Message-ID: <60385asstr$1277424603@assm.asstr.org>
From: stu doe <studoenym@gmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Big Joe, Little Joe
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Date: Thu, 24 Jun 2010 20:10:03 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

Big Joe, Little Joe  inc(mom/son, bro/sis, mom/dau, unc/niece), MILF/boy,
size

This is week one in the life of the Joes.  Anybody who wants to write week
two is welcome to have at it.  I'm exhausted. -- s.d.n.
<1st attachment, "bigjoelittlejoe.txt" begin>

BIG JOE AND LITTLE JOE by studoenym

   inc (mom/son, bro/sis, mom/dau, unc/niece), MILF/boy, size

   Sunday

   Amelia Dunlap, forty-four year old MILF, was busily coaxing her
husband's cock to a second erection by blowing tiny puffs of air on the
underside of the helmet, alternating with tiny stabbing laps with the tip
of her tongue.  Slowly, more slowly than usual, she had her reward.  "Awww,
here he comes," she cooed.  "He must be all tired out from taking Young Joe
to The Health Club today.  But why would he be so tired?  Old Joe and Young
Joe, sure; they got their first big father-son workout.  But this little
guy --." She slithered around between her husband's legs and playfully
inhaled his whole half-mast cock into her mouth; then, with a good load of
saliva, licked a trail up his muscular torso until she could feel his
warmth as the organ nestled between her tits, real size C-cup, vanity size
D-cup.

   "So, what kind of workout did Mr.  Penis get at the gym today?" she
giggled.  "And you with your son along!  You oughtta be ashamed!"

   Her husband, "Old Joe," tightened his six-pack abs to raise his head and
grin wickedly.  "Oh, the usual," he said.  "Jodi, then Brian's wife and
daughter.  At the same time, of course." Jodi was an aerobics instructor at
the Club, and if she wasn't turning thousand-dollar tricks on the side, she
was wasting a lot of good earning potential.  Brian Mansfield was Joe's
most senior law partner.  He was the only man they knew with both a trophy
wife and a trophy stepdaughter.  They all wondered. . .



   "Aren't you worried about Brian taking your place in his trophy
sandwich?"

   "Oh, I figured he was here with you, so it would be pretty safe.  You
mean he wasn't?  Damn, you should have joined us."

   Amelia loved this kind of talk.  She still couldn't believe that there
really were women who liked to hear the brutal litany of the pornos: "You
stupid fucking cunt.  You slut.  When I get through with you, your holes
will all hurt so bad you won't know which one to beg me to do next." Yuk.
:-(

   Wicked grin.  "Oh, Brian was here, all right.  I begged him for a
facial, but he wanted you.  So, I sent him to the gym." She put on her
concerned mother face.  "And where was Young Joe while Mr.  P was getting
this workout?"

   "Oh, I sent him to swim a couple of hundred laps.  He never suspected a
thing." Young Joe had been a competitive swimmer since third grade,
although he'd moved up to varsity this year and was getting killed in swim
meets.

   Amy grabbed her husband's arm and rolled over, pulling him along,
kissing him and maneuvering so his thigh was tight up against her mons. 
"You'd better watch that boy," she breathed, "he doesn't have to spend week
after week in Fort Worthless.  Now that he has full membership, and the
cat's away, he just might start servicing all your little kittens at the
gym." All the while she was dry-humping his thigh, as her orgasm started to
build like the steam in a teakettle.  She giggled, enjoying the sensation.

   *

   Joe and Amelia were both gorgeous themselves.  Joe was 6'2" and still
close to his college basketball weight of 204, and probably more muscular.
Somehow, given his grueling schedule as a corporate lawyer, none of it had
gone to fat.  As a trial lawyer, he'd travelled a lot from his first month
on the job -- twelve-hour days in dusty warehouses digging through boxes of
old paperwork called "documents," looking for the single "magic bullet"
that would win the lawsuit.  By the time he was made partner, he was so
good at it that now he travelled to the same dusty warehouses supervising
teams of young lawyers who did the actual digging.  But, instead of wining
and dining on the client's dime, watching TV too late or even fucking the
ambitious young women he'd brought along for the job, when they called it a
day, he hit the gym, and it showed.  The family Club membership carried
guest privileges all over North America.  Costly, but worth it.

