Was Eve guilty of taking the first bite of the apple or was she guilty for tempting Adam to taste of the forbidden fruit?
These questions date back to the dawn of man. They are questions of "guilt" that are inextricably bound up with the very beginnings of humanity. Was it Adam, or the serpent or something else that tempted her? Did Cain become the first actual criminal when he killed Abel?
But in modern psychiatric terms, do any of these questions have real meaning?
In the thinking of at least one contemporary authority, questions such as these demand a great deal of re-examination. Nicholas N. Kittrie, S.J.D., Director of the Institute for Studies in Justice and Social Behavior of The American University Law
School, in an article published in Federal Probation magazine, had the following pertinent comment to make:
"Guilt is a legal concept, not a scientific fact. In modern society it is the function of courts of law, rather than witch doctors, legislatures, or bureaucrats to decree guilt and innocence and to assess punishment upon those found guilty. Today's method of finding guilt consists of an elaborate legal ritual called trial, where witnesses come forward like actors in a play to give evidence. It is from this evidence that guilt or innocence is distilled. While the measure of punishment is typically left to the discretion of judges, the determination of guilt has been delegated to juries both by early English legislation and the American Constitution. It is thus one's own peers who must weigh the evidence and decide the probability of guilt-whether it has been proven beyond a reasonable doubt.
"Evidence is whatever courts consider proper and relevant for the weighing and determination of criminal guilt. Trials by fire-where guilt was proved by the accused's inability to put out the flames set by him, or by bitter waters, where the wife's infidelity was established by the swelling of her belly after drinking the testing concoction-were not uncommon until the Middle Ages. Trials by combat were another popular means for weighing evidence and determining guilt. Those not guilty were expected to prove their innocence through an armed victory over their accusers.
"Trials through witnesses go back to Biblical times. Yet one might assert that it was Europe's Age of Reason, with its emphasis upon communications and the rationality of man, which accounts for the emergence of the modern trial-where words rather than acts of faith take preeminence. In the courts of America proof is usually made today through either verbal testimony or demonstrative evidence. Most frequently, an eye witness will describe what he saw or heard."
We could quote further from Kittrie and many others on the subject of guilt and how it is proven in a court of law. We could also cite whole volumes by Freud on incest-the subject of this text. But we feel the foregoing is sufficient to establish our goal. That is, to make you, the reader, the judge and jury in this instance.
Marta, the story's main character, is obviously a confused woman. As the story opens, she finds herself confronted by the wanton feelings she had thought were buried in her wayward girlhood. She experiences guilt. The guilt is compounded by her fifteen-year-old son, who sees the recent death of his father as the opportunity to become the man of the house-in every sense of the word.
An incestuous relationship develops, and the first triggers another in the family next door. It becomes perfectly obvious that all participants have violated what many consider the first "law of mankind."
But it would be a mistake for anyone to try to answer the crucial question of guilt before reading the entire story, weighing all the facts, and thinking seriously about its conclusions. The reader, while enjoying the book, should consider himself a member of the jury. Other questions besides guilt or innocence must be weighed:
I. Does the crime involved actually hurt anyone, or is it a crime only in tradition?
2. Should Marta and Davie be punished for partaking of a fruit so naturally tempting?
It is up to you, the reader, to decide for yourself. And whatever your conclusions, we are certain that you are in for a stimulating, thought-provoking experience.
-The Publisher
CHAPTER ONE
Cunt. Hot and hairy. Wet and soft and open for his big cock. That's how he saw Marta inside his head. Each night before he fell asleep, his mammoth dick grew hard because he saw her that way. Spread-eagled. Ready. Moaning for the thrust that would plant his bloated manhood high in her quivering recesses of her womanly cunt.
Now he watched her from his bedroom, pressing his face to the door, peeking through the crack between the hinges. She was lovely, blonde, and much too young to be his mother.
"Don't do that," he heard her sing in a playful voice. He watched her slap at Mr. Damon's groping hand, pursing her lips. "Davie's a light sleeper," she added. "He's ... ummmm! Right in the next room, darling. Don't!"
Steve Damon, their next door neighbor, the father of the twelve-year-old twin girls that Davie had wrestled and played house with for as far back as he could remember, ignored Marta's halfhearted pleas. His hand crept down on her beautifully tapered back, over the swell of her hips to one lush buttock. His fingers dug in at the crack, forcing the skin-tight hot pants between the plump mounds. "C'mon, baby," he insisted in a hoarse voice, "let me fuck you. The kids'll never know."
Davie watched his mother's token resistance fade. It is going to happen, he thought. Just like in his dreams. Only it would be Steve Damon who opened her trembling thighs, climbed into the delectable breach and planted throbbing hard meat in the flesh of her cuntal passage. He wanted to bellow. He wanted to throw the door wide, pick up something and chase the man from the house. She is mine! he wanted to shout, I am her man.
Marta bent backward in Steve's arms, her hands at his shoulders. Her long white-blonde hair swayed gently like a cape around her bare upper back. Her eyes seemed to glaze over as the fingers exploring her bottom found the zipper at the tip of the deep split between the soft round halves of her ass. She sighed, pressing her pelvis forward into the bulge in Steve's pants.
"That's it, sweetness," Steve croaked.
"We ... we really shouldn't," Marta cooed. "Honest, Steve, you don't know Davie. He's been over-protective since his father died. Almost as if he were jealous. If he wakes up...."
Steve silenced her with a kiss. The zipper at the back of her shorts made a faint hissing sound, and the garment, made of exotic material almost as filmy as the bikini panties beneath, slithered down her legs to the floor. Steve's huge hands captured the milky flesh that could not be contained by the nylon undergarment and kneaded it. He began to move. Slowly. Grinding the bulge of the hard shaft of his cock into her now-moistening pussy.
Davie sobbed as his mother and the next-door neighbor stumbled backward to the couch. He gripped the painful bulge in his own pants, squeezing until his nuts felt like bursting and a red haze covered his eyes. It's me on the couch with my mother; my hand, not Steve's, at her delicious cunt, pushing the panties aside, he envisioned. He was fifteen and had never been laid-only fooling around with the twins and a few girls at school-and Marta was a mere fourteen years older, and nothing at all like a mother was supposed to be.
He thought back to how it was before the telegram saying that his father had been killed in Viet Nam. "Come sleep with mother," Marta used to say, and then, instead of sleeping, they would cuddle and talk and laugh late into the night. She was lonely even then, he knew. His father had been a career serviceman, and it was Davie and mother, mother and Davie, just the two of them together in the small quiet house, long before the Viet Cong finalized the arrangement by ambushing his dad. It was almost as if fate had willed her to him, and yet it was Steve who was getting the prize. It was Steve's enraged cock that she was fumbling free of its confines, and it was Steve's hairy nuts that would fire the load that he, Davie, her son, wanted more than anything to unload into 'the blood-engorged lips of her womanly cunt.
"Ste-eve," Marta sighed as the panties slid from her thighs, down her legs and off, and as one of the man's rigid fingers twisted into the curly blonde hair atop her cuntal lips. Her hips bucked up off the cushions. She whimpered and clung to his neck as the dart slipped in and out, moistening the cuntal passage even to greater depths.
"Take this fucking top off," growled Steve, fumbling with his free hand at the jersey pullover. "Those tits ... Jesus! Let me see if they're as white as the rest of you."
Davie knew that they were white. Even whiter than the patch of flesh where the panties covered her buttocks and her sex from the sun that always tanned the rest of her body. And with bright pink nipples that used to get deliciously hard when they cuddled into each other's arms late at night, pretending to talk but knowing, at least him knowing, that she was a passionate woman and that he was a man, and that someday, someday soon, it was going to happen. Someday they were going to fuck. Fuck as if fucking had been invented just for them.
Only, now it was Steve. He watched the man yank the jersey off over his mother's head, baring her wanton body completely. He had seen her big suckable tits before, but never like this. Never before had the nipples been so eager to be sucked, the mounds of soft warm flesh beneath so unblemished and quivery smooth. Holding his breath, undoing his fly to get at the aching hard shaft in his pants, he watched Steve lower his lips and suck one luscious pink peak of her resilient breasts into his mouth.
"Oh, oh, oh, ohhhhhh!" Marta wove her long slender fingers through the man's hair, pressed herself to the vein-coursed man cock dancing from the open front of his pants. Her hips moved sensuously from side to side, brushing softly against the slipcovers-like the brushes of an expert drummer caressing cymbals. She began to moan in the way Davie had dreamed of ... almost crying ... begging for the torpedo-shaped rod near her desirous pussy.
Steve released her, jumped from the couch and quickly removed his shirt. He undid his belt. His pants and shorts fell to the floor. He stood for a moment staring down at the thick wedge of blondeness atop and between Marta's kissable and eatable thighs, at her warmly perfumed tits. His dick leaped like an electrically charged wire, but he seemed to want to prolong the union, to enjoy fully the anticipation of what was to come.
"Hurry!" Marta whispered. She raised her arms, dropped one leg over the side of the couch.
Davie gulped. His bedroom door was directly in line with the cushions where his mother lay. Now he could see the full length of her fleshy pink slit, eagerly awaiting to be devoured by his lust-contorted cock. He loved the way the cheeks of her ass seemed to breathe, the satiny halves rubbing smoothly together. "Momma," he hissed, dizzy from the sight of her wanton naked body, his hand moving up and down the shaft of his rod.
"This is what you want, baby?" Steve fell roughly upon her, positioned himself in the wide V of her waiting spread thighs.
"Yes. Oh, yessssss!"
Steve twisted away from her groping hand seeking his blood-engorged hard cock. He laughed cruelly. "Tell me, sweetness. Tell me exactly what you want."
"I ... I want...."
"Say it!" He cupped his hand at her burning crotch, then dug all four fingers into her hot wet cuntal crevice.
"UMMM! I ... I want you to ... to fuck me. Stick it in. Hurry. I ... owwwww! OWWWWW! I want to, um! To feel you inside me. Do it, Steve. Do it. Do it!"
Again Steve laughed arrogantly. He let her take his cock in hand, steer the bulbous tip to the mouth of her glistening pink pussy. He thrust ferociously. Marta cried out softly as the beet-red knob of his rod disappeared into the curls, then into her deliriously clasping lips of her cunt. He thrust again and again, grinding himself inch by inch up the delicious tightness of her pulsating quim.
Davie wanted to die. He was torn between disgust and desire, between love and hate. He knew it was wrong to desire her: sinful, evil. Yet it was just as wrong for her to be with Steve, fucking for a married man, throwing her hips high to meet his lunges and whimpering like a hurt kitten each time he slammed his big cock into her widespread cunt. He wondered if Gwen Damon, Steve's petite brunette wife, cheated too. He wondered if all women fucked whenever the urge struck them, and if mothers ever did it with their sons, or fathers with their daughters. He wondered if Steve had ever wanted to plow Jeanne and Sue, the twins, and if he would ever climb between the full white thighs where Steve was rutting now. He glued his eyes to the crack in the door, watched and stroked his hotly pulsating cock in time to the frantic rhythm of the loins of his mother and her lover churning faster and faster, the bellies slapping together, her hot glistening pussy and his wildly throbbing prick united and reaching for orgasm on the couch in the dimly lit living room.
"Oh God!" cried Marta. "So good. So um! Ah! Fuck me, Steve. Go faster. Harder. Ow. Owah. All the way up me. Yes. Ummmm. Oh yes. Oh. Oh! OHHHHH!"
Steve obliged. Reaching beneath her, he gripped the lush halves of her ass and slammed into her abandoned cunt. His dick pistoned in and out, in and out, in and out of her wet cuntal opening. He kissed her, drove his tongue deep into her mouth. His fingers found the pinched split up her backside, traced it to her asshole and twisted in.
Marta squealed. Her legs shot up, locked at her lover's waist. Her heels beat an excited tattoo at the small of his back. She made tiny animal noises from deep in her throat, and fucked as David had read about women screwing. With abandon. Furiously. As if the only thing that mattered was the cylinder of meat stroking her pussy, and the cumload her movements were coaxing up from the wrinkled sacs slapping her upturned behind.
Davie's breath caught as the action on the couch seemed to subside, Steve rigid, straining with his dick planted to the roots up Marta's wet sheath. It was happening, he knew. He could tell by the way his mother's buttocks sucked at the finger buried to the knuckle up her chute. They were cumming. The love cream was spurting from the head of Steve's cock, scorching the satiny inner walls of her cunt, making her gasp and twist. He beat his own meat faster, wanting to shoot at the same time. Wanting to share that much with her at least. Pretending it was him; wishing she would catch him and say, "Come sleep with mother, Davie," as she used to do. Wishing something would happen to tear Steve away before it was over, and Marta, left at the brink of fulfillment, would then turn to him and forget that he was her son.
"Steve? Bedtime. The girls are waiting for their goodnight kiss." It was as if Gwen Damon, calling from the back porch next door, were answering Davie's half-formed incestuous prayer.
"Son of a bitch!" barked Steve. He pulled back, his dick wet with cuntjuice and dripping cum from the glans.
"No, don't!" protested Marta. "You can't leave me like this. I ... I'm almost there."
But Steve was already climbing into his clothes, hastily buttoning his shirt and zipping his pants. "I'm sorry," he said. "She'll come looking if I don't go. You know Gwen-she'd scratch your eyes out. She knows I've had a yen for you, and she'll know something's up if I don't get my ass over there."
Marta's blue-green eyes flashed. She was angry, Davie knew. Angrier than he had ever seen her before. She leaped from the couch, tits dancing, wet pussy glistening in the soft light from the end table lamp, and began to pummel Steve about the head and shoulders. She babbled incoherently, hissed threatening obscenities, and pounded an incredulous Steve Damon across the living room to the outside door. The door slammed. She returned to the couch, sat and beat her fists against her thighs. "The dirty fuck," she said. "That lousy, no-good, rotten, motherless prick. I hate him, I hate him, I...."
Davie watched her cover her face with her hands, fall to the cushions and sob. This was his chance. It was as if God-no, the Devil, Satan-had heard his secret plea, and now her beautiful ass doubled up toward him, legs bent at the knee so that he had a clear view of her unsatisfied cunt, Marta, his mother-though he simply could not think of her in that way-was being offered as a sacrifice to the hard throbbing cock-flesh in his hand.
Slowly, heart beating as if it would burst through his chest, Davie opened the bedroom door and stepped into the living room.
CHAPTER TWO
"Don't cry, Mom. Don't."
Marta heard the familiar voice as if from a distance. The tears of longing and rage were flooding her throat now, scalding her burning cheeks. She could feel the mascara running from her eyes, burrowed deeper into the cushions, stifling the sobs. What's wrong with me, lately? she wondered. Ever since Dave Sr. died-months now, too long without a man-she simply wasn't herself.
No, that wasn't right either. She was too much herself lately, her old self, the girl who, at fourteen, had been to bed with dozens of older men, and had given birth to Davie weeks before her fifteenth birthday.
Davie! She heard the faint voice again...."Please don't cry, Mom."
Shocked that the boy would dare approach her when she lay naked, Steve Damon's cum still hot in the silky blonde hair between her full womanly thighs, she lifted her head. The sight of him made her gasp. He was wearing pajama bottoms, nothing more, and there was an enormous bulge at the half-open fly. Dumfounded, unable to do more than stare, she watched the boy, her son, close his hand on the stiffness. She watched his fiery gaze travel slowly up and down the length of her jackknifed body, come to rest on her ass. "Davie!" she blurted. "Wha...?"
It was as if the boy she had known all her life were suddenly a stranger: deaf and dumb to her words, blind to all but her flesh. Tortured sounds came from his throat as he fell to the edge of the sofa, wrapped his arms around her and buried his face at her breast. His mouth closed over one bright pink nipple, sucked it in. She had always been proud of her nipples, had always enjoyed having them mouthed and licked by a man whose dick was hard and ready to force its way up her belly. But this was Davie, she reminded herself. And the pole-like thing poking through the front of the flannel pajamas was not meant to go where she wanted more than anything to feel something hard.
"My God, Davie," she managed, struggling to break free. "I'm your mother, I ... Iiiiiieeeeee ...!" She shivered as his hand crept down her back, fingers tracing the pinched crack of her ass. Her hips bucked. Her mind said no, it was wrong, this was her son. But her body cried out to be loved. And her cunt-God! Her pussy was spewing hot juice over the slipcovers ... twitching ... aching to be pried open by the tall hunk of manmeat bobbing in the boy's lap.
Davie's mouth moved from her breast to her neck. "I've got to, Mom. I can't help it." One of his fingers found her asshole, bored in. "Jesus! You got the tightest asshole ever. I always knew it would be. I used to watch you walk, and think, "That can't be my mother. Not with ass like that. Mothers ain't supposed to have asses that make their little boys get a hardon.' I used to be jealous of Dad when he came home on leave, because I knew. I used to hear the bedroom door close, then strain to hear the sound of the bedsprings and the noises you made. Christ! I used to think, "Why can't it be me doing it? Making her moan. Making her scream when my dick slipped up the tightness and shot.' " His finger crept out of her ass, down and under to the fat wet lips of her quivering pussy.
Marta did moan. Inside her head a thousand tiny voices yelled no! She thought back to the last time with her husband, and then to the first time. The first time was much like now-her husband eager, forcing her down on the back seat of the car as their son was now forcing her back on the sofa, her playing the part of an innocent, pleading with him not to hurt her ... to be gentle ... to go slow because ... she almost laughed at the memory ... because she was a virgin. He had believed her, too. He had been so damn gentle that she wanted to cry and tell him the truth. But then the slow easy rhythm quickened, became just right.
The sound of his nuts slapping her ass grew frantic. And then he buried the length of his manhood high in her sheath, kissed her and squeezed her young buttocks, and planted the sperm that grew into Davie. Created another fat cock that, now, fifteen years later, was about to repeat the maddening process.
"Davie, honey," she gasped. "It ... it's wrong. Oh, don't do it, baby. Don't! T-Take your hand away. Please, sweetheart. Um. OHHHHH! Oh, Davie, sugar, Babylove ... you mustn't do that, mustn't! You have to stop now, honey-have to!"
The finger up her wet cunthole began to piston. "I can't stop, Mom."
"Oh ... ahhhhh! OHHHHH!" Nor could she stop. She wanted to, God knew. But she had never been able to control her body once the hot juice of love began to flow. And now it was even worse. Because she knew it was wrong, evil: that mother-son incest was a perverted union, the blackest sin of all. And the knowledge that it was evil, a horrid thing, excited instead of repelled her. It was like a sudden addiction, Davie the drug, his stiff prick anxious the inject the momentary cure.
"Spread your legs," the boy croaked. "Roll on your back 'n' open up. Like you did for Steve. I won't leave you, Mom. Not till you're fucked out. I love your pussy, your tits. I know what you need."
The words made Marta dizzy. She complied: ignoring the chastising voices inside her head, she rolled onto her back on the cushions, dropped one leg over the edge of the sofa and raised the opposite knee. Her full woman thighs formed a trembling runway. Her ass flesh tightened in anticipation. Her mind continued to protest, to cry no! but her cunt-the tiny pink soldier inside the fat outer lips-twanged and demanded the friction of a rod stroking in and out, in and out. Through glazed eyes, she watched Davie yank open the snaps at the waist of the pajama bottoms, and push the cumbersome garment down his thin, hairy legs. Again she almost laughed. Dave Sr. had had the same kind of legs. "Chicken legs!" she had called them. Long and bony and covered with curly black bristles. Like father like son, she thought, noting that Davie's hard dick was much like his father's had been, too. It had the same pear-shaped red and purple glans, the same veiny, slightly bent shaft, and sacs that looked like wrinkled, deflated balloons. "Hurry!" the willing side of her cried. "Davie, please!"
The boy needed no coaching. He gulped when her hand closed tight on his hard throbbing dick, stared into her glazed eyes for a moment. "Umph!" he grunted each time her fingers brushed the taut knob of his rod. His lips returned to her rigid nipples, licked one, then the other, and began to kiss down. He paused to dart his tongue into her navel, clearing it of the lint that always gathered there. Marta thought she would die when his head went further, down over the swell of her belly to the blonde bush, kissing through the coils to the indentation where her slit began. Further still. All the way down the fat lips of her vulva to the fragrant woman hole that had once been his gateway into the world.
"Davie, Davie, Dav-eeeeee ...!" she yelped as his tongue, wet and sandpapery, long and eager, found the love bud of her clit. She began to squirm uncontrollably, more so when he licked up and down the crack of her delicious-tasting ass, up one fat lip of her pussy, down the other and into her cunthole again. He tongued her tight asshole, sighed as if the bittersweet taste of her shit were as appetizing as caviar. His mouth flew from her rear to her sheath, feathering both tortured holes. Until she captured his head in her hands, threw her legs wide, as wide as they would go, and forced his lips into the gap of her creamy glistening pussy.
It's crazy, she thought as the boy scurried atop her. She glanced down at the dart jerking like a fisherman's bobbin above the golden thatch between her creamy pink thighs. Then she guided his hardened young cock to the mouth of her cuntal lips.
"Ma! Momma!" Davie fell heavily upon her. His lips covered hers in a kiss so full of fire and longing that she cried out, afraid that he would suck the last ounce of breath from her lungs. He was inexperienced, too eager. His lust-contorted dick slipped out, rammed furiously into her cock-hungry crotch, into the crack of her ass, into the cum-spattered cushion, each time she released him.
Marta tore her lips away from his sucking mouth. "Babylove, oh! ohah-ah! Let mother, ummmmm! L-L-Let me put it in before you ... ow! Owah! Before you pump. L-Like this, honey." Again she took hold of his virilely heated cock, set the blood-engorged tip deep this time. She raised her hips, wiggled. She fucked herself onto the stiffness ... up ... up, until he was firmly set, until she could feel the fat throbbing glans at the mouth of her inner cunt. Then her arms locked around him, one hand low on his muscular buttocks, fondling his balls from behind.
Davie humped. The tip of his madly jerking cock parted the Ups of her upper channel, poked its way into the tighter recesses of her womanly cunt. His head dropped to the niche at her shoulder, lips sucking her neck. "My God. Jesus!" He thrust, drove the last inches of his lust-swollen dick up her round mother-belly. Then his hands slipped down her back, under. His fingers-like claws, like the talons of a hungry eagle attacking its prey-dug into the soft flesh of her backside.
Marta squealed. She forgot that the boy was her son, that what they were doing was wrong. She could think only of how good it felt to hold another big cock inside her wanton cunt. Her feet beat a frantic tattoo on the sofa, heels digging in, lifting her higher, mashing her wet blonde pussy against his coarse cockhair. Her hands roamed his buttocks and hips. Her long middle finger sought his asshole, burrowed in.
"Ma, wha...?" Davie's back arched. The cheeks of his ass tightened.
"Shhh, honey. Mother knows best."
"Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ahahhhhh!" He ground the roots of his cock into her bush as her finger burrowed higher and higher up his sensitive puckered ass. His head came away from the niche at her shoulder. Raising up on outstretched arms, he stared down at the union and bit his lip as if the rear penetration was painful.
"Your father always liked this," whispered Marta, feeling maternal, protective, in spite of what they were doing. "His prostate ... he used to ask me to stick my finger up there, tickle the cum from his balls. Like this." She twisted her finger all the way up to the knuckle in his rectum.
Yelping, Davie fucked his sex-crazed dick into her slippery cuntal flesh in short, violent lunges.
"T-That's it, sweetheart. Oh, yes! Fuck! Put your finger up my asshole, too, and screw. Screw! Screw!"
The boy obliged. Holding his weight on one outstretched arm, he found the pinched little hole low between the plump cheeks of her ass, forced one, then two, then three fingers into her rectum. He pulled back, stared down at the wet cylinder of meat in her soft warm pussy as if unable to believe they were actually fucking. As if it were too good to be true. As if he had waited all of his life to force her legs open, climb between, and return cock first to the place he had come from.
She felt his painfully erect big dick-much, much bigger than she would have supposed, at least seven inches-jerk at the top of her soaking wet cunthole. Her breath caught. The inner walls of her quivering pussy tightened ... massaging him, milking him. "Shoot, honey," she said, her head spinning with the thought of his love cream, thighs tense, clit pulsing for the white-hot load that would lift her to the summit and send her crashing down into the delirium of orgasm. "Do it," she urged. "Now! Fill ah! Fill-ow! Shoot! F-F-Fill mother with cream."
"Yes, mother, I want to fill your cunt with my hot juice. Ohhhh, how much I want to. Oh, baby, I've always wanted to fuck your beautiful delicious-tasting cunt. Mother, I love your pussy, I love your body, I love everything about you. Ohhhh, mother, I wanna cum into your hot creamy cunt nooowwww. Oh, here I cum, now, now, ooooohhhhhhh."
With a sob and a last violent lunge, her finger still high in his rectum, taunting his prostate, the boy came gushing. Gobs of thick searing love cream fired from the beet-red tip of his pulsating cock. So powerful was the load of cum juice that Marta heard it squishing out inside her quivering pussy. She watched her son's lust-contorted face. His eyes closed tight. His mouth dropped open in pure unadulterated ecstasy.
And then she was cumming, too, the lips of her cunt like a bellows, opening and closing at the roots of his quivering tool. Coaxing more and more cream. Luxuriating in the hot, maddening bliss of incestuous orgasm.
What will my son think of me now, she wondered. Will he call me a whore? To my face? Behind my back, among his friends? God! Will he tell his friends? Say something like, "Aw, my mom's a pushover. C'mon home 'n' I'll set you up with a super good lay. " The thought was horrifying. But the thrill spreading through her abdomen, reaching out from her cunt to her thighs, down her legs to her toes, was a blinding red haze of pleasure that she simply couldn't resist. She threw her legs up, locked her ankles at the small of his back, and fucked herself up off the cushions, fucked her finger in and out of his ass in time to the one fucking itself in and out of hers, fucked her hips round and round, and suppressed all thoughts except those concerning the next violent load. There-would indeed be another, she knew. Because this one had come too fast, and Davie was young enough to go three or four times, and as long as they were going to fuck, to commit incest, and as long as they had come this far, and had already violated the tenets of both church and law, there was no good reason, no reason at all, not to go further.
She fucked for all she was worth, still wondering what the boy now thought of her, but not really caring.
Suddenly, there was no more cum. Only the sensation of cumming and a hardon like none he had ever before experienced. His cock swelled to unbelievable proportions: at least an inch longer, and another inch fatter around, he estimated. The glans tingled. He gripped her wide, tender ass, pulled back, plowed. My mother, he thought. Holy shit! He was willing to bet that there was no chick in the world who could be better in bed.
Bed! That was the only thing missing, he realized. The sofa was okay, but it hampered their movements. He wanted to roll with her, change positions, fuck her in every way. He sensed that although she wanted him, that she was enjoying it as much as, if not more than, he was, there was some reservation, too. And now, while he had her hot-hotter than a bake oven-and willing-more willing than he had ever dared hope-there was no reason for them to limit their fucking to the comfortable but confining cushions. And he was remembering, t o,. ,. . recalling the nights he had tossed restlessly, with a throbbing hardon, in his own room,' wishing it were him instead of his father in the next bedroom. Envisioning the tight nest of blonde pussy curls between Mom's lovely legs, her succulent tits. They were his now, if only for the moment. He wanted that moment to be the absolute best, the most exhausting and fulfilling for her, so that even if she didn't want to there would have to be a next time.
"I ... I have to go the bathroom," he said impulsively.
Marta blinked up at him. Her eyes cleared slightly. Her lips, swollen and red from his kisses, formed a disappointed oh!
"I won't be long," he hastily added. "I gotta piss. Bad. I can't really do much when I gotta piss, Mom."
Before she could protest, he reached back and yanked her hand, her finger, from his rectum, pushed her legs from his waist and pulled out. He hated to do it. He hated it even more when he stood, looked down into the bright pink folds of her gaped open mother cunt. But it was the best way he could think of to suggest that they move to the bedroom; the best way to keep her wanting him, to keep her from thinking about him being her son.
Reluctantly, he turned away, started for the bathroom. He stopped, as if something important had just occurred to him. Turning back toward the sofa so that she could see his stiff prick-still wet with the juice from her cunt, glistening in the lamplight-he said, "Why don't you go into the bedroom 'n' wait for me?"
"My bedroom?"
He nodded, conscious of the long piece of meat that bounced away from his lower abdomen with each sudden move. "We'd have more fun there, more room. You know."
Marta stared for a long time, gaze darting from his face to his cock. Finally, horrified, she said, "That ... that was your father's bed. His and mine. And you look so much like him. It would be like ... like going to bed with a ... a ghost. I can't, Davie. Not that. Not where me and your father used to make love."
Again Davie turned, headed for the bathroom. "You can do it," he called back. He heard his mother call something after him, but was so excited with the thought of having her there, spread-eagled on the same bed where she had moaned her passion late into the night through all his years of growing up, that the words didn't penetrate. He closed the bathroom door, stood before the full-length mirror and eyed his stiff cock. The ' smell of her cunt juices clung to his flesh, wafted up. He touched a finger to the tip of his rod, lifted the sweet smell to his nose. Intoxicating. He had smelled other girls, had finger-fucked and fooled around, and had always enjoyed the aroma. But he had never dreamed that a cunt could smell so good, so intoxicating. The whole thing, the suddenness of it, his brazenness and her acceptance, was much like a dream, too. Like the dreams that used to wake him before morning, fill him with desire for the woman fucking for his father in the big bedroom.
