completely unconvinced of what I was telling them; however, I'd seen so many unhappy looks pass over those ought-to-be-happy young faces already, I didn't want to provoke another.
Even if it meant deceit. It would be a white lie.
"You're wonderful, Tommy!" David exclaimed, leaping to his feet.
'Time!" June said in the same moment.
"Oh, lord!" His cheerful grin vanished, and he caught at my wrist, turning it over to examine my watch. "Oh, lord!" he repeated. "We're going to catch it! We're ten minutes late for tea!"
Frantically, June stepped into her panties again, then thrust her feet into her sandals while her brother drew on and zipped up his shorts.
"Sorry!" he panted. "But it's going to be awful facing them!"
Christ, how could parents treat kids this way? I didn't understand. I really didn't!
On the point of dashing off, however, June stopped. Timidly, she said, "Tommy, you've been awfully nice-can I kiss you goodbye?"
"Of course," I said, and leaned toward her. She gave me a friendly, what you might call a sisterly, brush of her lips.
"I'm going to, too," David said firmly, and he put his arms around my neck as he did it. I half expected him to push his tongue into my mouth, so fervent was the kiss. But he didn't, and then they were both gone in a flurry of waving branches, leaving me to sit incredulously reflecting on what had just happened.
V
Sally got home on schedule the next day. I let her in the door as the taxi she'd used purred off down the street, and I grabbed her bag and dumped it at the side of the hallway, and I turned back and looked at her, in her shortest minidress of stark green, red and black, and my heart just slammed at my ribs. Sally is five foot four, and a natural ash-blonde with her hair down around her shoulders except when she ties it back to her nape, and she's very slim, almost thin, except in the bust, and one way and another I think it's incredible that she's married to me because you'd never imagine her being satisfied with any one man . . .
However, that may be, I fucked her right there in the hallway. I didn't even take off her panties, just pushed past them. It grew naturally out of our welcome-home kiss.
She said when we'd finished, "I remembered this was your favorite one of my dresses, so I put it in my bag specially to come home in. Though I didn't dare let Pa and Ma see it! I meant to change in the train, but there was someone else in the compartment, so in the end, I put it on in the taxi a few minutes ago. I didn't want to disappoint you . . . Here, let me go wipe my legs. You've made me all wet." That's my Sally . . . !
Even so, after hearing her account of the week which she'd spent with those very square parents of hers and realizing she'd actually had a good time-Sally's on excellent terms with her family, which I'm not with mine-I hesitated over mentioning David and June to her. I'd been pretty miserable without her; I had a lot of fun as a bachelor, once I was away from home and independent in London, but the moment I found Sally, I discovered I had far more talent as a husband, and I'd never been so happy in my life as since our marriage. We'd been very modern and progressive about the decision to marry, and we'd each promised the other that we'd never be jealous, because sex and marriage didn't have to mean the same thing, and then we'd simply gotten so involved with each other that it turned out for us, at least, it did mean the same thing. Once Sally had accepted an invitation from a former boyfriend to go out with him when I was at a business dinner (I'm a freelance illustrator, by the way, specializing in perspective drawings for technical manuals and instruction books, so I work at home), and she'd come back at three in the morning and gotten into bed beside me and said, on finding I was awake, "I screwed Stanley, you know."
And I said, "Well?"
"And he didn't make me come, and I'm so bloody horny, it's ridiculous."
Whereupon she fell on me, and we didn't get to sleep until nearly an hour later, and I made her come twice.
I don't know . . . It's the other side of the thing I've experienced, I imagine: letting those former girlfriends lose touch, simply because I couldn't be bothered to spend time on cultivating them. I've had a couple of them since Sally and I started sleeping together, and one since we actually got married. In fact, it was kind of a counterpart to that which made her go to bed with Stanley. And it asn't any better for me than he'd been for her; it was-neutral. Pleasant, but . . .
Well, I'd said it all to those kids down the bottom of the garden: when you've had the best, you lose interest in the second-best. For me, Sally was best. In capital letters, B-E-S-T!
Late that evening, though, we were sitting companionably side by side in our living-room, smoking-not what you would call a nationally-advertised brand. Maybe that accounted for my being able to quell my anxieties over what I'd done the day before, which I still wasn't wholly reconciled to, in spite of my theoretical convictions. Anyway, I finally broached the subject, via a roundabout route.
I think I said, to begin with, "You seem to have had a very nice time with your family this week, Sal?"
She shrugged and nodded. "Oh, yes. In spite of everything, I get on well with my parents. And with Brian."
Brian was her brother, younger than her by three years. He's a quiet, studious guy with a very sharp and amusing tongue, reading for a degree in social science.
"I wish I got on as well with my parents as you do with yours," I sighed. Meaning it, honestly.
"I know," she said, and a troubled frown deformed that lovely face. "Not that I agree with my parents on everything, far from it, but they get on well with each other, and it's rubbed off on me, and on Brian, and on Mary as well." Mary being her sister, two years younger, and a close friend of hers.
"Whereas," she continued, "one has the impression that your parents never really liked each other, and simply went on putting up with the situation because it was the Done Thing!"
"You think that's bad?" I said.
"I think it's awful," she emphasized, and dropped the stub-end of the roach we'd been sharing into the ashtray we kept for that purpose only, and would flush down the toilet come hell or high water before going to bed . . . or if there was a knock at the door. Bloody silly, but there you are; it's a risky pastime, smoking, whether it's tobacco or grass.
But for different reasons!
"Another?" she said, and without waiting for my answer, began to roll the second with deft fingers. I watched them admiringly. She was so clever with her hands, far more than I'd ever be-a dressmaker, a potter, a painter . . .
I said dreamily, "I met some kids, day before yesterday, who're having the same sort of trouble I did. In fact they said they'd prefer it if their parents got divorced."
"Tommy, that's awful!" She froze and looked up at me. "Who?"
"David and June Lake. They live up the road. They found their way into the back garden when I was clearing it."
"Nice?"
"Delightful!"
"How old?" She finished the joint with a quick pass of her tongue-tip, and handed it to me to be lighted.
"I think twelve and eleven. But they talk more sensibly-more adultly-than any kids that age I've ever run across."
"Well, have them around," she said. "If they'd like to come."
I paused, pondering her choice of words, and didn't say anything more until I'd filled my lungs with smoke, held it, and let it go only when I couldn't keep it in any longer.
"I said they could come around," I admitted.. "Tomorrow afternoon."
"Fine." Sally drew on the joint, leaning back against me. "If you say they're nice kids," she added when she let the smoke go, "I'm sure they must be."
"Well . . . " I took the joint back and turned it over and over in my hands. "Well, I'm not sure they have a very conventional relationship with one another."
"How do you mean?" Sally demanded. "Explain!"
I did. I told her, in detail, the way they'd come on me, and in passing she kissed me for missing her so much I had to jerk off, which briefly interrupted the tale, and then I went on about their parents' state of siege, and their feeling that-as David had put it-they'd willingly consign their own children to a "looneybin", and by that time Sally was becoming positively indignant.
"Lord, I wish there was some way of stopping people who don't deserve children from having them!" she burst out. "Hitting her so hard he bruised her arm? My God, that's unforgivable!"
I said nothing.
"Well!" Fiery-eyed, she drew away from me and sat up straight. "If they want to come in here and take off their clothes, that's all right with me. My parents let me bathe with Mary when I was their age, and then I had to share a room with Brian for a year before we moved to a bigger house, and-well, did it do me any damage?"
I shook my head.
"Well, then!" She took the joint and sucked on it almost angrily. "Oh, I hate bad parents!" she said after a while. "What time did you invite these kids for tomorrow?"
"I said the same time as we met before. Ah . . . That's three or three-fifteen."
"Where?"
"Same place, the end of our garden."
"The weather forecast says it's going to pour with rain."
VI
The forecast was right. It wasn't just pouring-it was pelting. In spite of which, at three o'clock, Sally insisted on coming out to the back garden with me to meet the kids. We put on lightweight raincoats-it was very warm again in spite of the rain-and stood there under what little shelter the trees offered, for a full twenty minutes, by which time the coats were saturated and so were the clothes we had on underneath.
We were just about to conclude that they weren't going to show, when there was a sudden cry. "Tommy!"
And David came thrusting through the soaked bushes, wearing a glistening-wet windbreaker, followed by June in a school-uniform raincoat that dripped and clung around her.
"Golly, I'm sorry we're so late!" the boy panted. "I didn't think we were going to make it at all-Mummy didn't want to let us come out in the rain, said we were crazy. But then Daddy complained about the noise we were making in the house while he was trying to rest, so . . . Oh!"
Abruptly, he spotted Sally.
"Are you Mrs. Carver?"
Smiling, Sally nodded.
"You're beautiful!" June said.
"Thank you very much. Here, let's get indoors, shall we? You must be nearly as wet as we are!"
I could tell, as the kids fell in beside us to plod up the rain-sodden lawn, that they hadn't been expecting Sally to be with me; they kept shooting little shy glances at her and then at each other, seeming to ask an unspoken question: "Can it really be true that a lady wouldn't mind us doing what we told Tommy we wanted to?"
I detected a further surviving trace of timidity as they entered our hallway, for David said with a mock-adult manner, "This is a very nice home you have, Mrs. Carver!"
True enough; we'd sweated blood to decorate and improve it.
"Call me Sally, please!" Sally said, easing out of her coat. "Come on, let's have those wet things off and I'll fetch some towels."
She vanished into the kitchen and came back a moment later with four big towels fresh from the week's laundry parcel. She handed one to each of us, and then-with utter lack of self-consciousness-zipped down her dress and peeled it off. She had nothing on underneath but a pair of her smallest bikini briefs. David and June gazed at her in open wonderment.
"Uh-" the boy began, uncertainly feeling at the buttons of his shirt, which his windbreaker hadn't saved from getting wet all across the shoulders. June was in the same plight; her school raincoat might have been smart, but it wasn't efficiently waterproof. Her dress was so damp, I could see the outline of her breastlets.
I copied Sally's example, dropping my trousers to my ankles, and the kids realized we weren't fooling. With sudden enthusiasm David stripped off his shirt and shorts. As had been the case the day before yesterday, he was naked underneath, and the sight of Sally's bare bosom had already inspired him to an embryonic stand. A little more slowly, June removed her dress, but kept her panties on as Sally had done.
Sally gathered up the wet clothes and announced that she was going to put them to dry by the electric fan-heater. Still rubbing her hair with the towel in her other hand, she disappeared. David gazed at me with sparkling eyes.
"Tommy, she-she really doesn't mind, does she?"
"I think she thinks it's a good idea," I said, grinning. "You can do what you like as far as both of us are concerned, and we won't be shocked, or surprised, or annoyed. Fair enough?"
"Wonderful!" he breathed.
I glanced at my watch. Right now, it was the only thing I was wearing, apart from my wedding-ring. I said, "Do you have to get home at four o'clock for tea today?"
David shook his head. "No, I said we'd rather stay out, and Mummy was in a terrible temper, so she said suit yourselves, and sort of slammed off in a huff. We'll have to be home for supper, but that's not until seven."
Finishing with his towel, he looked around for a place to put it, so I took it from him and June likewise handed me hers. Returning, Sally collected them up.
"Well!" she said, smiling at the kids. "Welcome to
Maison Carver. What do you want to do now you're here?"
David stumble tongued. The question was a bit too direct for him. I stepped into the breach.
"Well, that's the living-room," I said, pointing to the back of the house. "And the kitchen's next to it. That's the downstairs toilet and shower. That's the dining-room. Upstairs is our bedroom, and my studio, and Sally's workshop where she does her dressmaking and pottery and things. So long as you don't-well -disturb anything, you can go where you like."
"Thank you," David mumbled.
"There's a couch in the dining-room which we use for guests," Sally said, and took me by the hand. "I think we're going to sit in the living-room for a bit, aren't we, Tommy? Join us if you like, or . . . " She shrugged, which made her breasts bob enchantingly.
"Thank you," David said again, and June echoed him.
So we went into the living-room, leaving the door very slightly ajar. But instead of going to sit down, Sally-shushing me-paused where she could peer back through the opening and see the two children reflected in the hall mirror. They were whispering together, and I couldn't quite catch the words, but the upshot was perfectly clear. David wanted to start by visiting the toilet with his sister, and after a second or two of hesitation, she agreed to accompany him in that direction.
Drawing back with a satisfied expression, Sally said, "I hope they enjoy themselves!"
And she marched across the room toward her favorite big armchair, hooking her thumbs in the sides of her panties and stepping out of them before she sat down. By this time I was developing a large and healthy hard-on. Taking it for granted that by removing her panties she was signaling her desire to screw, I started to embrace her, but she pushed me aside.