   Amelia was dark and sleek.  She was half Welsh; not show-business slim
like Catherine Zeta-Jones, but designed along the same lines.  Her hair was
so black it almost gleamed in the dark.  Firm boobs, great skin and muscle
tone, also maintained four times a week in the Club.  Debra, their
first-born, now a high-school senior, almost lived there, playing tennis.
She'd never play Wimbledon, and she knew it, but just last week she had won
a good a good scholarship to play tennis in the Big Ten.  Today, a Sunday
in late March, had been her brother's birthday.  Young Joe, he'd been
called since he was born; his birth certificate read Joseph Dunlap, Junior.


   For his birthday his mom had bought him a couple of small presents, for
the ritual of it, but his major presents were identical to those given to
Debra two years before.  Generous privileges with his parents' cars, if and
when he ever got his license (they joked), and a membership in the Club. 
He was finally old enough to join, and today his father was proud to take
him there and show him around (as Amelia had taken Debra).

   Young Joe and Old Joe had made a real father-son day of it, today,
exploring almost every luxury the Club had to offer: some one-on-one
basketball, weight workout, Olympic pool with 16 lanes!, massage, sauna,
the whole package.  They were beat when they came home.  Of the two, Old
Joe looked the worse, he mumbled something about being exhausted and went
off to take a nap.  Young Joe tired, but he had plenty of energy to talk to
his mom.  "Wow, you wore him out," Amelia said.  "What happened, did he
pull a muscle trying to block your shot?"

   Her son looked uncomfortable.  "Aw, mom, no, of course not.  He can
block my shots without moving.  I think we both tried to do too much,
though.  I'm tired, too." He kept talking, yakking about all the technical
details about the gym equipment, and his first-ever professional massage.
"As a member I can go whenever I want!" One portion of the Club was set
aside for 24-hour access.  "Next year I'll show those Lincoln High swimmers
a whole new Joe!" He was already pretty muscular, but one perk of the gym
was that experienced coaches in almost any sport got large membership
discounts in exchange for advice and pointers to interested members.  A
good deal, all around.

   "Hold it, Joey.  You can go whenever you want, as long as your homework
and chores are caught up.  Right?"

   Joe's face fell a little.  Can I go tomorrow, though, after school?  I
made a date -- an appointment with a personal trainer."

   "Are you planning to rob a Seven-Eleven on the way there?  Those
personal trainers cost.  Your dad didn't mention any personal trainer.  Who
is it?"

   "Betsy B.  Do you know her?  She offered me a few free sessions to get
me started."

   Amelia did know Betsy B.  Not well, though.  But she did know that Betsy
B (don't ever dare call her Betsy!) was a Viking's wet dream come true. 
Six-foot-something, blonder than blonde, and the muscle of an NFL
linebacker, but in a fetchingly feminine form.  Alas, she wasn't
Playboy-bunny gorgeous; she was cute, but I wouldn't recommend saying that
to her face.

   Right now, though, Amelia's mom-radar was beeping.  Joe's dad hadn't
mentioned any freebies; born poor, he was touchy about paying his way.  Why
didn't he know?  What was the girl after?  Young Joe was cute, but he was
still a kid.  Surely Valkyries don't have to rob cradles.

   And Young Joe was being evasive about something, she could tell.  How
come he was so bubbly while his father was beat?  His sport was swimming;
he was awful at basketball, so losing to his father was no big deal.  He
could always get even at the foosball table.  She hoped they hadn't had an
argument.  Father-teenager relations could get stormy without warning.

   Oh, well.  "Okay, Joey, just don't get too excited about any of those
gorgeous fitness instructors.  They're all lesbians, you know."

   He caught the twinkle in her eye.  "How do you know?" he laughed. 
Amelia didn't quite gasp, but she was almost shocked.  She couldn't
remember when Joey had ever made a fresh comment like that.  He'd always
been shy about sex.  Just what did happen today?



   She put the mystery of the gym out of her mind and concentrated on
fucking her husband and on nursing along her orgasm.  She had long decades
of experience stoking herself up to orgasm: masturbating, of course, and
sex toys, dry humping, tickling (when Joe Sr.  had the energy), light
bondage, hot baths and for sure having her pussy licked.  She could get off
on just about any sex play in the manuals except good old, ordinary,
maybe-we'll-get-pregnant fucking.  No matter what the position.  And she
knew exactly why, and she was sure her husband knew exactly why, although
even after almost two decades of marriage they'd never discussed it.