He listened, heart racing. He moved to the toilet, took hold of his cock and forced a few drops of piss to tinkle off into the bowl. He heard the faint pitter-pat of bare feet on the hardwood floor. His hand shook as the sound paused outside the door, then continued across the small hall toward the big bedroom. She's going! he thought triumphantly. She was going to let him screw her on the full silken sheets reserved for "the man of the house." He was her man now-not Steve Damon, not anyone. It was going to be him and her from now on.
He flushed the toilet. The roar of the water being sucked down the drain was nothing compared to the violent roar inside his head. For a moment he remembered that Marta was his mother, and that no matter how lovely she was, no matter how blonde and soft and fuckable, he had no right to stick his hard cock into the tightness between her long trembling legs. But there was no stopping now. Now that he had tasted her nipples, felt the exquisite thrill of planting cum in her belly. He waited for the water to stop running into the bowl. He listened again at the door, thought he heard the faint creak of bedsprings. How many nights had he lain awake listening to that same sound, hearing the springs creak louder, faster and faster, until ...!
Groaning, he clutched his stiff prick. Mother or not, he thought. He had waited for this night for too long. And now she was doing exactly as he had directed, waiting for him on the big double bed, her legs widespread, pussy dripping.
Again he groaned, his breath coming in gasps. With his free hand he reached for the knob, opened the door and stepped quickly across the hall to the dark room where Dave Sr., before he was killed, had periodically enjoyed Marta's beauty, driving his son half mad with longing.
The room was dark except for the small bed lamp. There was just enough light for him to see that Marta had turned down the covers, and lay, one leg slightly raised at the knee, with the sheet tucked demurely under her chin. She saw him at the door, glanced away. But he could hear the heavy sound of her breathing across the room, see the fast rise and fall of her tits beneath the clinging material that made her bed special-silk! As soft and full of life as she was. As shiny and smooth as her skin.
Crossing the room, he sat at the edge of the bed, and said, "I feel like him now, Mom."
"Don't say that," Marta croaked. "Not ever."
"But I do!" he insisted. "I remember when I was little, real little, and you used to let me sleep in here. That was before you got-" he ran his hand over the silk sheets, made them crackle. "I remember how mad he used to get because he him now even more than she had wanted him 'Not with the baby here, Dave. At least wait till he falls asleep.' And then how I used to pretend, lay there with my eyes closed and listen to the sounds I wasn't sure about. I was only five or six. I didn't know about fucking. But my little dick used to get hard all the same, and I knew there was something ... something. This." He reached out, cupped his hand at the place where the sheet dipped into her crotch.
"Owwwww." The sound was barely audible, but more than enough to tell Davie that she wanted him now even more than she had wanted him before.
"And then, when I got older," he continued, kneading the springy mound between her legs, "eleven or twelve, when I finally learned about girls. That was funny, Mom. Did I ever tell you about how I learned?"
Marta squirmed beneath his touch. Her raised knee fell out to one side, widening the breach at her crotch. The sheet slipped low on her breasts. Her breathing grew even quicker, labored. Her eyes became slits in a face contorted by passion.
"It was at school," Davie went on, massaging her cuntlips now, pressing the sheet and four fingers into her slit. "We had gym-boys 'n' girls together because we were just kids. It was during one of Dad's leaves, and I had been up most of the night listening again. Man! You two sure used to fuck!
All goddamn night. I used to think, 'Boy, he must be tryin' to pound 'er through the bed.' God, was I hot that mornin'. And by then I had a pretty good idea of what my dick was for. So one morning during gym, when the class was over and we were supposed to take showers ... well, there was this girl named Sally. She was bigger than all the rest, with tits 'n' stuff. Tits almost as big as yours, Mom. Honest." He paused to take hold of the edge of the sheet, work it slowly down past her nipples. "Man!" He lowered his head, nibbled the rubbery tip of one lush mound.
"We ... we shouldn't, Davie. Not again. Not here. I ... I don't want to hear anymore about Sally. Don't! I--umph! Ow! I ... I don't want to ... to ..."
"Fuck?" he supplied.
"Ummm."
"That's what Sally said, too. Crazy Sally. I was even scareder 'n she was. But those big tits. Wow! It was okay with her when I felt 'em, but when my prick got hard, stickin' straight out in front, and when I started to rub it here-"" he forced the satiny sheet further up her wet slit, made her gasp and thrash beneath his probing fingers. "Yeah! Fucking Sally! When I put my stiff dick against 'er there, she almost hollered. I thought sure someone would hear. But then Larry came in, my best friend, and I knew Sally liked Larry. You should of seen it, Mom. Ole Larry ... he didn't even hesitate. First it was just me 'n' Sally foolin' around, and then he was there loosening her belt 'n' opening the buttons down the front of her gym suit. She said 'no' a few more times, especially when he put his hand in on 'er hot pussy. Hot, Mom. Almost as hot as yours."
"Davie." Marta grabbed his rigid cock, began to jerk it rapidly up and down. "Ummmmm!"
Again Davie bent to her breasts. He used his teeth to take hold of the edge of the sheet, worked it slowly down to her creamy navel. The smell of her cunt wafted up to his nostrils. He groaned, closed his eyes and worked the sheet further down.
"Did ... did y-you f-f-fuck Sally?" Marta managed.
"Sort of."
Marta kicked the sheet from her legs, opened. She released his stiff dick. Hands at either side of his curly head, she arched her hips, offering her warm hairy cunt to his mouth. "Sort of?"
"Um." Heart racing, Davie inched closer to the blondeness crowing her fragrant lovehole. "Fucking Larry," he choked. "I was still a little bit scared, and he ... well, Larry'd been foolin' around a long time. He kind-a pushed me away. Then he pushed the little blue gym suit off Sally's shoulders, off 'er hips. He let it hang there on her thighs. Man, she looked good. So good." He eased further down, drank the strong smell of her juiced-up cunt and buried his face in the heady blondeness. "But fucking Larry," he went on, voice hoarse, dizzy with the memory and the stink and feel of the woman who was too beautiful, too willing in spite of the halfhearted protests, to be a mother. Anyone's mother. But especially his mother. "Fucking rat bastard Larry, he had his dick out 'n' was gettin' it even before I could make up my mind. So I went around behind, Mom, Sally's ass. An' while Larry did it up front, grunting each time he shoved it to 'er, I buried my hardon between those plump little cheeks. What a fuck!"
The hands at each side of his head gave a violent shove. Davie gulped. Suddenly, he was staring into the bright pink folds of his mother's cunt. He smelled her: an aroma much like fish, but with a special kind of nose-tickling tang. He noted the way her sphincters opened and closed each time she gyrated her hips, the way the soft flesh of her ass trembled like two bowls full of custard. And her gash. Christ! There was nothing more lovely than the slimy wet folds that were pink at the opening but graduated shades of red further up and purple at the point where the channel came together. A cunt! He had never before seen one close up, and none of the books, none of the complicated anatomy charts he had studied, had come anywhere near an accurate description. It was like ... like heaven! Like still being alive but having reached the place where all good little boys go to find eternal bliss.
"Momma." He inched lower still, lay flat on the sheets between her wide-open legs. He watched her belly grow tense in anticipation. He had heard about how good cunt-eating was, but had never before dared to try it. He had never before tried much of anything, he admitted to himself. Now he forced his face to move forward; he placed his lips to her glistening vaginal Ups. He licked, he absorbed the odor and taste. It wasn't, as he had often suspected, an unpleasant taste. He opened his mouth wide over the breach, sucked.
He blew into her, excited as never before by her frantic words and gyrations. Her legs went up, knees high at either side of his head, and he saw her tight asshole wink-as if congratulating him for the victory. His first suck off. God! He looked down from her fiery convulsing cunthole to the pinched crack of her ass and, impulsively, without even thinking, he spread the plump halves and darted his hot tongue into the tuft of brownish hair at the mouth of her asshole.
"Oh, my G-G-God," yelped Marta, hips leaping so high off the mattress that Davie thought sure that she would dislodge both of them from the bed. She gripped his head more firmly, held his mouth to her pulsating flesh of her puckered hole. "Suck me, Davie. There. Yes. Um! Oh, suck me, suck me, suck meeeeee."
He sucked. He sucked as greedily as he had sucked the sweetness from lollipops when he was a boy who barely reached his mother's knee, but knew, even then-used to look up her short dresses, see the blonde curls, the rear crack where his face now was buried-that someday he would be fucking and sucking on her. He had known that even before he knew what exactly fucking and sucking were. And knew that now, as he sniffed the heady aroma of her ass, as he drank the hot tangy juice from her twat, as he eyed all the secret recesses he had longed for throughout most of his fifteen years, as his dick grew so hard that he was certain it would bum through the soft mattress. He was certain that his head was going to explode, that it was going to rocket from the launching pad of his neck and go spinning off through the roof and into space.
Frantically, Marta twisted around on the bed. Before Davie knew what she was up to, her head was at the foot of the mattress, and he, legs astraddle her breast, was positioned on hands and knees, with the balls and vibrating cock above her lovely flushed face. "Don't stop," she breathed moistly, the air tickling his testicles. "Eat mother. K-Keep doing it, Davie. Don't oh! Don't owahhhh! D-D-Don't ever, ever stoooop."
Panting, mumbling incoherently, he ate the full length of her pussy flesh and laved at her asshole and waited for her full moist lips to encompass the blood-engorged head of his cock. It was unbelievable that she was actually about to suck him off, that they were doing all of the wonderful things he had hoped for and dreamed about. Yet there was no denying the gentle caress of her hands on his balls, the finger seeking his quivering ass again, his prostate. The whisper of heated breath on the shaft of his hardened tool was real-more real and exciting than anything he had ever anticipated. Noisily, he sucked the wet lips of her cock-hungry cunt, held himself ready for the lunge that would plant his stiff meat deep in the recesses of her throat.
Without hesitation, gasping as if her lungs were about to burst, Marta steered the boy's hotly pulsating cock into her face. "Mmmmmm," she gurgled, drawing half of the hardened length into her small voracious hot mouth.
"Ah! Ah! Ahhhhhhh!" Davie's hips went wild. Electrical charges shot through his loins each time her slithering tongue grazed the glans of his painfully erect cockmeat. Reaching around and under, he took hold of the satiny cheeks of her ass and buried his face deep in the gap between her mother thighs. He grunted and thrust ... until his balls lay on her forehead. Then he pulled back and slammed home again ... grinding the roots of his manhood into her beautiful face.
Gurgling, drawing his prick in and out of her vigorously sucking mouth, Marta dug her heels into the mattress, raised her pelvis high and matched the boy's fevered rhythm. She mashed her sopping wet pussy into his face. She sobbed and went rigid each time his quivering laving tongue feathered the taut love bud of her clit. The soft flesh along her upper thighs began to quiver. She thrashed and moaned and sucked voraciously, with her finger burrowing once again up her son's eager rectum.
Thumbs splayed at the top of her thighs, holding her cuntlips open, Davie spread her wide and looked curiously into the mysterious pinkness. He drove his tongue deep, trying to lick all the way up into the depths of her fragrant cunt. Groaning, panting, crazy with the sight and smell of her, the deep-throated sex sounds she made, he fucked his dick into her face, nuts bouncing like rubber balls on a trampoline, thigh and stomach and buttock muscles tight. He felt her hot little tongue swirl around and over the swollen glans of his dick, luring him deep each time he pulled back for a moment. He felt the wet hot flesh of her tongue flatten along the hardened shaft each time he slammed his cock in. Eagerly now, no longer hesitant, he ate her tight cunthole and ass sucking deeply, noisily ... savoring the taste and the heady woman aroma. He gulped up her juices, so thick and free flowing that they had seeped down into the crack up her backside, and down again, forming a sticky pool on the sheet. He buried his face deep in her bush, nose in the puff of coarse hair at her anus, and humped himself brutally, violently, in and out of the tight warmth of her swollen mouth.
"Oh, my God," Marta moaned. Her loins shot high in the air. "Davie, baby, do it. Suck! Ow! OW! OWWWWWWWW!" Her hips began to spin like a merry-go-round gone berserk. Her cuntlips nipped as if to capture the tongue darting in and out of the folds. "God!" she cried, pounding herself up off the mattress into his face. Her finger moved more rapidly in and out of his asshole, coaxing cum. Her free hand went to his balls, held them tightly, but tenderly, lovingly. She was all woman now, not a mother. That part was forgotten. She was pussy from head to toe, and Davie was cock, and the only thing that mattered, the only thing that made any difference in life at all, was the fiery load about to blast off in her throat: the searing love cream from the wrinkled sacs that were slapping her forehead.
Like a car jack lifting a bumper, Davie felt the finger in his asshole lifting the gism up, up. He tried to tell her, to say he was ready to cum. But the thrill was a lump in his chest and throat. There were fireworks inside his head. Outside it was dark, well past midnight. But inside the room it was bright: it was high noon on a stifling desert, and the water, the life-giving force, was in the well in the face he was fucking. He humped faster. Faster and faster and faster. He needed the water, the release. He needed to feel his hot cream piston off in her mouth, and to have her succulent love juice spurt over his face. He needed that more than anything, but couldn't tell her, could not form the words. And so he told her with his loins. He drove harder. He slammed his prick into her eager sucking mouth with all the strength he possessed. And he sucked. He sucked as if life itself depended upon making her cum along with him.
"God, God, G-G-God!" Marta blubbered on the head of his dick. Her finger burrowed all the way to the knuckle up his chute. Her thighs tightened at either side of his head. She threw her legs up, locked her ankles at his shoulders.
It was happening-better than before. The cum was running like Niagara Falls from the glans of his sex-crazed cock into her eager throat, and Davie, no longer able to control his body, no longer able to think or speak, was being lifted to the top of the highest mountain in Valhalla. He collapsed, nuts and coarse cockhair flush with her face, his aching pole to the hilt in her throat. The noises he made were unrecognizable as human sounds, more animal pleasure. He closed his eyes, opened his mouth wide at her pussy, and strained to sustain the magic thrill of orgasm. He had always known it would be good-the absolute best with Mom-but he had never begun to realize how good. It was like flying, as if he had suddenly grown wings and could soar above a world of molten lava.
When it was over, when there was no more cum left and he lay exhausted atop the woman who had given him life, there was another moment of regret. His mother! Sinful! Evil! All the things Marta herself had thought before ... the stigma that would come if anyone, no matter how liberal-minded, found out. He felt his dick going soft in her mouth, and thought, Jesus Christ! They'd put me away, put her away, too. They'd call us perverts. They'd put it in all the newspapers, castrate me with headlines like FIFTEEN-YEAR-OLD BOY CAUGHT WITH HIS PRICK GOING LIMP IN MOTHER'S MOUTH.
He laughed, the tension suddenly gone. The headline was a silly thought, as silly as feeling guilty about fucking. It was only the beginning. There was another hole, the tiny brown pocket flush with his nose, to be plowed, and a variety of positions to try, and there was nothing-not guilt, headlines or whatever-that was going to intimidate him now.
Marta let his limp cock plop wetly from her mouth, lay like an overcooked spaghetti on her cheek. "What's funny?" she whispered.
Davie rolled away, lay with his head on her thigh and weaved his fingers through her bush.
"Nothing," he said. "Everything's great, Mom. Only, I can't help but think that it won't be morning for hours, an', well...." He moved his hand down, fingers wading through the thick goo at her cunthole, to the pinched crack of her ass. "What I mean is there's so many other things to do before I go to school. Like back here." He fingered her closed anus, tickled the hair around it. "An' here again." He flattened the palm of his hand on her bush and rubbed. "An' maybe even another suck off," he finished eyeing her swollen red lips and the trickle of cum on her chin.
Marta's face went bright red, as if she were a teenage schoolgirl again, blushing at her first proposition. She studied the boy for a long time, then said, "You make it sound so easy, Davie. But it's not. It ... it's horrible! I shouldn't have let you the first time, only...."
"Steve!" he supplied.
Marta frowned at him. Her expression said she knew: Davie was going to use the incident with Steve as a tool. He would blackmail her if necessary, threaten to tell Steve's wife if she ever refused to give in.
Davie sighed, rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling light. He was indeed thinking of blackmail. He had decided that no matter how evil it was, he would do anything, anything at all, to continue to enjoy the illicit pleasures of the incestuous relationship.
"Talk to me, Davie," said Marta. "Tell me what you're thinking. I have to know."
He turned toward her, looked into her lovely face. He watched her lips part, saw her tongue flick out to dispose of the residue of cum. His cock stirred. His balls, so recently emptied, began to throb once more. He could still taste her, the fragrant lubricant clinging to his lips. He could still smell her, the woman scent saturating the room, hanging like a wanton invitation in the air.
What he was really thinking now he couldn't tell her, because he was wondering about the twins next door-Steve Damon's daughters. Would they be as good? And Steve's wife ... was she a bum fuck, and was that the reason for Steve's infidelity? Or was she as good as his mom, and boring only to Steve because of familiarity? There were a hundred kinky questions running around in his head, and a thousand half-formed schemes. He was suddenly a sex machine, with fucking the only worthwhile function in life.
"Davie!" Marta sat up, stared down at him. "I don't like the look on your face, the way you're acting."
"But you like this," he said, reaching again for the gap between her legs and forcing a finger up her closed asshole.
"No!"
"Shit, you don't." He worked the finger in and out, sure of himself now, feeling taller than the Empire State Building when her thighs began to quiver open.
"You ... you're bad, Davie, bad!" Marta hissed in a distorted voice. "And you're making me bad, too. It's not right. It isn't, it isn't!"
He ignored her protests, moved close again and began to finger-fuck her rectum in earnest. He glued his mouth to one taut pink nipple and sucked. He envisioned Jeanne and Sue, the Damon twins, and wondered how he could use the knowledge about Steve and Marta to get the two twelve-year-olds into bed. And Steve's petite brunette wife. He wondered how he could use his newly acquired sexual expertise to fuck her, too.
"Davie, don't!" Marta cried as his sharp fingernail cut into the tender lips of her cunt. "You ... you're hurting me, Davie. You ... ah. Ahhhhhhh...!"
He grinned, bit down hard on her nipple and pressed her back on the bed. Her thighs opened without hesitation. She whimpered like a confused kitten. He was only fifteen and Marta, his mother, was almost thirty. And he was in command. He was the one who would dictate from now on.
He set the tip of his stiffening cock at the tuft of hair low between the satiny white cheeks of her ass and said, "Don't fight it, Mom. It's no use. Just open your legs real wide, wider 'n anything, 'cause this time-" he reached down, used his fingers to spread the delicate halves of her ass. "This time, Mom, I wanna do you like I did Sally in school. Up the ass. I wanna hear you moan when I fuck it all up there."
CHAPTER THREE
She was sore-so sore down there-and confused. She lay on the rumpled bed, amid the yellowing stains of cuntjuice and Davie's cum, and stared unseeing at the shafts of light slicing across the bedroom from the blinds. Had it actually happened? Her and Davie? It was so like a dream now, so like something she had read in a case-study book designed for college psychology majors. She heard the sounds of the day outside-birds chirping, cars backing from neighboring drives, kids shouting as they skipped along to school-but couldn't shake the feeling that it had all happened in a dream world where she remained.
She cocked her leg at the knee and winced. The tender flesh between her thighs was raw. Davie! He had fucked and fucked, never tiring. Her son.
"Darn it, anyway," she blurted. She forced herself to sit up, throw her feet over the side of the bed, and stand. She was wobbly. Step by hesitant step she made her way to the dresser mirror, took inventory. With her hair tousled, braless breasts jutting, she was a girl again, not much older in appearance than the fourteen-year-old who had given herself to Davie's father.
But you're older now, she chastised herself. You're older and should be wiser. You should know better than to have an affair with ... with your own son! You ... oh, you make me so angry sometimes I ... I just don't know what all.
She stared angrily at her image as if she and the lovely girl in the mirror were two different people. As if there were someone wanton hiding inside her, coming to the surface only when a hard dick coaxed it up. A she-monster. A grown woman with the mind of the young girl she had been; a mind concerned only with sex, no matter who with, no matter when or where.
She moaned softly: a combination of hurt and the memory of the night before. Davie! He would be in school now, freshly scrubbed, staring out at the classroom through eyes that gave the illusion of innocence. No one would know, only her. It was their secret. But she was certain she would never again be able to look anyone straight in the eye, certain that she would give it away through some telltale gesture. Incest! It had to show. She was convinced that it had changed her,' though the change wasn't immediately apparent, and that-like the stigmata religious zealots sometimes bore-those who knew what to look for would see.
The telephone startled her. She turned abruptly. She let it ring half a dozen times before moving to the bedside table, lifting the receiver. "Hello, baby," the deep voice said into her ear, and she knew it was Steve before the second syllable of the first word. She listened, acknowledging his questions involuntarily as if the girl in the mirror had taken over again. She heard herself say yes, Davie had gone, and that she was alone, and that yes! she had heard the car backing out of the drive next door, and that Gwen, Steve's wife, had in all probability left to drop the kids off at school before she went shopping. She returned the phone to its cradle, frowned down at the strange instrument. Had she actually agreed to have Steve over? After last night? What was wrong with her, anyway?
She showered and dressed hastily, choosing the tightest jeans she owned. Her head was numb. But the cold water had eased the soreness of limb, soothed the raw pulsing between her full thighs. Again she stood before the dresser ... adjusting the skimpy crop top ... pleased that her nipples showed through but frightened because she knew what would happen when Steve arrived and was anxious for it. It was as if the affair with Davie had created a new person, a woman who thought only of fucking, too much like the scatterbrained girl that she once was.
The buzz of the front doorbell made her jump. It was too soon, she wasn't yet ready for Steve. But she felt herself moving, as if in a trance, across the bedroom and living room, past the sofa where it had begun the night before, bare feet padding eagerly to the door, hand on the doorknob, turning it.
"What the fuck took you so long to answer the door?" barked Steve angrily. "Want the neighbors to see me standin' out here like a goddamn Fuller Brush Man?"
"I ... I...." She stepped back, closed the door after him. Her chest felt tight. The rawness was suddenly gone from between her legs. In its place was a need-the desire to again hold the fat veiny cock that had been taken away too soon. The cock that had made her wild, vulnerable to Davie. She felt the worn denim digging into her cuntlips, saw Steve's gaze drop from her face to her crotch. Her pussy twitched. She leaned back against the closed door, waited.
Steve studied her for a moment. "You look high," he said finally.
"I am."
His eyebrows went up. "Have a party after I left last night?"
"Um. Me 'n' Davie," she heard herself say. She eyed the fly of his pants, noted the slight bulge. Her nipples stood tall. She pulled back her shoulders so that the crop top went taut, outlining her tits. The material rubbed across the sensitive tips and made her breathe faster, labored. She shouldn't be telling Steve about her and Davie, she knew, but there was no stopping herself ... or was it the girl in the mirror? "We ... he ... Davie finished what you started," she went on, the words coming of their own volition, without conscious effort. "You left me so hot, so ... I don't know what all. It just happened."
"You 'n' Davie?" Steve's eyes were wide, disbelieving.
"Um!"
"Holy shit!" He hesitated only a moment, then took her hand, led her to the sofa. They sat-Steve still absorbing the information, Marta engrossed with the growing bulge at his crotch, wiggling her ass into the corner against the armrest, and raising one knee to give him an unhampered view of the puffy V between her full thighs. She watched him watching her. He started to speak, stopped himself, shook his head as if he were the one who was suddenly high.
"He fucked me every which way," Marta breathed, surprised at her own brazenness, excited by the words and the shocked look on Steve's handsome face. He was handsome. At the moment, more handsome, more desirable than any man she had ever known. She reached for the hard bulge in his pants and squeezed. "In my mouth, up m-my asshole," she continued. "Davie, I mean. My cunt. He ... he stuck his sweet little prick up every hole. He's not as big as you though. Ummm." She squeezed harder.
Steve inched closer, rested his head against the back of the sofa and stroked her inner thigh. "Man!"
Marta cocked her head at him. This was a new experience-she was in complete control. "I guess I helped some," she said. "Like this!" She undid his fly, thrust her hand inside. Her fingers closed around the pulsing shaft of his tool. "Ummmm. So big 'n' stiff. I ... I love it when its big 'n' stiff like that."
"Jesus, you're some fucking sweet cunt," choked Steve. "Ah! Christ, I don't blame Davie. I'd ah! Umph! Motherfucker, I'd screw you even if you were the ah! Virgin Mary, for chrissakes." His fingers found the zipper up the front of her jeans, worked it down. His hand dived inside the denim, feverishly worked the panties aside and sought the tight slit beneath the mound of satiny blonde pussy hair.
She whimpered. She threw her leg over the edge of the sofa, raised the other knee along the backrest, making her cunthole more accessible to the probing fingers. She jerked his dick harder, frantically. It's strange, she thought-insane! Less than an hour before her cunthole had protested at the slightest move of her body; the tender inner walls had felt as if someone had used a rasp to ream out the channel. And now she could not wait for the stab of Steve's tool. She whacked his hard cock, opened her thighs and set her pelvis in motion ... telling him all the things going through her mind.
"Motherfucker!" A sudden change came over Steve. As if her eagerness had triggered a need to exert himself, as if it had unleashed a deep dark force, he fell hungrily upon her. His lips covered hers ... bruising ... sucking. The hand at her pussy rubbed in a circular motion, working the open jeans down. The other hand shot beneath the skimpy crop top. His fingers found her taut nipples, began to pinch first one, then the other. He forced her back, over the arm of the sofa, scrambled atop her arched body and pressed the stiffness that she was stroking into the heated pocket between her lush trembling thighs.
Marta gasped. A sharp pain shot through her arched spine. Her breath caught, lungs constricted by the awkward position. Where a moment before she had been anxious to feel the stiffness fucking its way up her belly, anxious to hold Steve's bloated manhood inside, she now tried to push him away. He was hurting her, bending her back over the armrest, sending fire, hot flashes, up and down her spine. She protested, mumbling incoherently against his lips. She fought. But his weight held her pinned to the cushions, and his eagerness, the sudden, uncontrollable sex-madness, refused to recognize the agony convulsing her limbs.
She managed to tear her mouth away from his probing tongue, choke, "Let me ah! Oh! Oh, St-Steve, you ... you're h-h-hurting meeeeeeeee."
"You love it, baby. Don't kid me. Just relax 'n' enjoy it-c'mon ... give me some of that good pussy." His fingers dove deep in her cunthole, nails scraping the tender inner walls. His thumb found her anus, fucked its way in.
Again Marta gasped. The pain was unbearable-like a white-hot piece of barbed wire being forced in and out of her sheath. Yet there was something else, a tingling. Her clit seemed not to mind the brutal thrusts at all. And her sphincters ... God! Her sweet little anal muscles were breathing, sucking his thumb deeper and deeper, higher and higher into the snugness of her rectum. What was wrong with her, anyway?
As if having read her thoughts, as if he knew every uncertainty in her mind, Steve said, "There's nothing wrong with you, baby. Not a fucking thing. At least nothing this won't fix." He forced her hand back to his cock, made her rub ... up-down, up-down. His own hand moved more insistently at her crotch ... fingers moistening her slippery pink slit ... thumb reaming her asshole ... palm moving in a circular motion atop the mound of blonde pussy hair.
"Hummmmmm...!" Marta closed her eyes. She forgot about the pain, the awkward position, and kneaded the fat glans of his rod. The shape of a dick never ceased to excite her. She moved her fingers lovingly up and down the long shaft, feeling the veins, the loose outer jacket of skin, the wiry stuff at the base. Ten inches, she estimated. Almost a foot. Inside her head she could see it boring in where his fingers were digging. She was so small down there, so delicate. Yet a cock-any size cock-made the tiny pink slit open like a sewer, work greedily to take it all in. She squeezed him, made him grunt. She wiggled, working the jeans and panties down. She waited for him to complete the maneuver, yank the garments off. Then she threw her legs wide, wider than ever before, so wide that it hurt. With thumb and forefinger she encircled the knob of his tool, set it at the lips of her vulva. "Fuck me!" she cried. "Do it, Steve. Now. Hurry. I ... I w-w-want you to stick it all in.
Every inch. Up me. Up me! Oh, hurry and stick it all up meeeeeee!"
Steve made an incoherent sound, withdrew his fingers from front and rear slits. "Not like this," he said huskily. "Sitting up. You astraddle my legs."
Moaning, almost crying because she wanted to feel his lovely big prick stabbing in and out of her belly, willing to do anything, Marta allowed him to guide her-first to a sitting position, waiting impatiently, breathlessly, while he took off his clothes, then side-saddle across his lap. His teeth captured one taut nipple through the skimpy crop top. She whimpered. Her thighs came apart, allowing the torpedo-shaped bulb of his rod to stand tall between the creamy white columns. She was dizzy again-mindless, speechless. Her fiery little pink cunthole was the center of the universe, the core of her being. There was no world outside, no stupid morality. Only fucking. Only hard dicks and pussies.