"No, go and sit over there," she directed, pointing to another chair which faced hers. "I want to do it myself for the moment. Tommy, doesn't it get you all wound up, thinking of those kids in there?"
She splayed her knees and pushed the lips of her cunt apart with her fingers.
Complying with her request, I dropped into the facing chair and stared at her, fascinated. Apart from the time I mentioned, when she suddenly wanted to know everything about masculine sexuality, including watching me jerk off, I'd only ever seen her masturbating once, just after I first met her, in the car, following an extraordinary party at which she spent most of her time necking with her sister. We didn't know each other at all well then, but she'd rung me up and said this friend of her sister Mary's was holding a party--would I take her and bring her home? So naturally I said yes, and this rather astonishing scene happened where she vanished from the main room completely, and when I went to look for her, I found her in an upstairs bedroom lying on the bed with this other chick. She had a long dress on, but she'd hauled it right up around her waist, and she wasn't wearing panties. The other chick, in a minidress, was-and tights as well. I could see that clearly as Sally lay on her between her legs. Neither of them noticed me; they were kissing passionately, taking turns to push their tongues into one another's mouths.
So I slipped out silently, thinking: just my luck! This good-looking dollie turns out to be queer!
Feeling pretty downhearted, nonetheless I gave her a ride home, as agreed. It was quite a long drive, more than halfway across London, and after we'd been on our way about five or ten minutes, neither of us having said anything and Sally just sitting there with a sort of tight-lipped expression, she hauled up her skirt without the slightest warning, and started to masturbate.
"Excuse me," she said.
I was so astonished, I almost ran into a lamp-post. But if she was in this sort of state, I reasoned, I stood a good chance of making love to her-queer or not. I started looking around for somewhere private to stop off and pet, but she realized what I was doing and shook her head.
"No, please not," she said. "At least not right now. It's nice and dark in my home street, and I'll feel you up when we get there, if you like. Right now I want to do this."
My prick was almost bursting out of my fly, of course. I said, "Why?"
"Because I've been necking for two hours with my sister, and she wouldn't do it to me."
"With you sister?" I exclaimed. I'd been presented to Mary, of course, when we arrived at the party, but I'd not recognized her as the other girl on the bed; it had been almost completely dark in the room except for a thin glow from a distant street-lamp through the uncurtained window.
"Yes." Sally looked straight ahead through the windshield. "I've always wanted to know what it was like to kiss another girl, and Mary was the only girl there tonight that I like enough to try it with."
Well, of all the kooky chicks--! At that point, I almost decided I ought to drop her off and let her find a cab, and go straight to my own home. But it was true that kissing Mary had gotten her worked up to fever-pitch, and she came a few seconds later, writhing back on her seat with her eyes closed. And recovered almost instantly and asked if I'd like a cigarette. Having run out, bar one that I was saving for the morning, I said yes, and she gave one to me, and with my mind spinning furiously I found the way to her home. I stopped, and turned off the engine and lights, seeing that the street was, as promised, badly lit, and she threw away her own cigarette and reached for my prick. Instead of just feeling me up, as she'd promised, she leaned over and began to blow me.
We hadn't even kissed, except a sort of friendly hello-type kiss . . .
When I'd come in her mouth, which didn't take long, she sat up and gave a smile which I could faintly make out now my eyes were adjusted to the dimness. She said, "You must think I'm awfully odd, don't you, Tommy?"
I couldn't quite figure the right answer to that. Because I did, but after what she'd just done to me I didn't want to say so. I wanted more of the same, soon.
Finally, I hit on the right word. I said, "You're a strange person, that's for sure."
"I want somebody," she said, "who can make love as well as I've dreamed it can be done."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh.. . I want a boyfriend who can keep a stand on long enough to talk while he's fucking me. The best I've found could only hold out about three or four minutes."
"I made it for half an hour once," I said. Which was perfectly true. Second time around, I've always been able to keep going for a good long while-ten minutes regularly, and often double that.
"Well, goddamn!" she said. "Come on in and prove it!"
Which was a pretty dreadful thing to be ordered to do . . . but I conquered the initial problem within a short time of getting into her bed, and she was delighted. She came three times to my once, and after that, we were together almost the whole time until we decided we might as well set up house together, and took the final step of getting married. Of course, that party was now a year and a half in the past, and as far as I knew she'd had nothing more to do with Mary except that one astonishing evening. Moreover, when David and June came on me unexpectedly, my mind was thrown completely out of gear. If I'd thought of that episode in context, though, I'd have realized there was no need to be different over telling her about the kids' relationship.
Well, anyway, there she was, stroking herself delightedly on the chair opposite mine, and saying, "Come on, Tommy-you too, please!"
VII
From the toilet came the sound of the cistern flushing, and then there were audible giggles, and we heard the shower come on. A few more minutes, and more giggles, and then the door opened and they went running across the hallway-I caught a glimpse of them as they passed the door of the living-room, still slightly ajar, and saw that June was naked now, too-and cautiously entered the dining-room, where they'd been told was the couch we kept for guests.
T made it up with sheets for them," Sally said. T thought they might like to go to bed together for a bit."
The situation was having the same effect on me now as it had already had on her; my cock was throbbing and I was pumping it up and down as fast as my wrist would let me.
"You didn't tell me," I said in vague surprise.
"Did I have to? Wasn't it the obvious thing to do?" she countered.
"Yes," I admitted. "I suppose it was!" And I started coming.
We'd both come, and relaxed, and Lit cigarettes, and were talking quietly about some of the other "obvious" things that had passed through Sally's mind-she said she was willing to bet that among the other things they'd want would be to inspect her cunt, which I thought was probably correct, and if they could pluck up the courage, to watch us fucking, which I wasn't quite so sure about but-was willing to accept if she was right-when, long before we'd expected, there was a timid tap at the door and June came in, looking very serious. She'd put her panties back on, and held her arm across her budding bosom.
"Hello!" Sally said brightly. I could tell she was as surprised as I was to find the little girl coming in so soon-we'd both assumed that, given the chance for the first time in their lives to do whatever they wanted without disapproval, they'd be at it for hours, whereas, barely thirty minutes had gone by.
"Er . . . " June licked her lips. "I. . . "
"What's the problem?" I said sympathetically.
"Well, Dave wants to-to fuck me, Tommy. And I don't think I ought to let him, ought I? It isn't safe. It makes babies!"
"Have you had your first period yet?" Sally demanded.
"Uh . . . You mean--? " June swallowed hard. "No. The school doctor gave us a talk all about it, so I know what you mean. And I did ask him, actually, at the end of last term how long it would be before I started . . . "
As she spoke, she had come a couple of paces further into the room, staring in absolute fascination at Sally's naked body. She'd curled around on her chair now she was through masturbating, so her thighs were together under her, but on realizing that June was gazing at her pubic hair, she parted her legs wide again.
"Then I don't think you have any need to worry," she said. "Does she, Tommy?"
"I'm not perfectly certain, but I'd say not," I confirmed. "Though there are lots of other things one can do, aren't there, which are fine in their own way."
"Such as what?" Unnoticed, David, too, had come into the room in his sister's wake. He was still totally nude. He looked a trifle disappointed.
"Well, kissing and stroking and-" Sally began.
"I don't think too much of kissing," David said bluntly. "The other day Tommy told me girls like to be kissed on the cunt, so I've been trying it, and . . . " He spread his hands.
"Ah!" Sally sat bolt upright. "What kind of kissing?"
"Well, the-the usual kind," David answered, baffled.
"The grownup kind."
"What do you mean?"
Sally gave a deep private chuckle. "Here, June," she said, beckoning, and reached out her lovely bare arm to draw the little girl close. "I'll show you how to do it the grownup way, and then you can show David, all right?"
She put her right hand behind the little girl's curly head and gently set her lips to June's.' Watching with as much interest as David, I saw those slim young pan-tie-shrouded hips start to weave and wiggle in response to what Sally was doing.
"There!" Sally said at last, drawing back. "Was that nicer than what David's been doing to you?"
"Oh, it's lovely!" June exclaimed. "I never knew about that before! And is that what he ought to have been doing-you know-down there?" She gestured toward her crotch.
"Mm-hm," Sally confirmed.
"Ooh, I'd like to try that!" She spun on her heel and caught her brother by the hand. "Come on, Dave!" she said. "Let's go back in the other room!"
They pulled the door to behind them, like properly trained children, and the moment they'd gone, Sally laughed aloud.
"Tommy, you've got to do that to her! For the first few seconds she'd no idea what was happening, but she caught on so fast.. . ! Lord, that's an educated mouth! Here-come and fuck me; it's made me randy all over again."
We'd finished fucking, and were lying companionably side by side on the big soft nylon-fur rug we keep in front of the fireplace for just that purpose, when David and June returned, but this time with their arms around each other, his right hand cupping her little breast, and both grinning from ear to ear. There was no sign of June's panties this time.
"Have you been fucking?" David said, and June chimed in proudly.
"We have!"
I sat up, staring at her crotch. There was no blood, as there's generally supposed to be when a virginity is lost.. . but then, Sally had told me she didn't bleed the first time, nor had her sister Mary, and I'd seen June slip not only her middle finger and David's into her cunt, but also my forefinger which was pretty well the size of her brother's prick.
"Did you enjoy it?" Sally inquired, chuckling.
"It was lovely," David said simply. "Thank you for letting us!"
He walked over to the rug where we were lying and put his arms around Sally, planting a full-scale grownup-kiss on her mouth, and then turned to me and did the same. This time he did push his tongue in, with great enthusiasm.
Sally reached out and swept June into her arms, and with her nearer hand urged David to flop down alongside us on the rug, and, as it were, shoveled all four of us together into a bundle, with the children's heads resting on her breasts, and their legs on mine, which she'd entangled with hers. David started delightedly fondling her nearer nipple, and after a shy pause-shy, even now-June did the same with the other.
None of us said anything. I simply waited. Eventually David began to stroke down Sally's belly toward her cunt, looking up at her face to see whether that was all right, and found it was, so he felt her all over the crotch. Once again, June copied him, and he withdrew his hand to make room for hers. Meanwhile, Sally's face was gradually softening to the distracted look I'd already seen twice this afternoon, once when she was masturbating and once as she built up to climax during our fuck. That is always guaranteed to turn me on, and my prick-which at this moment was between David's left leg and June's right-firmed toward a stand.
Noticing, David sat up excitedly. "Oh!" he exclaimed, reaching for my cock. "Are you going to fuck again? Can we watch?"
Sally grinned at me, lifting one eyebrow as if to say: what did I tell you?
"It was wonderful with June," David continued anxiously, "but-well, I'd like to be sure I'm doing it right, you know!"
"Any way you like it, it's right," Sally assured him, tugging his head toward her by one lock of curly hair and giving him a kiss on the cheek. "But we'll certainly show you the simplest way, won't we, Tommy? Come on."
She pushed the children aside and lay on her back on the rug, raising her knees high and spreading them apart so I could come between them. My hard-on was solid by now; I slid straight into her, while the children knelt, one on either side. I felt two little hands simultaneously groping around Sally's crotch, touching my balls, touching the shaft of my cock as it slid in and out.
"Well, did you get it right?" I asked David, teasingly.
"Oh, yes," he confirmed.
"Did you manage to go on for a long time, or did you come straight away?" Sally asked.
"I'd come already, in the bathroom. We-uh-we had a shower together; I hope you don't mind. And I'd rubbed myself against June until I made it. The second time it wasn't nearly as quick. I don't think it ever is, is it?"
"Usually not," I said. "But there are no hard-and-fast rules about sex-"
"Hard, and fast?" Sally interrupted, laughing. I liked that; it did pleasant things to her cunt-muscles.
"It was hard, all right," David chuckled. "But not very fast. It must have taken four or five minutes, I think."
"Did it make you come too, June?" Sally went on.
"Oh, yes!" June hesitated. "Uh-I thought it was meant to," she added uncertainly.
"Of course it is. Oh, you two little darlings! You're so lucky, June dear. I didn't come the first time I was fucked. Or the second time, either."
She reached up her arms, making me lift my head aside, and held them out to the children, pulling their faces down to kiss them. I felt and fondled their bottoms in turn, and discovered that-incredibly-David had acquired yet another stand. If this boy could keep up his standards, he was going to be a much sought-after lover!
Suddenly I thought of something that I was certain would turn Sally on violently. I urged David to come around behind her head, urged her to lift her head so he could slip his right thigh under it. He complied eagerly, stroking and spreading out her fair hair across his body. I got him to lean back, rather awkwardly parted the covering of hair, and bent my head again so that I could take his firm little prick between my lips. I'd done that to a boy about his age when I was around fourteen, I suppose, but never since, and the moment my mouth closed on it and my tongue touched its tip, I found myself wondering why not. It felt lovely, like a harder and more solid counterpart of a girl's nipple, fully erect after long petting.