   Joseph Dunlap Senior, for all his good looks, and perfect muscles, and
professional success, had a pathetically small dickie.

   Amelia loved him, and she'd always been faithful, and did her best to
fake orgasm during fucking and not to draw attention to her frustration or
her alternative methods of climaxing.  There were even perks.  Every now
and then he'd fuck her in the ass; she'd never felt the brutalized bliss
she'd heard about, but at least it didn't hurt, and it was pleasant, in its
way.

   And she loved giving him blow jobs, because even at its starchiest
extension, she could take his whole little dickie.  (When with her husband,
she said "cock," but in her thoughts she couldn't do it.  Cocks were for
fucking.) Blowing little dickie fueled her fantasy of being a porn star. 
In fact, she'd learned to angle herself just right so his head hit the
corner of her mouth and she'd gag a little; she'd tell him that he'd hit
the back of her throat and pull away a little.  It was all a little white
lie.  If anything, she was frustrated because she was sure she could handle
his balls and his dickie at the same time, but she didn't want to hurt his
feelings.

   At last, her orgasm bubbled over -- not much of one, but that's the way
it goes sometimes.  She whimpered a little, and pulled away from their
kissing.  Joe had felt her muscles tighten and tremble, then go slack;
otherwise he might not have known she came at all.

   When she'd caught her breath, she peered up at him in the darkness.  Was
he crying?  "Is something wrong, sweetheart?" she whispered.  "Something
happened at the gym, didn't it."

   Joe mumbled something that sounded sort of like, "It's nothing, don't
worry about it." Then he spoke a little more clearly.  "It's this damn case
we're working on.  When you said 'Fort Worthless' I started to think about
it and couldn't stop.  I'm really sorry, darling."

   "Oh, don't apologize for that!" she replied, keeping her voice light. 
"I'd hate to have to tell you about the times I've fucked you to the tune
of 'Bette Davis Eyes' because I couldn't get it out of my head." She
smiled. "Oops.  I guess I let the cat out of the bag!" Pause.  "Did you
ever wonder how they got the cat into the bag in the first place?"

   Joe gave a small chuckle and rolled over onto his back.  "Anyway, the
case is a loser and nobody knows what to do, but I have to get up early
tomorrow and take the first plane back to Fort Worth and try to figure an
angle.  It's really a dog of a case."

   "So, up at 4:30 instead of 5:15?  No problem.  I'll have your eggs
Hollandaise, Benedict, and will be waiting on my kneepads to give you
toasty French.  The chauffeur will have the taxicab running and warm at
5:10."

   "Oh, baby, there's no need for you to get up so early.  I called the cab
company already.  I'll be fine."

   "Yeah," Amelia said, "but I get jealous.  I hate it when you get your
farewell blow job from the cab driver and not from me." But Joe didn't
hear. He was asleep already.  At least, his eyes were closed and he was
breathing that deep rumble that never quite became a snore.

   Monday

   In the morning, she stayed in bed and let Joe get his own breakfast. 
But when the cab pull into the driveway, she jumped out of bed, still in
her transparent lingerie, and intercepted her husband at the front door.

   "Darling, darling, I have something I just have to tell you before you
go!" She flung open the door, fully aware that the cab driver could see
everything.  Then she grabbed Old Joe and kissed him, pulling his ear down
to her mouth as she whispered, "Her hair is Harlow gold; her lips a sweet
surprise; her hands are never cold; she's got Bette Davis eyes."

   Her reward was his honest laugh as he gave her one last peck on the lips
and climbed into the cab.



   Amelia showered and dressed in her usual work outfit of sweatshirt and
jeans.  She liked to get some work done in the quiet hour before the kids
got moving.  She was a free-lance computer programmer and consultant,
specializing in an old language called COBOL.  COBOL had been popular for
business and database applications thirty years ago, and a surprising
number of companies still had COBOL programs needing attention.  She'd
picked up COBOL while in college, serving an internship at a local
hospital. She didn't need the money, but she liked having a niche, and also
liked to keep in practice.

   But she couldn't focus.  Her mind insisted on focusing on the Mystery of
the Health Club.  Eventually she stopped pretending to work and simply
stared out the window at the rising sun.

   "Mom!  Mo-om! . . .  Oh, there you are.  Good morning, Mom.  Can I
borrow a couple of tampons?"