"Holy fucking Virgin Mary!" Steve locked his huge hands at her waist, lifted.
"Owww!" Marta felt herself being turned in midair, as if she were weightless, a ragdoll to be used at Steve's whim. She felt her legs being positioned at either side of his thighs. She dug her knees into the cushions, glanced down. A cock! There was nothing so lovely, so long and appealing, as the pulsing cylinder of meat bobbing beneath her blonde wedge. She felt the hands at her waist move down, capture the halves of her ass, urge her forward.
"Come down on it, sugar," Steve said. "Wiggle that sweet little bush onto my pole. Like you mean it. Show me how much you want fucking. Good ole fucking. C'mon, sweetness. Play monkey on the stick." His hips strained up off the sofa. The tip of his rod touched her down there.
Davie! Marta could see her young son as he had been the night before ... his eager cock bobbing from the fly of the pajamas ... the look on his face. She felt the bigger, stiffer rod at her vulva, already inching up, seeking the secret warmth of her woman's belly, and recalled how good it had been with Davie. She hated herself. She hated what she had become in the past twenty-four hours. But she couldn't help but love the magnificent thrill the fat thing at her cunthole was causing-the tingles, the unbearable heat. She fucked downward. She wiggled with all of her might, concentrating on the inches as they disappeared into the nest of blonde curls.
"Ahhhhh!" Steve dug his fingernails brutally into the satiny halves of her ass, shoved his cock in to the hilt. He held it there, ground his wiry scruff into her delicate blonde bush. "Baby, bay, fucking ba-beeeee," he sighed, working slowly, driving her mad.
She had never before tried the odd position, had never realized that a dick could go up so far. She felt the fat pulsing cock at the pit of her belly ... almost at her throat, it seemed. She was full of stiff cock, again pussy from head to toe and wanting only to be bathed in cum. Wanting only to feel the first sticky blast, and then have it run down and out, into the other pinched hole between the trembling cheeks of her bottom. Why did men have to have only one dick? she wondered irrationally. Two would be better ... one up front, the other reaming behind. She threw her hips wide to each side, round and round. She used her knees to move herself up and down, allowing the long luscious thing to almost escape, then snapping it back into the depths of her womb. She made noises like none that had ever before come from her throat, fucked faster and harder.
"Jesus, slow down," gurgled Steve. "You'll ah! Ah, Christ, that's fucking good. Man! Jesus! But Ummm! Ah! Slow it the fuck down or I'll cum. God! Make it last, baby. Make it fucking last!"
She barely heard the words. There was a roaring inside her head, a fire deep in her cunthole. And there was only one cure for the sickness contorting her limbs. Icky love cream. She wanted to feel the blast of his rod, hear the pleasure sounds of lovemaking pour from his throat. She fucked faster still, harder, ignoring the fingers like claws digging into her rear, trying to pace her. She made her soft cunt muscles work, knead his tool. "Do it," she cried. "Cum! Fill me with jism."
Suddenly, Steve became caught up in the rhythm. The stink finger of one hand wedged deep in the lush crack of her ass; he splayed the other hand high on her back, pressed her close. His lips sought hers. "Motherfucker, you're something," he breathed before his mouth opened, tongue jabbing impatiently against her teeth, coaxing them apart.
"Ste-eve." Marta sucked his tongue deep into her mouth, wrapped her arms around his neck and screwed. She kept her eyes open, stared down at the delicious sight of a prick slamming in and out of her wedge. Oh, it's lovely, she thought. So good. Why had she ever changed from the girl she was at fourteen? How could she have been so stupid as to think marriage, fucking for only one man, was what she wanted? And waiting between Dave's leaves-being good, sitting on it. Pretending that the ache in her cunthole was something else, when all the time it was longing. The need for what Davie had offered the night before. The awful but lovely urge that made her a woman: a creature made to be taken, abused. A pussy first, a person second, a mother not at all.
"Oh, Jesus. Jesus H. fucking Christ all mighty," Steve gasped into her mouth. "Mother! Ah! AHHHHHHH!"
She felt the clawing hands return to the cheeks of her ass, felt the hot steam of cum blast off up her belly. Her clit sang. Her inner cunt muscles went tight, holding him trapped, coaxing the icky stuff from the knob of his tool. Her head was a merry-go-round, dancing up and down as it turned on her neck. Her asshole and pussy were magic clams that knew just when to open and close, how best to massage a stiff cock. She was indeed hot pussy from blonde head to painted toes, and nothing else mattered.
When it was over, when at last Steve had emptied his sacs and was resting-head at her breast, breath coming in jagged gasps and continuing to excite her nipples through the crop top-she whispered, "Are you done?"
Eyes glazed, face flushed and covered with sweat, Steve looked into her eyes.
"Because I'm not," she continued in a sultry voice. She feathered his dick with her cunt muscles, keeping him hard. She giggled, feeling young again, feeling like the girl she once was. She splayed her fingers on his hairy belly, rubbed down into the bristles at the roots of the thing buried deep in her slit. "Ummm!" She wiggled-slowly, making the halves of her ass brush sensuously across the top of his thighs, knowing that that would arouse him. "Not even a little bit done," she went on, thrusting her breasts forward, telling him with the movement that she wanted the crop top taken off, wanted her nipples sucked. "Davie won't be home for hours and hours," she added, inching back, making his rod feel the cold touch of air, then driving down again, pulling him in, in ... all the way up her wet cunthole for another hot screw.
CHAPTER FOUR
Davie watched the big hand of the clock approach noon. He sat at the edge of his seat, waiting impatiently for the recess bell to ring. Tick-tock! It seemed that the last few minutes were taking forever, and although he had tried, had opened the math book intending to study, it was impossible to concentrate on anything except the lunch hour.
He looked about the small classroom. Rita, the Puerto Rican chick who could barely speak English, was wearing another tight micro-mini and was sitting sidesaddle in the seat across the aisle. He could see the crotch of her pantyhose, he thought he could see the dark patch of her twat. He glanced again at the clock-one minute to go. Then he would run home, surprise his mom with a good "good afternoon" fuck. Cautiously, he lifted his hand to his nose. Still watching the white-faced clock, he sniffed at the cunt smell he hadn't washed from his fingers.
"Have a hearty lunch, children. Don't forget to drink your milk." Miss Bindhammer, who spoke like a rasp file and looked worse, adjusted her spectacles and grinned. The recess bell began to ring on the last note of her voice.
The class rose as one, began to move toward the door. But Davie was up and out of his seat, to the door and into the hall, before anyone else. He heard Miss Bindhammer shout his name, tell him to slow down. But he was busy dodging kids-the classrooms along the corridor emptying as he rushed past. He almost knocked the Damon twins down. They too shouted something. He laughed back at them, waved and continued on down the hall and out of the building. Jeanne and Sue went home every day for lunch, he knew. And he couldn't help but notice how much their titties had grown since they had last fooled around. But Mom is waiting, he told himself. There was no time for two dumb twelve-year-olds when the very best cunt in the world-he was certain of it-was his for the taking.
He raced like a madman through the streets, ignoring the school patrol boys at intersections, jay-running across streets. He was breathless by the time he turned into the familiar tree-lined block of ranch houses. His was the eighth one down, brick-and-cedar shake front, hip-roof. He remembered because his father had boasted like an Olympic champion when they first moved into the place, and although the house was like all the rest, Dad, his crazy old man, had insisted that theirs was different in some mysterious way.
"It's different, all right," breathed Davie, racing around the neatly trimmed shrubbery to the back door. "I bet I'm the only kid on the block fucking his own mother."
Inside the house, in the knotty pine kitchen, the dishes he had used for breakfast, the cereal and sugar and milk were still on the table. He closed the door softly, frowned. Mom was always so neat. It wasn't like her to leave breakfast things lying around past noon, and she was usually in the back room, laboring over some mouth-watering thing on the stove, whenever he managed to get home for lunch. His frown deepened. Cautiously, he moved toward the swinging door to the living room.
"Oh, yes. Ummmmm. I ah! Ow! Yes, yes, y-y-yesssss." Marta was flat on her back on the floor, legs straight in the air at either side of Steve Damon's hips. Their feet were toward the kitchen, and David could see Steve's wet cock-glistening with the juice from his mom's pussy-driving furiously in and out. He could see the man's hairy cubes bouncing against the ass that was supposed to be his. Mom's succulent ass. The ass he had dreamed about for so long, had held a bare few hours before, and had intended to kiss and suck, maybe ream, during the lunch hour.
He wanted to shout. He wanted to take the rolling pin from its hook over the stove, rush into the living room and bust Steve Damon on the top of the head. Instead, he closed the kitchen door softly, crept to the back porch. There were tears in his eyes. His hands trembled. But he held himself stiff, sniffed the tears back, pretended to smile at the two girls, Jeanne and Sue, who were skipping up the flagstone walk next door.
"Hi, Davie," called Sue, grinning so wide that Davie thought sure her small jaw would break and all those white teeth would fall out.
"Don't say hello to him," chided Jeanne. "He almost knocked us down." She made a cute face at Davie. "You almost knocked us down!" she reiterated.
Davie forgot the scene inside the house, made himself concentrate on the pointed boobs in the jersey blouse that Jeanne wore. He looked from there to the crotch of her red bell-bottom hip-huggers. There was a tiny victory sign where her thighs came together, and a slight indentation at the base of the V. Mrs. Damon always went shopping on school days, he knew. And she never got home before school was let out for the day at 3:30 p.m. That meant that the twins would be alone in the house, he reasoned, and what better revenge on Steve Damon than to sample the charms of the girls?
He leaped from the porch, crossed the gravel drive. "I'm sorry," he said, smiling in earnest now, enrapt with thoughts of the two-Jeanne with freckles all over the place, Sue with skin so white and soft looking-wrestling to keep their clothes on, giggling while he tugged and yanked, trying to undress them. "I really am," he went on. "I was in a hurry, see. I...." he thought hard, trying to offer something that sounded legitimate, something that would get him inside the house. An idea like a bulb lighted up in his head. "I lost my lunch money," he said finally, "and so I came home for lunch 'n' mom's out 'n' I don't have the key."
"You can eat lunch with us," offered Sue.
"Says who?" yelped Jeanne.
"Says me!"
"Well, who made you boss? It's my house, too."
Hand on hips, lips tight and small jaws thrust angrily forward, the girls fumed at each other. Davie thought it was the cutest standoff he had ever seen. Two girls fighting over him. It was what every guy dreamed of. He let them stare at each other for a moment more, then said, "Listen, you don't have to, Sue. Lunch, I mean." He looked straight at Jeanne. "I guess I don't have to eat. It's only about six hours more till supper, anyway."
He turned and walked away. He was almost to the end of the drive when a small guilty voice said, "Oh, dam!"
He pretended not to have heard. He continued to walk in the direction of school. Until Sue called his name, then Jeanne-the twins standing at the end of the drive, waving for him to return. It was easy, he thought, turning back. It had been super easy with mom, and girls, he was learning, no matter how old, were all alike. Grinning, he followed the two little asses to the side door and into the Damon kitchen.
Sue announced that she was going to the bathroom, disappeared through the door at the far end of the room. Jeanne faced him. "Anything special?" she asked cattily.
Again Davie eyed her tight crotch, thought sure! A piece of twelve-year-old hair pie. Man oh man! He sat at the table and said-very properly, in the same catty way Jeanne had spoken-that he would be happy to share whatever she and Sue were going to eat. He watched her scowl, turn to the refrigerator, open the door and bend to peer inside. The bell-bottoms went extra tight across her plump little-girl bottom. His cock sprang up tall.
As if having sensed the thing in his pantsleg, Jeanne looked back at him. "Don't get any dumb ideas," she hollered.
"What kinda dumb ideas?" he pressed, noting that although she was protesting, making it clear that she didn't fool around, she hadn't changed positions, was still standing with her cute backside thrust way too far out, the slacks hugging every sweet contour.
Jeanne's face went bright red. "You know what I mean, Davie. Wrestling 'n' like that. That was okay when we were all kids, but now...! Don't get any dumb ideas. And stop looking at me like that or I'll make you leave."
Davie stood, wanting her to see the mighty bulge at his crotch. He knew girls liked that; he knew that no matter how shy they were, no matter how adamant about not fooling around, they could never resist glancing at a stiff pole in a man's pantsleg. He knew too that the first glance made them breathe faster, made the blood rush into their cheeks. And from there it was easy. Once you got them on the defensive you had their pants down, was becoming his philosophy. "You ain't big enough to make me leave," he dared, knowing the challenge wouldn't go unanswered.
"Ha!" bellowed Jeanne.
"Shit!"
The girl straightened, eyed him as a matador studies a none-too-frightening but worthy bull. Her eyes flashed ole! She seemed to gauge the distance from the table where he stood to the door. She nodded as if having made up her mind, suddenly rushed him.
Davie sidestepped, caught her arm and twisted it behind her back. She squealed. He forced the arm high, stepped close and held her ... soft little ass flush with the bulge in his pants ... pointed tits resting on the forearm that he locked around her middle. "Shit!" he repeated, daring again, wanting to feel the plump halves of her bottom squirm.
"You ... you pisshead!" Jeanne howled. "You let me go. That's not fair. You...."
He moved his hand up, cupped one little tit.
"Stop that, Davie."
He ignored her, twisted her arm further up when she struggled and continued to knead the hot little braless melon beneath the jersey blouse. His dick grew as stiff as a railroad spike from the friction of her wriggling behind. He pressed it into the deep crack between the two cushions, the tip jabbing at her cute round ass. He was steering her toward the table, intending to bend her forward over the edge, when Sue returned.
"Hey!"
Jeanne said something about making him stop, and Davie said something about the two of them together not being big enough, and it was suddenly old times again-the three of them wrestling like fools, first in the kitchen, knocking over chairs, then through the door into the living room. They managed to knock him down, send him sprawling to the rug and break free. He scrambled after them-around the sectional sofa, around Steve Damon's black-leather reclining chair. Sue raced for the stairs. He grabbed Jeanne's blouse, ripped it as she followed her sister to the bedroom level, him hot on their heels.
"C'mon, Davie," hollered Sue between giggles. Like matched bookends, she and Jeanne stood at either side of the double bed where-Davie thought, the idea making him pant-Steve and Gwen Damon fucked.
"Fuck no," he replied, brazen now, knowing they wanted to play, to wrestle around as they had done so many times before, and thinking that they were in for a big hardon surprise this time. He wondered what color hair they had on their pussies. Was Sue's red-brown like the hair on her head? Were she and Jeanne the same down there, matched twins all over? He stalked them. Dick standing straight out in his pants, mind racing ahead, planning what he would do when the three of them were entwined in a pile of arms and legs on the mattress, he closed the distance.
Trying to evade his hands, Jeanne fell back onto the bed. She immediately turned onto her belly, little buttocks high, and tried to scramble on hands and knees to the other side. But Davie was on her, cock snug in the space at the back of her thighs, before she could reach safety. Then Sue, with another loud hey! was atop him, trying to pull him off the other girl's jiggling bottom. It was exactly what Davie had planned, even better. Jeanne had stopped yelling. And she had stopped trying to get away, was wiggling her hot little ass in a different way now. Provocatively. Tauntingly. As if she were trying to tell him that she wanted him to yank off her slacks, pull down her panties, and drive the delicious hard thing up where it was probing.
Suddenly, Sue's tiny fingers were digging into his ribs, tickling. "I got 'im now, Jeanne," she breathed triumphantly. She locked her legs around his waist, clung like a giggling monkey. Her fingers continued to dig, ripping gales of hoarse laughter from Davie.
The tickling lasted until Davie was flat on his back, both girls holding him down-one arm and one leg apiece. It was his turn to balk.
"Serves you right," said Jeanne, but too close to his ear, her breath hot and moist and saying much more.
"Yeah, you said 'the both of us together,' " added Sue. "Now what, huh? Who's boss now-owwwWWWWWW!"
Her voice rose as Davie yanked one hand free and shoved it hard between her legs, squeezed the mound of young pussy hair that was so springy, so thick. Davie was certain he could feel every delectable curl. She gulped. "This is boss!" he told her, fucking his hips up off the mattress, making his cock strain against the fly of his pants. Without any resistance from Jeanne, he freed his other hand, shoved it into her crotch too. Both girls squirmed. Both continued to protest-Jeanne less than Sue-but neither could take their eyes off the bulge bobbing up and down, pulsating, expanding and contracting and growing longer inside his pants.
It was difficult, but slowly, working one then the other, wrestling each girl into submission, he managed to get both zippers down, thrust his hands in onto two little-girl pussies. "Dav-eeeee," Jeanne sang when his long middle finger found her extra tight slit. She lay back, thighs wide, legs scissored like the legs of a frog. Where before she had protested, had been unwilling to even invite him into the house, she now waited passively for whatever he had in store, and Sue, much more open before, now twisted away from the dart seeking her cunthole. Sue demanded an entirely new strategy. Davie thought for a moment, then decided what he would do.
"Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! D-D-Do-on't," Sue blubbered as he shifted low on the bed, yanked her panties and open slacks down and placed his mouth to her cunthole. She squirmed and continued to yelp, looking horrified from his bobbing head to Jeanne, back. Her thighs quivered. Her delightful babydoll slit opened like the gentle petals of a blossoming rose. She made a halfhearted attempt to twist away each' time his tongue raked her clit, but the retreats were no more than a token resistance.
Finally, when he had gotten her pussy so wet that the little-girl smell of her filled the room, Jeanne joined in the fun. "Sit up, sis," she directed.
Sue blinked. "W-What f-f-for?"
Jeanne giggled. "So I can take off your top, silly. You know ... like we do at night. Only Davie this time."
Davie's ears perked up. He turned his attention to Jeanne. "Me what? And what's this about what you two do at night?"
Eyes wide, the excitement dancing in her face, the girl said, "First we lick each other's nipples, that's what. Then, when Sue gets all worked up, I lick down her belly 'n' she licks down mine. Like you were doing-sucking! We ... well, we suck each other off 'n' like that. You know, Davie."
Boy, did he ever know! Since the night before, since mom, it seemed he knew everything. He recalled all the other times he and the twins had wrestled; he remembered how he had always been the one to back off, thinking that they were just kids, that they would yell blue-bloody-murder if he ever did more than grab a cheap feel and hump until he came in his pants. How wrong he had been, he now realized. Especially with Jeanne, who had always reacted in the way she had done earlier downstairs. It was plain to see that she was the wilder of the two, and that what he had taken for restraint, virgin shyness with boys, was actually the girl's silly way of fighting her own kinky desires.
Like Mom! he thought. She too had pretended not to want it, had told him that incest was wrong ... her ass going round and round all the time ... cunthole nipping, eager, ready and willing to screw every which way. Were all women like that? he wondered. Was Miss four-eyed Bindhammer at school seeing big dicks each time she made one of the boys stay after class? And Rita, the Puerto Rican girl who sat across the aisle from him. Was she, like Mom and Sue and Jeanne and maybe Miss Bindhammer, thinking about long veiny pricks when she chewed on her pencil? Dick throbbing, not wanting to wait another moment to be unsheathed and trying to decide which one of the twins was to be first, he watched Jeanne undo the buttons down the front of Sue's blouse. He watched the garment open, saw the girl's snow-white braless boobs pop into view. His mouth watered-partially from the tangy taste of Sue's pussy, but mostly because he wanted to suck the delicate peaks of her tits into his face. He squeezed his stiff rod, panted. He waited while Jeanne undressed the other girl down to her panties.
"There!" Jeanne sat back on her haunches, grinned fondly at Sue. The other girl seemed younger, uncertain. It was apparent that Jeanne was the more sophisticated of the two, the more brazen.
"Look at my cock," Davie said. Jeanne's head turned immediately. "Not you," he chided. "Sue! Here, feel it. Take it the fuck out for me. C'mon."
The girl hesitated, confusion, reservation, the don'ts! of a virgin contorting her lovely young face. Again she looked from Davie to Jeanne, back. The other girl sighed, leaned forward and placed her lips to one taut pink nipple.
"J-J-Jean-eeeeeee!" wailed Sue.
"Oh, horseshit!" yelled Davie. Hooking his fingers at the waist of Sue's panties, he yanked. The fabric gave, came away in shreds from her little black pussy. He pressed her back on the bed. Unable to wait any longer, tired of playing around, he unzipped his fly, freed his dick. He captured Sue's hand, pressed the tiny cool fingers closed around his pulsating tool. He made her guide the fat tip to her slit, moved his hips so that the glans poked gently in and out, in and out, in and out of her virgin hole.
"OHHHH. S-Stop, Davie. You um! UM! Y-Y-You're m-making me all wet d-down there-re."
"I wish he were making me all wet down there," said Jeanne, still sucking her sister's small tit, drawing the nipple in and out of her mouth and watching the action.
Davie thought sure he was going to pop cream all over the place. Two cunts, the one willing, almost begging him to, the other reluctant but slowly coming around. He wanted to take off his pants, to strip. But the ache in his balls said fuck! Stick your hard dick in Sue, bust her cherry, and then later, the second or third time around, you can worry about getting naked. He dropped his head to the tit opposite the one Jeanne was sucking, drew the small tensile bud into his mouth. He held Sue's little hand tightly closed on his rod, set the tip firmly at her hot hairy hole and began to fuck forward.
"Oh, Davie. Oh! Ohah, don't f-f-f...."
"Fuck you?" he supplied.
"Don't do it," Sue cried, nodding her head furiously from side to side and twisting her trim little hips away from his jabbing rod. "You ... you're too big! Honest, I ... I ... don't, don't, don't-oh, please don't do it!"
The girl's cries excited him more. He was learning that about sex, that the more illicit it was, the better. Like with Mom. She was beautiful, he had to admit. But the fact that she was his mother, that the hot little gash beneath the clump of blonde hair was forbidden, was what really turned him on. He knew that now, just as he had known she would be a good lay, and that Steve Damon, the father of the girl thrashing beneath him, would go back for more. He couldn't blame Steve. Nor could Steve blame him for what he was about to do.
Too worked up to pause long enough to take off his pants, too anxious to be the first to plant a dick in Sue's twelve-year-old virgin belly, he thrust. "NOOOOOO!" bellowed Sue.
Jeanne tsk-tsked. "Don't be such a baby, Sue. It's not that big. Here! Lemme help get it in."
"Arrrrrr!" Davie's hips shot high in the air when the girl's little hand closed firmly around his tool. He felt her fingers move to the turtleneck of skin at the base of the glans, inch him forward into the folds of hot cunt, and plant the tip at Sue's hole before moving down. Before taking hold of his meat at the roots and pushing it forward ... up, up little Sue's tightness. Up until he was halfway in and the tightness became a vise, the bulb of his prick butting the wailing girl's maidenhead.
Tears poured from Sue's eyes. Her legs-spread wide, knees up and out to the side-trembled like custard. "It ... it'll n-n-never go-owwww. Oh! Ohah, s-s-stop. Please. Ow! Davie, no! NO! T-T-Take it OUT!"
But Davie could not take it out ... even if he had wanted to. He raised up on outstretched arms to stare down at the delicious union. So tight. He had never imagined that a girl's hairy hole could grip as Sue's cunt was doing. It was as if there were a hundred little workmen in there tugging at the loose outer jacket of skin on his rod ... refusing to let go ... pleading no! Don't take it out, no matter what Suzie says.
"Oh, for cripes sakes," sighed Jeanne in exasperation. Her fingers deserted Davie's cock, began to fool with the plump outer lips of Sue's twat. One slipped into the hole alongside Davie's shaft, fucked its way to the elastic-like barrier. "Relax, Sue," she continued. "Boy, if you think Davie's is big, what would you do if Daddy ever got to you? You know we talked about that. You know you said you'd let 'im, and how you always peek when mommy's not home 'n' he falls asleep on the couch in his shorts. Wow! I remember that night he was drunk-'member?" Her finger continued to fuck in and out along side Davie's tool ... wetting the passage ... stretching it.
Sue stared wide-eyed at her sister. "It--own! Owah!" Her ass shot up off the mattress when Davie pulled back, returned to the bedding when he shafted it in to the barrier once more. "Daddy's dick is so nice," she cooed. "Ummm. I ... I g-guess it is sort-a bigger. But that's daddy. You know."
The girls exchanged secret smiles. Their daddy was special, Davie knew. Like Mom was to him. He supposed it was that way with most kids; that most kids wanted to screw their daddy or mom, but few ever dared. He felt sorry for those with mothers who fucked like his. And he felt suddenly sorry for Sue, who obviously wanted to commit the ultimate sin-incest!-but who had apparently backed off. He could almost see her sneaking up to the sofa where Steve had been sleeping, reaching out.
"Davie's dick is nice, too," whispered Jeanne. "See?" Stink finger still swabbing Sue's slit, pinkie and third finger tickling up and down the pinched crack of the reluctant girl's ass, she used her thumb to trace the vein at the side of Davie's throbbing shaft.
Sue glanced curiously down. Her breath caught. She bit down on her full lower lip, stared.
"See?" Jeanne curled up beside her sister, opened her blouse. "You can suck my titties while he does you. Then I'll suck yours while he does me. It's just like at night, only now we have Davie's peter instead of our fingers."
Again like the soft petals of a blossoming rose, the pinkness surrounding the upper half of his cock began to open. Davie groaned. He felt his dick inching in, stretching the elastic-like barrier. He felt the girl's creamy hips begin to move-tentatively at first, but faster as Jeanne guided a nipple into her face. His gaze darted from the contorted features of the girl he was screwing to the jackknifed buttocks beside them. He could see the crack of Jeanne's ass at the waist of the hip-huggers, almost smell her. He looked back to the curly black wedge where his prick was embedded, from there to Sue's swollen mouth, now sucking noisily away at the other girl's lovely left breast. Cautiously, so as not to frighten Sue, he reached down and pushed Jeanne's hand away from the hot pink target. Gently, he pulled back, retreating until only the tip of his dick remained in the niche. He waited for Sue to moan, to lift her little-girl hips off the mattress. Then he lunged.
"Iiiii...! Iiiii...! D-Dav-eeeee owwwwwwwww. Ow, no. NO! Aeeeee. OwahhHHHHH!" She tried to retreat, tried to grind her buttocks into the mattress. But it was already too late. The elastic-like barrier was gone, blood seeping out of her tortured cunthole, down the pinched crack of her ass and onto the sheets.
Davie was too busy looking and feeling-feeling the bloody warmth of Sue's upper vagina on the glans of his throbbing cock, glancing from the clump of black pussy hair to the crack of the other girl's ass-to participate in the chatter. He listened to Jeanne calm Sue. "See? That wasn't so awful bad," she said, guiding Sue's tongue back to her nipples. "Just pretend that it's daddy's big wang down there. Like we talked about. Make believe it's that night again, the night you sneaked up 'n' touched it. 'Member? 'Member how Daddy got hard in his sleep, and how you thought sure he was gonna cum? Just think about that-about cum! Davie's gonna cum soon, aren't you, Davie?"
Boy, was he ever gonna cum soon! He could feel the thick load inching up from his sacs, eager to explore the delectable warmth of Sue's tense belly. He groaned in reply. He reached for the waist of the hip-huggers, yanked them down off Jeanne's plump ass. The sight of her bare freckled buttocks, the dark split with the clump of dark hair where the half-moons of flesh rounded off into the back of her thighs, tore a sob from his throat. "Turn aroun' some," he managed to say. He waited for Jeanne to comply, to turn her lovely little ass toward him. "Goddamn!" he croaked, and buried his mouth, his nose, in the hot fragrant split.
They stopped talking; they became three sets of thrashing arms and legs, three churning asses, two dripping pussies and one stabbing cock. Sue's hips began to move rhythmically beneath him. Her cunthole snapped ... almost as good as Mom's fiery slit, Davie decided. He sucked the other girl's asshole, drank deep of the acrid stink, fucked slowly, making it last, and envisioned Steve Damon atop the blonde cunt of his mother he adored. They would be cumming about now, he estimated. Mom would throw her legs high on Steve's back, hold him trapped to the hilt. Her pink and blonde slit would go wild ... nipping with twice as much power as the tiny gash between Sue's babydoll legs ... exuding a stink that was stronger than the fragrance of Jeanne's musky asshole and slit ... coaxing cream. It was as if he were fucking three girls at once-Mom inside his head, Jeanne from the rear, and Sue, who was really moving now, thrashing about like an eel out of water beneath him, in the hot hairy little pocket that had never before known a man.
* * *
"Oh, Davie, suck it, suck it good." Jeanne thrust her backside at his face. She brought her knees up to the tits Sue was ministering to, offered her gaped open cunthole to his probing tongue. "Oh! Oh, Davie, I ... oh, I ... I'm cumming, I ... ow! Owah, suck it. My pussy. Eat me. Um! Yes. Oh, yes. Suck it out, my asshole too. Both places, Eeeee...! Eeeahhhhh! Don't stop, Davie. Don't oh! Don't oh! Don't OHAHHHHH!"