Twisting her neck so she could see what I was doing, Sally said faintly, "Oh, Tommy, what a lovely idea . . . ! Go on-let me see it going in and out!"
With David's vigorous cooperation, I obliged, tasting the trace of June's cunt and then the almost imperceptible ooze of glad-come which accompanied his hardening stand. Not looking away, Sally reached out for June and drew her close on the other side. With sudden decision, she applied her small curly head to Sally's right breast and began to lap hard at the nipple.
Pausing after a moment, she said, "This is the way Dave likes to have it done to him-is it all right for you, too?"
"It's wonderful," Sally assured her, closing her eyes and letting her head loll back. "Oh, it's fantastic-oh, oh, ohhh . . . ! "
And she came in a colossal heaving convulsion, which shook June aside and very nearly dislodged me as well. I had to pull back from David's prick; I was half-afraid I might bite through it. That was what prevented me from making it at the same time. One thing I hate is hurting my partner, even the kind of hurt that comes simply from over-excitement, like tearing at a girl's back with your nails the way a lot of men like to.
So I didn't quite make it-not that I was very disappointed, after two orgasms already this afternoon-and Sally was too lost in ecstasy to notice.
Blinking her eyes happily open again, she smiled at me and then turned to look up at David, whose hard prick was still standing up at the base of his small, smooth belly.
"Did you come then?" she inquired.
He shook his head.
"Then come and try putting that in me-would you like to?" She clasped her hand around his cock.
"Would I like to!" He jumped up, frog-fashion, and began to clamber over her body to take my place. I rocked back on my haunches to get out of his way, and he spotted that I still had my erection.
"Golly!" he said, touching it with a light finger. "I wish I could get as many stands as you can, Tommy. Or is it just that it hasn't gone down again yet since last time?"
"A bit of both," I said, grinning. "Come on, turn around and lie down!"
He did so, rapidly, and I steered his prick into Sally's cunt. It was barely as long as my finger, as I'd estimated, but that of course is perfectly adequate with a willing partner, and clutching him to her breasts, Sally made him welcome.
When they'd enjoyed their first gasping kiss-not an easy one, because his head fell naturally at the height of her breasts, but achieved with a bit of neck-twisting on both sides, he fell to rocking back and forth on her as to the manner born, wriggling and jerking his pelvis. Sally said, "David, you didn't need to be shown how to do this!"
"It's all right, is it?"
"It's excellent," she declared.
"Wel!"-he half-shrugged, looking modest-"it didn't seem so difficult, after all. I'm trying to make your-uh-your cunt rub my prick the way I like it to feel when I'm jacking off. That's all."
"Simple!" Sally said, catching my eye and giggling. I laughed too; it was the punch-line of one of our favorite shaggy-dog stories.
"Hey, June!" David said suddenly. "I got an idea! Wouldn't you like to try it with Tommy?"
"If you're going to, do it where we can watch!" Sally said.
But June was looking, not surprisingly, very doubtful. She eyed my prick.
"Well, I-" she began, but I cut her short, struck by an idea.
"Here," I said, sitting well back on my haunches, pulling in my belly and leaning back on my hands so that my cock stuck up in the air like a flagpole. "Step over me-no, with your back against my tummy, that's it-and sit down on me with your legs holding my prick . . . Fine!"
She'd gotten the idea at once, pushing her thighs together, so that the lips of her cunt were pressing on the shaft of my cock and beginning to jiggle up and down.
"Dave, look!" she said. "I've grown a prick all of a sudden, and it's bigger than yours!"
She put her hand down and began to stroke and fondle the head, pushing the foreskin back and forth in a way I was sure she couldn't have invented herself but must have been taught by her brother. It was delicious. I wanted it to go on and on and on, as David was going on and on with Sally. I recalled her original demand of me, that I should be able to talk while fucking, and found it incredible that she'd had such bad luck in her search before meeting me. One would think any man or boy would prefer to try and keep going, rather than simply grab for orgasm the first chance he got.
Eventually, however, June began to get cramped; the position was a trifle awkward. I offered to let her get off me, but she shook her head.
"You haven't come yet," she objected, "and I want to feel it happening."
"Well, I'm not sure I can again," I said.
"I can," David gasped proudly, his bottom practically bouncing above Sally's body now, and she put her hands on it to lend the last ounce of violence to his motion, which triggered the reflex.
"Golly," he said at length, and rolled limply off her, to sprawl exhausted on the deep fur rug. Rising, Sally gave him an affectionate kiss, and turned to June and me.
"I'll make certain you come again," she said, and lowered her mouth to my cock, brushing at the tip with rapid tongue-strokes. She'd always been fantastically good at that, ever since the first time she blew me in the car outside her old home, and it took barely half a minute before I was able to say, okay, I'm on my way.
At which she withdrew, catching hold of June's hand and replacing it where it had been before to let her feel the spasms that forced a last little oozing drop of sperm from the end.
"Thank you," June said seriously. "I liked that."
VIII
They were able to come again the next day, and immediately on their arrival, stripped off and fucked on the rug-a bit of showing-off on David's part, of course -after which they wanted to watch Sally and me peeing and shitting. We obliged as best we could, feeling very much like kids again ourselves, and then we all showered together, which was astonishing fun.
And they came again the next day after that, and that was when June insisted that she wanted me to try fucking her, so I did, with some diffidence, on a second stand because I thought it might prove too difficult.
Amazingly, it wasn't, and when I was inside, David absolutely jigged up and down with delight. Apparently he'd carried out a thorough private inspection of her cunt and concluded it was possible, and he'd been right.
It was really fantastic being in such a snug cunt and watching that little eleven-year-old sit astride me, eyes closed, her little hands on her little breasts as she built up toward orgasm. But that was only the start of it. We got into a same-sex bit on the next occasion, when Sally decided she'd like to lick June's cunt-something she hadn't yet done-and David said what he'd like to do was suck my prick, because I'd already sucked his, and in the end we spent the best part of an hour in that arrangement, David lying clasped against me and June against Sally, kissing and rubbing bodies. It made David come, and me, but he said afterward, while it was very nice he thought he liked coming in a cunt better.
Which was a point on which I couldn't disagree . . .
We'd been thinking of going off on holiday for the next couple of weeks, but by then we were getting so improbably involved with these kids, we'd kind of forgotten to discuss the actual arrangements. It was Sally, late one night as we were about to drop off to sleep, who said, "Well, you'll just have to go call on the Lakes and ask if we can take David and June with us. They'll probably be glad to have them off their hands."
I said, "What?"
She said, "Tomorrow." And rolled over.
So I plucked up all my courage, and put on my best manners, and did as I was told, saying that we'd made the acquaintance of their kids and they were delightful and we had no children of our own yet and-this was a he, but it lent extra color-had been warned we might never have any, so we'd rather like to . . .
I sensed precisely the situation the kids had described to me. Mr. Lake was stiff, begrudging and selfish; his wife was stern-faced, superficial and probably frigid. I'd been told they avoided visiting their kids at school any more than they could help, although they were supposed to be allowed out on weekends and the two schools they were in, about ten miles apart, were no more than fifty miles from London.
They were terrified of betraying the fact, but the idea of not being bothered with their kids for half the school holidays, clearly appealed to them, and once they'd oh-so delicately established that it wasn't going to cost them anything, bar a little pocket-money they'd have to part with anyhow, they said that, although of course they'd miss the children terribly, they had no time to take them away themselves this holidays and so it was enormously kind of my wife and me to . . .
I wound up cordially detesting them both, and we took the kids to a rented bungalow on the Suffolk coast where they could sunbathe naked without anyone objecting. I wondered what their parents would think when they both came back tanned all over, but Sally shrewdly pointed out they probably hadn't seen their children naked for donkey's years. Which, as David and June confirmed, was true.
Naturally they didn't just sunbathe. They fucked themselves out, in a crazy, non-stop orgy, in which we joined about half the time. I found, candidly, I couldn't keep up David's pace. He'd roll off June, take a deep breath, rub himself up with his hand a couple of times and then plunge into Sally, and once he topped it off by climbing on my back and rubbing his prick back and forth in the crease of my buttocks while I was fucking Sally, until he came a third time.
But after about ten days the pressure dropped, and we didn't make love at all the last night, just climbed together into the bed we'd been sharing and lay cozily entangled, David holding my prick with one hand and stroking Sally's cunt with the other, friendly.
Abruptly, without warning, he said, "June and I want to tell you something.
"Mm-hm?" I said, on the verge of drowsing. "June?"
"One, two, three," she said, and they finished in chorus, "We love you!"
"It's true," David added. "We've never loved our parents the way we love you. And I don't mean the fucking bit, either. I mean-oh, just being with you! You're so kind to us, and you-"
"You make us feel you like having us around," June said.
Sally put her arm around her and squeezed her tight. "We do, believe me," she said, and kissed her. "We're going to come and take you both out from your schools next term, aren't we, Tommy?"
"Yes, of course, if we're allowed to."
"Golly, that's great," David murmured. "I was wondering how I was going to get through next term without a chance to fuck June for three solid months."
"You're not allowed to stay out overnight, are you?" Sally inquired.
"Not except with our parents, they're strict about that-at least at my school," June said.
"Same at mine," David said mournfully. "We're allowed out six times in the summer term, Saturday or Sunday but not both in the same weekend."
"Well, we've got an estate car, haven't we?" Sally said. "So you can always fuck in the back of it, can't you? Even if it's not as good as a bed."
"That's great," David said again. "Isn't it, June?"
But she was fading into sleep. I leaned over and kissed her lightly on the forehead, then David much more thoroughly on the mouth, and last of all my wonderful, delightful, unbelievably sexy wife, Sally.
Very close to her ear, I said, "Think we ought to start a kid? Or would it be too long for you to wait before you could fuck your son?"
"We've got kids and lovers rolled into one," she answered equally softly. "Don't push your luck, Tommy dear."
So I won't.
FOUR
DAUGHTER-MOTHER
I
The first time I went to bed with my mother-I mean, apart from when I was just a little girl-was the night of Daddy's funeral.
It had been an awful time. He'd been killed in a car-crash, which wasn't his fault . . . but he was just as dead. All of a sudden the house was terribly, intolerably empty. My brother Derek wasn't there, you see; he'd gone off for five weeks with one of these Commonwealth Expeditionary parties of young people, sixteen to twenty, and he was in Northern Lapland somewhere and we weren't even sure whether he knew the awful news yet.
Mummy's parents had come for the funeral, and so had my other grandfather, Daddy's father, a very stiff old man, an ex-Army officer, who said practically nothing. But they'd gone, and it was night and time to go to sleep . . . if one could.
I said goodnight to Mummy and gave her a bit of a kiss, and she went into her room and I went into mine, which was next to it. I took off the black dress I'd worn for the funeral, and the black bra and panties and black tights, and took out my pajamas and got into them. I remember thinking maybe they ought to have been black too. When she got up this morning, I'd seen Mummy in a black nightdress . . . but that hadn't anything to do with mourning. It was so filmy it might as well not have been there at all, even though it did come down nearly to her knees.
Oh, it had probably been silly to wear black undies, but it somehow felt-well-fitting. Because I'd loved my father very much. So did Mummy. She'd cried the whole of the first day, no matter how hard she tried to stop.
I lay there trying to go to sleep, and I couldn't, and finally I heard a faint sound from next door. Mummy was crying again.
I got up and went to her door. I said into the darkness, "Mummy?"
She couldn't answer. So I felt my way over to the bed and sat down on the edge of it and took hold of her hand, and she turned around and put her face in my lap. There were so many tears on her cheeks, I felt my pajama-leg getting damp.
Eventually, with me stroking her hair, she recovered. She sat up and put the light on and found a tissue on the bedside table. She had on the same nightie as she'd had last night, and now she didn't have a dressing-gown over it. I could see her nipples clearly: big dark circles like bruises.
"Sorry," she said at last. "But-well the bed felt so empty, Sharon, dear. You'd have to have been married for twenty years to know exactly how awful that is."
She blew her nose and threw away the tissue.
"But I didn't mean to wake you up," she added.
"You didn't," I said. "I can't get to sleep. Would you like me to-well-make us a cup of chocolate, or something?"
"That might help," she said. "If you don't mind."
"Of course not. I won't be a moment."
I came back with the big mugs as quickly as I could, and sat on the edge of her bed, sipping mine. She'd put a wrap around her shoulders by now and lit a cigarette. I wanted one, but I wasn't supposed to smoke, so I didn't ask.
All of a sudden, she said, "You must be cold, aren't you?" It was only the beginning of September, but it was a short summer that year, and in fact I was pretty chilly, especially my feet, because I'd gone to the kitchen without my slippers.