   Amelia turned to the doorway and gazed, pridefully, at her daughter. 
Eighteen, tall, slim, athletic and pretty as a picture in her bed-head hair
and flannel Winnie-the-Pooh pj's.  Even radiant, today.  In fact, except
for being a shade or two lighter in hair and skin coloring, and a tad
lighter in the chest, she looked a lot like the teenage Amelia had looked.
"Oh, Debbie, you don't have to ask.  Of course."

   "Yeah, Mom, but now you know I need some more."

   "Why not just put 'em on the shopping list?" The shopping list was kept
on the refrigerator door, where anyone could add to it.

   Debra crossed behind her mother, kissed her head and massaged her
shoulders.  "It's more fun interrupting you," she grinned.  "But I'll put
'em on the list, too, if I remember.  Oops, gotta go." And she was off,
probably not to be seen until dinnertime.

   She loved it when Debbie rubbed her shoulders like that.  It reminded
her of her old friend Julie.  'Whatever happened to Julie?' she wondered.

   Sighing, Amelia lapsed back into her daydream, thinking back on her
teenage years.  If she didn't count the two big exceptions, she sighed,
she'd always been a good girl, neither slut nor virgin, never having sex on
the first date, and when she did, she'd usually enjoyed the experience. 
She'd had mostly, nice, college-bound boys like herself, and now and then
she'd enjoy a one-night stand with a boy from the wild side.  On average,
she reflected, the bad boys weren't any better in bed than the good boys,
but, you know, variety is the spice of life.

   And then there was that one incredible girl, and that one incredible
boy, on that one incredible weekend.  She'd loved her few months with
Julie, who gave her a complete training course in the techniques of Sappho,
but in the end Amelia decided she was destined to be ninety percent
straight.  The boy, the boy with the monster cock, the boy she'd fucked
every chance she had from just after she'd turned sixteen until the night
before her wedding, was no boy friend or party pickup.  He was her brother,
Owen, two years younger.



   "Dammit, Owen," Amelia snapped, pushing at his hand.  "I can't do it
with you any more!  I'm getting married tomorrow!

   "Yeah, sis, that's why we should fuck our brains out tonight.  We'll
never have another chance.  Besides, you've said yourself that my cock
would make three of Joe's.  Don't you want a big something to remember me
by?"

   Owen was driving Amelia home after her wedding rehearsal dinner.  Amy
had persuaded her mother and grandma that she was exhausted and needed her
brother to drive her home.  Owen had acted put out at missing Joe Dunlap's
bachelor-night bacchanale.  He had to drive his sister . . .  crazy.

   As he drove the car, he had casually taken hold of his sister's pussy,
clamping his right hand over her crotch and using his fingers to fondle the
cloth barring their entrance within.  Something he'd done a hundred times
before, but to Amelia, this time it felt obscene and invasive.

   "As if I could forget." But even as she pushed at his hand, Amelia knew
she was going to succumb [pun intended].  Her cunt had gone from primly dry
to sopping wet as soon as Owen's hand bore down on it, and they both knew
it.  As his fingers played up and down the taut, wet cloth, she sighed. 
Fooling no one, she sighed again.  "Okay, but I'm still not taking that
nightstick up my ass!" she smiled.  "I've gotta have at least one cherry
for my bridegroom."

   "As you wish, madame," smirked Owen.  "But that means you'll always be a
virgin beyond the one-inch line."

   In between her little yelps of anticipation, as Owen's fingers did their
thing, Amelia breathed, "You just watch your mouth, brother-mine. . .  He's
a good man and I love him. . .  I think I love him. . .  I loved him a
little while ago. . .  You know I'd rather marry you and your . . . 
Eighter from Decatur, . . .  but it's against the law.  I have to make do."
They came to a red light and Amelia yanked down Owen's fly.  "Besides," she
snickered, "He'll make it to the one-and-a-half-inch line.  I'll be a
virgin only past the one-and-a-half-inch-line."

   Owen laughed out loud.  "Don't you mean Niner from Carolina?" He removed
his hand from his sister's snatch, and used it to unbutton his own pants.
Neither of them knew how big his shaft was, because when it was at maximum
erection and ready to be measured, they had other priorities.  Owen wasn't
the type to measure things, anyway.  Anyway, at eight or nine or twenty-two
inches, whatever, his powerful rod had molded itself against the cotton of
his underwear.  The helmet strained at the elastic.  As the traffic light
changed to green, Amelia undid her seat belt and knelt on the seat, face in
Owen's lap.  Her toes would have pointed out the window, but it was closed.