Sue echoed her sister, said, "Don't!" But now the "don't" was much different than before. Now there was an eager catch in her voice, a willingness , and little-girl excitement in her belly and thighs. Her sopping wet pussy closed like a clam on his tool, drew the glans deep. Her feathery inner cunt muscles massaged him, almost like a hand jacking him off. Her ass bucked higher and higher off the bedding, faster and faster, reaching for the place way up in the sky where hot love cream was Fourth of July rockets and pussies and pricks lived in perpetual harmony. There was no more resistance, no inhibitions now. Only good fucking. Only sweat and sobs and sighs, and the electric-like thrill that precedes orgasm.
"Ar. Ar-arrrrrr!" It was a sound that was strange to his ears. A breathless cry. He blubbered into Jeanne's stinking wet asshole, then into her slit. His hard prick grew to what seemed to be three times normal size, the hot glans pulsing, preparing to shoot. His nuts leaped. The cunthole caressing his cock replied-closing tight. Tighter than any cunt in the world, or so it seemed at the moment. Tighter even than Mom's lovely gash. Tighter than nothingness.
The first blast rocked the bed, drew Sue's gyrating pelvis up off the mattress and slammed him all the way in. The second hot stream of love washed his face, Jeanne popping in unison. The third came from Sue, who wiggled and whimpered and clung to his neck like an injured but happy spider monkey. And then the fourth and fifth blasts-he lost count. His dick stayed rock-hard, refusing to weaken even when his lungs threatened to give out. His back ached from humping, and his vision was blurred. But the cum refused to stop shooting off from his rod; his balls refused to stop manufacturing the gooey stuff. He fucked and fucked, thinking that Jeanne was next. Planning ahead. Wondering if she would be as good as Sue, as good as Mom. Wondering, too, if Jeanne, who seemed to be the more sophisticated of the twins, would balk if he rammed his stiff cock up her rear chute, and determined to try. Determined to fuck both girls every which way, to stay home from school and have classes right there in Steve Damon's big bed.
They lay in a panting huddle of disarrayed clothing and nakedness when it was over. Davie watched the room spin to a stop, return from orbit. "Man oh man!" he managed.
Coyly, Jeanne reached down between him and Sue, extracted his slippery rod. "See?" she told Sue. "Didn't I tell you? 'Fraidy cat, you. I bet you want more now. I bet you'll want Davie to do it all the time."
Sue giggled and nodded, looked sleepily down at the curly black scruff between her gaped thighs. Her swollen lips puckered, said ow! Her head dropped back, eyes closed. She sighed something inaudible that sounded like content.
Rearranging herself on the bed, Jeanne placed her lips to the tip of Davie's cock. "My turn, Davie," she cooed. "Sue's pooped but I'm not. Not yet, anyway."
Fucking is great, thought Davie. Greater still when there are two hotsy chicks-one with freckles all over the place, the other with skin as white as vanilla ice cream. And both virgins. Man!
"Suck me awhile," he told Jeanne. "Like I did you. Then we'll screw. We'll screw all aft moon-fuck school. Fuck dumb ole Miss Bindhammer. Lick it some."
Jeanne licked. Her tongue lashed the tip of his cum-icky rod, washed the blood of Sue's virginity away. Her fingers crept into the crack of his ass, tickled. He liked that. Mom had taught him to like it. Now he wished Jeanne would penetrate his pinched asshole, find his prostate. Make him cum hard and cum while he lay there on his back. Make the room spin again. Make heaven come down from the sky and grant bliss.
They played-Jeanne sucking and licking, taunting his asshole and balls-until Sue rolled away, sat up. Hands on hips, a mischievous look on her face, she said, "Well?"
They all laughed. Until Jeanne threw off the rest of her clothes, began to tug at his pants and shirt. And then, almost before Davie knew how it had happened, he was atop the other twin, and Sue, bolder now, more sure of herself, was setting his prick in place ... wetting her sister ... fingering ... cooing. And then the glans of his insatiable meat was butting the barrier-another hot virgin. A record of some sort, he was certain-two in one day. And then he was all the way in, much faster than it had happened with Sue, but good all the same. And then they were fucking smoothly, with Sue taking Jeanne's place on the sidelines and the room spinning again.
CHAPTER FIVE
It was somewhere between late afternoon and nightfall when Marta awoke and realized that Steve had left her exhausted, legs askew, clothes strewn about the floor. She lay back on the rumpled and cum-spattered cushions, one thigh wide over the edge of the sofa, the other jackknifed and across her at an odd angle, giving the appearance of a contorted limb. Her next door neighbor. She had seen Steve almost every day throughout the fourteen years since she and her husband and little Davie moved into the house, and although she had thought about him as a bed partner, just as all women consider the men they know, she had never once believed it would happen. Not to her. Not now. She had convinced herself that she and Dave were happy ... even though she saw him only on leaves, infrequent visits during which he had tried to make up for the fucking the Army had robbed them of. Now Dave was dead, gone forever. And it had taken his death to make her realize that she had never really been happy, had been suppressing desire and telling herself that the ache in her belly was due to old age.
"Old age," she whispered. She almost laughed. There was nothing old about the excitement she had felt the night before when little Davie came near. Had it always been there? she wondered. The secret urge to commit incest? She recalled times when the boy was a mere baby, how his miniature dick would get hard when she changed his diaper. And later, when he grew older, when he had reached puberty, nights when she was alone and invited him to her bed. Little Davie-not so little anymore. Not so shy. Had it always been there for him, too?
"Ow!" She winced in pain, a sudden raw sting at her cunthole. She sat gingerly at the edge of the sofa, spread her thighs to examine the swollen pink folds of her sex. It looked awful down there, icky and irritated. She supposed there was such a thing as too much good fucking. But there was no quelling the urge; there was no suppressing the unleashed desire that had lain dormant too long.
She glanced at the sunburst clock above the cherry wood TV console across the wide living room. Supper time. Davie would be home soon. She made herself stand, paused for a moment to shake the warm cobwebs from her head. She was getting used to feeling like a ragdoll. A sex object. And she knew what would happen if Davie came in and found her naked, hair mussed, pussy still wet. She had to shower and dress, she told herself ... put supper on. She had to sit down with Davie and talk rationally, tell him again that it was wrong and convince him this time. She had to convince the boy and herself that mother-son fucking was something degenerates did, and that the girl in her dresser mirror was only a ghost. That girl no longer existed. That girl was a grown woman now, a mother with responsibilities. She stomped her foot, wanting to believe it, wanting to be able to be firm and convince Davie that it was true.
She was halfway to the bathroom when the back door slammed, and Davie called, "Hey, Mom? I'm home!"
Her heart thumped. Her belly turned Over. She ran across the bedroom and into the tiled bath. Quickly, she turned on the shower, adjusted the spray. She stepped into the tub, slid the frosted shower door closed. "In a minute," she yelled. "You can, ah ... defrost the meat, whatever you like, while I get cleaned up and dressed."
The fine warm spray cleared her head. She waited, wondering at the quiet, trying to hear over the hiss of the water. She remembered a movie-Psycho! She stared at the frosted door, waiting for the boy's silhouette to appear. She knew he would, knew it! And the certainty was at once horrifying and exhilarating, threatening and inviting. "Darn it all, anyway," she murmured under her breath. What had happened to the firm resolve of a few moments ago? What had become of the raw soreness between her legs, replaced now by desire? "Darn it all, darn it all, anyway!"
Davie's distorted silhouette appeared suddenly outside the frosted door. "Oh, no," she gulped, "not again."
"Mom?"
She turned her back to the door, pretended not to have heard. She reached for the soap, quickly worked up a lather and spread it over her breasts. She heard the door sliding open. Goose bumps popped over her flesh in spite of the soothing warmth of the water. She was suddenly as frightened as Janet Leigh had been when the maniacal Tony Perkins thrust a knife into her in Psycho. Only it wasn't a knife that scared her. Davie's weapon was much more hypnotic, the stabs so good that she couldn't help being his willing victim. She closed her eyes and let the spray hit her face, closed her mind to all but one word: no!
"Man oh man!" Davie reached into the shower, caressed her glistening ass. "I been fuckin' all afternoon, Mom, but shit-you still turn me on. Man-o-fucking-man!"
She heard the words as if from a distance, the hand at her rear rekindling the fire. "We ... we have to talk, Davie," she said. "We have to sit down like two rational people and think this thing out. We have to decide ... ummm, don't. Not that, Davie. No." She closed her legs tight on the fingers attacking her asshole and slit from behind. "We ... w-w-we have to ah! Oh, Davie. You 'n' me ... talk ... not that. Not...."
"Shit, Mom, that's what Sue said, too. 'No! Stop! Don't!' All that jazz."
"Sue?"
"Sure! Sue Damon. Jeanne, too."
Abruptly, she turned toward the boy, stared. The water dripped from the tips of her breasts, wove intricate patterns over the gentle swell of her belly and into her bush. She watched him watching her, eating her up with his eyes. Cunt-crazy! she thought, envisioning the twelve-year-old Damon twins, almost able to see Davie's ass bucking between both girls' young lovely legs. "They're only babies," she snapped, trying again to be firm. But already she could see the accusation in Davie's eyes, that she herself hadn't been much older when she bore him.
Davie grinned. "Man, I could sure use a shower, Mom. Move over some."
"No, Davie, I ... we...." Helplessly, she watched him fling off his clothes, step into the tub and slide the shower door closed. She glanced down at his limp cock. It was red and slightly swollen, as raw as her cunthole. Are we both mad she wondered? Is fucking the gas that makes both of us go?
"I'll wash your back, Mom. Gimme."
She obeyed. Like a programmed robot, she dropped the soap into his outstretched hand, allowed him to turn her toward the spray. Again she closed her eyes, held her breath and waited for the boy's touch. It was impossible to fuck standing up in a tub, she told herself. And the afternoon with Jeanne and Sue must have tired the boy. He was just being her son now, being affectionate. His dick was raw and her cunt was raw, and sex, another incestuous union, was the furthest thing from his mind.
Davie's hands began to move down her back, spreading the soap, but pausing too long at the sides of her breasts, at her hips, at the outward curve of her buttocks. His lips touched her spine. She shivered, covered with goose bumps again, knowing what was going to happen-wanting it, not wanting it. Not sure what she wanted anymore.
"Boy-o-boy," whispered Davie. "All that fucking 'n' you still make me hard. Feel." He touched the tip of his stiffening prick to the tiny brown pocket low between the cheeks of her ass, dropped the soap and wrapped his arms around her. One hand splayed low on her belly-rubbing round and round, closer and closer to her abused pussy-he attacked her breasts, pinching first one nipple then the other between the thumb and forefinger.
"No! We c-can't, Davie. Not in the bathtub. Uh-uh, honey, not here." Her mind was fogged again, numb. The words were right but the reasoning was absurd. She knew they could fuck anywhere, any time. Even standing up, feet slipping, just so long as he could get it in. She felt the hand on her belly creep lower, fingers parting the hair on her bush. She gulped as one dart found her, slipped into her love nest. There was no stopping him now, she knew. Worse. There was no stopping her.
She turned suddenly, wrapped her wet arms around his neck and pressed the slippery length of her body to his. She closed her full thighs on his prick, held it tightly between her legs and kissed him wantonly on the lips. There was no sense in fighting the madness, no hope. Fucking was all that mattered. Asshole fucking and cunt fucking and mouth fucking. She wished that Steve was still there-two hard cocks. And more. All the lovely stiff cocks in the neighborhood, in the world. She wished heaven would rain cum from the sky and drown her in bliss.
One hand sunk deep in the crack of her ass, the other cupped at her breasts, Davie pumped his meat slowly in and out between her full mother-thighs. She felt the warm shaft grate across her raw cuntlips. She drew breath through clenched teeth ... it hurt so. But she was learning that pain was a part of sex, too, that her pussy reacted strangely to abuse. She had heard and read about women who thrived on such treatment, but never, not in her wildest dreams, had she thought of herself as such a woman. Now the pain licked her insides, seared the love bud of her clit. It was torture. Davie's meat was a brand, white-hot and leaving her bruised. But beneath the ache, behind the red haze of pain, there was a sensation that made her hips move, made her thighs remain tightly closed on the barb and made her agonized vulva itch for more.
Davie kissed her neck, then down. His teeth clamped tight on one nipple. "You oughta see Jeanne screw, Mom," he whispered. "Holy shit! I thought maybe she'd yell about a dick up 'er ass, but not Jeanne. She's got cupcakes back there 'n' a hole just made for good fucking." His finger found her closed asshole, twisted in.
"Tell ... tell me about it," Marta heard herself say.
"Later, Mom."
"Now!" she insisted, not knowing why but wanting more than anything to hear all the details.
Fingering her ass, cock still moving slowly in and out between her quivering thighs, mouth glued to one succulent tittie, Davie said, "She's somethin', Mom. Jeanne. First she helped me get Sue. Then, when I thought I couldn't go no more, when my prick started to get limp, she kissed it back hard. I'd been watchin' her ass-man! Those sweet little cheeks! So when she said it was her turn, sucked me up 'n' opened 'er legs all ready to screw, I said no. Not up front. I toll' her to roll over ... on 'er belly. I toll' her I wanted some ass. Man oh man, did I want some." He drove a second and third finger into her rectum to emphasize, pulled back and fucked the tip of his dick into her cunt.
Marta's legs threatened to buckle. She leaned back against the cool tiles, breathed in gasps. She held the boy's head to her breast, watched the water curl through his hair and down his back. "Did ... did she holler when ... when you p-put it in?"
"Hell no, Mom. Not Jeanne. She was a little reluctant at first, 'Up front,' she tol' me. But I wouldn't give in. I knew she wanted it bad. So bad you could smell 'er cunt all over the place. And fucking Sue! Jeanne had giggled when I first put it to Sue, and now it was Sue's turn. She helped me roll Jeanne over. She helped me open 'er cheeks 'n' set it in, right at Jeanne's hot asshole, with Jeanne all the time wiggling and making believe she wouldn't give there. Man! Did she ever give, though. It was a little bit tough getting the tip up 'er chute, but once it was up there-all snug 'n' warm 'n' ready to drive-you should've seen that ass go. Round 'n' round. Fucking Jeanne stopped talking 'bout up front, started sayin' yeah! She began to make noises like you, Mom ... ohs 'n' ahs. Then she got on 'er knees, all bent over, 'er pretty freckled butt high in the air an' sucking the rest of me in as if there were a plunger at the top of her asshole. Jesus! Turn aroun', Mom. Lemme show ya." His fingers popped from her chute. The glans of his cock inched further back, into the clump of hair at the mouth of her rectum.
"No, Davie, n-not there."
"Please, Mom. I love your ass ... even more than Jeanne's. Yours is bigger, 'n' soft. So fucking soft, Mom. Please lemme."
As if she had no will of her own, as if the spike humping at the tender outer muscles of her rectum were a key and she was a windup doll, Marta felt herself turning ... twisting slowly in her son's arms ... bringing her buttocks around to face him. She leaned her head against the wet tiles, felt the water run down her back and into the crack of her ass. She heard Davie groan. She heard herself answer the sound with a sigh. She felt him-first his hands at her waist, coaxing her hips further back, legs apart. Then his fingers testing her ass, using the soapsuds to moisten the tiny port. "Davie," she cried, the sound falling on her ears as if from a distance. A distance of fifteen years ... the wanton girl in the dresser mirror. "Oh, Davie, Babylove," she heard herself croon ... hips fucking back into the boy ... sphincters reaching to clasp him.
Setting his meat at the entry, Davie thrust. Marta gulped. It was so tight back there-tighter than the eye of a needle. She strained; she forced her sphincters to open. She felt him going in, in. She felt his hard cock spreading her cheeks, burning a path up her rear. She thought of Jeanne, became suddenly jealous of the twelve-year-old. Davie had said it was good....so, so good. She spread her feet wide, lowered her head and pressed back. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth and made her ass take him in. Then she panted and fucked, determined to be better than good. Better than any ass Davie would ever have.
CHAPTER SIX
Saturday was the day they usually spent puttering around outside the house, Davie trimming and weeding the lawn, doing uncomplicated repair work, occasionally replacing a picket in the fence the neighborhood kids loved to squeeze through, while she worked in the garden. It was usually a pleasant, easy-going day, with Gwen Damon coming out to water her rose bushes, and the two of them-Marta and Gwen-talking girl-talk, laughing and joking together. But this weekend was different. The street was the same, full of activity, the paperboy ringing bells and shouting "collecting!" The dogs up the block were barking, trying to get at the kids who raced by. It was a Saturday like every other she had spent in suburbia ... except that she knew she was different.
She watched Mr. and Mrs. Anderson paint their garage. She looked from them to the Snider home, where Sally and Bill were relaxing on lawn chairs. They waved. She waved back. But instead of feeling the warmth of the neighborhood, the heat of the sun and the friendliness, she felt shame.
She glanced at Davie-bare-chested, sweating, a twig dangling from the corner of his mouth. The feeling of shame grew stronger. She wondered how he could go on weeding the lawn as if absolutely nothing illicit had happened between them; how he could continue to work under the curious stares from the neighbors ... as if they were still merely mother and son. She knew it was silly of her, that sex, even their kind, didn't show. Yet she had the unshakable feeling that anyone who looked, anyone who studied her or the boy long enough, saw the veiled, intimate glances they exchanged, would know instantly. An incestuous pair! She stared hard at her son, trying to discern what he was thinking.
Davie too was having doubts, though of a different nature. He saw his mother watching him, thought Jeez! Mom is still sore about Jeanne and Sue. I should never have told her. He turned his back to her, continued to work and hum softly.
Gwen Damon stepped from the sun porch next door. "Hi, Marta, Davie," she called.
Marta moved to the row of hedges separating the two properties. She and Gwen exchanged amenities: a beautiful day; yes, the grass next door did need mowing, and Pamela Anderson was indeed putting on weight where it most showed in the tight slacks she wore. Davie listened to the casual girl-talk, thinking what cats women were. He wondered what Gwen would say if she knew about Steve and his mom, or about him and the twins. He supposed she would scream and cry. He supposed Gwen and his mother would fight, wrestle around like two fools-calling names, pulling hair. And he supposed he would like to see that, because Mom was all trim curves and silky blonde hair and Gwen was all darkness and plumpness. He stared speculatively at Steve Damon's wife ... at the crotch of her white shorts, where her puffy black pussy showed through just enough to give him a hardon ... at her tits, which were too big for the halter she wore, overflowing in two luscious mounds at the top. He supposed pretty Gwen Damon would be a great lay, and wondered what it would be like to have her and the twins all naked in the same bed.
Gwen sighed and smiled his way. "I've got iced tear in the frig ... Davie, Marta?"
He straightened, grinned back at her. He expanded his chest, made his arm and shoulder muscles ripple. Chicks liked that, he knew. And Gwen in particular liked it, he could see. He looked again from her to his mom, tried to gauge the latter's reaction.
"None for me," Marta said. "As a matter-of-fact-" she glanced at her watch, frowned. "My God, noontime already. I have to get to the market or we won't have any supper."
It was his turn to frown. Marta had smiled too sweetly, and was off toward the house before either he or Gwen could say anything more. He saw Gwen shrug, shake her head. He watched her big brown eyes settle once more on him, watched her pouting pink lower lip turn up at the comers. "Well, I'm so thirsty I could empty a well," she said. "How about you, little man?"
He puffed out his chest, approached the hedges. He looked down on the two swells of titties at the tip of the halter. "I'm not so little," he said.
"Oh?" Gwen's eyes opened wide, then narrowed. Her gaze swept down his body to where the shape of his half-hard cock formed a hose in his pantsleg. Her face reddened. She glanced back at his face as if burned. "I ... I think I'll get that iced tea," she said in a gravelly voice. "In the kitchen. You can wait here or...."
"I'll come in," offered Davie, heart thumping, dick already growing stiff. He thought about Steve and his mom. Was Steve fucking too much in the wrong pussy, leaving Gwen's hot hairy hole unattended? Was Gwen Damon one of the frustrated suburban housewives Masters and Johnson and Kinsey wrote books about? He was certain of it! He was so sure of the look in her eye, the hesitant wiggle of her buttocks as she turned and walked toward the house, that he was willing to bet his left ball-maybe both, his cock, too-that Gwen Damon's pussy was wet with the thought of fucking. He leaped the low hedges, followed her swishing ass to the screen door.
The house was cool inside, an . air-conditioner humming somewhere below. He watched Gwen lean into the refrigerator, just as Jeanne had done the afternoon before. "Where's the twins?" he asked.
"Tennis." Gwen looked back over her shoulders at him ... again just as Jeanne had done the afternoon before. It's like watching a TV rerun, thought Davie ... the ass wider this time ... the thighs heavier, more mature. His gaze settled on the deep crack between the two halves of behind. "Steve decided it was time they learned," he heard Gwen say above the roar in his head. "An instructor and everything. Steve says they'll be going to college soon, and that everyone at college plays tennis. He, Steve, was one of the best when he went to college."
"Is he any good now?" Davie asked brazenly. Gwen straightened, the pitcher of iced tea in her hand. "Well, he hasn't played in a while."
"I could tell that."
"Huh?"
He stepped forward, slammed the refrigerator door. He stepped closer still. Until the bulge of his cock touched the swell of her belly. Until Gwen-wide-eyed, speechless-retreated, the iced tea splashing over the rim of the pitcher and onto her shorts. He looked down at the spreading stain. It made the white material transparent, verifying that her pussy was indeed black. Blacker than anything. Fat and hairy and blacker than a piece of coal. "I could tell he hasn't played with you in a while," he choked, sure of himself now, sure of Gwen. "I bet he hasn't even done this!" He cupped his hand at her left tit, squeezed. "Or this!" He moved his free hand down over her belly, down the inside of one thigh, up the other. "Man! I bet he hasn't done any of that in a month, not to you."
"Wha ... whatta you mean, 'not to me?' "
Davie laughed. He had her, he knew. He had offered the bait and she had taken it, hook, line and sinker. Now she barely noticed what he was doing ... the hand on her pussy rubbing ... the one at her tits working the halter down. He heard her say stop that! but totally without anger ... submissively. Again she demanded to know what he had meant by the remark about Steve.
"I know someone he's screwin'," said Davie at last. "Yesterday. I saw 'im."
"That bastard!"' hissed Gwen. "Oh!" Her brown bedroom eyes flashed fire. The hand holding the pitcher trembled, the iced tea sloshing all over them and onto the floor. "Who, who was it?" she pressed. "I'll scratch out her eyes, the whore! I'll kill both of them, Davie. I will!"
Davie's fingers had found the legband of the shorts, had crept beneath and were weaving through her thick pussy.
"Stop that, Davie," Gwen yelped. "Tell me who um! Ummmm! Tell me who-ow! Ow! OWWWWW!"
His stink finger had found her fat cunthole,. was twisting in. The pitcher fell to the kitchen floor with a loud crash. "Davie don't!" Gwen gasped, hands flailing the air, as if she were trying to decide whether to hit him or wrap her arms around his neck. As if she had suddenly realized what he was doing, and now, the deed done, his fingers probing the most secret part of her, Steve, who he was fucking, no longer mattered.
Silently, Davie congratulated himself. It's easy once you know how, he thought. All cunts are alike. He yanked at the halter, bared Gwen's boobs. He pressed her back against the cool enamel of the refrigerator, lowered his mouth to one juicy brown nipple and jabbed his finger furiously in and out of her succulent cunthole. He shifted, centered his growing cock. The heel of his shoe came down on a fragment of broken glass from the pitcher, crushed it into slivers.
"The glass," whispered Gwen. "Let ah! Owah! L-Let me clean up the mess, Davie."
"Fuck the mess."
"But...."
"But shit! The only mess you're gonna clean up is the one I make down here." He tugged at the shorts until the seam gave; hooked his fingers at the crotch of the panties and ripped them off, too. "Take out my cock," he told her. "Hold it some, play with it."
"You ... you're terrible!" balked Gwen. "I ... I never even did th-that for Steve."
"Did what?" pressed Davie, guiding her hand to his fly.
"P-P-Played with his ... his...."
"Say it. Say dick! Say 'I never played with Steve's big hard cock but I'm gonna play with yours.' Say it, Gwen. Yeah! Oh, man. Take it ah! Ahhhhh! Take the fuckin' thing out 'n' tell me what ah! What um! Man oh man, Gwen. Tell me what it is 'n' what you want it to do."
Gwen rested her head on his chest and moaned. Her fingers crept shyly inside his pants, beneath the shorts to his manhood. The palm of her hand formed a soft warm cradle beneath his tense balls. "I ... I w-want to p-p-play with y-your prick," she said finally. "I ... I w-w-want to hold it before ... b-b-before...."
"Before what?" he asked, fingers digging deep in her cunthole and ass.
"B-Before you p-p-put it in. Oh, b-before we ah! Oh, Davie, I ... I like that. Um! UMMMMM! I ... I w-w-want to j-jerk you off before we ow! Ow, Dav-eeee...!" She repositioned her feet wide apart, leaned back against the refrigerator and squatted down on his probing fingers. "Ah. Ah, th-that's um! Um, good. I ... I want to s-see it 'n' hold it 'n' k-k-kiss it, Davie. Your big hard cock. Oh, yes. YES! I ... I want to do all the things I n-never did with Steve-suck you. Yes! I ... I want to p-put your dick in my mm-mouth before we screw-ewwwww!"
It was better than he had anticipated. His mother had sucked him off, but not all the way, and Jeanne had kissed and mouthed the tip of his rod. But never before had a woman propositioned him so bluntly. Never before had anyone-not even his mom, not the twins-come right out and said that they were going to eat him, suck his cock. He cupped his hand under Gwen's chin, lifted her face. Her eyes were glazed, staring unseeing into his. Her mouth hung open, spittle oozing from one corner. Her features changed each time his finer slipped from her slit, changed again-contorted, possessed by desire-when he fucked the dart back up her belly. She was some eager cunt, Gwen Damon was. She was hotter than Jeanne and Sue and his mom all put together.
"Jesus H. fucking Christ, let's go upstairs before I cum all over the kitchen." Without waiting for a reply, he took her hand and tugged her after him through the living room, to the stairway, up. Their shoes left wet stains on the hall carpet, but neither he nor Gwen seemed to notice. They were different people now, Gwen suddenly the uninhibited wanton all women dreamed about being but rarely dared, Davie the neighborhood stud, the satyr with the perpetual hardon that wanton women adored. Without words, with only his mighty stiff prick and her sopping wet pussy dictating the way, Davie led her to the bedroom, to the big bed, where less than twenty-four hours before he had taken the twins.
Gwen stood passively as he tugged the last sheds of clothing from her trembling limbs. She waited while he threw off his clothes. She fell willingly onto the bed, back. The only resistance came when he tried to mount her to screw.
"N-Not that way," she protested.
"Huh?" He had forgotten the promise she had made. Now he watched her little pink tongue flick out, moisten her lips. He groaned. A blowjob. Eagerly, he lay back on the mattress, took hold of her head and guided her mouth to the target.
"I ... I always wanted to," whispered Gwen, her breath hot, damp on his rod. "Ummm!" Lovingly, she took hold of the erectness of his throbbing cock, squeezed at the base. Her free hand cupped again at his balls, one finger wedged tight in the crack of his ass. Her tongue lashed out suddenly.
"Ah! Ahhhhh!" Davie's hips bucked at the gentle warm touch. He tightened his grip at the sides of her head, forced her open mouth flush with the bowed underside of his cock. "Oh, man. Suck it, Gwen. Eat my dick. Holy shit. Man! Eat me, Gwen. Eat!"
But Gwen needed no prompting. Before the last words were out of his mouth, hers was open, suspended at the knob of his rod, tongue flat along the shaft and drawing him in. She cooed as the glans disappeared into her face, held there for a moment, sucking noisily from deep in her throat. She ignored Davie's plea to take the rest in, took her time. It was as if she were the master now; as if Davie were only an object, a "thing" attached to the hot cock she was sucking. She went slowly, moving her lips in almost imperceptible little jerks down the length of his pulsating tool, making him gasp and strain upward, plead. Making it take what seemed like forever. Making it good, what Davie thought sure was the best blowjob ever.
When at last she had the length in her face, her nose flush with his coarse pubic hair, chin rolling softly from side to side on his nuts, Davie said, "Oh, man, now suck it, Gwen. Man oh man ... y-your mouth's so hot. Ah! Like a cunt. Better! Holy shit. I ... ar. Ar-arrrr! Man! Chrissakes, fucking suck. Ar! Suck it all, Gwen. Make your head go up and down. Um! Um-ummm! Like that. Oh, yeah. Do it, baby. SUCK!"
Gwen complied. She sucked as if her mouth were a blacksmith's fiery bellows, cheeks indrawn when he jabbed, puffed like a squirrel hoarding nuts when he withdrew. She fondled his cubes, toyed with the hair. Her finger tested his anus. She made loud hungry noises, like a little girl mouthing a delicious lollipop. An all-day sucker. Her teeth nipped gently, just right. Her tongue did a provocative dance, wetting the shaft when her head raised and cleaning it of her own spittle when she drew the full length back in to her tonsils.