Mummy reached out and touched the foot I had curled up on the top of the bed near her, and said, "Goodness, Sharon, it's like ice! Here, come in the bed!"
She pulled down the bedclothes for me, and I did as I was told.
"But keep those icy feet well out of my way," she added, with the first passable imitation of a smile I'd seen on her face in more than a week. It didn't last; it collapsed into misery.
"That was what I used to say to Pete," she muttered. Pete, of course, being my father. "And-oh, it's no good, is it? I've simply got to face the bloody facts, and it might as well be sooner as later."
I felt like crying, myself, at that, and it showed, and she took my mug away from me in case I spilled it, and put her arm around me, rocking me back and forth as she used to when I was little. It made me feel much better knowing there was still at least one person in the world who loved me. I'd never been very close to my brother, Derek. He'd been sent to various boarding-schools, and even though he'd left this summer-being eighteen-of course I'd hardly seen him before he went off on this trip to Lapland.
Mummy finally put out her cigarette, and then to my surprise switched off the light and tossed aside her wrap. I sat up, asking if she wanted me to go.
"I think I'd like you to stay," she said. "If you want to."
"Yes, all right," I said. Not terribly enthusiastically. I was sixteen, you see, and dreadfully self-conscious about being on the edge of grownupness, and the idea of sleeping in the same bed with Mummy was rather weird. On the other hand, going back to He in my own bed and simply stare up at the ceiling didn't appeal to me either. In here, perhaps we could at least talk until we dozed off.
Not that I could think of anything to talk about which didn't threaten to lead directly back to Daddy . . .
At first I stretched out straight in the bed, on my back, my elbows close in to my sides. But Mummy turned over on her side, toward me, and her foot brushed mine, and she said, "Sharon dear, you're still freezing, aren't you?" She touched my arm, found my hand and rubbed it. "Either you've inherited Pete's bad circulation," she went on, "or I'm running a temperature. Am I?"
Hesitantly, I put my palm on her forehead, having to brush aside her hair. I said, "I don't think so."
"Well, lie a bit closer, anyway. Good night." She half-raised herself on her elbow to give me another kiss, a light peck on the cheek, and, before lying down again, she said, "You know, Sharon, I'm so damned glad I still have you and Derek!"
"And I'm glad I still have you," I said. I was glad of lots of other things, too; whether or not I'd inherited Daddy's poor circulation, I'd certainly inherited Mummy's looks-everyone said so, even Derek who didn't normally pay me more attention than most teenage boys seem to accord their sisters. And that was something to be grateful for, honestly. Because Mummy was perfecfly lovely, with a small heart-shaped face-mine's a bit more oval, but you can see the resemblance-and the same pitch-black hair as I have, though hers is curlier, and she keeps it cut in a springy mop, whereas I suppose mine takes a little after Daddy's and is nearly straight, with a hint of a wave. We have the same violet eyes, too. At sixteen, I was already two inches taller than her-Daddy again, who was six foot one in his socks-but she was proportioned just right. In fact, she had an amazing figure. In spite of having an eighteen-year-old son, she could wear bikinis as small as mine, and her tummy was flat and firm and smooth.
At what I'd just said, Mummy put her arms around me and sort of shivered up against me for a moment. I felt her all soft and warm and smooth under the thin nylon of her nightie, and at the back of my mind was a sudden-rather shocking-wish that I'd come to join her in a nightie of my own, instead of these brushed-nylon full-length pajamas with elastic at the wrists and ankles for winter warmth.
But then she fell back where she'd been, and buried her head in the pillow, and in a little while, without needing to talk at all, I found myself dozing, as relaxed as when I used to snuggle into this big bed after a nightmare.
Exactly what was going to develop out of that utterly innocent bit of mutual comforting, I couldn't foresee. But I started finding out first thing in the morning, all right.
II
Somebody was groping in my crotch . . .
I came awake all of a sudden. The curtains were open-we live in the country, and nobody overlooks the house, so they only get drawn in very cold weather-so I could tell it was barely light outside. It was a gray uninviting morning. I was puzzled for a moment to see that I was in the wrong room, and then I remembered what had happened, and at the same time I realized what was going on. Mummy had moved close to my back in her sleep, and we were now lying spoon-fashion, both on our right sides; I could feel her breath coming and going against my nape.
And with her left hand-she is left-handed, something in which I don't take after her-she was reaching across my hip to caress my tummy. My pajama jacket had ridden up nearly to my breasts.
Reflexively I started to pull away, but she simply moved close again, and made a little sighing noise: "Ahhh . . . nice!" Then her hand, having wandered up my tummy to my ribs, wandered down again over my pants, and pushed and tugged at the cloth over my pubic hair as though fumbling for an opening.
All of a sudden I caught on. Obviously, she was still three-quarters asleep, and imagining that Daddy was back here in the bed with her. She was trying to find the front opening of his pajamas, to stroke his cock.
My head spun for a second, with thousands of ideas boiling up all at once. I'd never talked about it to them-oh, I don't mean they were secretive or deceitful about sex, quite the contrary-but I'd known that Mummy and Daddy made love much more than most couples of their age, and they even carried on sometimes like a couple of teenagers, holding hands in the pictures and stopping to kiss on the street occasionally.
I was, at least physically, still a virgin; I'd had one boyfriend that I'd let undress me so we could rub up together, but that was about the most I'd ever experienced. And my first reaction to what Mummy was sleepily doing was to jump out of the bed.
And yet, above all, I didn't want to offend her. So I stopped myself from running away. Anyhow, it was lovely and warm here in the bed, and it felt as though it would be terribly cold if I got up, and it was much too early to get dressed, and-well, I simply didn't relish going to my own chilly bed.
Besides . . .
Gosh.
That slim hand working back and forth at the base of my tummy was-well, delightful! Very gentle, very affectionate, probing and stroking and unexpectedly making me want to move my hips, not forward and away from Mummy, but backward and harder up against her.
I let them move. She said again, "Ah!" And felt more determinedly for the nonexistent opening in my pants. Giving up, she found the waistband and tugged at it.
Pretending, to keep my conscience quiet, that I was just as dozy as Mummy, I lifted myself just far enough from the mattress-balanced on my knee and my shoulder-for the tug to have some affect. The waistband slid over my bottom, to about the level of the crease behind, before I dropped my weight back on it. I was shaking with tension. I felt Mummy's hand let the cloth go and touch my tummy again, and then slip down over my pubic hair, caressing and rubbing it, and continue all the way to the front of my cunt.
Whereupon it stopped dead, as though petrified, and from behind my head I heard Mummy say in horror, "Oh, Sharon! I'm sorry! I-"
She snatched her hand away and pulled clear of me. As I rolled on my back, I saw those huge violet eyes of hers, wide with dismay.
I said, knowing it was the right thing, "You thought it was Daddy sleeping with you, didn't you? That's all right. I think it's awfully nice of you wanting to do that to him. Did you always do it?"
"Y-yes," she said after a moment of uncertainty. "It was something we did pretty often. We'd-uh-we'd . . . "
"Make love?" I suggested.
"Yes." She was recovering from her moment of shock now. "This time of the morning. It must be about six, isn't it? Oh, yes: ten past. Before either of us had woken up properly, you know, so we could -uh-doze again for a while afterward, until we had to get up."
But in spite of the calmness of her explanation, I could see she was trembling. I hesitated a fraction of a second, and then I moved toward her and I put my hand over her and laid it on her thigh. My other hand I slid under the springy curls of her head.
T think it's fantastic," I said. "Knowing you-you enjoyed each other so much, after twenty years. It's not like that with most people, is it?"
Mummy shook her head, and her eyes began to blink as though she were trying to prevent tears.
"No, it's not like that with most people," she said, her voice betraying her.
With my right hand I pulled her bare leg toward me, intending to clasp it between my own, but my pajama pants made it awkward. I withdrew and shoved them down toward my ankles, fighting free of them altogether.
"Sharon, what are you doing?" Mummy said. I didn't answer. I turned back toward her, my left side facing her on her right, and pushed my leg between hers as I'd intended before. I forced it all the way up to her crotch until I felt the tickle of the hair between her legs, putting my hand behind her bottom to press her toward me. I was suddenly almost panting for breath, and my heart was going slam-bang on my ribs. I moved my hand higher, behind her shoulder, to turn more in my direction, and with my left arm under her head cuddled her against me as hard as I could.
"I'm doing this," I said finally, in answer to her last question. "Because it seems like the kind of thing Daddy might have done after you'd done to him what you just did to me."
"Sharon!" She half-withdrew her head, but she didn't try to slide away from the clasp of my thighs around hers. "Did it--? "
"You mean did I like it?" I suggested.
"Not exactly." Mummy bit her lip. "Did it-well, excite you?"
"Isn't it supposed to be exciting to have your cunt stroked?" I countered, astonished at my own brazen-ness.
Mummy stared at me for a long moment. Suddenly she started to laugh. "Do you know something, Sharon?" she said. "Do you know I've never been so long without making love in the whole of the last twenty years as I have in the past week or ten days?" She counted silently, and concluded, "Actually, it's nine."
"Always with Daddy?" I said.
"Nearly always."
"Did he know about the-the others?"
"Of course. We never told lies to each other. I tried it once, but it was so awful keeping up the deception I-I gave the man up."
Sighing, she let her head fall on my shoulder again. "My goodness, it's incredible lying here with you like this, talking to you like this. But I'm terribly glad you didn't fly off the handle when you found me touching you. I was honestly half-asleep."
By way of response I wriggled still closer to her, until my pubic hair was brushing her leg as hers was brushing mine. We stayed that way for a while, and then, very diffidently, I tried pushing my hand up her back, inside her nightie.
She didn't resist, so I stroked up and down her soft satiny skin for a bit. I said eventually, "Was Daddy a very good lover?"
"Yes. Marvelous. Better than any other man I ever knew."
"How?"
"Oh, you can't explain something like that." Under my caresses, she was relaxing completely, her eyes drifting shut. "You'd have to experience it."
T think I'd have liked that," I said-to my own surprise, as well as hers. The words just popped out. "Could you . . . ? Well, could you show me some of the things you did together?"
She opened her eyes again and looked at me for ages and ages. She said, "You're full of surprises, aren't you, dear? Do you mean that?"
"I liked what you were doing to me just now. I'm sorry you stopped."
To prove it, I sat up and pulled my pajama jacket over my head, letting it drop to the floor, turned back to Mummy and tugged at her nightie. "Come on, take it off," I insisted. "But, darling--! "
"What you did got me all worked up," I said. It had. It was incredible. I felt as though I was going to start playing with myself any moment-I'd have to, if she didn't let me rub up against her all over.
I tried again to pull the nightie off her, and this time, with a sigh, she let me. I saw her big, lovely breasts tumble into the open, and I almost fell on her, thrusting my hand down to her cunt.
"You did it to me," I said very close to her ear. "So it's only fair I should do it to you, isn't it."
"Sharon!"
But that was as far as she got. I'd had the inspiration of putting my tongue to her ear-lobe-goodness knows why, because I'd never done that to any of my boyfriends, and I'd never had any girlfriends to do it to, I mean in this way. But the touch made her go suddenly rigid, and then shake, and then subside.
"Oh, you so-and-so!" she whispered. "Did Daddy tell you I liked to have that done to me."
"Of course not."
"Then how--? "
I was already doing it again, licking and sucking the lobe and giving it little nips with my teeth. She started to shudder and writhe against me.
"Damn you!" she forced out, but she wasn't resisting. "He could always turn me on by doing that -practically by breathing in my ear! Twenty years, and . . . Christ, I must be mad, but I can't.. . "
Abruptly she let go, and flung me on my back so violently the springs complained. She jumped up to a kneeling position, hurling aside the bedclothes, and bent to cover my face with frantic kisses, then darted her mouth down to my breasts and started sucking my nipples. The touch was like electricity; I felt the juice gathering at my cunt, and needed to pull the lips apart because they were overnight-sticky, but she beat me to it, with a swift pass of her finger which did exactly what I wanted without my telling her.
"Oh, God," she said in a little lost voice, "if only you had a prick . . . "
And pushed her mouth hard against mine, her tongue stabbing my lips apart.
When I could, I whispered, "I've got fingers, haven't I? Show me how Daddy would have done it!"
"All right!" She dropped back beside me, retrieving the blankets, and was struck by a sudden thought. "Of course, you're right-handed, the same as he was, aren't you, and not left-handed like me? You know he used to say all women ought to be left-handed, so couples could lie together like this, and do this"
She guided my willing hand toward her cunt. Her hair was lovely, so silky and soft compared to the hair on her head, much more like mine. I wondered whether it had been Daddy, after all, who influenced me in that respect. But I didn't have long to spend wondering. I spread my fingers over her mount of Venus and pushed the middle one down inside, rolling my hand back and forth.
