Bio War 3 by Fishgullet Mf,anal, mc, sf The real estate broker met us at the junction of the State and County roads. I introduced Tara as my wife and Marissa as her sister. Tara blushed from head to toe; the agent assumed that she was a blushing bride and said as much. When we climbed back into the van to follow the car, Tara reached over and laid a toe-curling, lung-sucking french kiss on me that I still remember to this day. Lewiston was better than I expected. A hundred and fifty or so houses, a fire hall, a school and a small factory that specialized in basic compounds for the chemical industry. Alex had done his homework. Small farms spread out below the town with orchards, vineyards and fields. Two houses were available; one was a fixer-upper that was more 'fix' than 'up' and the other was a probate sale of a spinster who had died some six months ago. The bank was happy to oblige especially when I had cash, and we became proud owners of a two story clapboard house, with a big front porch. And a church. That church became the first flashpoint of our new life in Lewiston. The spinster left a fully furnished house for us. There was a small mystery though, upstairs were four bedrooms and two baths. Not a mystery by itself but the fact that there was only one bedroom with a bed in it was. If she had lived alone her entire life, that would be obvious but everyone remembers her brother who came back a widower to live with his sister. I came to learn that small towns can hide many secrets. The folks of Lewiston greeted us with wonderful hospitality, bringing food and small gifts. When they heard that we came from Los Angeles, our porch would fill up the first evenings with the curious and concerned who wanted to learn the latest first-hand news. On the second night as a bottle of whiskey made the rounds I drank a little too much and forgot my caution. The local police chief stepped up to introduce himself and when we shook hands, I almost crushed his. I apologized as we stood alone in the kitchen while he flexed feeling back into his fingers with a cold compress. "Military?" he asked. I nodded, "honorable discharge about three weeks ago." "Weapons?" I wondered if he knew more than one word questions. I admitted "yes" but did not specify what I had. "Do you think you'll need them?" I looked at the empty doorway and then full into his face. "If I were a cautious man, I would post a watch at either end of the county road where it hits the state highway and establish a perimeter around the entire area. It's worse than you can imagine." He fished a cigarette out of his pocket, lit it and took a long drag. "How much worse?" So I told him the details of the mutant attacks in Oakland. My mind flashed through a series of possible vignettes as I spoke, dismissing many and retaining a few as convincing stories. I found myself studying his facial muscles and his eye movements as I shifted between tactical details and gory observations. I looked for clues of skepticism and acceptance. We were taught all of this shit in advanced training but I had never focused so tightly on a face I was interviewing. It had to be Alex's IQ cocktail. A shiver went down my spine as I contemplated this first conscious observation of its effects. When I finished the police chief told me I had just tied up his asshole in worse knots than his wedding day. He thought for a moment and told me that he would be speaking with some others about my concerns. I thanked him, apologized again and saw him off. As I stood at the end of my driveway, a man emerged from down the street, and taking my hand, introduced himself as Horace Greeley, the lay preacher at the church. He had just gotten home from that holy place and asked me if he could stop by tomorrw for a visit. Afternoon rolled around and Horace Greeley, his lovely wife Ophelia, and their daughter Anna greeted us not with food, but with a fresh copy of the Good Word. I tried to maintain my patience as Horace launched into an oration of how Jesus saved their lives but it was a struggle. My thoughts wandered as the false smile on my face stood still until Horace caught my attention again. It was nothing that the bloviating ass said but the observation that he couldn't keep his beady eyes on me slowly drained the smile from my face. His eyes kept drifting to Marissa; she was dressed in jeans and a low cut shirt that had challenged my resolve. I knew that look, it wasn't something in the Good Word. Having seen and heard enough, I ushered them out the door with pleasantries but undisguised distain. Truthfully I wanted to take his scrawny neck in my hand and bang his pathetic combover into the railpost but I held back my shaking hand. Marissa walked them out however and struck up a conversation with Anna. Anna was a year older, but as they stood in profile on the porch, I compared their equal heights noting Anna's larger breasts and richer figure as well. Marissa gave Anna's arm a squeeze as she turned to follow her father's barked order to follow. Marissa came in and gave me a hug managing to grab my cock as she let go. She had been doing that often of late. I shook my head as Marissa headed up to her room singing some little tune. Tara saw everything and came to my rescue, gently releasing my slightly inflated cock from my pants and stroking it gently to hardness. "I'm baking something in the kitchen" Tara announced as she led me by the cock to the kitchen table. She took up the half stick of butter and handed it to me with an evil smile on her face. "Why don't you butter my ass and we can take care of your big problem" she teased with a squeeze on my erection. She turned and dropped her jeans, planted her elbows on the table and wiggled her ass in the air. With my fingers I crammed scoops of butter through her rosebud into her asshole. As the butter melted in the heat, I swirled it around her cavity until my fingers could not reach up any farther. I rubbed some of the remaining stick on my cock like it was an ear of corn and aimed for her asshole. Tara let out a yelp as I pushed through into her back hole. She told me to keep going and my cock eased up her greased hole until I reached bottom. Slowly I pulled back and then pushed in again. I felt Tara's hand reach back and grab my balls and carefully cup them. That got my attention. "Fuck me slow, and make it last," she begged me. I may be a well-trained killer but a woman in heat with my balls in her hand just melts my resolve. I thrust my cock to the hilt with force and then slowly withdrew savoring every ring of muscle as the head of my cock rubbed against it. Again and again I kept up our game until Tara shifted her hand from my balls to her clit. I knew then that she was close and I began lunging in and out of her tight ass. Her mewling cries only spurred me to thrust faster until I couldn't stop myself and spurted in three blasts into the pit of her colon. I sagged on top of her as she rubbed herself into oblivion. When she was finally spent we lay panting side by side when the timer on the oven went off making us both jump up. We laughed and I walked away to shower thinking that this is what they mean by domestic bliss. As the water cascaded down my body, I re-lived the heated reaming on the kitchen table. I idly wondered what happened to the rest of the butter when an idea popped into my head. Baking required butter, yeast, baking soda and baking powder. I don't where she got her ingredients, but there couldn't be much left in town. We were going into the chemical business after all.