It's heaven, thought Davie. He stared down at her, spread-eagled between his scissored legs. He watched her head bob. He watched her bump and grind her pussy into the mattress. He smelled her-the stink rich, wafting up in an invisible cloud from low in the valley slicing down her jiggling buttocks. His mouth filled suddenly with saliva. "Turn aroun'," he directed. "Up ah! Um! Up here, Gwen. Lemme suck you too, your cunt. Sixty-nine. Man oh man, get that hot pussy up here."
Clamping her teeth at the base of his cock so as not to lose it, Gwen spun quickly around. She straddled his face, knees wide at either side of his shoulders, ass high. Hot juice from her cunt dripped onto his chin. "Ea' meeee," she whimpered, sucking again, drawing his prick in to the hilt, spitting it out and gulping it down once more.
"Lower," croaked Davie, wanting her bush, the kinky midnight black hair, full in his face.
Gwen spread herself even more. Until the sloppy gash of her womanly cunt was within licking distance. Her clit popped like a red toadstool from the blood-engorged cuntal folds, jerked like a miniature prick about to be sheathed.
"Goddamn!" Davie stared fascinated into the breach. He supposed it was the most beautiful sight in the world, all hair and raw juicy snatch. Like the nebulae from which the universe was formed. Creation!
He went wild. Hands splayed at the top of her thighs, thumbs holding the outer lips of her wet cunt open, he spread her to the fullest. He looked with lidded eyes into the bright pinkness of her channel. It was almost purple inside. He drove his tongue deep, wondering if it was possible to lick all the way up into the darker mystery of her quivering fissure. He fucked his stiff throbbing cock into her face, nuts bouncing, thigh and stomach muscles tight. He felt her tongue swirl around the head of his manhood each time he retreated, felt it flatten along the shaft when he drove. Eagerly, he ate her lush cunthole, sucking deeply, savoring the tang and the heady woman smell. He buried his face in her kinky bush, nose in the puff of wiry hair at her anus, groaned and sighed and sobbed and humped himself brutally into the delectable wet warmth of her . willing voraciously sucking mouth.
Sucking a cunt was nothing like the books said, he decided. Nor was it repulsive, as some of the kids at school seemed to think. Gwen's cunt was delicious, the taste a mixture of stale piss and something close to orange rind. And the smell close to fish, but not fish, more the nose-tingling stink of the seashore after a storm, the beach saturated with strange things from deep in the ocean. A pussy was like that-deep and strange. But there was nothing strange about Gwen's sucking mouth, nor about the sudden increased movement in her hips. She was cumming, he knew; cumming and wanting him to pop, too.
He envisioned his mother's lovely gash, which he had sucked so wantonly but never like this. He thought of the twins. One bush almost red, with freckles like a haphazard roadmap leading to the pink slit. The other brown-black and just as appealing. It was hard to believe that only a few days before he had been a near-virgin. Now there was cunt all over the place. Cunt like Jeanne's freckles, without end.
But there was an end to everything good, he was to learn. This time it came in a mind-bogging charge of delight. It began when Gwen gurgled, "Owah. Now! Oh, now Davie, I'm cummmiiinnnggg," shot her face down and held tight with her teeth at the roots of his tool.
It was a cumload like none he had ever before experienced. He arched his back, humped. The cream pistoned off from the tip of his cock-buckets and buckets full, it seemed. Without end. He blubbered incoherently into the bush that he was sucking, drove a finger into Gwen's rectum and continued to fuck his hips upward into her face. Without end until the end came, and there was nothing but thick sticky woman love cream pouring into his throat and from the sides of the hot little mouth sucking him. Until Gwen lay exhausted atop him, and him beneath her ... the stink filling his nostrils ... the afterglow of orgasm making him weak.
Outside he heard a car back from a drive, pause and then race, tires squealing, away from the curb. Mom? he wondered. Had she been next door all the time? He frowned into Gwen's hairy hole. It seemed strange now ... there was plenty to eat in their freezer at home, no real need to go shopping. And the car. Had his mother suspected what he was up to? Had she tested him? She was jealous, he knew. She kept telling him it was sinful, that they shouldn't screw. But she wanted his dick for herself. No matter how often she protested, no matter what reason she used, fucking was as much a part of their life now as was the last name they shared.
He heard the car screech around the comer of the block, roar away. He heard Gwen's breathing-labored, hampered by the length of meat in her face. He felt suddenly evil, angry with Steve for yesterday afternoon, with Mom for letting Steve screw her, with the twins and with Gwen for no apparent reason. "It was my mother," he blurted impulsively into Gwen's pussy.
His dick popped wetly from her flushed face. Gwen lifted her hips, eyed him. "What was your mother?"
"In the car that just pulled away. And yesterday, her 'n' Steve. She's the one I told you about, the one Steve's fucking."
Gwen stared at if reluctant to believe him. She rolled away onto her side, sat up at the edge of the bed. "You ... y-your mother and my Steve?"
"Sure." Davie sat up close beside her, cupped his hand over one big-nippled tit. "I'm fucking her, too. Her 'n' Jeanne 'n' Sue. Man, everyone aroun' here has been fucking. Everyone except you."
CHAPTER SEVEN
She drove furiously, without caution or direction. Car horns honked indignation as she wove in and out of the traffic, vision blurred by tears, throat tight. There was no justification for the jealousy she felt, no reason for her to expect Davie to remain faithful to her. She knew that, just as she knew all the reasons why they shouldn't continue fucking each other. But logic had left her. Her mind was being ruled by emotion. The insatiable senseless drive of a bitch in heat.
"That's me," she told the tear-stained face in the rear-view mirror. "A bitch! Any time, anywhere."
A sign at the side of the road announced the freeway entrance ahead. Ignoring the 25-mile-per-hour ramp speed, she stomped down on the gas. The car lurched forward ... a YIELD warning ahead. She ignored that too, flew around the S-shaped curve and onto the highway.
Davie! she thought. What was he doing now-fucking Gwen Damon? Sucking her stinking cunt? She supposed there was no one to blame but herself. Her and Steve. She supposed she couldn't expect Davie to wait for her to finish fucking and take his turn, that he too was jealous, really loved her, and that he was putting it to Jeanne and Sue, and now Gwen, as a kind of revenge. She could understand that. But understanding was one thing and acceptance was quite another.
A flashing red dot drew her eye back to the rear-view mirror. She watched it grow larger, heard the faint wail of a siren: State Highway Patrol. She watched the lone blur at the wheel take the shape of a man as the car drew closer and closer, weaving in and out of traffic as she had done.
She felt suddenly daring. Ahead lay the country road turnoff that she had known as a girl, the way to the wooded area jokingly called "pussy hollow." How many back seats had she opened her legs on there? She tried to remember, couldn't, turned the car sharply, impulsively, into the turnoff. The big motor roared. The tires beneath her bounced over boulders half sunk in the ground, flung her against the seat belt, juggled her insides. Again she glanced at the rear-view mirror. The siren was no longer wailing, but the red flashing light was still there.
"Oh, dam, the end of a perfect day," she sobbed, wishing she hadn't left Davie and Gwen Damon alone; that she hadn't gotten into the car, hadn't used the vehicle's power as an outlet for sorrow and shame, and hadn't raced the patrol car. Ahead lay the narrow cutoff that led to the lake. One last chance of losing the trooper. She turned the comer of trees, nosed into the rutted road and pulled off to one side.
The two-tone police car whizzed by, as if having missed her. She breathed a sigh of relief. She closed her eyes and told herself that she had to stop this ... had to stop acting like a teenager ... had to stop giving in to Davie and Steve. She rested her head on the high bucket seat, listened to the faint rustling sound of the trees in the wind, the chirping of birds, the buzzing of insects. She wanted to sleep, to forget for a moment before going home.
"You're a pretty fair driver."
The deep voice startled her. She snapped her head toward the window, stared into the brass holster buckle the State Trooper wore. "I ... I...."
"You were doing a hundred 'n' ten when you came off that ramp," he supplied. "Pretty good. Enough to win you a trophy at the raceway, but this ain't the raceway. I'd say the judge is gonna suspend your driver's license for, oh...." he bent at the waist, leaned smiling into the car. "I'd say maybe three years."
Marta felt suddenly sick, like a little girl again, being scolded for having been naughty. "I ... I need my license," she said softly, inanely. "There ... there's only me and Davie, my little boy. My husband is dead-in Vietnam. I ... Davie depends on me. I ... I...." She could think of nothing persuasive to say, nothing that might dissuade the tall handsome trooper with teeth so white and eyes so gray and hypnotic that she couldn't help but wonder what he would say if she offered to pay the speeding ticket right there. With her body. With the mass of white-blonde curls between her trembling thighs. She stared sensuously into the unblinking, hypnotic, deep gray eyes.
"I think you had best get out your driver's license 'n' registration 'n' c'mon to my car."
"I ... I can't," she said, mind racing, searching for something feasible-a lie, a half-truth, anything that would arouse either passion or sympathy. She glanced down to where the hem of the mini sat high on her thigh, noticed the bruise from her session in the bathtub with Davie. She had yelled at the boy when she slipped, slamming into the hot water faucet. Now she was glad. "I ... I hurt my leg on the turn," she added coyly, rubbing the bruise. "I ... I don't think I can walk."
The trooper frowned. He stared skeptically down at the black and blue mark, at her bare thighs. "You did that just now?"
She nodded. She moved her legs slowly apart, smiled weakly. "I bruise easily," she said.
Clearing his throat, the trooper straightened and opened her door. "Better let me take a look at that." He squatted on his haunches, the tip of his holster brushing the dirt. Red-faced, still frowning and clearing his throat, he waited for her to turn in the seat.
Marta turned slowly. She lifted first one leg out of the car, then the other. Until she sat with her knees just below the tall trooper's chin ... thighs still slightly spread ... the hem of the mini barely hiding her already damp crotch.
"You, ah ... You don't wear pantyhose?"
And herself! she added mentally. A few weeks before, she wouldn't have considered what they were doing possible. She had thought of that part of her life-the French! The back-seat fucking-as being over, the girl she once was as being dead, buried beneath more than fifteen years of marriage. Fucking Steve in the same bed where her son was preparing to service two twelve-year-old girls, and while the mother of the girls looked on, instigated the action, would have been sacrilege before the night when Davie-her Davie, no matter who else he screwed-found her naked, sobbing, not knowing her own mind, and taught her anew how good fucking could be. She felt Steve's long veiny cock shoot hot creamy cum in her hole, listened to the banter at the foot of the bed, the joy with which the children were discovering one another's bodies as if for the first time, and wondered why people, the world, primarily clergymen, the church, were such pompous asses about sex.
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh." Steve fell heavily upon her, the last gobs of his load pouring off up her belly.
"Hey, Mom," hollered Davie. "Get done there, will you. I gotta fuck Sue-" he looked down at the girl, naked now, ready. They both laughed. "I gotta fuck her 'n' suck Jeanne, but if you get down here where I can reach...!" He held up one hand, wiggled his fingers.
"Uh-uh," she countered. "Did you forget your surprise?"
Steve eased his limp cock from her cunthole, rolled away. "What surprise?" he asked, looking curiously from Marta to the tangle of naked arms and legs at their feet.
"Oh, I love surprises," cooed Jeanne, clapping her hands, forgetting for the moment the two faces so close to her pussy, the burning need within. She stared expectantly back over her shoulder at Marta. She and the others waited for an explanation.
Rather than spoil it with words, Marta scurried to the foot of the bed, broke the children apart. They balked at first. Until she directed Sue onto her hands and knees at the center of the wide bed, positioned Davie behind. She sent Jeanne to the head of the bed, in the same position she had been in before, only this time it was her sister's face close to her bush. She urged Steve onto his knees up behind Jeanne, and Gwen, who had been watching it all with raised brows, to a stance that placed her buttocks on Jeanne's shoulders, midnight black bush in Steve's face. It was an impulsive extension of what she had had in mind-French! Six working together instead of the required three. She grinned into all the expectant faces, scurried again to the foot of the bed and dropped back ... mouth below Davie's dangling balls and the cock that was destined for Sue's little cunthole.
"This is French!" she gasped, excited by the sight above her face. "Your surprise, Davie. It ... it's the very best way I know to wish you happy birthday."
The boy stared down at her, frowned.
"Ohhhhh...!" She reached up, took hold of his dick and set the red tip at Sue's cunthole. Her hand cupped at his nuts, urged him forward, in. Sue yelped ecstatically as the glans disappeared into her little-girl love hole. "Now!" whispered Marta, craning her neck to reach Davie's balls with her tongue, flicking the livery wetness at his asshole.
"Arrrrrrr! Arr, Mooooommm." Bucking forward with each lash of Marta's tongue. Davie planted the entire length of his rod up Sue's quivering belly. He squatted down, presenting a better target for his mother's mouth.
Without any urging at all, Sue buried her face in Jeanne's eager bush, began to lick. Steve, behind Jeanne, croaked something unintelligible, set the knob of his stiffened prick at the girl's pinched asshole and began to fuck his way in. Gwen took hold of her husband's head, one hand at either side, sat back on Jeanne's shoulders and mashed her wet midnight black pussy into Steve's face.
The bed began to rock. Once again the room was filled with the sounds and the pungent odors of fucking. Marta's cunt ached-the only one not being ministered to. But it was a sacrifice she adored; she adored the acrid stink of her son's asshole, the aroma of Sue. She licked the boy's bouncing nuts, caught the drippings of twelve-year-old cuntjuice each time he pulled back to drive. She used one hand to open the halves of his muscular ass, exposing his sphincters. Her tongue settled there, made him leap forward, driving so hard Sue was thrown forward ... making Jeanne fuck her ass back onto the bit cock boring into her rectum, grinding Gwen's pussy even harder into Steve's lapping face. It was a love chain, she thought. Like a chain letter. There were six of them relaying the message, each one's orgasm depending upon the other.
Except her-darn it! Her gaze swept the bed, settled on the long metal belt buckle attached to the leather through the loops at the waist of Steve's pants. Impulsively she reached for it, yanked the belt from the loops.
"What're you ah! Um, Sue, wiggle. Wiggle, wiggle more." Davie watched her set the buckle with trembling fingers at the mouth of her cunthole, force it in. "Goddam! What the fuck're you doing with that, Mom?"
"Shhhh...!" she breathed hot on his cubes, into his anus. Her tongue once again quieted him, set the chain reaction in motion. Her fingers opened her slit, pushed the buckle all the way in. She shivered at the coldness of the metal. But it was hard, she told herself. Hard like a cock. And hardness .was what her agitated clit was demanding. She closed her thighs on the improvised implement of love, made her love bud move against it ... warming the metal ... making the cold brass compatible. It was indeed a sacrifice-there was nothing that could take the place of a cock. But the sounds of the boy fucking the young girl above her flushed face, the satisfaction she was giving, made it all worthwhile. She abandoned her son's nuts for a moment, licked the pink slit where his hard dick was stroking.
"Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh, M-M-Marta," Sue gasped, making Jeanne gasp, too.
It was a delicious feeling of power she held over the group, Marta mused. Each lash of her tongue sent a new thrill through five bodies. Her own body reacted to the metal sunk in her cunthole. She worked her bush on the belt, licked up one of Sue's swollen cuntlips, down the other to the roots of Davie's glistening rod. "Faster," she told him, Frenching his asshole again with her tongue. "Fuck her, Davie. Honey. Sweetheart. Fuck while I lick happy birthday."
Eagerly the boy obeyed, driving so hard, so furiously, that those at the head of the bed began to rock as if in a dingy on a turbulent sea. His cock flew in and out, bringing with it new gobs of love lubricant each time he withdrew, the stuff dripping down, splashing hotly in Marta's face, being sucked up by her willing tongue. Davie held tight to the little-girl hips gyrating against his abdomen, grunted and stroked. Jeanne held tight to her sister's ears, cooed and rubbed pussy into the face that was a mirror reflection of her own. Gwen sighed and chewed her lip, stared down past the tongue lapping her gash to the cock boring in and out, in and out, in and out and into a rectum so fiery good that Steve gasped repeatedly against her bush. Incestuous fucking-asshole fucking, cunt-fucking, face-fucking-was good, they agreed silently, telling one another so with body-language. There was nothing near as good. To hell with morals and what the clergymen said. To hell with everything!
Marta watched the action above her, listened to flesh slapping flesh. Sweat poured from every pore in her tense body. Her lungs felt constricted, clogged with the smells-pussy and asshole and cock. But her cunt had grown used to the metal, was working it now as if it actually were a stiff, awkwardly shaped hunk of manmeat. She closed her eyes, licked. She felt Davie's pink nuts slapping her face, demanding more tongue. She heard sounds, voices she could no longer distinguish They were one. A pile of bodies searching, reaching out for the ultimate thrill. The girls were panting receptacles, Davie and Steve the givers of bliss ... give and take. But soon they would all be takers, she knew. Soon the love liquids would flow, and everyone-Davie and Steve, Sue and Jeanne and Gwen ... her, too. Marta, remembering the time in the back seat of the car, the first French, the memory recalling the trooper, changing the belt buckle, making it the trooper's cock. Soon everyone would be cumming no longer gentle, intent upon self-gratification.
The best kind, she mused. Because selfishness was the prime motivator in sex, and it was that, not love, not all the silly intangibles people claimed, that made fucking good. It was selfishness, the need to feel the wonderful release of orgasm, that brought pussies and cocks together, made man and woman-mother and son, father and daughter-one.
"Happy birthday, sweetheart," she moaned hot on Davie's tense nuts."
"D-Don't talk, Mom," the boy groaned. "French me. My asshole. Lick it, Mom. Suck!"
"What about me?" breathed Sue. "Ahhhhhhhhhhh! Man oh man, you just ow! Oh, baby. You just keep makin' your little ass go round 'n' round." Davie moved his hands from her hips to the cheeks of her ass to emphasize. "Just keep on keepin' on!"
Marta laughed. "Keep on keeping on," she repeated, entranced by the simplicity of the statement. That was what they all must do, she realized, the last inkling of guilt, of shame, seeping away with the hot fluids pouring down onto her face. It was just like her Davie to put it so simply, so rightly.
Guilt? She recalled a cat she had owned as a girl, a litter of kittens. Had the little-boy cat felt any compunction about intercourse with its mother when it was grown? No! Only humans harbored such nonsense!
Shame? Did a mother feel shame when she had to open her legs for a newborn son to emerge from her pussy? Of course not! Then why shame when that same mother, that same infant son grown, relived the ceremony-her with her legs gaped wide again, him returning to the place of his birth?
"Arrrrrrrrrrrr!" Davie arched his back, fucked his rod in to the hilt and held.
"Oh, Jesus," yelled Steve, doing likewise.
The girls joined the chorus with sounds of their own, everyone approaching the moment of ultimate bliss. Six faces contorted with passion so strong that the bedsprings seemed to sing along with them, and the lamp on the bedside table seemed to flash.
Outside, the world, frustrated suburbia, continued on its misinformed way. Fathers wanting their daughters. Mothers wanting their sons. But Marta and Davie, Steve and Gwen and the twins had found peace. There was no shame involved, no guilt. There was just the beauty of awakening. The end of a birthday party, and a beginning.
"Uh-uh." She hated the things, preferred panties without stockings. Her legs were smooth enough, trim and appealing enough, to go unaided. She saw the approval in the young trooper's eyes. She reached for his hand, set it down over the bruise. The trooper coughed, said, "Listen, lady...!" She pressed his hand tight to her thigh. "I ... I need my driver's license," she said. "I ... I guess I'd do just about anything, anything at all, to ... to make you forget about that dumb speeding ticket." She leaned forward, face close to his. She moistened her lips with her tongue, inched the huge callused hand on her thigh further up. She felt the outer lips of her pussy growing fat, swelling. She told herself it was necessary, that she really did need her license, but at the back of her mind and at the pit of her belly she knew. It was fucking she really needed-the driver's license be damned!
"My car," the trooper objected. "I have to check in or they'll miss me."
"It won't take long." She eyed the gun, excited by the thought of being screwed by a man who lived daily with danger, just as she had been excited the first time with Dave, her late husband. Her gaze shot from the gun to the man's crotch. She sucked breath through her teeth. There was a gun barrel there, in his pantsleg, as long as the one in the holster and five times as fat around. She wanted to touch it, make it hard. She wanted to see it pop from his fly, stand straight. She wanted to feel it graze her thighs where the trooper's hand lay, brush against her soft willing flesh on its way to her hot pussy.
"Fucking Christ!" the trooper wheezed hoarsely, "this is the first goddamn time I've been offered this kind-a bribe." His hand moved up the inside of her thigh, hesitated a moment. "Speeding fines go a dollar-a-mile over the limit," he added.
She glanced up at the sky, calculating. "A hundred 'n' ten on a twenty-five-mile-an-hour ramp ... eight-five dollars," she said.
"Think it's worth that?"
"Try it, you'll like it," she joked, feeling good again, no longer concerned with Davie and Gwen, no longer at odds with herself. She opened her legs wide for his hand. It was strange ... it was as if there were a mechanical switch down there, the on-off button regulated by her budding clit. Like magic it brought her to life, banished hurt and doubt and jealousy. Like a soothing elixir it healed. She felt his hand down there now, tentatively testing the crotch of her panties, her slit. She closed her eyes and threw her head back, felt the hand grow bolder, fingers digging deep in the place where the nylon was sucked up her wet cunthole. Fucking is the life force, she thought, the prime motivator.
"I don't even know your name, lady," croaked the trooper.
"Does it matter?"
"I guess not."
"Then fuck me. Take off my clothes and stick that-" she opened her eyes, stared hotly down at the hose-like thing in his pants. She reached for it, squeezed. "Stick that big wonderful dick up my pussy."
The man groaned, stood and leaned again into the car. He forced her back over the console between the bucket seats, tugged at her panties. "Fuck all that taking off clothes," he growled. "I'm on duty, lady. This has to be quick."
How utterly unromantic, she wanted to say. But clothes on or not, shift handle digging painfully into her spine or whatever, she wanted his long steely prick up her belly. She thought of the gun at his hip, glanced down and saw it dangling between her gaped legs. She watched the holster swing as the trooper struggled to get his fly open. She saw his big veiny dick pop free, vie with the weapon for the limited space atop and between her lush thighs. What would happen if the gun went off? she wondered enrapt. Would it sear her down there? Burn all the lovely blonde fuzz off her vulva? Or would her maniacal cunthole, which seemed to be immune from all but momentary hurt, open and suck the deadly bullet in, too? Take the lead into her womb and transform it, make it as good as all the hard things that went in down there?
"Just move these a little, and...!" The man's cigar-like fingers pushed the nylon to one side, bared her gash. His dick-more than twelve inches, Marta estimated. The longest rod yet!-sought the target, parted the folds. "Go-od-damn. Sweet fucking Virgin Mary, that-at's good."
She knew what he meant. With just the glans at her cuntlips, wiggling to drive its way home, the sensation was breathtaking. She moved further down on the seat, unmindful of the awkward position, the pain from the shift console digging into her back, conscious only of the hard meat about to grind up her sheath. She listened again to the rustling of trees and bushes, the chirping of birds and the buzzing of insects. And above it the breathing-the labored grunts of a strong man embedding his tool in a pussy. It was a sound she adored almost as much as the last cry of orgasm.
She wiggled. Gripping the edge of the seat with one hand, she wrapped the other around the base of his veiny hardened cock. She tugged, trying to force him in. She humped her ass up to meet him, gasped and squealed. She watched the cylindrical meat disappear slowly into the hair and nylon, into the pink folds, between her vibrating thighs.
"Jesus mother!" The trooper pressed her back even further onto the shift console, made her wince. But then he pulled back, until only the tip of his rod remained in her cunthole, and jabbed so forcefully, with such unrestrained power, that the length of his prick shot like a jet-propelled missile into her gash.
Marta cried out in delight. She closed her eyes tight, chewed her lip, and listened to the faint sounds from the freeway. The sounds of the woods. The sounds of their furious fucking. She felt the big gun butting her thigh each time the man drove, the steel cold on her tender flesh. But the heat from his cock, the steam from the balls now cupped in her hand, more than compensated.
A yellow convertible sped by on the freeway overlooking the secluded back road, Steve Damon at the wheel, the twins-dressed in sweaty tennis outfits, flushed and content-flung like rag dolls, arms and legs comfortably askew, in the back seat. But Marta couldn't care less about Steve Damon at the moment. Nor was Davie, still at the Damon home, still naked with Gwen, concerned with thoughts of the twins. It was a day of fiery tempers and unleashed desire. In the parked car, bent far back over the center console, ass bucking, hips churning, cunthole nipping the trooper's mighty prick, Marta was learning that sex was indeed the solution to jealousy, shame and regret. In the house in suburbia Davie was learning it, too. And in the speeding convertible, Steve, whose innate incestuous desire for the twins had been suppressed for too many years, whose dick had been hard all afternoon from watching the girls ... Steve was experiencing the first self-chastising doubts of a father who found himself daydreaming about fucking his daughters.
"You shouldn't keep your legs open like that," he told Sue, eyeing her crotch in the rear-view mirror, noting the tiny dark curls peeking from the legband of the tennis suit. "You're not a kid anymore. You ... you're almost a ... a woman! You shouldn't sit aroun' showing your stuff like it was for sale."
"Maybe it is," countered Sue. She opened her legs even more, grinned. "You buying, Daddy?"
"Don't talk like that."
"Oh, Daddy," balked Jeanne, whose white tennis suit was tighter than Sue's, more revealing. "You've seen us naked already-don't you remember? Only last week, when you came in drunk 'n' staggered into our bedroom. Boy, you sure didn't tell us to close our legs that night! You'd probably still be there, in our bedroom, if Mom hadn't come."
Steve made no reply, stared straight ahead at the road. The car whizzed by the ramp where Marta and the trooper had sped off; the ramp that led to the road where they were fucking. Fucking so hard the car rocked and the sky seemed to be a strobe light above Marta's head. She panted and sighed, unmindful of Steve or Davie. She wiggled and cooed. She held the tall trooper's nuts in the palm of her hand, held his dick tight in her belly and waited breathlessly for the first hot blast of cream. Her sopping wet lovehole made loud sucking noises-like a plunger unclogging a sink. Her asshole opened and closed, opened and closed, opened and closed as if trying to capture the holstered gun swaying insanely between her scissored legs. It was the wildest screw ever, the most uninhibited, the blindest. She knew only sensation. The feel of his rod driving roughly in and out, the coarse material of his pants, the holster, chafing the upper inside of her thighs, and the brutal cigar-like fingers digging deep in the flesh of her ass, in the crack, in her asshole.
It was a day of awakening all around. The fourteen-year-old in Marta, the girl she had thought was buried, was coming to life. In Davie it was self-confidence, maturity where women and girls were concerned, that was being born. In Steve it was boldness, the overpowering desire that made him look at the girls in the mirror in spite of the self-chastising doubt. And in the trooper it was something uniquely perverse, something that made him gasp, "Lock it up, baby, lock it up tight," over and over again.
The car parked on the secluded dirt road rocked violently as Marta cried, "Do it. Oh, fuck me. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck meeeeeeee!"
The car on the freeway swerved as Jeanne turned in the back seat, and Steve, catching a glimpse of her plump ass-one succulent half-moon of flesh almost completely out of the tennis shorts-yanked at the wheel to avoid an oncoming truck.
And in the house in suburbia, Gwen, still absorbing the surprise information Davie had passed on, glancing from his grinning face to his limp cock, was trembling because the fingers that had been caressing her thigh back up her cunt. Back toying with her rigid clitoris. Back at the pinched crack of her ass, making her squirm in delight.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Suppose I did tell?" yelled Davie. "Gwen can't say nothin', not with all we did yesterday. Shit! If Steve's car hadn't pulled up in the drive, I'd prob'ly still be getting me some of that red hot pussy. Man oh man!"
It was ludicrous, thought Marta. Absolutely perverse. What kind of a boy had she raised? It was bad enough not being able to look herself straight in the eye in the mirror, now she wouldn't be able to face Steve or Gwen Damon. Was it her-was she old fashioned? Were all of the moral values of her age outmoded, passe? Was it in vogue to be fucking one's son, having afternoon sex with your next door neighbor's husband, and having it broadcast? She eyed Davie, silently pleading with him to tell her where they were going, where it would end.
"Shit, Mom," the boy said, "fucking Gwen would've found out, anyway. How long you think you 'n' Steve could screw in the afternoon without her catching wise? Man, if the twins hadn't bee so anxious to get me in the house the other day-at least Sue was, and Jeanne pretending not to be. Shit! If it hadn't been for me, they'd have seen the old man's car parked down the block. You were lucky is all." He flopped on the sofa, rolled onto his side and rested his chin in the cradle of one hand.