"Is that right?" I demanded.
"Oh, God, yes!" She was almost groaning. "You don't have to be told-you're just doing it!"
Delighted, I wriggled down the bed enough to bring my mouth to her nipple, and sucked and licked it as she'd just been doing to me. Reaching across me, she felt for my cunt too, but couldn't quite achieve the proper position. It didn't matter. I was rubbing myself against her hand, and that was enough. I felt a huge intangible pressure building up inside me, until I had to-had to explode, and lost all control over my body from waist to knees. I bucked and heaved back and forth in a giant convulsion. My hand almost escaped from Mummy's cunt, but she grabbed at it and held me firmly against her, while she gasped and cried out, little meaningless words, and then she, too, dissolved into orgasm about a minute or so after I had.
"I'm mad," she said after a while. "I'm absolutely insane. I must be. But . . . Sharon dear, it's hard to believe, only it's true. That's the only time in my life ifs ever been so good for me as it always used to be with Pete."
I said, "That's the only time in my life it's been good for me at all."
I'll
There was a silence. We lay clasped together, exhausted.
Eventually Mummy said, "I'm going to kiss you, Sharon dear. When I kissed you just now, it must have been-oh-a fit of lust! But this time I'm going to do it cold sober to show that I love you very much. Not exactly in the way a mother is supposed to love her daughter, I suppose . . . And I just this minute realized."
"But haven't you always loved me?" I said. "Of course! But after the past week, and your being so wonderful-it's something more than before."
"Have I been wonderful?"
"You really have. I don't know what I'd have done without you. Broken down completely, perhaps. And I finally feel I may be able to face the world again, one day. So open your mouth, darling!"
She placed her lips on mine and started to kiss me, very slowly and very thoroughly, with long, slow undulations going all the way up her body all the time in rhythm with the kiss, as she first of all licked along my lips, and then delicately inserted the tip of her tongue under them, running along my gums on the outside of my teeth and pushing deep into my cheeks, and finally easing my teeth apart so she could rub her tongue first over, then under mine. It was fabulous. I'd never dreamed of a kiss that went on like that, and on, and then on some more. All my boyfriends had either been shy or clumsy. Mummy was neither.
And, gradually, as the kiss continued, she eased her body harder and harder against mine, so that at first we were only embracing and rubbing breasts, but then we were rubbing tummies, and then I felt her pubic hair brushing me and we were clasping our cunts together, and finally we were entwined for the full length of our legs, with the sole of her right foot resting on top of mine.
"There," she said, fondly, sliding her lips away across my cheek and leaving a little snail-trail of saliva. "Was that nice?"
"Oh, Mummy!" I said, and burst foolishly into tears.
T love you," she whispered. "Don't cry!"
I fell asleep again some time after that, snuggled up against Mummy's warm scented skin, and eventually when I woke I discovered that she'd crept out of bed without disturbing me and fixed a tray of breakfast on which mugs of hot coffee steamed beside scrambled eggs and bacon.
"That looks marvelous!" I said, sitting up instantly.
"Well, you brought me chocolate last night, I thought it was fair to bring you coffee this morning," she said, and added, on seeing me start to get out of bed, "There's no need to get up!"
"Yes, there is," I said. "I have to go to the toilet first."
My foot, over the side of the bed, found my discarded pajama jacket. Almost by reflex, I thought of putting it on. It was only then that I realized Mummy had brought the breakfast up, naked, and was still so, sitting on the far side of the bed; the thermostat had switched the heating on as usual, at seven o'clock, and now the house was beautifully warm.
I kicked the jacket aside and strode happily along the landing. I felt full of sunshine and smiles. It hadn't seemed possible that I should ever be happy again. It was a miracle.
When I came back and wriggled into the bed again to take my breakfast from the tray and balance it on my knees, Mummy had eaten some of hers, but was thoughtfully sipping coffee and not looking at me.
"Sharon dear," she said abruptly.
"Yes, darling?" I answered around a mouthful of eggs.
"I-I didn't dream it, did I?"
I knew exactly what she meant. "No," I assured her. "And if my mouth wasn't full, I'd kiss you to prove it."
Since that was impossible, I reached out and caressed her breast for a moment. She smiled under her lovely natural lashes-something I wish I could match, but mine are . . . Oh, never mind!
"I'm glad," she said, and after that we both concentrated on our food until it was gone bar a few crumbs of toast. It was the first time either of us had enjoyed a proper appetite, since the accident.
Then, humming, Mummy cleared the plates, lit a cigarette, and wandered over to the wardrobe to choose her clothes for the day. I sat and watched, fascinated. I kept thinking: that woman's forty-one!
And about the only things which made her look more than thirty were the wrinkles around her eyes. And even those were due to forty years of laughing.
I said, "I hope I look like you when I'm your age, Mummy,"
"I'm terribly lucky," she said. She was going through her undies drawer, picking out a pretty little flowered bra and some skimpy matching panties. "You know I do lots of my shopping in the teenage department? I can't get over it. And Daddy-"
She stopped dead, her panties dangling from her hand. After a moment she said, "I'm going to try and remember to say 'Pete' to you. Because of something you said this morning. Know what it was?"
I shook my head.
"That you'd have liked to experience what he could do. Yesterday I'd have said that was utterly absurd. Today . . . Today I almost wish I'd thought of suggesting it when he was still here. Am I crazy, Sharon?"
"No."
"Did you ever think of it before."
"No."
"If you had, would you have . . . ? " But she canceled that, her smile returning. "Now I'm being silly. But it's wonderful to be able to feel silly again and not worry, isn't it?"
She fastened her bra around her and shook her beautiful breasts down into the cups, then stepped into her panties and turned to take down from her wardrobe, a bright red shirt that I'd always liked, and a pair of cheerful checked slacks.
I said, when she'd put them on, "I think Pete would have liked you to do that. I don't think he'd have wanted you to stay in black."
"Exactly what I was thinking," Mummy agreed. She gathered the breakfast tray and headed for the door. "I've neglected the housework for over a week," she added. "I suppose I'd better get back to it."
"Directly I've had my bath I'll give you a hand," I promised, and jumped out of the bed again.
That day the house was happy again. Not because we weren't going to miss Daddy-Pete-desperately for years to come, but simply because twenty years of nearly unbroken happiness had left such a deep stamp on our home, it couldn't be wiped away in an instant, even by his death.
We talked a lot, some while we were working on jobs that could be shared, some when we took a short break for a cup of coffee, and over lunch. I found it absolutely natural to ask all sorts of ridiculous questions about my father, and Mummy answered without hesitation or prevarication. I learned that he'd been able to keep his cock hard for a long time, much longer than usual, so that instead of the foreplay I'd been told about in sex lectures at school, he could start fucking immediately and keep at it until she came. She said, "Coming at the same time is supposed to be difficult, but we never had any trouble. Pete used to say the sexiest thing a girl can do to a man is come while he's inside her, and since I'm lucky and come pretty easily, we were perfectly suited."
And, she added teasingly, "By the way, I imagine you take after me in that respect, along with everything else! Finished your coffee? Let's get back on the job, then."
I remembered I found her bending over, sweeping a corner the vacuum-cleaner hadn't coped with, and put my hand between her legs from behind, and she clasped her thighs on my wrist.
"That's something you copied from Pete," she said, not looking around.
"Is it?" I countered. "I don't think I ever saw him do that!"
"You probably did when you were tiny. He stopped when Derek was about four or five, I think. Unless we were on our own. He didn't want to encourage precocity in that area. Only I get the impression it happened anyway."
And, later, when Mummy was washing up the lunch-dishes and I was drying, we suddenly found ourselves face to face, and for a long moment we stared at each other as though we'd never met before. Then she kissed me very quickly, and we went on with our work.
It was a quiet, ordinary, placid day, and incredibly enjoyable. After dinner we sat and watched TV side by side, not touching, not holding hands, not anything. It was a good evening's viewing, but what made it good was the fact that we could, after such a long period of gloom, remember how to laugh, how to lose ourselves in a drama, how to cheer the wrestlers who were fighting in the last, program we turned on. Mummy had opened a bottle of wine, quart-size, for our dinner, and we kept on sipping it for the whole of the rest of the evening. It was empty just about the time we decided we'd had enough television.
She switched the set off, and then we sat silent for a few minutes with one shaded light on, and then at last she said, "Well, I suppose we'd better call it a day."
"Yes," I said.
And neither of us made a move. More time passed.
"Well," Mummy said again.
I was wondering whether I was supposed to take a hint. I was wondering whether that incredible, crazy, absurd, ridiculous thing this morning had been a once-for-all happening. It seemed a terrible shame, if so. I wanted crazy absurd ridiculous things to keep right on happening to me, forever and ever, amen.
Should I get up, and give Mummy my usual chaste goodnight peck, and go demurely to the bathroom and shut the door behind me, and change into pajamas that covered me from neck to ankle, and slip into my familiar bed by myself and then ease my pants down so I could stroke my cunt, as I sometimes liked to do before dropping off?
I went on waiting. Mummy yawned a little, and stretched, and rose and said she needed to go to the toilet. She went out. I kept on sitting where I was. I was still there when she returned and stood before me, smiling down in the dim peach-colored glow of the one lamp.
"All right," she said. "I've never done this before, but . . . Take off your panties. I'm going to show you how Pete used to lick my cunt, here in the drawing-room after you two were safely in bed."
IV
Whether she'd done it before or not, she'd learned well. When I came, I practically cracked her head between my legs, like a nut. I lay back, gasping and gasping, and she kept on lapping at me with her hands on my hips, until the final tremulous wave of orgasm faded away.
After which, of course, I wanted to do the same to her. It was very strange, after I'd persuaded her out of her slacks and panties, and my head was poised over her crotch, to think I was kissing the place where I'd come from . . . It was strange, of course, to think I was going to kiss a cunt at all, because I'd never before thought of doing it, and I'd never before had it done to me. But it had been tremendous for me, and I was determined I'd make it as good as I could for her.
I set my lips to it very gently, as she'd done, and felt the brushing tickle of her silky pubic hair. At the back of my mind, detachedly, I was wondering what it was going to taste like, also, as I opened my mouth to part her labia-copying her again-I realized that there was one other part of her which showed her age. The lips of my cunt were a contrast to hers; mine thick and fleshy, hers thin and lax . . . at least at first. They seemed to fill out at I licked and rubbed my chin back and forth.
The taste was slightly salty, like clean, healthy perspiration, or like tears. Little by little, her cunt filled with juices, and with my saliva, and the mixture ran trickling down her thighs. Every now and then I darted my tongue down to catch some of it. I was frantically forcing her legs as wide apart as they'd go. Once or twice I pushed my tongue right down between her buttocks and touched her arsehole with the tip of it, making her writhe. That tasted bitter and sour, but I didn't mind. I was so pleased I was giving her so much pleasure. She was practically sobbing, both her hands on my head, guiding my speed and direction with fingers twined in my hair.
Suddenly, without my realizing she was at fever-pitch, she started corning, and I couldn't keep my station. But it didn't matter. She wanted to clamp her thighs together and haul me up by force to kiss my mouth as she came.
We went lazily and contentedly to bed, and slept in each other's arms, and from then on, we knew without saying, this was how it was going to be . . . for a while, at least. Neither of us broached the question of how we'd explain this extraordinary new development to Derek. We knew by now that a message had reached the group he was with, but there'd been a gale blowing which had prevented a helicopter from picking him up and bringing him back to civilization, and it wasn't expected to drop for another forty-eight hours. As soon as he was picked up, of course, they'd get him on the earliest possible flight home.
It would happen sooner or later, and it wasn't a bad thing for him to have missed the worst part of the affair-the horrid, sad, parody-like funeral, with a minister retained on a rota basis who hadn't even bothered to find out who was being cremated . . . .
Mummy and I had suddenly started to behave like a couple of sisters instead of mother and daughter. She asked if she could borrow a jersey of mine which she fancied, and I retaliated by asking for a dress of hers, and because I'm two inches taller, it turned into a very fashionable mini on me, whereas on her it was-well, you couldn't say matronly, but a sober kneecap-touching length. The rest of it fitted fine, even the sleeves, because they were full and designed to be pushed back from the wrists, and I only needed to let them fall to full length.
We were wearing these swapped-over outfits when we collected Derek from the airport. He was in the gear we'd seen him off in-parka, huge boots, carrying a bulging canvas pack. He seemed very calm, but his eyes were red-rimmed, and the first thing that struck me on seeing him was a resemblance to Daddy which hadn't been there before: not physical, but in his expression, a look of quiet, determined control which was not going to slip, come hell or high water.