Marta paced. She knew the boy was watching her hips saunter in the tight leotards, watching the halves of her ass rub softly together. She knew he was thinking of fucking, and at the back of her mind, she had to admit, she was considering a good Sunday bout, too. But there were other things to be considered this day. Like Gwen. Would the woman become irate, try to scratch out her eyes? Or would she, as Davie had said before, think of it as a trade ... Davie's stiff cock for Steve's. It was a perplexing problem; it was a problem that brought the hot blood of shame to her cheeks, made her want to crawl into a hole and hide there forever.
She paused at the front window, stood staring out at the Damon lawn. The twins had set up a makeshift tennis net slung between trees, were practicing their backhand. Steve sat on the steps to the house.
"My God," she whispered.
"What's up, Mom?"
She ignored the boy, stared in awe at Steve's form-fitting Bermuda shorts. What was up was Steve's cock. She could see it even at that distance, could see the twins glancing his way, giggling between themselves each time they approached the makeshift net. It was obvious what Steve had in mind, and just as obvious that the girls knew it, too. But instead of being indignant, being outraged by the thought of a father who wanted to plant cum in their hot little love holes, they seemed pleased. Pleased and excited. Willing. Leaping about like two does, lifting their legs much too high, bending over too often, their sweet little butts toward the stoop. Was she the one being childish? she wondered. Was sex, even incestuous sex, that open, that acceptable, even on Sunday?
Davie joined her at the window. He watched Jeanne chase the tennis ball, bend at the waist to retrieve it. "Man oh man!" His hand touched Marta's ass, cupped one tender buttock and kneaded.
"Did ... d-d-did the twins say anything to you about ... a-a-about t-their father ever trying ... I mean ... well...." She simply couldn't make herself ask the question. In spite of all they had done together throughout the past week, she was unable to say such things to Davie.
"You mean about fucking? Steve 'n' the twins?" the boy offered bluntly.
She nodded once, the mere thought of Steve's magnificent cock slipping incestuously into one or both of the twins made her throat dry. She felt the small eager hand on her ass, so much smaller than the trooper's, than Steve's. She felt it and wondered what would have happened if Davie had been born a girl, and Dave Sr., whose appetite for sex was like the thirst of a man in the desert, had come home on leave with a hardon to find that she wasn't there. Would he-as Steve Damon seemed to be contemplating-have fucked his own daughter? Which of the two was the stronger: religious and moral upbringing, or the forbidden unconscious drive?
"They never said about actually fucking," Davie said softly. His fingers traced the seam down the back of the tight leotards, down between the cheeks of her ass to the swell of her cuntlips. He tested the damp indentation where the nylon sat wedged in her slit. "But Jeanne mentioned this one night Steve was drunk, went in their room 'n' fell on the bed 'n' started to grab 'em. 'Give daddy a kiss,' he said. 'C'mon, honey.' Jeanne said Sue was scared. But not Jeanne. She said she thought it was cute, Steve all hotsy 'n' shit. She said she didn't mind when he pressed her down on the pillows, kissed 'er 'n' rubbed his big hardon against her bare thigh. She said she thought he might've that night-fucked 'er, I mean. Only then Gwen came in, made Steve leave, 'n' Jeanne 'n' Sue spent the rest of the night talking about what they'd do if it happened again."
Marta knew dam well what the twins would do. They were doing it now. Enticing Steve, making his dick grow and grow. She supposed that from where they stood, opposite the Damon front steps, they could see the fat red bulb up the side of his pantsleg. Her pussy twitched. She could almost feel that pear-shaped bulb fucking like a torpedo up into her belly.
Davie nuzzled her neck. "Your ass feels 'specially good today," he whispered. "How's about it, Mom. Let's go back to bed. Nobody gets up this early on Sunday."
"The twins did," said Marta.
"Fuck 'em!"
That was exactly what Steve was planning to do, she was certain. She wondered where Gwen was hiding. She allowed Davie to take her hand, tug her toward the big bedroom, all the time wondering what would happen when the tennis game was over on the front lawn next door, and the girls, hot and sticky from the fiery midmorning sun, went into the house to shower.
Pretty soon now, mused Steve. Pretty soon the girls would be exhausted. They would race to the recreation room in the basement, throw off their clothes and leap into the shower. He would follow, pretend to be keeping a fatherly eye on them, making sure they didn't create too much racket, complied with Gwen's wishes. Gwen had been acting strangely. But she had taken a sleeping pill early that morning, and now she was dead to the world and had left instructions not to be awakened till noon. Hotly he eyed his twin daughters, his prick throbbing, the skin on his balls so tight he thought sure they would burst if Jeanne bent over just once more.
"I'm bushed," bellowed Sue. She flopped on the grass, legs wide. Again Steve saw the short dark curls of her pussy peeking from the legband of the white tennis suit.
Jeanne dropped her tennis racket and ran toward the house. "Last one into the shower is an old maid."
"Hey!" Sue scrambled to her feet, raced after her sister with barely a backward glance at Steve. Both girls disappeared around the side of the house.
Steve felt bloated with cum. He stood, had to grab hold of the stoop railing to keep from falling. His legs were made of Jell-O. His stomach was as tight as the skin on his balls, and his prick stood straight out. Afraid someone would see and suspect, horrified by what he intended to do but nonetheless determined, he hurried down the front steps and after the girls.
"No fair," Sue was yelling as he stepped into the cellar and saw Jeanne's naked behind disappear into the bathroom.
"Last one in's a fat bull dyke," Jeanne countered.
"Quiet!" he snapped, trying to look the part of the benevolent parent, but so taken by the sight of Sue-half in, half out of the white tennis outfit, small big-nippled titties bare-that he stepped automatically forward, wanting to reach out and take the two creamy mounds in his hands. His own daughter. God help him, he wanted to ram his stiff cock up her hot little hole.
Sue glanced down at his shorts. "You shouldn't be in here, Daddy," she balked. "Not like that!"
"Like what?" Jeanne's sweet little head appeared around the side of the bathroom door. She followed Sue's gaze, giggled. "Better cover your boobs," she added, speaking to Sue. "Daddy's horny again, like last week. Only this time he isn't drunk 'n' Mom's upstairs sleeping."
As if she had forgotten her partial nudity, Sue quickly lifted the top of the tennis outfit, held it clutched to her breasts. She pouted. She looked from Jeanne's grinning face to her father's pantsleg. "Oh, no," she hollered. "I let you make me do it with Davie, but Daddy's not putting that big thing in meeee."
Steve blinked. "Davie? Davie next door? Wha ... what's this about Davie?"
Jeanne disappeared back into the bathroom, turned on the shower. Sue quickly followed, leaving him standing there agape. "My fucking God, Davie," he said aloud. And all the time he had been thinking his daughters were virgins-innocent! He was suddenly furious, partially because he still thought of himself as a beast, a man without conscience or shame, determined to fuck his own daughters, but mostly because a fifteen-year-old had beaten him to the prizes. He stormed after the girls, threw open the bathroom door and strode to the shower.
Jeanne held the soap clutched to her belly, the suds running down, forming foamy rivulets through the hair on her pussy. Sue stood behind her, hand raised, suspended in the process of brushing a wet wisp of hair from her brow. They opened their mouths in unison, as if about to protest. He stopped them. "What the fuck is this about Davie?" he bellowed, not really caring now that he saw the girls naked, but using the information as a legitimate excuse to be there.
Jeanne scowled. "Don't be dumb, Daddy. We're not kids anymore, you said so yourself yesterday."
"Yeah," agreed Sue, though much more timidly.
Looking from one to the other, noting the pinkness of Jeanne's nipples, the tautness of Sue's, Steve tried to think of something to say. No words came. He had indeed said that they were no longer kids, had meant they were ready for fucking. And they were, he saw now. Their titties were small, still growing, would fill out and become pear-shaped under the constant caress of a man. But their hips were flared; their pussies were lush with coarse hair, and their thighs-slightly parted as they stood motionless under the fine spray of the shower-were already full, tapering down into calves that were made to be wrapped around a lover's waist. His cock almost burned through the shorts. His hands trembled. He wanted them, both of them, both at once, more than he had ever wanted a woman.
As if having read his thoughts, Jeanne extended her hand, said, "C'mon, Daddy. Take a shower with us. Take off your-" she glanced down at his pulsing tool-"shorts 'n' get in. There's room for three." She looked at Sue, who nodded, stepped further back in the small shower enclosure.
Embarrassed in spite of his incestuous intent, but unable to resist the sweet invitation-thankful for it-Steve stripped. He looked from one lovely young daughter to the other, gauging reactions, noting the way Sue's eyes widened when his hard dick sprang free, the way Jeanne's tongue flicked out to moisten her Ups. He was going to have them, he thought jubilantly-which one first? He was going to part the young curls on both tiny pussies, drive his rod home, cum. Again and again he would shoot. He would fuck them and suck them, maybe both at the same time, and piss cream all over the place. He took Jeanne's small hand, stepped into the shower under the spray and pulled the door closed.
It was crowded. So much so that every movement meant contact. And every contact made his hard dick leap. And every leap made Sue and Jeanne giggle. Until finally he asked what was funny, and both girls pointed.
"It ... it needs washing," he said.
The twins hesitated, glanced wide-eyed at one another. They both stared at him.
"A little soap," he continued. "You ... you said you weren't kids anymore, and women ... well, women do those kinds of things for a man." He wrapped his hand around the base of his rod and offered it. With his free hand he took hold of Sue's arm, turned her so that her little wet bush was within inches of the stiff bloated monster. "You do it, Sue," he added. "Do it for Daddy."
"Go ahead, Sue," Jeanne prompted. "It won't bite. I'd do it myself but you're in the way."
Heart racing, head spinning, the warm spray like ice on his skin, Steve watched Sue's hand move tentatively forward. He captured her wrist, made her touch him. He forced a smile as her lovely young fingers closed on the shaft, tightened. "A little soap now," he croaked. He waited for Jeanne-all goggle-eyed with wonder-to thrust the bar at her sister, added, "Rub it in good, sweetheart. Wash me down there. My balls, too." The first stroke, Sue working the soap on his cock, made him want to die. He thought sure he would cum. He cautioned himself not to, not wanting to frighten the girl. Wanting her to get used to the feel of him, the bigness and stiffness, before they went further. He watched her eyes go lidded, watched Jeanne watching them. It was going to happen, a small eager voice cried inside his head. What he had dreamed about since the twins first sprouted titties, since he had seen the first signs of hair on their cunts, their hips and asses fill out, was going to take place today. In a moment. Just as soon as the girls became so engrossed with his tool that they forgot completely who he was, began to see him only as a man. A man with a prick so big and hard that they became breathless. A man with balls so wrinkled and hairy that their minds were thrown back to the caves, and the thin veneer of tens of thousands of years disappeared and left them wanton-she-beasts! Cunts that thought only of screwing.
"It ... it's so big," breathed Sue. She looked into his eyes. "Does ... doesn't it h-hurt when ... when you p-put it into a woman?"
"Don't be dumb," interrupted Jeanne, "it's not that big." Her hand came down close to Sue's on his pulsing rod, squeezed. "Ummmm. Just right. I bet it wouldn't hurt at all going up, right, Daddy?" He was ecstatic, overwhelmed by the ease with which they were progressing. He fucked his hips tentatively forward, making his meat slide in and out of both lovely palms. "It ... it's made to go up a pussy," he said laboriously. "Like you said, Jeanne ... just right! It'll go up you like a hot knife through butter. Right up here!" Quickly, before she could back away, he thrust his hand into Jeanne's wet bush.
"Ow! Ow! Ow, Daddy, d-d-d-do-on't!" The girl clawed at his thick wrist, apparently frightened by the suddenness of the maneuver. But her hand remained on his cock, rubbing, stroking back and forth along with Sue.
It was time for another tactic, he decided. He thought for a moment, said, "I guess you're still a kid after all. A little finger...." He twisted his stink finger up Jeanne's lovely tight slit. "Christ! What the fuck would you do if a man-a real man, not a punk kid like Davie. What the fuck would you do if a man really showed you what sex is all about?" His free hand dropped to Sue's rounded ass, sought the crack. He had them, he knew. He could see it in their eyes. He had found the vulnerable spot, the child-like wish to be grown, to be considered an adult.
"I ... I...." Jeanne stopped wrestling his hand, f let him fuck the finger the rest of the way up her belly. "Owah, Daddy. Ow! Ow! Owwwwww!"
Sue stared amazed at her sister, then down at his cock. Again she looked into his eyes. "Do me, Daddy," she whispered. "Stick your finger up my pussy. From ... f-from behind. I ... I like it that way." She bent forward, squatted down on the fingers probing low in the crack of her ass. "Ummmm! S-Shove it in, Daddy. I ... I'm not a kid, honest. I won't yell."
It was the most delightful scene of his life. Without hesitation, knowing there was no need for caution now, he twisted first one, then two and three fingers up Sue's little gash. Her gasp drove him wild. The twin hands on his meat threatened to stop his heart. Any moment now, he thought feverishly, again wondering which of the minxes would be the prize-the one to receive the first, the mightiest cumload. He felt Sue's buttocks go tight against his wrist and forearm, considered turning her toward him, plowing her that way, from behind. He felt Jeanne's hot inner channel nip the tip of his finger, contemplated the possibility of holding her cheeks in his hands, bracing her back against the wall and ramming her that way. The variations raced through his mind, made him drunk with desire. He settled on Sue.
"Wha ...?" The girl stared back over her shoulder as he spun her around.
"I'll show you it's not too big," he told her, pushing both hands away from his tool, slipping his fingers from both lovely twats and placing his hands on Sue's hips. "Bend over some more," he directed. "So Daddy can show you. The way you like it, sweetheart. From behind."
Hesitantly Sue complied. "Are ... are you sure it won't hurt?" she asked in a small frightened voice.
"Not if you help. Not-" Steve set the glans of his rod at the mouth of her little-girl pussy, churned his hips slightly forward-"if you wiggle back, make it go in. Move your ass. Um! Like that, baby. Wiggle. Fuck back onto Daddy 'n' it'll be good."
"Lemme watch." Jeanne squatted, face close to the action. Her mouth hung open, pink tongue lolling. One tiny hand dropped between her legs, cupped at her bush. She was finger-fucking herself, Steve realized. She was so worked up by the sight of his dick entering Sue that she had to have something, anything, up her own hot hairy hole.
Bracing himself, feet wide apart for balance, fingers digging deep in the tender white flesh of Sue's hips, he fucked slowly but insistently forward. The glans of his cock disappeared into the lovely pink pussy folds.
"Ohah, Daddy, it ... it ow! It eeeee ... Go slow, Daddy. Not all at once. Not oh! OHHHHH!"
There was no patience left in his nuts, in his half sheathed rod. The cum was already inching up from his sacs, demanding the den high in Sue's clinging channel. He pulled back, tightened his grip on her hips. He waited until her cuntlips relaxed, then drove with all the force in his loins. Drove as if his cock were a spike going into a board. Drove so hard Sue lurched forward, butting her head on the tiles and yelling as if someone had stuck a sword through her middle.
"Umummmm." Jeanne pressed her face closer, ogling the incestuous union. One hand still working wantonly between her own legs, she reached up with the other, ran one small finger lovingly around the roots of Steve's embedded cock, over Sue's stretched cuntlips. The water from the shower plastered the hair to her head. She was a pixie. All staring eyes and glistening lips and envious sighs.
Sue, on the other hand, was all whimpers and moans. "D-D-Don't push, Daddy," she breathed, spitting water. "N-Not yet. L-Lemme oh! Ohhh! L-L-Lemme g-get used to it first. It owahah! It's so big, I don't care what Jeanne says."
Steve nodded, unable to speak. He was content to let his dick bask in the warmth for the moment. He stared down at the lush little buttocks flush with his cockhair. He moved his hands from her hips to the melons, kneaded the softness, the slippery, unblemished flesh that had been formed from the cum in his cubes. It was unbelievable that he could have contributed to create such sweet beauty-more so that he should be fucking it. But he was, there was no denying that. There was no denying the sight of the little-girl pussy curls surrounding the base of his tool, the nipping cunt muscles caressing the glans of his manhood. And there was nothing so good as screwing a young girl, he decided. Gwen was okay. Marta, too. But fucking Sue, even standing motionless, prick sucking up her young cunny, was like discovering sex for the first time all over again.
Tentatively he pulled back, letting his dick slip slowly, maddeningly from its tight niche. Sue sucked breath through clenched teeth. "Easy, honey," he soothed. "Daddy won't hurt you-not a chance! Just ah...." The glans of his cock slipped all the way out, but was immediately reset by Jeanne. "Just press back a little, Sue, baby. A little. Um! Help ah! Ohahhhhh!" The hot tightness gripped him, drew his prick once again up into the forbidden pocket. "J-Just fuck your hips some. Wiggle for Daddy. Be a good girl 'n' screw."
Sue tried to obey. But the size of his rod was indeed awesome, and although her outer cuntlips accepted him readily, welcomed the bigness, the fatness around, the walls of her tight upper channel constricted, recoiling in pain each time he fucked home. "It ... oh, Daddy, it hur-urts!" she wailed at last.
"Oh, for cripes sakes," balked Jeanne. "If you can't do it, let meeeee."
"NO-OW! " countered Sue irrationally. "It ... ow-ow-ow! I ohah! It hurt a little with Davie at first, too. I ... oh, ah, ah, ummmph!" She leaned away from Steve, so that his dick slipped out to the glans once more, then pressed back. It went in with less effort this time, her close vaginal passage wet now, lubricated, hot with sticky love juice. "I ... I g-g-guess it doesn't hurt th-that much," she added. "N-Not enough to-ow-Owah, owah, D-D-Daddy. It d-d-doesn't hurt enough to m-make me stop. Um! Ummmmm...! You ... y-y-you can push now, Daddy. Push!"
Steve pushed. Groaning from deep in his chest, the sound caused by the tingling electric like thrill beginning to nip at his sacs, at the sensitive tip of his planted rod, he held the girl's lovely ass in his hands and began fucking in earnest. He watched Jeanne's tits bob in time to the finger sliding in and out of her cunthole. He felt the water on his face, on his chest, watched it run down Sue's back and into the crack up her trembling behind. He felt it trickling down off his cock and onto the inquisitive fingers-Jeanne's slender young fingers-following every jab, as if the other girl, Sue's twin, his other daughter, were taping the screw in her mind, storing it. As if she might be rehearsing for her turn.
Her turn! he thought, cock almost ready to explode. Was it actually happening? Was his prick really in Sue, the daughter he had longed for so long, or was this merely another late-night dream that would end with him waking to find his dick hard?
But it was daytime! he reminded himself. He could see the bright sunlight pouring in through the cellar windows beyond the closed shower door. And they were indeed committing the ultimate sin, the unmentionable act of incest. For if they were not, if this was merely a dream, he never-absolutely never-wanted to awaken.
"Oh, Daddy-oh! OHHHHH!" Sue staggered, her legs suddenly weak. "Da-da-da-da-da-deeeeee!"
Cuming! thought Steve. The girl was about to experience her first stand-up orgasm; a sensation so strong, so overpowering, that he had to support her weight, hold her up by the cheeks of the ass, to keep her from falling. But that was no problem. He was cuming, too, legs and arms tense, full of strength, able to support the entire house if necessary. He pulled back and jabbed, making it good for the girl, thinking ahead to the time when he would want her again and giving her something that wouldn't be forgotten. Making it good for himself, too. He retreated and drove, retreated and drove, retreated and drove. Until the first gob of jism sprang from his gyrating loins, made him hold at the hilt, the glans of his dick pulsing high in Sue's twelve-year-old belly, spitting searing cream, making her whimper and gulp, making him want to shout with delight, making Jeanne coo and blubber, still feeling and looking, reminding him through her actions that her turn was coming up next, and that whatever he did, no matter how good it was, he mustn't let his big dick go limp. Telling him with her fingers and stares to save some for her.
The cum poured like hot lava from his dick, seeped down and out of Sue's sheath, bathing his balls, wetting Jeanne's curious fingers. He grunted and stabbed. He fell forward onto Sue's back, his legs weak now. "Wiggle, honey," he sobbed, the orgasm so good he wanted to cry, wanted to make it last forever. "Fuck your sweet daughter-ass back into Daddy, baby. Screw! Hump! Fuck for ... ohhhhh! OH! OH! OHHHHH, HO-NEEEEEE...." Fuck for your Daddy like you never fucked before."
It lasted until his dick had gone dry, and Sue's little cunthole, sore, raw from the friction of fucking, began to close up once more. "T-Take it out now, Daddy," the girl said. "It was good, but...!"
He relented. Straightening, still unable to make his legs stop shaking, he glanced down, pulled slowly back and watched his glistening rod pop from the girl's sloppy wet cuntal lips. But he had barely gotten it out when Jeanne's hot little hand closed on the monster, made it leap back to life. His one hand still on Sue's cuddly ass, he offered the other to Jeanne. She took it, stood. She stood so close that he could feel the hair on her pussy-lighter in color than Sue's, fuller, too, it seemed-against his thigh. He relinquished his grip on Sue's bottom, placed his hand on the other girl's tit. He looked deep in her eyes. There was a smoldering fire there. Passion so strong, so overpowering, that he knew she would be the better screw of the two. The wilder. The more intense and compliant.
"My turn, Daddy?" she asked.
"Your turn," he agreed.
"How?"
He thought for a moment, eyed the comer of the shower stall. "Move back," he directed, speaking to Sue and steering Jeanne toward the spot where the two walls came together.
"Oh, Daddy," cooed Jeanne, apparently having guessed at what he had in mind.
Steve felt the girl's tiny arms tighten around his shoulders, felt her knee come up and rub sensuously against the side of his thigh. Pressing her into the corner, he reached down, cupped his hands beneath the cheeks of her succulent ass. "Sit in my hands," he told her. "Rest your weight there 'n' put your legs around my waist."
Wheezing, Jeanne did as he had directed. She raised first one leg then the other, locked her ankles high on his waist. Her bush brushed the knob of his cock. She yelped, used the arms at his neck and the hold at his waist to raise herself into position, dripping cunthole gaped wide for the entry. "Do it now, Daddy," she urged. "Now! Shove it in!"
And then he was fucking again, Sue looking on this time. Another young cunt was closing around his stiff cock, and it was so wonderful, so completely hot and tight and good that he no longer thought about incest, no longer cared. He held Jeanne's small wiggling ass, ground the length of his tool up her round belly and thought, if incest was sinful he would continue to sin, even if he was cast into Hell after the next magnificent cumload.
CHAPTER NINE
Davie dressed hurriedly, already late for school, knowing Miss four-eyed Bindhammer would have plenty to say, probably keep him after class. He hated Monday morning. Invariably it was a day of convincing himself all over again that school was necessary, and that no matter how many other better things there were to do-like mother and the twins and Gwen, and adding more to the growing number of sexual conquests-the world was such that he needed an education. He shoved his feet into his shoes, sat at the edge of the bed to tie the laces. Grumbling, he stood. He wished he could spend his whole life doing nothing but fucking.
Books in hand, hair mussed and sleep still clouding his eyes, he strode from the bedroom. Marta's door was ajar. He stopped for a moment, peered in. She was still lying the way he had left her. Naked, one leg cocked, the blonde hair on her pussy disappearing into the exquisite darkness between her full mother thighs. He wanted to throw off his clothes, forget about what was necessary and think only of her.
He forced his legs forward, pried himself from the door, down the hall and out of the house.
"Hi, Davie." Two musical voices in unison.
He stopped at the mouth of the drive, turned in time to see Sue and Jeanne hop like matched pink and white bunnies from the Damon back door. His gaze leaped from one mini outfit to the other. It was still hard to decide which of the girls was the prettier, the more appealing. He waited for them to catch up. He looked down, eyed the dark pantyhose Jeanne wore, followed the sheen to the hem of her yellow dress, looked down again and followed Sue's lighter hued hose to a knit that clung like skin to her flared hips and trim upper thighs. He cleared his throat, said, "If them fuckin' things got any shorter...!"
Shyly Sue closed her legs. "Don't be so smart, Davie. We have something to tell you, but if you're gonna act like that...!"
He looked from one to the other, frowned. Was he missing something? Had something significant happened that he should know about? He recalled how his mother had stared out the window the day before, remembered the white tennis outfits, and Steve on the steps, and what she had said about the girls and Steve's hardon. His brows shot up. He looked Jeanne full in the eyes, appealing to her.
"It's Daddy," she said. "He ... well, you know. Yesterday. In the shower downstairs."
"Holy shit!" Davie's gaze shot from the girls to the closed blinds on the Damon bedroom window.
He thought he saw one slat move slightly. Was Steve watching? he wondered. It was getting very complicated, he had to admit. Steve screwing his mother, yet giving him dirty looks because of the girls, what he suspected, probably knew for sure now; him, Davie, fucking Gwen, who was mad at his mother because of what he had told her; his mother jealous of him getting it from Gwen and the twins, and the twins spreading their legs for everyone, it seemed.
The twins started to walk. "Hey!" he yelled, perplexed, wondering if there was a solution, a way to pacify all. "Ain't you gonna tell me? About Steve, your ole man?"
"We're late," called Sue, waving him after them.
"On the way," added Jeanne.
Quickly he followed. But at the front of the house, he couldn't help but glance back at the Damon bedroom window; couldn't help but see the blind move again; and couldn't help but wonder what was going on in the mind of the man he knew was watching them from hiding.
Steve's mind was a muddle. He wanted the girls, intended to have them again, yet was outraged, an irate father, because of the boy glancing up at the bedroom window. And Marta. He wanted her, too, yet was turned off by the thought of her giving herself to the boy, even though he was doing the same evil thing with the twins. He had never before faced such an intricate problem, had never known such indecision. What to do, what ... to ... do?
He watched until Davie and the girls had turned the comer at the end of the block. He grunted, let the blind fall back into place. Turning, he faced the rumpled bed. Gwen was a shapeless lump under the covers. What would she think of all this? he wondered, recalling how she had fought the first time he took her in the back seat of a car, and how, even after they had been married for years, sex was a pastime she enjoyed but never mentioned or instigated. She would go straight through the roof if she knew what was going on right under her nose, he felt certain.
He returned to the bed, kicked off his slippers and sat. Fuck work! he decided. There were too many things on his mind, too much to be solved.
He thought again of the first time with Gwen. It had been good with her. So good, in fact, that he had ignored all the others for years. Until Marta; Marta was too attractive, too available to be ignored. But Gwen had been good and still was. It made his cock hard just thinking about that first time.
He leaned over the lump in the bedding. "Gwen? You awake? I decided to stay home today."
Gwen snuffled. She flinched away from the hand kneading her ass through the covers.
Steve's dick got harder. "We haven't fucked first thing in the morning for years," he whispered into her ear. "What say we give it a try? C'mon, honey, wake up. Kick off those covers 'n' give me some pussy."
"Let me be!"
Angrily he threw off the covers, grabbed her bare bottom. He took hold of her wrist, forced her hand into the open fly of his shorts. Mentally he compared her to Marta. How different they were. Gwen was good once you got her started, Marta never stopped. His fingers found his wife's midnight black pussy, dug in. "Stop fucking whining 'n' give," he argued.
Gwen sighed and rolled onto her back, stared blankly up at him. She opened her legs wide, but completely without passion, without consent.
"What the fuck's eating you?" he growled.
She made no reply, continued to stare blankly. It made him evil; it made him want to hurt her. He envisioned Marta. It was easy to imagine her reaction if he were lying beside her in his shorts, her with legs spread, pussy bare, him asking for some. He need only walk across the drive separating the two houses, knock on the door. But his dick was hard now. And Gwen was his wife, and was almost as good as Marta once the staidness was stripped away and she forgot about morals and remembered that she was a woman.
He kicked the shorts off, scurried between her gaping thighs and set his prick at her cunthole. Without foreplay, without pausing to wet her down there, he forced the tip in, watched with satisfaction as she bit down hard on her full lower lip and squirmed beneath him. "Bitch!" he breathed hot in her face. "You like it this way. You always did dig being raped."
"No."
"My fuckin' ass, no." He drove again, enjoying it when she winced. He pulled back and drove harder, planting half the length of his cock up her dry channel. He watched her expression change, go from dead-pan to wonder to lust. "That's better," he told her, humping again, feeling the folds give, begin to moisten.
"You ... you rotten bastard fuck," she gasped. Her hips bucked. Her ass began to go slowly, almost imperceptibly round and round. Her nipples stood tall. Her breathing quickened. She raised her knees, spread them to form a wide V. The mound beneath her black pussy hair swelled.
There were problems to solve, Steve knew. There were decisions to be made that could affect their marriage. But for now he could think only of fucking. Fucking Gwen. The fucking that he had enjoyed with the twins. Fucking Marta, who, at that very moment, he speculated, was no doubt lying naked-as naked as the warm creamy flesh beginning to grind like a call girl beneath him-in the big double bed in the master bedroom next door. The mere thought made him dizzy. He closed his eyes and reached for Gwen's churning buttocks. He poked his cock smoothly in and out of his wife's hot nipping gash, and wondered if Marta was lying there trying to solve problems, make decisions, but thinking of him.
Again Marta winced at the rawness of her blonde pussy. Painfully she rolled onto her belly, pressed herself into the cool luxury of the sheets. It seemed that lately she awoke every morning feeling like a fucked-out ragdoll. But the strange thing was it no longer bothered her. She had come to accept a raw cunthole, dried cum in her bush. That was the worst part. No matter how often she told herself that the affair with Davie was wrong, that allowing Steve to return again and again might break up a marriage, and the tall handsome trooper ... in retrospect it was like a movie she had seen but played no part in. No matter how often she told herself that these things were wrong, so unlike the mother and wife she had become, a stiff prick was her conscience. It was as if every stiff prick in the neighborhood had an invisible link to her mind, and needed only to rise up and beg to turn off her thinking and fling her back in time to the days of her girlhood and promiscuity.
She squinted into the sunlight that formed a bifurcated pattern from the blinds to her bed. Through the slats she could see the Damon place. "It's your fault," she said, blaming Steve, reasoning that if he hadn't come over that first night, hadn't made her give with Davie looking on, all the problems wouldn't have arisen. She would still be herself-just another housewife.
And a widow, she reminded herself. That was to blame, too. For if Dave had not gotten himself killed ...!
She banished the terrible thought, rolled onto her back again and lay staring up at the ceiling. She was spending a lot of time on her back, staring at ceilings and skies. Looking into the passion-filled eyes of men like the trooper. And that was the problem-not Davie, not Steve, but her own insatiable desire. That was what she had to deal with.
She looked again to the blinds on the window, to the house next door. There was an answer somewhere. Perhaps Steve had it, perhaps Gwen ... Davie ... the twins. They all needed something, someone to point the way. They were all intertwined in desire, incest and otherwise. It was almost as if they were destined to form a tight coil, like snakes in a pit. Almost as if fate had consigned them to a situation where there were no lasting ties, only six people-her and Davie, Steve and Gwen and the twins-inter-fucking. Only wet open pussies and hard cocks and the thrill of the moment.
Oh, darn it all, anyway, she cried, more confused than before. Thinking only made matters worse. She wasn't smart enough to find a solution; she was only a woman with a girl's eager body, a body that had come alive after fifteen years.
Her hand crept as if by its own volition to the blonde curls between her tense thighs. She let her eyes flutter closed, not wanting to touch herself there but unable to stop the long slender fingers that knew every fold of her sex. Her clit rose up to greet them, sang beneath her own gentle probing. It was no use, she decided. There was no escaping the fact that fucking was what she now lived for.
Moaning, gaping her legs wide, she drove the hand hard, brutally into her cunthole. It hurt. But the pain quickly changed, became lust. And the lust made her ass shoot high off the bedding, drowned thinking and reason in a floodtide of sexual bliss.
Sobbing, glancing at the blinds on the window, at the house next door, she shafted her fingers into her cunt, into her asshole, and wished Steve were there, in the bedroom, doing it for her. She wished someone, anyone, would rush into the room, slap her hands away, slap her face back and forth to make her completely compliant, and solve all the problems by sticking a long and handsome and veiny and hard spitting cock up her round, incestuous wanton belly.
CHAPTER TEN
"Who's coming to the party?" Davie wanted to know.
"The twins, the Damons ... just a few." Marta looked pleadingly at him. "You'll be sixteen, Davie. Sixteen!"
So what was so special about being sixteen, he wanted to ask. But his mother was in one of her moods again, and he had already made plans to meet Jeanne in the recreation cellar next door. "Okay," he agreed, anxious to pacify her, thinking it would be different if he were going on twenty-one but that sixteen was just another dumb year and his mother was whacko.
"We can have it Saturday night," Marta continued, enthusiastic now, pacing back and forth through the kitchen, hands emphasizing each phrase. "It'll be fun, Davie, you'll see. We ... the Damons, me 'n' you...." She stopped herself, glanced sharply his way. "It'll be fun," she repeated, and stood, hands quietly tense at her sides.
What was wrong with her, anyway? Davie wondered. He would understand her wanting Steve there, but Gwen and the twins was another thing altogether. If he didn't know better ...!
Something clicked inside his head. He watched his mother watching him, an odd look in her eye. He knew all the reasons why he would stage such a party, but it was inconceivable that his mother was thinking like him, in terms of an orgy. Or was it? There was indeed a strange guilty plea in her gaze ... as if she were saying help me, Davie, it's the only way. If we can get them all in on it, show everyone just how good it can be, then we can stop being whacko.
He looked from his mother to the wall clock: six-thirty. He threw the kitchen chair back, almost knocking it over, darted to the back door. "I'm late," he called over his shoulder, thinking of Jeanne now, all the kinky things she and Sue had told him about the day before and Steve in the cellar. Saturday night was five days away-almost a lifetime. What would happen would happen without any help from him.
Putting his mother and her problems completely out of his mind, he ran from the door of his house to the Damon back way. He entered without knocking. Steve always took a nap after supper and it was Sue's turn to help Gwen with the dishes, he knew. That left Jeanne downstairs ... him and her. Already he could feel the tight fit of her puckered asshole, hear the tiny animal noises she made. Who needed a party? he mused. Who needed anything more than the beat-up armchair or ping-pong table below the Damon house?
"It's about time," barked Jeanne as he stepped into the dimly-lit cellar.
Davie squinted. She was sitting sidesaddle on the arm of the big tattered chair in the far corner. Quickly he took in the hot pants she wore, the old baggy shirt that hung out at the waist and looked more like a hunk of burlap than a thing she would actually don. He searched for something to say, found nothing. With Jeanne he was verbally awkward-he didn't know why. But with his mother, Gwen and Sue he was the master, where with Jeanne ...!
"You just gonna stand there?" she dared, a note of impatience making her voice crack. There was a gleam in her eye, and a promise. She moved one leg sensuously along the side of the chair.
"So I'm late-what the fuck," he said finally. He moved to the chair, sat, dropped his hand to her thigh.
Jeanne smacked the hand away, pouted. "Say you're sorry."
"Shit!"
Abruptly she stood, walked to the ping-pong table. She toyed with the chain on the ceiling light there, the only one lit in the cellar. "Say you're sorry or I'll make you leave," she insisted, staring straight at him.
If he lived to be 105, he would never understand girls-or women, for that matter-thought Davie. But he wasn't about to give in. Uncomfortable or not, getting hard just looking at her, he wasn't about to say uncle to a twelve-year-old girl. Instead, he said, "Send me home 'n' I won't invite you Saturday night. Just Sue."
The girl's head turned sharply toward the stairs. She looked back at him. "Just Sue what?"
It was his turn to play, to goad her. Understand them or not, girls-especially Jeanne-were like cats, he was learning. Curiosity could kill them. The question shone bright in her eyes, there was something happening Saturday night that she needed to know about, and she would do anything, anything at all, to make him tell. He extended his hand toward her, watched her falter. "A party," he offered, letting the unexplained lure dangle like a fat juicy worm between them.
With a sigh and a scowl, running one finger along the edge of the ping-pong table, Jeanne returned to the chair. Again she sat on the arm, kicked her leg. She waited for him to continue. When he didn't, she said, "Well?"
Davie pulled her onto his lap, guided her arms to his neck. "A special kind of party," he whispered. "I'm not sure, but I think my Mom has more 'n' birthday cake 'n' ice cream on the menu. More 'n' post office, too. I think maybe she's got six-way fucking in mind to wish me happy sweet sixteen." Jeanne blinked. "Honest, Davie?"
"Shit! Come 'n' find out. But if you keep actin' dumb, like ... like Sue! If you keep actin' silly about me saying I'm sorry, well, shit!" He stared hotly into her eyes, guided one little hand to his fly. He made her squeeze. His own hand dropped again to her thigh, crept under the legband of the shorts and found the damp crotch of her panties. He pushed them aside, too, felt hair. His fingers danced through the coils of her slit.
"Oh, Davie, that ummm. That feels so good.
Stick ... stick two fingers in me, not one.
Do it.
All ummm! Um! Ow! Stick 'em all the way up me."
It was easy once you knew how, he reiterated mentally-even with a girl who was brazen and made you feel shy. He fucked two fingers into her slit, said, "Jesus H. Holy Mother, you sure are ready tonight," his cock growing harder, full-length, the cum beginning to bubble up in his testicles. He kissed her slim neck, felt her ass. She squirmed about in his lap until the shorts were so far askew that most of her pussy was bare, nipping wetly close to the thing in his pantsleg.
Upstairs something dropped to the floor ... muffled voices. "Sue," whispered Jeanne. "She'll be done with the dishes soon, then she'll probably come down here. Maybe Daddy, too. We ... we have to ... to hurry, Davie. Take-" she squeezed the bulge in his pants-"your thing out."
"Man oh man!" He pressed her small anxious fingers to his fly, made her undo the zipper. Her hand dived inside, freed him. "Ah! Ummmmmm, lemme stick it up your ass, Jeanne. Like the other day. Only this time with you sitting down in my lap ... all the fucking way up there."
"Uh-uh. Up my pussy this time. If you do me there now, I ... I'll let you do it back there tomorrow. Please, Davie. I ... I'm so hot for it there, in my p-p-pussy. D-Do me that way tonight 'n' tomorrow we'll do what you want."
He sighed. It was a come-down: Jeanne's asshole was tighter and hotter than any wet pussy. But he told her okay, said, "Turn aroun' then. Sit with your back to me 'n' spread your legs over the arms of the chair."
Jeanne turned in his lap. Pushing the shorts and panties far to one side, she sat astraddle his thighs, legs cocked over the arms of the chair and dripping cunthole suspended above the pole sticking up from the open fly of his pants. "Hurry, Davie," she prompted. "P-Put it in. All the way."
"You put it in for me."
"OOOOHHHHHHHH!" Again taking his hard dick in hand, using both tiny hands this time, she closed her fingers on the thick veiny shaft. She steered the glans beneath the legband of the shorts and panties to the wet lips of her throbbing cunt. She moved down, gasping as her hot little pussy opened and closed on the throbbing knob of his rod. "Push, Davie," she breathed. "Ow. Owah, p-p-push it up me quick."
"Jesus H. Christ, sit still. Ah! Man oh man! I ... I can't get the fuckin' thing up there if you keep jumpin' all over the place." Gripping her hips, wishing they could chance taking their clothes off, he slumped down in the chair, humped. His dick penetrated. He could feel the fat lips of her cunt opening wide, wider still, accepting the shaft. He felt the glans of his meat push in past the vise-like inner lips, glanced down and watched the rest of the stiffness disappear into the shorts and panties and dark hair framing her twat.
Jeanne curled her hands on his knees, braced herself and leaned back. She thrust her chest forward. "P-Play with my titties. You ... y-y-you can open the top buttons ... just enough to suck 'em awhile. Please, Davie, ow! Um! Suck 'em for me.
He didn't have to be told twice. He had the buttons open before the second plea was out of her mouth. And then the pert pink nipple of her right tit was in his, his tongue swirling over the tensile flesh, making it leap.
"I ... I like that better 'n anything," cooed Jeanne.
"Better 'n anything?" Mouth still glued to her nipple, he looked up from beneath arched brows.
"Maybe not better 'n ah! Ahowah-ah!" She used her knees for leverage, lifted herself. His dick slipped almost all the way out of her sheath. She relaxed, let her weight down, pulling him back into her belly. "N-Not better 'n this, Davie. Uh-uh. N-N-nothing is ow! Owah, do it, Davie. In 'n' out. Faster. Real fast. Umm! Umph! N-N-Nothing is b-better 'n thi-is."
He had to agree. It was the very first time he had screwed in a chair. It was confining, true. But the sight of her nipping pussy coming down on his rod, sucking him in like the halves of a clam, made it worthwhile. There were two things he wanted more than anything else in the world now. The first was to cum, to fill the girl's smoking bush with loving and cream. The second was to have what he was thinking about the weekend party come true. He complied with Jeanne's directive-fucked faster and harder. He worked his hands beneath the legbands at the back of the rumpled shorts, held her ass. He made loud sucking noises against her succulent nipples, humped and wondered if what he had been thinking-about his mother, about her sudden odd behavior concerning the scheduled party-could be true. It seemed impossible, too good to be more than his own fantasy.
"Oh, Davie, Iiiiii...! Iiiiieeeeeee...! I ... I'm c-c-cuming, Davie. Ow! Owah! Ow, ow, ow, ow, owahhhhh!" Jeanne buried her face at the crook of his neck, moaned and ground her pussy furiously onto the roots of his wildly jerking rod.
"Yeah, oh, yeah, ahhhh!" Davie knew just how she felt. Cuming was like being born. Once it started there was no stopping it. He felt the hot juice of her pussy pouring like sticky white molasses onto the front of his pants, into the open fly and over his balls. He felt it creep into the crack of his ass, scorch his sphincters. His fingers found Jeanne's sphincters, fucked in ... one finger, two. He knew just how she felt because he was about to pop, too-a new mind-bogging, belly-turning, breathtaking thrill was about to be born between them, uniting them in the absolute best possible way. Gluing their loins together with the solder of love.
Upstairs the water stopped running in the kitchen sink. The supper dishes were done, Sue drying her hands, preparing to undo her apron. The sounds were a recognizable procedure, a warning. They had only a few precious minutes before Sue, and perhaps Steve, would be stomping down the cellar stairs, turning the lights and TV on. Jeanne cautioned Davie. "Hurry," she said. "Oh, hurry 'n' shoot before ow! Owwwww! D-D-Do. it quick before they come down. Shoot, Davie. SHOOT!"
As if he had to be told that. As if there were a way to stop the hot cum from flowing now that her cunt held his rod in its tighter-than-tight clutches, milking the stuff up from his sacs. He fucked faster. As fast as he could. He held the soft cheeks of her ass, fingered her anus and screwed for all he was worth. There was no need to tell him to shoot-the jism was popping like shells from a cannon high in her belly. Gob after gob pistoned off as if the supply would go on forever, drown them both. It mingled with the thick cream from the girl's leaky hole, joined the mess at the front of his pants and dripped down into his crotch. But he cared not at all. He cared only for the magnificent sensation tearing his insides apart, making him wish he could go on fucking, do nothing else, forever and ever ... after that, too. Making him think of heaven as a place where little-girl angels like Jeanne opened their sweet thighs at the gate, offered their pussies, and invited all newcomers to sample eternal bliss.
He wondered again about the upcoming party. He held tight to Jeanne's adorable young ass, continued to shoot cream up her belly, listened to the sounds upstairs and wondered what kind of sounds they would hear late Saturday night. He imagined the clinking of glasses, everyone stoned. And then the creaking of springs ... like the sound from deep in the seat of the chair they now fucked in. And then-he wished, oh how he wished it would come true-noises like those Jeanne was making from what sounded like a little hurt animal down her throat. Pleasure noises. Sounds of content. He fucked until there was no more cum left, rested his head on Jeanne's cute tits and thought, shit! What he imagined the upcoming party to be would never happen in a million years.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Steve, too, wondered about the upcoming party. He watched Sue undo her apron, stand on tiptoe to hang it at the back of the kitchen door. He noted the way the movement pulled the worn jeans extra tight across her plump little buttocks, made her sweet titties pop. She was some piece, his daughter. Both of them. Their gazes met, held for a moment. The girl glanced shyly away, rubbed her hands down the front of the jeans. Without knowing it, still too young to be familiar with the wiles of a temptress, Sue-her innocence, the blush that always rose to her cheeks-was what every man dreamed of, Steve mused. A provocative woman-child, with all the beguiling ways of an affectionate little girl beneath the blossoming equipment of a creature made for fucking. His baby, he thought. His to do with as he pleased.
"I'm going downstairs, Mom."
Gwen nodded curtly.
Sue looked back at him. "Wanna play ping-pong, Daddy?"
He wanted to play, but not ping-pong. He thought of games, party pastimes. Things he had done as a boy. A party in those days had meant kissing and cheap feels, and, if you were lucky, a fast screw in a backyard or on the front porch. "Not now," he told Sue, speculating for the ten-thousandth time on what Marta had in mind for Saturday night.
Shrugging, Sue disappeared noisily through the swinging door, headed toward the stairs at the rear of the house. Steve turned his attention to Gwen.
Their morning fuck, almost rape, had been the best in years, and now he couldn't help but eye the deep cleavage where the seam of the pedal-pushers was sucked in between the wide halves of her ass.
She was no youngster anymore, he had to admit.
Her curves couldn't compare with the unblemished softness of Jeanne and Sue. But she was still a good-looking woman and a super fine lay, and if it took rape to ignite the passion, forcible entry to make her hips go, he had absolutely no compunction about it. He looked from her ass to the calves that had wrapped themselves so tightly around him that morning, thinking again how super good the match was.
Gwen turned from the sink, met his gaze. Her eyebrows rose in a question.
"You still look good," he said impulsively.
"As good as Marta?" Gwen snapped.
Steve frowned. How had she learned about Marta? he wondered, collar suddenly tight, palms sweating. He studied her, trying to gauge the extent of the anger making her face red, making her shake. It was bound to happen, he told himself. The rule of thumb was never to plant seed on a lawn too close to your own. He waited until she seemed to have calmed down some, said, "Okay, I admit it. But it was just something that happened. She's a hot bitch. She practically raped me."
Gwen stomped her foot. "Sure. Like I raped you this morning, you ... you bastard!"
He came out of the chair, moved toward her. "Don't touch me!"
"The kids," he said softly, hoping she didn't yet know about that part of his recent sex life, and thinking that Davie-only Davie-had to be the one who had told her about Marta. And then thinking that Davie could have only one reason for telling.
He stared at his wife with a suspicious gleam in his eye. Davie? Fucking fifteen-year-old Davie and his wife?
Gwen tried to brush past him. He caught her arm. "Let me go!" she hissed, tiny fist raised to strike, teeth bared in a grimace of pain.
"I'll let you go," he growled, twisting her arm, wanting to hurt her. "I'll fucking let you go all right ... when you fucking tell me how you knew about me 'n' Marta. Who told you, Davie? That little ...!" He applied more pressure to the arm, made her sob.
Clamping her lips tight, refusing to speak, Gwen allowed him to torture her arm until Steve thought sure it would come loose at the shoulder joint. But there was no doubt in his mind about Davie, no question concerning the boy's motive. Yet the fact, once digested, didn't anger as much as amuse him. He laughed-a mere grunt at first, but building into a crescendo that shook the kitchen. He released Gwen, let her stagger back against the sink, staring as if her eyes would bug out of her head, as if he were mad. He roared until there was no laughter left, stood rocking gently, tears of mirth in the eyes that met Gwen's.
"You think you're so smart," she yelled. "Well, you're not! I can play around, too. I ... I did!"
"With Davie," he supplied.
"That's right."
"All ... maybe five fucking inches of him."
"He's almost as big as you," Gwen fumed, shaking again, the fury back in her voice and expression. "You think your prick is a prizewinner? Well, it's not! You haven't kept a hardon past the first screw since the first year of our marriage." She paused to slam her small fist down on the edge of the sink, then added, "But Davie does. His dick may not be as big as yours, but it never goes down."
It could easily become an all-night screaming affair, thought Steve, both of them slinging mud. But what was done was done; there was no changing the fact that Davie, sly little Davie, had pumped cum into his wife, and that he, Steve, had been enjoying the blonde charms next door. What seemed most important was the fact that Gwen, after years of being a prude, had actually done something illicit, and that one thing always led to another. He approached her again, this time gently. "Stop screaming," he said, rubbing the arm he had twisted. "So you gave Davie a piece-so what! And me 'n' Marta ... so?"
"So?" She stared incredulously at him.
He nodded, grinned. "Was it good with you 'n' Davie?"
"I ... I...."
"Well, was it?"
"Yes!" she cried. "There! Are you happy now, happy you made me admit such ... such a terrible thing?"
His hand moved from her arm to her tit. He rubbed the nipple showing through the thin blouse. She wasn't wearing a bra, he noted with approval. He was beginning to approve of the oddest things, like a teenage boy socking it to the cunt that had been his, only his, since Gwen's girlhood. And incest, Davie and Marta, him and the twins. In fact, there was nothing about illicit sex that upset him. His new philosophy seemed to be that cocks were made to fill pussies; that pussies would stretch a mile before ripping an inch; and that the two facts together made everything right. There was no need for anger or recriminations. There was no need for jealousy. The only need that remained to be filled was the one beginning to stand up straight in his pantsleg.
"You filthy bastard-cocksucker-fuck," Gwen whispered hoarsely. "How ... how can you get hard at a time like this ... talking about you cheating on me, 'n' me on you? I ... I'm not gonna let you like this morning, if that's what you think. No. NO!"
Gruffly he laughed. The hand on her tit came cruelly together, the fingers almost touching through the soft flesh. He watched her mouth drop open, as if she were going to cry out. But no sound came. The pain was too blinding, too intense to give voice to, he knew. He felt suddenly alive, more so than ever before. Domination was a part of sex, too, he was learning. Women were meant to be used, subjected. They liked it better that way. He squeezed Gwen's big-nippled boob, thought about the rape that morning, her reaction, and decided that from now on Gwen, Marta, the twins, every woman he made, took to bed, was going to do what he wanted and like it.
"Please," Gwen gasped at last. "You ... oh, y-y-your f-fingers feel like ow! Owwww! Like claws. Like ah! Like, ah S-Steve don't. DON'T! PLEA-EEEZZZZZ!"
"Please, my ass. You love it."
"No!"
Again he laughed without humor. His hand abandoned her tit, shot to the crotch of the tight pedal-pushers. Again his fingers began to dig, forcing the slacks and panties up her slit, making her mouth form another wide "O" of unbearable pain. He noted the rise of her nipples, a sure sign of excitement. He felt the hot lubricant oozing from the gash his fingers explored-love juice so strong that her smell filled the kitchen, wet his hand through both garments she wore.
Downstairs he heard the girls gossiping. Two musical voices interspersed with a third deeper sound. A boy's voice. Davie's, he supposed.
And why not? he asked mentally, recalling the day he had learned about the boy and Marta, and his own thoughts about if he were the lad and the succulent blonde next door were his mother. If he were the boy, there would be no stopping him from getting some of Marta's hot gash. And there would be no stopping him from getting to the twins either.
"You hear your daughters downstairs?" he breathed hot in Gwen's face. "And Davie, your boy friend? They're like you, the girls I mean. They say no a lot 'n' cry that it hurts, but you three cunts're cast from the same mold."
Gwen gripped his wrist in both hands, easing the pressure on her pussy. "Wha ... what do you mean?"
"I mean they're probably down there fucking right now. Davie 'n' the girls. Like we're gonna do. Like everyone's doin' all over the fuckin' place, all pretending not to want it, not to do it. Fucking their neighbors, their relatives ... daughters 'n' sons." He relented, drove his fingers into her cunt more gently, lovingly.
Gwen, too, relented. Her hands dropped away from his wrist, paused uncertainly at her sides for a moment, then moved tentatively up his sides, became talons at his shoulders. She leaned back against the edge of the sink, spread her thighs. "D-D-Daughters 'n' sons?" she echoed as if the words had taken that long to penetrate. "N-Not our daughters, not you."
"Me!" he said bluntly. "Me 'n' everyone else. Only difference is, I'm not ashamed of it."
It was as if the ceiling had fallen in on Gwen. She stood dumfounded, absorbing the sudden admission-goggle-eyed. But she made no attempt to break free of the hold on her pussy, made no verbal protest. She stood like a tree struck by lightning until Steve bent his face to hers, said, "There's no difference, baby. A cunt is a cunt no matter who it's attached to, 'n' a stiff dick has no conscience. I was hung up on all that incest jazz for a while. Until we made it ... me 'n' the twins. Now...?" He moved his hand from her crotch, set the bulge in his pants in its place.
Gwen wanted to protest further, he could tell. But the thing inside her that had made her wild that morning, the uncontrollable urge to be raped and degraded-the thing that existed in all women, though few, too few, would admit to it-held her lips closed. Held her glued to him, legs atremble, cunt exuding its fluid and stink through the sopping wet panties and stained pedal-pushers. Incest! her eyes said. Horrible! Not you, Steve, not you and our twelve-year-old girls. But her body seemed to cherish the thought, seemed more wanton and willing now that she knew her own daughters enjoyed fucking so much that they had opened their creamy young legs to the man who had planted the seed from which they grew. It was a physical metamorphosis that Steve could actually see, and feel in the hands at his shoulders and the thighs close to his.
Downstairs someone squealed. Someone else giggled, and Davie-it had to be Davie, Steve thought-said something that was too muffled to make out, but sounded dirty. What were they doing? he wondered. Were the girls as eager with Davie as they had been with him? Both at once-the one helping while the other took his prick in? The mere thought made him shake. Like the thought of Marta and Davie, and Gwen and the boy. It was a new experience. He had never before .been turned on by the mental vision of another stiff cock fucking its way up a hot hairy hole. Especially a hole he adored. And he adored every one. Marta's because it was all pinkness and blondeness and silk. Sue's and Jeanne's because they were still young enough to be awed by his vigor and size. And Gwen's, the cunt beginning to roll against the bulge in his pants, because it was his to do with as he damn well pleased.
Kissing her, driving his tongue deep in her mouth, he turned her toward the table, made her step back until her thighs met the formica edge. His fingers groped for the zipper at the back of the tight pedal-pushers. The faint sound of the brass links coming apart made him groan. It was as if he were learning for the first time that there were sights and sounds and thoughts that went with sex, too; that fucking was made so much better when everything jelled. He yanked the pedal-pushers down to her knees, tore at the panties. He pressed her back, back ... until she lay on the tabletop, bare buttocks and thighs at the edge. He fumbled with fingers that felt swollen at his own belt buckle, his fly, let his pants and shorts drop to the floor. He moved his mouth from Gwen's long enough to stare for one frenzied moment at her midnight black pussy, croaked, "Give, baby, give!" and doubled her legs, until her knees were flush with her breasts, until her ass was upturned at the edge of the table, cunt gaped wide.
"The girls," Gwen wheezed as he set the throbbing red bulb of his prick at her sopping wet love hole. "They ... oh, Steve, t-they might come up 'n' catch us."
"So fucking what?" he countered, thinking that it would be great, really fantastic, if the twins did appear, and trying to imagine what it would be like to have all three-Sue and Jeanne and Gwen-in the same bed. He thought again of the upcoming party. There were no secrets anymore. He was certain that the girls had told Davie about him, just as they had told him about Davie. And he was equally sure Marta knew everything. There were no secrets, and there were six of them involved in musical mattresses and no reason why all of them couldn't enjoy what the others had to give.
Quickly, in short even jerks, he fucked his dick into his wife's hairy black pussy. He took hold of the upturned halves of her ass and set his hips in motion. "So fucking what if the girls come up?" he repeated. "I wish they would. Jesus H. fucking Christ, I'd like to see their faces. I'd like to see yours. It's time, Gwen-time me 'n' you stopped pretending to be something we're not."
"I
... oh, Steve, that's ummmmm!
Ummmmm...!" Her ass began to grind slowly in the palms of his hands, cunthole nipping. "I ... I d-don't understand wha ... what you mean."
"I mean this!" He pulled back, slammed his rod into her belly. "An' this 'n' this!" He did it again and again, stretching her gash until it was a soggy limp sponge outside and fiery wet within. "I mean fucking, Gwen. Good pussy. And for you, good stiff cock. Not much else matters, baby, and it's time we stopped screwing aroun' pretending there's something else that makes us go."
Gwen stared up at him as if trying to believe what he said, trying to adopt the simple, banal philosophy. She gripped the edge of the table, matched the hurried churning of his hips. She raised her knees even higher, to her chin, lifted her ass to meet his swift, brutal strokes. Her body agreed. Her cunthole snapped its wet certainty, her anus breathed no doubt. But her head hadn't yet conformed, Steve could tell. Her mind was still bogged with the teachings of a lifetime. Incest was the most awful thing. Extramarital fucking was something someone else did. Only her belly had come round to his way of thinking, and it would take some doing, he realized, to convert the rest of her by Saturday night.
He spread his feet wide on the floor, leaned far forward and humped. "Fuck!" he grunted. "Stop looking at me like I'm a bug in a jar, 'n' do what comes naturally. Work that ass, Gwen. Like you did this morning. Show me how much you like it."
"I ... I...."
"Can all that 'I, I,' shit. You sound like a fuckin' sailor saluting. Just screw. Let yourself go. Your pussy's doin' okay, now you join it." He pulled his cock all the way out, made her yelp in protest and reach down. "That's better," he added, driving in to the hilt once more, pulling back, fucking in, out-in, out-in, out-in.
"Oh, Ste-eve. Do it. Yes. Owah. OW! OWWWWW!" Gwen's ass became a gyro, working so fast that she almost slipped from the edge of the table. Her eyes closed. The doubt left her features. Passion contorted her face, made her mouth droop. Her hands became claws that left raw fingernail marks on his lower belly and thighs.
Much better! thought Steve, the cream inching up from his bloated sacs. There were five days till the party. Time enough to bring a virgin around. Time enough to make certain that Davie's sweet-sixteen party would be something they would remember for a long, long time to come, that the right refreshments were served.