It was a depressing evening. He was terribly withdrawn, and hardly said a word during dinner. Then, when we'd discussed a little about his trip, and told him who'd come to the funeral and what a foul business it had been-like all funerals, I suppose-he said he'd like to go to bed, because he hadn't slept much the past several nights. I said I'd stay down and help Mummy do the washing-up.
Over the sink, she said, "He's taken it well, hasn't he?"
"As well as you can take that sort of thing," I said. She nodded.
"I think . . . " she began after a pause, and I cut in.
"It would be better if I slept in my own room?"
"I suppose so. Don't you?" She finished the dishes and turned away to dry her hands. "Though-"
"Though it would be a pity?"
She dropped the towel back on its hook and faced me squarely. "Yes," she said, and flung her arms around me, kissing me frantically on the mouth.
"Oh, Sharon, darling!" she whispered when we finally drew apart. "I do love you!"
"I love you!" I said fervently. "This is such a wonderful thing to have happened . . . Oh, if only--! "
I broke off. I'd had an idea. But it was probably ridiculous.
"What?" Mummy demanded.
"Well . . . If only Derek could be the same way. I mean, if I'm like you and-and Pete, mustn't he have had some of the same rub off on him?"
"Sharon dear! Are you suggesting that I should -should seduce Derek, too? Why, he'd be shocked rigid!"
"Wouldn't you have said the same thing about me a couple of days ago?" I challenged. "And anyhow I wasn't thinking of our doing it, so much. I was thinking more of me doing it."
"Good lord," she said. She wandered across the kitchen to the table where she'd left her cigarettes. Lighting one with a shaky hand, not looking at me, she said, "It would be wonderful . . . Oh, no. It is absurd."
But, throwing away her match, she added, "That is, unless you two have been getting up to things I don't know about. Have you?"
"Well . . . " Ridiculously, I felt myself blushing. "Well, back when I was about twelve and he was fourteen, we did-uh-play around together one summer holidays. Quite a lot. I mean, sort of looked at each other's bodies, and things, and touched. But it never got very far, and the next holidays I said he shouldn't, and after that he simply lost interest. We've drifted completely apart since then."
"I never realized!" she said blankly. "Though I suppose it's perfectly natural. I remember Pete telling me that when he was a kid . . . "
She shook her head, wonderingly.
"But you-uh-you didn't keep it up?" she added.
"Not at all. Still . . . " I smiled and took her hand. "I will see what I can do. It'd be nice, wouldn't it?"
"I think it'd be fantastic," she said. "I simply can't believe in it, though . . . Well, if you'd like to try, and think you can get away with it, do. Not tonight, though."
"No, not tonight," I said. "Tomorrow night. I'll go to bed now and think about it."
I thought hard, and to good effect. The following evening-after a day which was a lot more relaxed, because we got Derek to talk unselfconsciously about some of the good things we had to remember, instead of only the bad things we must now look forward to-we again suggested going to bed early. He'd slept on until well after ten in the morning, exhausted, as he'd said, so it wasn't likely he'd drop off right away.
Having explained to Mummy exactly what I thought it would be best for her to do, I went to my own room and put on a nightie which one of my boyfriends had given me-optimistically hoping, I think, he might get a sight of me wearing it. Actually it wasn't so much a nightie as a sleep suit: a tiny little jacket ending a couple of inches above my navel, frilly panties, and a hip-length wrap, all made of the same nearly transparent pink nylon and the top and jacket tying edge-to-edge in front with pink ribbons.
I waited a little while until Derek's light was out, and then a little while longer, and then I stole to his room as quietly as though I was trying to avoid being noticed by Mummy, who had gone to her own room and had also put out her light.
I eased the door open very softly and whispered, "Derek?"
From the darkness beyond, I heard him say, "What is it?"
"Are you awake?" I crept across the threshold and pushed the door to behind me. I'd let my eyes get adjusted to the dimness and could see the bed, with him lying back on the pillows. "I thought you would be. I've been having terrible trouble getting to sleep myself since . . . "
I didn't finish the sentence. But I walked the last step to the edge of his bed and sat down next to him.
To my surprise, because it was so long since he'd made any kind of affectionate gesture to me, he took hold of my hand and gave it a squeeze, though he only grasped it for a few seconds. He said, "I know. And I know it can't be put right, and we'll just have to live with it, and that's no help . . . Speaking of help though: Mummy was saying today that you'd been marvelous, and I would just like to say thanks for all you've done. If only I'd been here, instead of up in that frozen wilderness . . . But I wasn't. So' thank you very much for standing by Mummy."
I could just see he'd turned his head to look at me and was smiling. So I thought I could risk leaning sideways and giving him a bit of a kiss-not on the mouth, of course, but on the forehead. I took hold of his hand again and squeezed it the way he'd done to me. In the same way, too, I let it go, and accidentally-on-purpose made sure it brushed my thigh as it fell.
I got up a bit more on the bed beside him, turning my legs so they curled under me and leaning back partly on his pillows and partly on the headboard of the bed. My knees pushed against his side through the blankets, and he moved an inch or two the other way to make more room for me. It was all, of course, extremely matter-of-fact, though I was trembling a little deep inside because I intended it to stop being matter-of-fact.
Eventually. It was going to take a lot of working up to.
I said after a pause, "Got a cigarette?"
He'd lost himself in his private thoughts again, staring at the ceiling. He stirred and said, "What? Oh! Yes, of course I have-I bought a carton to bring in duty-free. But I didn't know you'd started smoking."
"Well, I haven't really," I said. "But sometimes if I'm nervous, or like now if I can't sleep . . . "
"Yes, of course. Here you are." He reached to the table by the other side of the bed and fumbled one out for each of us. Trying to find my hand in the dark, he had to feel for it. Meanwhile, with my other hand, I undid the ribbon holding my wrap together and contrived to pull it open when I turned around a bit more to have the cigarette lit. When he struck his lighter, he had a face-on view of me in my sexy, skimpy sleep suit.
He didn't comment, but he looked. And, having lit up himself, he said as he turned back to the table, "You're-uh-you're a nice person, Shay." That was what he'd always called me. Once, I remember, when I was about fifteen, I thought I might try and get him to change it to Chere, but no dice.
"Thanks," I said.
"And very pretty, too."
"Well, thank you!"
"You take after Mummy a lot, of course . . . I hope I take after Daddy just as much, in my own way. Oh, Shay, I'm going to miss him so much!"
That self-control which he'd kept up so well for so long collapsed in a second, like a breached dam, and he folded up like a six-year-old, sobbing. I took his cigarette out of his hand and put it safely on an ashtray, along with mine, and put my arms around him, drawing his head down against my chest. I stroked his hair and made little comforting noises. I'd sweated the whole of this kind of reaction out of myself by now; I'd never seen the awful thing they said was Daddy after the crash, so it wasn't real to me . . . and anyhow that wasn't him. He was alive, and vital, and smiling, and kind, and generous, and according to what Mummy had told me, marvelously sexy. He wasn't a lump of motionless meat. It just wasn't him.
There had been a person called Peter Fowler, and that person had stopped. But he was remembered, as he'd once been. That was what counted.
Sooner or later, I hoped, Derek would reach the same conclusion. But for him, naturally, the news was much more recent; it had been three days, nearly four, before the message reached him in Lapland.
He recovered quite quickly, and snuffled, and I found him a tissue from a bedside box and gave it to him, and gave back his cigarette, and eventually he said, "Sorry to be such a fool."
I said, "Rubbish. I like you a lot better for knowing how you feel, instead of having you try to hide it all the time."
"Do you mean that?" he said eagerly, and I suddenly felt much, much older than him, his tone was so like a little boy's.
"Of course I mean it," I said, and put both my arms tightly around him and hugged him to me very hard. Uncertainly, he seemed to consider doing the same, but he groped in the dark all around me, trying to find the outside of my wrap, as though afraid of touching my bare skin with his hands.
He did touch me, though-couldn't miss. I'd made sure of that, shaking my wrap right back behind me. And he said, "Oh, Shay! You must be freezing."
"What?" I said, though I'd heard perfectly well. T said you must be freezing. I mean-" He swallowed audibly. "You've got practically nothing on! Hadn't you better go back to bed?"
"And lie there for hours, staring into nowhere? I don't want to. I'd rather stay and talk. That is, if you don't mind. You said you couldn't sleep, either."
"Well, then . . . " He fumbled awkwardly with the coverlet. "Put something around you, at least."
That wasn't quite what I was after. So without saying anything, I slipped back off the bed, raised the blankets, and got in beside him.
"Shay!" He was horrified. "Suppose Mummy."
"She's gone to sleep. I went and looked before I . came in here. Just for a little while . . . please?"
"Well . . . " He was obviously painfully confused. "Well, all right." But he was shying away from me as far as he could, toward the far side of the bed.
"Here," I said. "Tuck my wrap around me, would you? It's gotten all pushed up." I sat forward. Obligingly, but not enthusiastically, he did as I asked and pushed the hem of my wrap down behind me. Before he had the chance to withdraw his arm, I leaned back on it. There was still a fraction of an inch left on my cigarette, because he'd bought export hundred-millimeter size, and I drew on it and blew smoke. "Nice," I said. "What."
"Warm."
"Oh. Well, I should think so, considering that gear you've got on." He was torn between withdrawing the arm he had behind me, and seeming to give offense. "Is it new? I don't-uh-remember seeing it before."
"It was a present from Randolph," I said, naming the boyfriend who'd given it to me. "Not new, exactly. But I haven't worn it a lot lately. In summer I don't bother to wear anything. Do you?"
"Uh . . . " Again he swallowed loudly. "Actually I don't. Not that there seems to be much difference between what you've got on and nothing, is there?"
"Oh, it's just pretty, I suppose," I said. "It's not meant to be warm." That was the last of my cigarette; I reached across him to stub it out, and instead of going back to the sitting-up position I'd been in, I wriggled down in the bed when I came back to my side. I put my right hand on his chest, or rather on his pajama jacket.
"Shay," he said nervously, "don't you think you ought--? "
"I don't want to," I said firmly.
"But-"
"Oh, shut up." That's the kind of thing you can say to a brother. I suppose you can say it to a lover, too; one day I'll find out. "I think it's awful when you like somebody and you aren't allowed to show it. And you do like me, don't you?"
"Of course I do!" He sounded almost angry. "But-"
"Then why are you always so standoffish? Anybody would think it was indecent to show affection. Mummy and Daddy were never like that, were they?"
"How do you mean?"
"Oh, holding hands, walking arm-in-arm, kissing each other sometimes-you know very well what I mean."
"Well naturally. But . . . " It seemed to be his favorite word at the moment.
"But nothing," I said, snuggling down beside him with a loud sigh.
"But if Mummy-"
"I told you, she's asleep!" It might not have been true, but it was certain that she wasn't going to disturb us; she'd promised not to. Not yet.
There was a long silence. At first he lay beside me perfectly rigid, all his muscles wound up with the fear of relaxing enough to seem to be wanting to touch me. Little by little, though, he grew tired of his position and needed to move, so I encouraged him to forget about keeping clear of me. When the heavens didn't fall on him for turning on his side toward me, he plucked up the courage to put his arm across my waist, in spite of the fact that my wrap had wandered around the back of me somewhere, and I gave him a lhtle kiss on the mouth: very quickly.
"Night, Deny dear," I said.
"I thought you said you were going to-"
"Shut up."
"But if-"
"Shut up."
By which time he was too tired to argue any longer, and in another couple of minutes he was breathing with the deep regularity of normal relaxed sleep.
So that was how I first slept with my brother, and I mean slept, because in a little while I dozed off as well.
V
I woke up just before he did, at around seven-forty: a trifle before my usual time. I had blurred recollections of surfacing from sleep during the night, because this was an ordinary single bed only three feet wide, and if one of us turned over, the other had to move as well. I vaguely recalled that on one such occasion I'd pulled undone the bow in which I'd tied the ribbon holding my sleep suit top, or else it had come undone of its own accord. Either way, the silly little symbolic jacket-thing had rolled back under my arms and my breasts were bare. Also I'd freed myself from my wrap, though I still had my panties on.
Derek was clutching me to him like a straw held by a drowning man, with his right arm behind my head and the hand strained down against my back. I'd pushed up his pajama jacket with my right arm and was holding him equally tightly, and his left leg was over both of mine.
And something was poking at my thigh.
Obviously it must be his cock. I moved my hand very cautiously from his back to his tummy, and found I was right; he had an enormous hard-on in his sleep, and it was protruding from the gap in the front of his pants.
I thought of Mummy fumbling around my crotch, looking for Pete's . . .
I'd felt a boy's prick before, of course. Even Randolph, who'd given me the sleepsuit I was-uh-half-wearing, had got that far with me even though I didn't like him terribly well. But Derek, as I now found out, was exceptionally well developed. This big, round, warm strong, fleshy cylinder I'd closed my fingers around was . . .