But for now there was Gwen. Gwen and fucking. Later there would be time to consider approaches, strategies. Downstairs Davie and the twins were at it, he knew. Next door, down the street-everywhere people were screwing. And Saturday night, he had decided, was going to be the absolute best lay of all.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Saturday was a day of sunshine and sky. Sky so clear and blue that the infrequent clouds in the distance reminded Marta of white powder puffs. Things that were made of gauze and angel wing feathers. She sat quietly in the lounge chair on the front lawn, knowing there was housework to be done, shopping, preparations for the party that night. It was Davie's birthday, she kept telling herself. A special day. And the night was going to be....
What? she wondered. Still she wasn't certain, wasn't sure of her motives. She stared through lidded eyes at the beautiful blue sky, at the tiny silver dot that was a plane flying high overhead. Her life was like that plane, she thought. Driven by unseen forces.
She heard sounds from the Damon place, glanced toward the drawn blinds. They were getting out of bed, she mused. Jeanne and Sue in frilly nightgowns, Steve in shorts, and Gwen....
What did Gwen wear to bed? Was she the kind of woman who slept nude? Or did she spend oodles and oodles of money on the see-through black negligees and other enticing garments that turned men like Steve on?
Davie, hair still muddled from sleep, eyes still groggy, appeared at the front screen door, waved. The pajamas he wore were getting too small, Marta noted. She could see his limp sex through the clinging material. He was getting too brazen, too bold. "Don't you dare come out here like that," she scolded.
"Aw, Moooommm...."
"Never mind. Go back in and put something on or there won't be any party tonight-sixteen today or not."
Reluctantly the boy obeyed, staggered half-asleep back into the house. Again she looked to the Damon place, thought that it was only yesterday when Davie was a mere tyke and the twins were crawling around the front yard in diapers. How time flew. Like the plane overhead. It was gone now as if evaporated like the years between Davie's infancy and today.
Barefoot and bare-chested, wearing Bermuda shorts and eating an orange, Davie returned to the lawn. He grinned sleepily. "Wouldn't want anything to happen to blow my party," he said. He stepped close, offered his lips for a good-morning kiss.
Marta looked hastily about. "Not out here, Davie. Someone might see."
"Only the Damons," he countered. "Nobody aroun' here 'sides them gets up this early." He kissed her cheek, moved his lips toward her mouth.
Embarrassed more by her own thoughts concerning the party than by the boy's innocent-enough-looking actions, Marta hissed, "Well then, the Damons. Be good, Davie. Don't!" The boy stepped back, bit deeply into the orange and shook his head. He looked down and across the street, up at the sky. His gaze returned to her, swept up her crossed legs, past shorts and bare belly to the skimpy halter that barely covered her breasts. "How come you're worried about Steve and Gwen all of a sudden?" he asked. "They know everything, anyway."
"Davie!" The truth stung. But she knew that it was something that had to be faced, something they all had to come to grips with. It was out now, Davie had put it into words. And the party, whatever that meant-she still couldn't admit to herself what it meant-was a mere few hours away. Forcing the thought from her mind, refusing to acknowledge what the evening held in store, she scrambled out of the lounge chair and started for the house.
"Hey, Mom?" called Davie.
"I have to go shopping," she threw back over her shoulder, unable to look at him, wanting to prolong the moment when there would be no turning away, no retreat from reality. She was at once frightened and excited about the party; reluctant and anxious.
Inside the house, in the living room, she paused to stare at the barren place on the mantel where Dave Sr.'s picture had stood until the first time with Davie. She remembered how the eyes in the photograph had seemed to accuse, how she had first turned it face down, and later, still unable to pass through the room without feeling shame, had flung the thing into a utensil drawer in the kitchen. She returned to it now, took it from hiding, studied it. To her amazement, the eyes no longer seemed to accuse. She examined it closely at first, then at arm's-length. Had it changed? Had something intangible-a spirit? Her late husband's troubled soul?-been shocked by what the eyes saw, flown?
No! she decided, suddenly amazed even more. It was her, not the picture, that had changed. Her eyes were the ones that no longer saw as before. She was no longer the content little housewife, the widow in mourning. She was a woman again, like the strange girl in the bedroom mirror. Like the wanton girl of her youth, who knew what a pussy was for and used it without inhibition. There was nothing wrong with her, not a thing. At least nothing the party that night would not cure; nothing a stiff dick-Davie's miniature prick, Steve's big bulbous hardon-wouldn't set right.
Flinging the picture back in with the utensils, she slammed the drawer closed. That part of her life was over, she realized now. This was....
"The first day of the rest of my life," she whispered, grinning.
Feeling like a schoolgirl again-gleeful, a warm blush in her cheeks, legs buoyant-she returned to the living room, to the screen door overlooking the lawn. "Davie, honey?" she sang. "Come inside for a minute, I ... I have something to tell you about ... about us and the party tonight."
She watched the boy chew the last flesh from the orange rind, start toward her. Her cunt tingled. Her dry puckered asshole began to twitch. She watched him step inside, close the door and lean back. He was a handsome boy, she thought with pride. Her boy-hers in more ways than one. Sighing, wanting him to know that she loved him, that everything was all right, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.
"Jesus, Mom," Davie breathed against her lips. His hands flew to the plump halves of her ass, pressed her close. His thigh crept in between hers. "Whatever you wanna tell me can wait," he added. "Today's my birthday, remember?"
She would never get to go shopping this way, Marta thought. But there was really no need-the main course for the party was right there in Davie's pantsleg. And what she wanted to tell him could be said best without words. She tightened her hold on his neck, drove her tongue into his mouth and concentrated on fucking.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was dark when the doorbell rang, and Davie, half-asleep in his own room, sticky from an entire afternoon of sex-every variation imaginable, with Marta wishing him happy birthday over and over again in the best possible way-crawled from under the sheets. He yawned and stretched, listened. His mother had finally gone out to the store, he knew. She had insisted that he get some rest, because, she had promised, he was going to need it. He grinned at the thought. The grin widened when he heard three female voices greet his mother at the front door. "Party time," he whispered, leaping from the bed to the chair where his pants lay draped.
"Where's the birthday boy?" asked Steve loud enough to be heard upstairs. "We all chipped in 'n' got him this. It isn't much, not really, but...!"
"Well, I'm giving him something else, too." added one of the twins, but Davie couldn't tell which one from upstairs.
"Are ... aren't we all giving him something else?" It was Gwen's voice this time, hesitant, unsure.
The gathering downstairs laughed as one, and Davie, for the umpteenth time, wondered if he were dreaming all this. If the party was merely a fantasy like the X-rated movies that were banned to kids his age. He hurried into his clothes, raced to the mirror to comb his hair. He had made all sorts of plans, devised a bagful of tricks to get first Jeanne and Sue alone, then Gwen. But from the sound of the banter downstairs he supposed there would be no need for elaborate ploys, and the possibilities for the hours ahead made his heart race. He slammed brush and comb down on the bureau, raced to the stairway. If it was a dream, he reasoned, he had to get into the good part before he awoke.
"Happy birth...!" Jeanne's lips covered his before the sentence was out. She added "day" into his mouth, rolled her hips against his. The hand at the back of his neck toyed with his freshly-combed hair, mussed it gently.
Steve cleared his throat. The grin on his face was forced as if he were fighting the urge to be an indignant parent. "Ah, where's the booze?" he asked Marta. "That's what we need, all of us. Even the kids. After all ... how often do we get to go to a ... a sweet-sixteen party?"
"Not nearly often enough," answered Gwen.
Her face was flushed, almost beet-red. But the tight minidress she wore clung to her full upper thighs and breasts, revealing the absence of a bra beneath, and she looked on in obvious envy as Sue tugged at the waist of Jeanne's hip-huggers, insisting it was her turn.
Marta led the adults to the bar, a glossy black portable thing she had bought on impulse that afternoon and had stocked with cobwebby bottles from what her late husband had called their "instant holiday cheer" in the cellar. She chose a fifth of whiskey, started to pour.
"Here, let me do it." Steve held her hand until the glass was half full. He reached for ice cubes, plopped three from the bucket into the drink. He stirred with his finger, laughed. "This is supposed to be a goddamn party, not A.A."
When each of them had drinks in their hands, he sipped and nodded approval, Steve turned to Davie, who was beginning to get the feel of things. Reluctantly he had let Jeanne escape, now held Sue. But Sue was no longer shy, he was learning. The girl pressed herself wantonly to him, hips and thighs moving rhythmically. Davie felt her hot little tongue dart at his lips, felt his cock rise slowly. He kissed her with one eye open, watching the goings-on at the bar, and thinking that Steve, although outwardly pleasant enough, still grinning, was experiencing the jealousy he himself had had to learn to cope with. He held the passionate kiss until Gwen stepped tentatively forward for her turn.
It continued until he had kissed each of them, Jeanne twice, and had shaken Steve's hand. He looked from Jeanne to Sue, then to the bar. "C'mon, Mom," he said, bold now, wanting to get the party-the real party-going. "What about us? Shit, it's supposed to be my birthday 'n' you three're the only ones enjoyin' the treats."
"I don't know." Steve looked askance from him to the twins.
Marta scowled. "A little drink wouldn't hurt them. After all, it's a special occasion, right, Gwen?"
Gwen gulped from her drink, coughed. She took Steve's' arm, pressed her cunt to the hand at his side. "Sometimes my husband doesn't know his own mind," she said finally. "Like Slow. Now he's the one doing what he's been telling me not to do all week. Men! What's good for the gander is not always good for the geese ... is that it, Steve."
"Now wait a minute." Steve slammed his empty glass down on the bar, frowned into Gwen's flushed face. "You tryin' to say I'm a prude? Like you? Well, I'm not, goddammit. I-" he glanced at the twins, at Davie. "I don't give a good fuck if they drink themselves into a stupor. In fact, I don't care a good shit if ole Davie-boy decides to screw every one of you cunts right fucking here on the floor 'n' invites the whole motherfucking shithead neighborhood." He nodded satisfaction, refilled his glass and drank deeply. He burped.
It was getting good, Davie thought, looking from Gwen to Marta to the twins. All except Jeanne were blushing, shifting uneasily and trying to smile. He moved quickly to the bar, selected a bottle of wine and popped the cork. A cold steam rose from the bottle. He motioned Sue forward to pour, moved to the stereo before anyone could speak and disrupt the sexual undercurrent like a pulsing fog in the room. He set a stack of records in place, flipped the switch on the turntable. "A party's no good without dancing," he said, holding one hand out for the glass Sue had filled, the other requesting a partner.
"Well, that's the best idea I've heard." Gwen set her near-empty glass down, and stepped forward into Davie's arms before anyone else could. She had to raise up on tiptoe. Her mini rode high in back, exposing the darker nylon at the tops of her stockings. That was one thing he liked about Gwen, mused Davie, ogling her reflection in the glossy black surface of the front of the bar. Pantyhose were okay, but there was nothing like nylons and garters framing a twat. His hand came to rest low on her backside. He stared hard at Steve, started to dance, slowly, suggestively, dry-fucking in time to the music.
Steve finished his second drink, shook his head. He looked at Marta. His gaze swept down the clinging knit outfit she wore, down her legs, back up. His glazed eyes focused on her jutting breasts. He started to reach for the whiskey, to refill his glass, burped and said, "Fuck it all, anyway!" Without bothering to ask, he took Marta's hand, yanked her after him to the far side of the room. "Let's dance," he breathed, obviously feeling the liquor, already on his way to being stoned.
"I bet you never tried two?" Davie offered.
Steve squinted at him over Marta's shoulder, stumbled. "Two what?" he barked.
"Two chicks," he explained. "Dancing. I bet you never tried holding two 'n' keepin' step at one time." He was indeed thinking of holding two chicks, but not for dancing. His dick was rock-hard, pressed tight to Gwen's little round belly, and he was hoping that Steve would get the message, that the two potent drinks had knocked down the walls inside his head.
Steve stopped with his chin resting on Marta's shoulder, stared blankly, as if considering the feasibility of the suggestion. The twins giggled. "Oh, yeah?" bellowed Steve. "Well, just fucking watch me!"
Somehow-Davie never did figure out how it had happened-Steve took possession of Jeanne, and he, Davie, got Sue. The girls continued to giggle and pause to gulp from their wine, and Gwen-hot fucking Gwen-continued to rub her thick bush-so thick that he could feel every hair through the mini between them-against his enraged cock. The record ended, another came on, slower, romantic. They swayed and drank, breaking apart here and there for someone to flip a light switch, to pour something, the closest bottle available, into an empty glass. Until there was only one small lamp lit in the room. Until the giggling and loud banter had ceased, and there were two tangles of arms and legs moving like interpretative dancing teams at opposite sides of the room. And the dance they were doing was a fertility rite, thought Davie. A custom as old as mankind, with orgasms waiting for them at the conclusion.
"Oh, my ... my h-head." Gwen staggered back, almost fell before she settled on the sofa.
"She's drunk," whispered Sue. "Isn't it fun, Davie?"
It was fun, all right. Fun the way Gwen's thighs came apart, displaying the black garters he had seen reflected in the glossy new bar, and the crotch of panties so shear her fat pussy showed through. He remembered the night he had watched Steve and his mother from the bedroom across from the sofa at the top of the low set of stairs. Recalled the way Marta had fallen back on the cushions, letting Steve stroke her bush, finger her juicy pink slit. He wanted to do that to Gwen now. His hand crept down over Sue's lush little behind, under the hem of her mini.
"Ummmm...!" The girl rested her head on his chest, swayed. "That's nice, Davie. I ... I-Like when you touch me back there."
She wasn't yet as drunk as her mother but rapidly getting there, estimated Davie. He looked from Gwen to where Steve held Marta and Jeanne. They, too, had stopped dancing. Steve was leaning back against the bar, the girls vying to lift the drink to his lips, spilling it down his shirt front and over the mighty bulge in his pants. There was no longer any pretense in the room. Everyone was there for one reason, and now-the lights low, the music and booze soothing the last inhibition-was the time.
"Let's go fuck," Davie breathed hot in Sue's shell-like ear. "On the sofa, with ... with .your mother."
Sue glanced speculatively toward Gwen, brushed the hair from her forehead and pouted.
"It's okay," assured Davie. "Look at her!"
They both looked, watched Gwen's hand move sensuously up and down the upper inside of one nylon-clad thigh. Her eyes were closed, head moving slowly from side to side in time with the music. It was as if she were the only one in the room ... pussy aching ... fingers longing to still the hurt. Slowly Davie eased Sue toward the sofa. Eyeing the others, but always looking back to Gwen-the nylons, the black garter belt and the hot valley between-he sat Sue down, positioned himself strategically. "Man-o-fucking-good-god-damn-man!" he croaked as Gwen's fingers finally found the livery target, and Sue, entranced by the sight, ohed and ahed, leaned across him and squeezed the fat pole sticking straight up in his pantsleg.
Steve staggered away from the bar, hiccoughed and said, "Tha's my fuckin' wife." He pointed an accusing, though no too steady, finger at Davie. He reached out for something solid, threw his arm over Marta's shoulder, hand gripping her tit as if it were a life preserver. "She ain't been the same since you fucked 'er," he added in a slurred voice. "Nosiree. Now she fucks like a bunny, sucks. The whole route. Lookat 'er there. Lookat that finger go."
Everyone stared. Gwen's finger was indeed going. She had worked the panties far to one side, baring most of her lower belly. The dark curls of her sex glistened in the dim lamplight, and her stink finger, moving like a piston in and out, in and out, in and out, gleamed wetly. She seemed not to care that there was an audience, that the show had prompted Marta and Jeanne to fondle their own twats-rubbing, rubbing in slow circular motions-and that Sue's trembling fingers were trying to get Davie's stiff prick out of his pants. It was obvious to everyone present that Gwen was fingering herself toward orgasm, and that a dick, any dick, anything hard, would be welcomed with gaped open thighs.
Davie gasped as Sue freed his rod, bent her face to his lap and kissed the fat tip.
"An' that's my daughter," barked Steve, free hand at the back of Jeanne's hip-huggers ... probing ... making the girl thrust her ass forward and moan. His dick stuck out like a telephone pole in his pants. The hand on Marta's tit had shifted the low-cut mini, exposing the round white tops of two quivery melons overflowing her bra.
Watching it all, eyes recording like the lens of a camera, dick throbbing in Sue's hot little hand, Davie urged Gwen's legs wider apart. The panties made a loud ripping sound, came apart at the seam. He threw the nylon aside, so that the nylon lay like an unfastened diaper over one lovely thigh. He groaned. Wanting to fuck now, tired of waiting for one of the Others to instigate things, he slapped Gwen's fingers aside, cupped his hand at the gap and began to work her lush wet pussy.
"What about me?" whispered Sue. "I've got one, too. Here. Feel!" She took his free hand, guided it under the mini. She pressed his fingers into the slit where the panties were sucked up her little-girl cunthole.
"And I've got one, too, Daddy." Jeanne followed her sister's example, relocated the hand working her ass, "Ummmmm. Rub it good, Daddy. UMMMMMM!"
It was kinky, thought Davie. It was like watching a smoker and being in it at the same time. He fingered both luscious pussies-Sue's as tight as the heated eye of a needle, Gwen's sloppy wet and loose, ready for penetration. He noted the way Sue's mouth dropped open each time he stabbed, thought how good that mouth would feel slipping down the length of his cock. "Kiss it again," he directed. "My dick. Kiss it 'n' lick it a little 'n' then we'll fuck."
Shyly the girl complied. Her head went down to his lap in short jerks, lips pausing above the bulbous red knob, hot breath making his balls leap. She looked from his pole to where his hand was working Gwen's swollen clit; from there to where Steve, still swaying drunkenly but guided by Jeanne and Marta, who was beginning to make sounds like a gorilla in heat-hands busy with a fat tit and a sweet cunt. Her gaze returned to Davie's stiffness. Her mouth opened in time to the stab of his finger. Her sandpapery tongue flicked out, licked.
"Ah! AHHHHH!" Davie's hips bucked, driving the glans into Sue's lovely young face.
"Ow. Owahhhhh!" Gwen lifted her ass off the sofa. She gripped Davie's wrist in both hands, holding his fingers trapped deep in her pulsing cunthole and wiggling like a snake on a sun-baked rock.
The smell of pussy filled the room. The sound of labored breathing, sighs and moans and grunts, formed a .concert. Six musicians playing a sexual opera. Davie listened. He listened and felt the warm moistness of Sue's sucking mouth, the lash of her tongue. He fell back, lay with his head on the backrest, fingered Gwen and rolled his ass ... planting dick in Sue's face ... in and out, in and out. An orgy, he mused. He had heard that such things went on in suburbia, that cocktail parties and barbeques were excuses for frustrated housewives and bored husbands to play switch. But he had never thought it would happen to him, had never even dared imagine himself taking part in group sex. He drew breath through clenched teeth, closed his eyes and savored the loud sucking noises Sue made, the gentle slurp-slurp of his finger stroking Gwen's vulva, Jeanne's sounds of approval as Steve undid the zipper at the front of her hip-huggers, tugged them down, and Marta's whispered instructions for the hand sunk deep in the neck of her dress.
Sue's mouth came away from his cock. "Davie, can ... can I ...?" Her hand crept into his open pants, cupped his balls.
"Shit, yeah." He lifted his hips, held himself up while she undid his belt and worked the pants and his shorts down, off. He sat back, waited.
"They're the cutest things, Davie. Honest, they really are." The girl's tongue moved down the underside of his shaft, flicked gently over his nuts. "Ummmmm. They taste good, too. Yummy." She opened her mouth wide, drew one sac into her face, held it for a moment, getting the feel of it, then sucked its mate in, too.
A charge of delight shot through Davie, made his head spin. The hand at Gwen's cunt ripped a cry from her throat-Davie curling his fingers inside, Gwen reaching orgasm. The three became an isolated part of the concert, louder and more intense than the group across the room.
"Let's go upstairs," suggested Marta. "My room. Davie and-" she looked toward the sofa, directed all eyes that way-"Gwen and Sue'll be all right down here. They've got the best spot an' I...." She pressed Steve's hand close to her breast, rubbed his palm on her nipple. "I want room to move. To ... to fuck!" She took Jeanne's hand. Steve's hand still sunk in the front of her dress, she led the way to the stairs.
Davie was about to protest, about to say that a party was no good in two places, that he preferred having four willing cunts in the room. But the mouth on his balls refused to allow him to speak. And the pussy raining cum on his fingers-Gwen's liquid love-held him trapped. Through lidded-eyes he watched his mother, Steve and Jeanne climb the stairs, hands groping as they went. He saw them disappear into the bedroom, saw a light come on. He could imagine the scene. The three taking off their clothes; his mother spread-eagled, blonde pussy nipping; Jeanne taking hold of Steve's prick, setting it in the pinkness below the satiny bush as she had done for him the first time with Sue.
Sue! Fucking sweet Sue! He forgot about the imagined scene upstairs, concentrated on the little head in his lap. "Suck it good," he groaned, nuts tight, leaping inside her mouth. "Man oh man! Ah! Um! Arrrrrr...! Suck 'em, Sue. Eat my balls. Lick! Ow! Oh, yeah. Yeeeeeah."
Momentarily satiated, cunthole sloppy with the aftermath of orgasm, Gwen released his hand and sat up. "That was lovely," she told him. She stared for a moment at her daughter's bobbing head, licked her lips. "Let me help," she offered, rearranging herself on the cushions, bringing her face close to the veiny cylinder of meat waving like a young tree in the wind in his lap. "We have to make you cum, too. So ... so we can start again. Again 'n' again, Davie. All night!"
"ARRRR! Ar! Ar-rrrrr...." It was magic, witchcraft. The mouth on his nuts drew so deeply that he thought sure his asshole would turn inside out. Gwen's tongue washed the sensitive bulb of his dick at the same time, swirled at the base of his circumcision. And suddenly the jism was spurting, firing off into Gwen's face, leaping into the air and coming down in gobs in Sue's hair. It was the best cumload ever; it made him go stiff, legs straight out, ass low on the sofa and humping. Grinding coarse cockhair into Sue's nose and eyes, dick jerking like a live-wire, shooting hot love cream. He watched Gwen lap it up, lick it from her daughter's hair and vie with the girl for possession of the source of the river of white-hot creamy love.
When there was no more cum left-only the lingering, lazy sensation that follows a suck off-Gwen sat up, licked the residue from her lips. Sue sat up, too. They grinned at him, went through the feminine motions of brushing stray hair from their brows, straightening their clothes and glancing shyly at each other and at him. Sue was the first to speak. "I never knew I could do it," she said.
"Do what?" asked Gwen.
"Balls! I ... I always wondered what it would be like to suck the cute things, but I wasn't sure they'd fit." Beaming, apparently proud of herself and slightly light-headed from the booze, she cocked her head and stared affectionately at the wrinkled pink sacs between Davie's gaped legs.
"I wasn't sure I could do it, either," said Gwen, fingers toying with Davie's half-hard, cum-crusted rod. "Come here, I mean ... for ... for this." She glanced toward the stairs, the lighted bedroom door beyond the banister railing. "I ... I never thought I could stand the thought of your father ... someone else ... another pussy. And me ... another prick." She looked fondly at Davie, used her index finger to capture the last gleaming bead of cum from the tiny hole in the glans of his cock. "I ... I guess we all owe Davie a lot. It's his party, an' he's only sixteen, but he gave us all a present and taught me more in a week than I learned in a lifetime."
"Daddy, too," added Sue. "And Marta. Even Jeanne. I don't think I could've done it the first time without Jeanne."
They all looked toward the stairs, the lighted bedroom door. Hushed giggles came from the room-Jeanne's girlish giggles. Marta's love noises sounded between the high-pitched tinkles, and Steve's labored grunts. Again Davie imagined the scene, his mother spread wide for the big dick stoking her hot cunt, legs high on Steve's sweating back, and Jeanne, on her knees at their side, directing the action, hands exploring the union. He looked from Gwen to Sue. "What the fuck're we doin' down here?" he blurted.
The three of them stood, made for the stairs, Davie wondering about the "special" surprise his mother had promised. Was there another way to do it? Something Marta had been saving to give him, only him-no one else in the world-because this was his sixteenth birthday and she wanted him to remember the day as long as he lived?
French! thought Marta, half of her mind occupied with the delicious feel of the rod poking her love hole, the other half rehearsing. She hadn't done French since the time she and a classmate double-dated, took her date home first and were left with one boy ... the football-team hero, she recalled. The most popular, best-looking and best-built senior in high school. She recalled how angry, how disappointed she had been when her own date insisted it was too late to park at pussy hollow ... the place where the tall handsome trooper had accepted her body as payment for a speeding ticket. She remembered saying "not at all" when the other boy-Jim? Was that his name? The high school football player whose rod was so big that the front of his pants always seemed to be hiding a magnificent hardon? She remembered not minding one bit when he suggested that the three of them park anyway, and how she had sat in the back seat alone while they necked. Until the boy looked back at her with lust in his eye, convinced the girl that he was with to climb over, him joining them, and almost immediately, without any effort at all, introduced them to French. She remembered and fucked, meeting Steve's eager lunges but trying to guess at Davie's reaction to the surprise.
"Man oh man!"
She looked over Steve's shoulder, saw the boy, Gwen and Sue, standing at the door. It was getting so they seemed to communicate through telepathy, that Davie appeared whenever she was thinking of him, and that she had to stop whatever it was she happened to be doing-no matter where, no matter when, day or night-to get to wherever he was when he was thinking of her. Perhaps that was the objection to incest, she mused. That mother and son became one, no longer needed words to say what they felt. She smiled lovingly at the boy. She raised her legs high on Steve's back, knowing Davie adored her ass more than anything else she could offer, spreading her cheeks to give him a bird's-eye view of the tiny brown pocket he never seemed able to get enough of.
Kneeling at the edge of the bed, titties prominent, nipples bright pink and hard, Jeanne stopped rubbing her pussy to wave. Her gaze dropped to Davie's bare middle and legs. She bit her full lower lip, eyes glued to the hose dangling away from his mass of black cockhair.
The three at the door approached the foot of the bed, stared hungrily at the union. "His is bigger than yours," teased Sue, making Davie scowl.
"Davie's is ow! Ah!" Marta stiffened, the rod up her cunt hitting the trigger, blasting her into orgasm for the umpteenth time. "M-My Davie's is b-big enough t-to do-owwww. Owah! T-To fill any cunt. Any ah! Ohah, Ste-eve. Um! B-B-Big enough to-ow fuck out an-y-thing y-you have to offer, Sue. Um! Is-isn't that right, sweetheart?"
"Bigger than that!" yelled Davie, suddenly flinging the grinning girl onto the bed, cock settling against the damp crotch of her white cotton panties.
Jeanne walked on her knees across the mattress. "Not her-meeee, Davie," she balked sweetly. "My pussy's so hot. Fucking Daddy ... all he wants to do is bang Marta, an' I want some, too." She straddled Sue's grinning face, placed her delectable bush close to Davie's.
My Lord! thought Marta, was that Jeanne, twelve-year-old Jeanne, talking like that? And Sue, panting as if her little lungs would burst. She moaned. The dick up her cunt was triggering charge after charge of hot bliss through her lower abdomen, her loins. People fucking, the sounds and the sights. And she a mother, supposed to be indignant over such goings-on. But the other side of her, the wanton side, jubilant because the party had turned out so well without any urging. She listened, heard the two girls compete with breathless sighs of "no, me, Davie. No, meee...!" arid worked her loins faster, coaxing the cream from Steve's tool, wanting it over so that she too could compete. But with French! her surprise. She listened and looked, thinking what a wonderful end to a wonderful day French would be.
Close to her ear, Steve grunted, "You're some fucking piece, baby. That blonde pussy of yours ... Jesus Christ!" Paying no attention to the others, barely glancing at them, he raised up on outstretched arms, stared down at the silvery curls above the wet folds massaging his cock. "God! Move it, Marta. Ah, yeah. Fuck. Um! In a minute I'll ... I'll ... oh, fucking sweet Jesus, that's great. Good pussy. The best. In ... in a minute I'm gonna fill you with more fucking cream than you've had in a lifetime. Bucketsful! Just keep Uuuummm. Keep doin' whatever the hell it is you're doing inside. Yeah! Keep that cunt nipping my cock."
"He's like that," Jeanne told Davie. "He talks dirty all the time lately."
Davie paused in the process of taking off Sue's wet cotton panties. "So what's wrong with talking dirty?"
"Nothing." Jeanne shrugged, pressed her bush closer. "But I like doing dirty, too. Fucking, or ... or having my pussy sucked." She looked down at Sue, who was staring cross-eyed into her dripping slit, added, "You can fuck sister 'n' you 'n' sister can lap me."
"Well, at least let them take off their clothes first," said Gwen, throwing her own dress off over her head and stepping out of her panties. She didn't seem to mind awaiting her turn on the sidelines. There was more than enough to go round, she seemed to be thinking, and she was content for the moment to watch and help in her motherly way.
Moaning, Marta gripped Steve's broad shoulders, bucked and thought how odd it all was. She had raised Davie, known him since infancy, and only now, because of the others present, because of a chance scene glimpsed by the boy and the events that followed, did she feel she really knew him.