Sensitive, to start with! At my touch, still fast asleep, Derek sighed aloud and wiggled even closer. His left hand, which had been lying somewhere down on his thigh, came over and fumbled toward my breasts. Happily, I turned a trifle more on to my back to make it easier, and he clasped my nipple between finger and thumb.
Suppose I were to . . .
But I didn't get the chance to try. At that moment, there were footsteps on the landing, and he jolted out of sleep and blinked at me.
"Shay!" he exclaimed, and at the same moment the door opened without a knock. In walked Mummy, carrying two big mugs of coffee on a tray and wearing nothing but the see-through black nightie she'd had on the night we first went to bed together.
"Morning, you two," she said, before the horrified Derek could recover from his tongue-tied dismay. She put down the mugs on the bedside table, leaned over to give first him, then me, quick good-morning kisses. "Did you sleep well? You look as though you did. Breakfast at half past eight, that okay?"
And, smiling, she went out again. "My God!" Derek said, sitting up. And then again: "My God!"
"What's wrong?" I demanded, putting on my most amused smile. I rolled over on my back, making sure the bed-clothes slipped away from me so that I was bare nearly to the waist.
"But she-she . . . ! " This soon after waking, he couldn't find the right words.
"She what?" I said. From down below, we could clearly hear the dishes being rattled in the kitchen and water splashing into the sink.
"She . . . " Derek drew a deep breath. "She didn't turn a bloody hair at finding us here like this!"
From the side of his eyes, he was trying to look at my bosom while seeming not to.
"Why should she?"
"But finding us here in bed like this."
"Oh, don't be an old silly," I said, and turned toward him, putting my arm up under his jacket so that I could force it aside and rub my breasts against his chest. "It was lovely feeling you cuddle me all night long. You did, you know."
"Did I?" Sounding foolish.
"Yes, you had your arms right around me, and you stroked me and petted me practically all over."
"Oh, lord!"
"What on earth are you 'oh-lording' about?" I demanded, leaning up on my left arm to confront him.
"But you make it sound as though I-I was making love to you!"
"Well, you weren't, quite," I said in a judicious tone. "Though it was very nice anyway. Oh, you silly fool!" I concluded suddenly, and fell forward against him, wrapping my arms around him. Before he could stop me, I'd managed to kiss him quite hard on the mouth, not putting in my tongue but rubbing my lips all over his. He was bristly, and needed a shave, but that was nice, too.
"Shay," he forced out when I let him, "this is terrible! Suppose Mummy comes back up and finds you-"
"Trying to get you to make love to me properly?" I said, and put my hand frankly down to his prick. It had begun to go soft again, and he pulled away so quickly he nearly fell off the far side of the bed.
"Well, yes!"
"Nitwit! Nincompoop! Idiot! Dunderhead!" I said fondly. "She thinks we already have."
"What?"
It took him ages to force that out. I sat up, returning to my matter-of-fact manner, and asked him to pass me my coffee. He was so much at a loss, he welcomed that as a distraction, and then I asked for a cigarette, and he gave me that, too, and lit it, and by then he'd recovered a little.
He said finally, "You do mean she . . . "
"Thinks we fucked last night?" I supplied.
"Shay!" He turned perfectly crimson. I ignored that. I sucked on my cigarette and shrugged.
"At least I suppose she does," I said. "It's what people usually go to bed together for, isn't it?"
He gaped at me like a codfish, his jaw almost falling on his chest. Speaking of chests, naturally I'd done nothing about pulling my sleep suit top together and the bedclothes were back below my waist, so far, I remember, that the top of my panties showed above the sheet.
At that point, Mummy came back in, again without knocking, and still in the same see-through nightie. She sat down on the foot of the bed, turning her legs under her.
"Mushrooms," she said.
"What?" Derek blinked wildly at her.
"I said mushrooms! On toast! Cooked very slowly, the way you like them. Lord, you haven't gone off mushrooms, have you?" Mummy looked dismayed. "Derry, is something wrong?"
He went on gawking ridiculously. Eventually he managed to say, "Well, I . . . "
"Mushrooms?" she repeated gently.
"Yes-yes, I love mushrooms. Only . . . "
"Well, that's all right, then. I'm going to have my bath while they're cooking. Eight-thirty should be about right."
She got up again and went out with a wave. A moment later, water started to run in the bathroom next door. The door hadn't clicked shut.
Derek, bless him, was a long way from stupid. Td hate to be cursed with a stupid brother. He didn't believe what he was going to say, but the evidence was overwhelming-as it were-and now he decided to sum it up.
He said, "Anyone would think she wanted us to-to do what you just said."
"She does," I answered. And waited.
"I simply don't understand." He confessed that, as though admitting to murder, and blushed all over again. I mean all over-or at least as much of him as I could see, down his neck and out of sight under the collar of his pajama jacket.
"It's quite simple, really," I said. "I suppose what it comes down to is that she and Pete-Daddy-were so happy together for such a long time, she wants us who are left to be happy together too."
"Fair enough! But-"
"Listen. I'm going to tell you exactly what's been happening."
So I did, in the maximum possible detail, and he shook and shivered and thought twice about interrupting, and sipped his coffee with his hand trembling, and missed the ashtray when he aimed for it with his cigarette, and about the time I got to the point where I was telling him how Mummy told me to take off my panties so she could kiss my cunt, his stand was so big it was lumping the bedclothes, so I pulled them back and put my hand around his cock, working it up and down. By then he was so lost, he couldn't argue. He had his arm around me and he was caressing my back, his eyes closed and his mouth just a fraction open.
By way of a test, I stopped dead without warning.
"Oh, God," he whispered. "Go on! I can't stand it!"
"I'm going to take my panties off," I said, and did, and my top as well, while I thought of it-not that that had been in my way for some time. "You too!" I told him as I threw it to the floor.
"What? Oh, my pajamas?"
He began to start undoing the jacket, but stopped.
"Lord, I-I'm going to come!" he said.
I grabbed for his prick and pumped it furiously, while he clutched my hand to guide my speed and pressure, and with my other hand I flung the bedclothes as far as I could toward the foot of the bed. The sperm came spurting out of his cock within seconds, and it nearly drove me mad to see him throb and pulse that way. As soon as I'd felt the final jerk, I tore open his jacket and pants, thrust them out of my way, and lay on him kissing him furiously, driving my tongue as deep into his mouth as I could. He kissed magnificently, now that his reserve and diffidence were gone, much better than any of my boy-friends, and I thought about taking after Daddy . . .
That was how Mummy found us when she came out of the bathroom, carrying her nightie and wearing nothing but a vast, red Turkish towel. She stood in the doorway for an instant, and then she let the towel drop, and stumbled to the bed, putting one arm around each of us and mumbling, "My darlings, my darlings, my darlings . . . "
The mushrooms burned. When we finally made it to the kitchen for breakfast, we had to make do with cereal.
VI
We ate breakfast effectively naked. I mean, we had on robes, but we didn't bother to do them up-simply let them hang open. Derek's eyes were as round as saucers, and he stared from my cunt to Mummy's and back by way of our breasts, barely sparing the time to glance down at his cereal bowl and aim his spoon correctly.
I was glowing. When Mummy embraced us, I'd let her push my face aside from Derek's, and I'd seen her kiss him the way she'd kissed me our first morning together, licking his lips first, then thrusting inside around his gums, then finally opening him up wide to drink his saliva. And he'd overcome his reluctance and put his arms around her and hugged her to him so tight I was half-afraid her ribs would crack!
After which what caused the delay in getting down to breakfast was that he'd wanted to suck her breasts, and naturally she'd let him, and feeling a trifle left out I'd taken his hand and put it on my cunt while I stroked Mummy's, and I'd come pretty well at once. I mean, he did kiss extremely well, and I'd been on the verge of it, anyhow, when Mummy came in after watching his cock spurt between my fingers.
But-for whatever reason-I knew that Mummy hadn't made it in spite of the violent way she was rubbing against my hand, and I didn't think that was very fair. For the moment, however, what counted was to get Derek perfectly relaxed.
It didn't look as though it was going to be difficult.
He said, when Mummy had handed around post-breakfast cigarettes, "Uh-Mummy?"
"Yes, sweetheart?" Passing on the way back to her seat, she ruffled his hair. He looked marvelous this morning, all fresh and boyish, the way I remembered him from the summer when we'd played around so much together-though at the time, as I'd explained to Mummy, it hadn't done much for me, I imagine because I was still too young-and at the same time very grown-up, what you might call . . . manly?
Yes: that's precisely it. Manly. He'd always been a tough boy, far stronger than me, and yet, at the same time, gentle and terribly afraid of hurting anybody, which I recall he'd once said made him disliked at school, where it was supposed to be a popular pastime to get some poor little thirteen-year-old in a private corner and punch him until he broke down in tears. Five or six kids, or sometimes more, he said, would set on one victim, and it was usually the same victim every time. And because he wouldn't join in the "fun", he was often very lonely.
It was for that kind of thing that, in spite of our having been remote from one another, I'd been able to tell him truthfully that I really liked him.
He went on now, "Mummy, is it true that you and
Shay have been-well, making love?"
"Perfectly true," Mummy said with composure.
"I-uh-I've read about this," he muttered. "But I never really believed it, I guess. Do you . . . ? "
"Enjoy it?" Mummy suggested.
"Yes."
"I enjoy it tremendously," she declared. "Don't you, Sharon dear?" And, on my vigorous nod, she added, "Even though I'd never really tried it before. Once I considered it, of course."
"Did you?" I chimed in. "You didn't tell me about that."
"Sharon darling, I am forty-one, you know, and you can't tell everything that's happened in that long a lifetime in just a few days!" She laughed and reached over to tap her cigarette-ash off into the sink behind her, tilting her chair and arching her lovely slender body so that the morning sun glinted on her pubic hair.
"How did that happen?" Derek demanded.
"Oh, we know some very nice people indeed, and once, when we were at a party with them, the husband was-well, we'd really gone beyond necking, and we were petting pretty hard, and he said all of a sudden that his wife liked girls as well as men, would I like to join them some time?"
Derek was breathing hard, and I saw past the corner of the table that his cock was standing up again, although for some inexplicable reason, he was trying to hide the fact. I reached under the table, caught the hand which wasn't holding his cigarette, and pushed it toward his crotch.
"Go on!" I invited. "I'd like to watch-and I imagine Mummy would, too."
"Mummy would what?" she said, and caught on. "Oh, yes! Here, let's go in the drawing-room, shall we?
It's more comfortable in there and the table's not in the way. I'll see to the dishes later."
I took Derek's hand and led him in Mummy's wake, and a moment later we were settled down on the long lounge where we'd sat and watched TV and then later licked each other's cunts for the first time. Derek's stand shrank as a result of the disturbance, of course, but it came back almost at once as Mummy went on with her story.
"Like I said, I considered it. I mean, she was a very pretty girl-woman, really, only a couple of years younger than me-and I liked her a lot as a person. But somehow it simply didn't happen; I think they waited for us to make a move, and . . . " She shrugged. "Eventually I heard that they'd found someone else, a lady doctor, and she was spending most weekends with them when she wasn't on duty. I often wondered what it would be like, but I never found out."
She laughed and stubbed her cigarette.
I had my arm around Derek's neck and was stroking him, as he rather timidly fondled his prick. Occasionally I nibbled his ear, the way Mummy liked so much.
"That's getting hard enough to use," Mummy said, looking frankly at it.
She caught the implication, and sat forward in surprise on the edge of the lounge.
"Derry, it sounds as though you don't know! Haven't you ever had a girl?"
"Not-not properly," he confessed, blushing.
"Oh, you poor darling!" Mummy thrust up close against him, putting her arm around him over mine. "What went wrong? I mean, you're a nice boy, very sweet-you shouldn't have had any trouble."
"So I've been told," he said gruffly. "But it's the result of being sent away to a boys-only boarding-school, I think. I-I just don't know how to get a girl into bed. All this talk about the Permissive Society: I never seem to meet the chicks who've joined it! But," he added hastily as though afraid of appearing ignorant, "I have had one girlfriend who liked to go all the way when we were petting. I mean, she-uh . . . "
"Made you come with her hand?" Mummy suggested.
"That's right. While I did it to her."
"Did you ever try to make her suck you off?"
"Once or twice. But she wouldn't."
"And you stuck with her because at least she'd do . something instead of going to look for a girl who'd take you to bed with her?"
Derek looked abashed. "I suppose so."
"Goodness, you are like Pete!" Mummy chuckled. "In the most improbable ways! He did exactly the same thing. When I first met him, he knew -oh-maybe three or four girls who were what they call professional virgins, who'd pet to orgasm and absolutely refuse to go further. The smartest thing I ever did in my life was invite Pete to come home with me for a proper fuck. After that, he simply didn't want to know about those other girls . . . "
She grinned impishly and passed her tongue very quickly from one side of her mouth to the other. All of a sudden I could see, looking out from behind that familiar face, the young girl Pete-Daddy-must have been so overjoyed to go to bed with. It was as though the intervening years became as transparent as her favorite black nightie-obscuring nothing but some unimportant minor details.
It was amazing.
More amazing still, Derek saw it the same moment I did. I felt him draw a deep breath, and then he put his arms around her and kissed her very hard on the mouth, clutching at her breasts as he did so. His high-standing cock trembled.
"I think you're beautiful," he said.
T think you're beautiful too," she answered. "I'm terrible proud of having such a handsome, charming son. And I'm proud of having a son who can kiss as well as you do, too!"
She reached for his cock and stroked it gently. "You-you do realize we both want you, don't you?" she added.
"Yes."
"And you don't find it strange?"
"Oh, lord! Yes, I find it incredible! But I can't seem to find it a problem." Derek shook his head helplessly. "I mean, I-I love you both. Very much. And I've been afraid to say I love you, and I don't know why, and it hasn't anything to do with making love; I just know the world would be awful if I didn't have you."
"You're a dear," Mummy said, caressing him. "And I'm very sorry indeed that your girlfriends let you down. But I'm sure Sharon put that right for you last night, didn't she?"
I said, "Actually I didn't. I didn't get the chance."
"What?" She sat up straight. "But I thought-"
"Derry was too shy," I said, and poked him in the ribs with my elbow the way I'd done ever since we were kids.
"I-uh . . . ! " He licked his lips, coloring. "It-it wasn't just that, Shay! I mean, you're a beautiful girl, I told you, and I've never had a girlfriend prettier than you, and-well, anyone would be proud, wouldn't he?" It was like fumbling blindly for a properly-phrased compliment. "Only of course I didn't know about how Mummy would feel, and-and if I had," he concluded, having triumphantly located a rational-sounding justification for his so-called shyness, "what about getting pregnant?"
"That's a point," Mummy said. "Sharon, dear, you're not protected, are you?"
"No," I admitted. "I suppose you are, though."
"Of course, I'm on the pill. I used to use a diaphragm, but though that's pretty good, it does mean there's something in the way, and it's much nicer without anything, so when the pill turned up, Pete said I must go on it right away. I was one of the first women to use it in this country. What's more, I've kept it up. I didn't know what might happen if I stopped in the middle of a cycle, so I went on, and I still have over a week to go. I'll get you on it as soon as I can, Sharon, dear! Today, if possible, though it all depends on when your last period was. But in the meantime."
"In the meantime," I said firmly, "you and Derek can fuck in safety. Right?"
With my left hand, I hauled Derek's robe back off his shoulders, forcing him to peel out of it, while with the other, I clasped his cock.
"Come on!" I said. "Take your robe off, Mummy! Talking like this has gotten me so worked up, I want to watch you and play with myself. Don't worry, Derry dear"-and I gave him a smacking kiss somewhere near the ear since that bit of his head was handy when I leaned toward him-"because Mummy's told me about lots of lovely things Pete used to do to her that are perfectly safe, and I know we don't have to fuck together right away. I mean you can lick my cunt, and stroke it with your hand, and-oh, lots of things!"
I pushed him to his feet as Mummy also rose, letting her robe drop off the ends of her arms to the floor behind her. I gave his cock a final brief caress. "Though I'm looking forward to the first time you do fuck me," I said very softly.
He put his arm around me, kissed me quickly on the mouth, and turned back to Mummy and lifted her right off the floor as he kissed her. In a moment, she'd let him bear her backward to the carpet, and he was writhing and rubbing against her frenziedly.
If he spent too much time on that, he'd tip himself over the edge!
So I got down on my knees beside them, felt under him and located the by-now familiar, juicy, slippery lips of Mummy's cunt, and pushed the tip of his cock between them. I'd never seen anyone else fucking before, of course, so it must have been instinct which made me get it right the first time, but it sank straight home like an arrow into a target, and Mummy cried out: "Oh! Oh, darling! Oh, my lovely, lovely boy-ohhh!"
And after that she couldn't say anything, because she grabbed him by the ears and kissed him non-stop until she, and about a minute later, he, too, came. I'd meant to sit, watching and playing with myself, as I'd said, but they reached climax too quickly. I'd been wound up, all right, only after I'd pushed his prick up her, I hadn't had the time to build up my former head of steam again.
"Didn't you make it?" Mummy demanded, and I shook my head. Whereupon she caught me by the, hand and rolled over and urged me to lie down on the floor.
"Damn it, then!" she said, pushing my legs apart and snuffling at my cunt. "I'll make you!"
I saw an astonished Derek over her bowed back as she knelt to lick me, and his stand-which had barely been softened by his orgasm-trembled out again toward rigidity.
"Mummy," I said, "I think this is getting Derry worked up all over again!"
She raised her head, her chin gleaming with saliva and the juice of my cunt.
"If it doesn't," she said, "then he's made of bloody ice!"
And, turning, she added, "Come up me from behind, if you can!"
Without waiting for him to respond, she seized my clitoris between her lips and worried at it with her little, sharp teeth. It was maddening! I rolled and heaved and my very toes curled, and then, as my head rocked forward, I saw Derek edging toward her on his knees, fumbling with both hands under her bottom in search of access for his prick.
"Easy," Mummy breathed, pausing in her furious licking to reach between her legs. "There-now push . . . Ah, you're up my cunt! Oh, lovely! Oh, yes!"
He grinned at me over her head, blew me a kiss, and caught hold of her hips to rock her back and forth against him while she resumed work on me.
The sight of my brother fucking my mother dog-style while she was going down on me was just too much. I practically fainted as I came.
VII
Most kids don't realize how much sex they could have together in the most improbable places if they weren't ashamed of letting their parents know. But I think that's beginning to change, thank goodness. Because when Mummy inquired of her doctor about getting me the pill, he wasn't in the least surprised; in fact, he said he was trying to encourage this kind of thing, because last year he'd had to abort a girl of fourteen, and was sure she'd suffered far worse than if she'd been protected in the first place. After seeing him, Mummy came out chuckling and said he'd inquired if she knew the boyfriend, and she claimed she'd answered, "Well, I do have a son as well, you know!"
Not, of course, that the doctor took her seriously. He thought it was a joke, and apparently laughed aloud as he was signing the prescription.
It turned out, though-as I was about to say-that I'd have to wait eleven days before starting to take them, because it had to be tied in with my natural period. (Another way, incidentally, in which I take after my mother: she says she's never in her life had period-pains, nor have I, even though I started bleeding when I was only twelve and a bit.)
By this time, however, as might have been expected, Derek was burning to have me properly as well as Mummy, even though he'd fucked her three times the first day and then the next morning, and the next night, and-oh, I forget how often, but she said it was better than Pete had managed even when they first met. And Mummy had come every time except one, what was more, because Derek had this same gift of being able to hang on until he felt her cunt contracting and then let go as she did.
I wanted some of that.
But there was no help for it, so I took what I could get, and with Mummy's-what's the word?-connivance, we managed to enjoy each other pretty well. We went to the cinema, for instance, and I took my panties off and gave them to Mummy to put in her handbag so Derek could stroke me during the show. We went to a party where everyone was impressed by how well we were facing up to the loss of Pete, and it never crossed their minds that between us we were building up a new relationship to take the place of what we'd lost, even though on the way home we stopped the car and all kissed each other and we both sucked Mummy's breasts until she came. We'd insisted on her going out without a bra to make it easier. I remember that was the first time Derek came in my mouth, too; I'd seen Mummy do it to him a couple of times, but I'd never quite plucked up the courage. That night, though, I'd drunk four or five glasses of a delicious red wine, and I was relaxed, and I went through with it while Mummy stroked my head. Then she kissed me with my mouth still full of his sperm, and it all seemed perfectly all right.
After which she started the car again and we went home and off to bed.
"It's not big enough," Derek said, lying back with one hand on Mummy's breasts and one on mine.
"What isn't?" Mummy said. "Your cock? Don't be silly." And she reached down to feel it.
"Idiot!" He pulled her against him. "The bed! Not for three of us!"
"Then we'll have to get a bigger one," Mummy shrugged. She hesitated. Suddenly she sat up, leaned across Derek to kiss me, and lay down again turned toward us both, with her hand reaching across his belly to scratch the hair of my cunt.
"I love you," she said.
"We love you," I countered, and bit Derek on the ear to show I meant him, too.
"And because I love you," Mummy went on, as though I hadn't spoken, "I want everything to come right for you. I want you to have lots of girlfriends, and boyfriends, and boyfriends and girlfriends if you like it that way around, if you see what I mean, and they'll always be welcome here in our home. Provided they're nice, and anyone who likes you enough to want to make love with you is sure to be nice."
"I have two marvelous girlfriends," Derek said, and squeezed my breast.
"Yes, but I am your mother as well as your mistress, you know," Mummy said. "And Sharon's your sister. And-"
"I haven't forgotten, I promise you!" Derek cut in. "I should bloody hope not," I said rather sleepily.
"How many other girlfriends could you find who remembered refusing to bathe with you at the age of five because you insisted on peeing in the water, and then asked you to do it to them again all these years later?"
That was something we'd just done before coming to bed. It had been delicious, feeling his piss spurt out against the lips of my cunt, and it had been me he'd fucked on reaching the bedroom, even though it was-in a sense-Mummy's turn.
She could have him in the morning, of course.
"Shut up, "you two," Mummy commanded. "I was going to make an important point. Having had you up me, and watched you with Sharon, I can't really suspect you of this, but-well, one does know that a lot of boys who turn queer do so because they're hung up on their mothers. Right?"
"Right," Derek agreed soberly. "In fact we had one of those with us on this trip to Lapland: fighting so hard against it I had to admire him, frankly, but nonetheless . . . " He gestured with the hand he'd had on my breast. "The poor guy's never going to be happy unless he finishes the job and he's only part-way. He's so absurdly camp, it's pathetic, and I don't suppose he knows what's wrong, only that he puts people off . . . But you know something?"
It was his turn to sit up, looking very serious.
"I think the reason those kids turn queer is they never get the chance to fuck their mothers, no matter how much they may subconsciously want to. They have mothers who-also subconsciously, I imagine-don't really like men, and would prefer to mold their sons into bad imitations of girls. If there's one thing I'm downright bloody certain of, it's that you're no lesbian, in spite of my having seen you and Shay licking each other's cunts for hours on end!"
It was an exaggeration; we'd done it once for twenty-five minutes, but that was the maximum, and it was only that long because Mummy'd come already while Derek was fucking me.
Her cunt tasted quite different with his sperm in it. But that's by the way. I liked it, anyhow.
"I think you're probably quite right," Mummy said. "Sharon?"
"If I can find a boy I like as much as Derry," I said, "now I'm on the pill I'll do what you told us you did for Pete. I won't pull the 'professional virgin' bit-I'll go straight to bed with him. But he'd better be good, because Derry is." I licked my brother's palm in passing. "Wouldn't you do the same, Derry?" I added.
"Well, naturally," he said.
"Naturally. That's a good word." Mummy yawned as she spoke. "Okay, I'm glad we're agreed. For myself, at the risk of scandalizing our respectable neighbors, because as you correctly remarked, I'm not a lesbian, I propose to go find myself a man. Or several men. Soon. I liked being married. I want to be married again, although after Pete, I'm sure it'll take me years to find someone to suit me, and anyhow I may already be too old . . . Hell, no! I refuse to believe that! Not if I can satisfy an eighteen-year-old stud with a practically continuous hard-on!"
She grabbed affectionately for Derek's cock.
"You," I said, and turned to grope for her breast, "are not going to be 'too old' at eighty."
She laughed, but she also blew me a kiss across Derek.
"One thing I do hope, though," she said, after a pause. "What?"
"Well. . . Well, even if I crumble, even if, when I'm fifty or sixty or however old, and you're happily married and I'm a grandmother, a little old lady tottering around on a pair of sticks-"
"Ninety!" Derek exclaimed. "Ninety-five!"
"-I hope," Mummy continued, "that even if there isn't anyone else in the world who'll look at me-"
We both realized what she was going to say at the same time, and both rolled over to embrace her.
"Mummy, dear!" I said. "I will pull down your woolly underwear, and stroke that lovely juicy cunt of yours until you shout for mercy!"
"And I'll get into your panties any time you ask," Derek said. "Just open up my zipper and grab hold."
He rolled her on her back and put his mouth on hers.
Well, we bought that king-size bed in the end . . . So who can tell what's going to happen in the long run? But one thing I'm certain of:
Being happy for this long is likely to be habit-forming!