   "I guess this is my last chance to deep throat you," she giggled,
pulling the elastic down to his balls and freeing his cock from its shroud.
"At least I can try one last time to beat my personal best."

   "Yeah, big sister mine, yeah!  Go for it!" Owen laughed as he gently
bunched her hair into his fingers.

   Usually, Amelia would slowly paint the tip of the Eighter with her
saliva, interspersed with little kisses up and down the shaft.  For this
last time, though, she celebrated by skipping the little movements and
plunging her mouth down onto Owen's rigidity as far as it would go; the
head crashed into the roof of her mouth.  Her lips, she curled around her
teeth to protect his sensitive skin from being bitten.  Inhaling a little
to make a seal, she bit down gently to put pressure on the underside, then
pulled her head up slowly, pulling the skin along with her, as far as it
would go.  Then she pushed back down, just as slowly, a little farther than
she'd gone the first time.  She adjusted the angle of her head to guide it
farther in and closer to her throat.

   After a few repetitions, she gagged a little as the cockhead invaded her
throat.  She'd spent hours practicing on food items such as bratwursts and
bananas, trying to defeat the gag reflex, but had never gotten it perfect.
On her next thrust she held back a little, to avoid gagging.  This is where
Owen sprung his surprise; with his hand and arm, strong from wrestling, he
shoved her head down farther.  Before she could gag, though, he pulled her
head back upward, by the hair.  Then down again, up again.  At first,
Amelia resisted him, wanting to do it her way, but Owen paid no attention,
so she gave up.  That boy.  It didn't hurt or anything.  But it wasn't deep
throating, any more, or even a blow job.  Her brother was simply fucking
her face, using his hand much as he would use it for jacking himself off --
up, down, up, down.  It didn't hurt, so she figured, what the hell.  His
cockhead penetrated farther and farther down her throat, but she never
fully gagged, because he'd pull her off too quickly.  "I wonder who taught
him all this," Amelia chuckled to herself.  "Starting tomorrow, he's all
hers.  Or theirs."

   Owen abruptly pulled off the road and stopped the car.  She could hear
him moaning, a little, and swiftly his strokes got faster and deeper: up,
down, up, down, updown, updown, updown, updownupdownupdown. . . .  She was
ready for the Eighter to explode long before it was time.  "Oh, my dearly
befucked sister, I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm -- "

   The force and heat of his burst into her mouth and throat felt as strong
as a blast from a fire hose.  She began to swallow his cum frantically
(taste, she'd always thought, kinda average), clearing her throat for the
next burst.  And the next, and the next. . .  It sometimes felt as if he
were injecting his cum directly into her throat, but she knew better. 
She'd learned to be very good at rapid swallowing.

   After four or five such thrusts he thought he was spent and stopped
pulling her hair.  But Amelia knew better.  She kept her mouth in place and
returned to bobbing up and down as she had done before, protecting her
throat, again, but actively sucking, not merely stroking.  All with her
mouth; she felt that stroking the lower half of the erection with her hand
was just for beginners, and at age 26, with over 10 years'
every-other-daily practice on this particular sex organ, she was anything
but a beginner.

   Her up-and-down bobs took on a little torque, as she coaxed the last
remaining fluid from his balls.  When it spilled out, it was more of a
steady flow than the spasms of his first cumming had been; she knew that
this fluid was more nearly clear than opaque, and that her dear brother
would be losing his mind about now in the unbelieveable pleasure signals
rushing from his prick to his brain.  Some boys liked to keep up a little
dopey chatter as she sucked them off: "C'mon baby, suck it, suck that
monster.  It's full of cum all for you.  Yeah baby, swallow it all!  All!"
Very few of the talkers got a return bout.  But even they had never said
English words when she reached this last stage.  A few would voice an
incoherent moan, "Yeeaaa-ggghhhh," but mostly she'd know how they felt by
the rigid tension in all the muscles of their bodies.  That's how her
brother was; he never said much while fucking or sucking, but she could
read his muscle tension like a poem.  She was glad he'd pulled off the
road.



   From the kitchen came the clatter of some small disaster.  Young Joe was
making his breakfast.  Amelia shook off her memories and went to see what
was going on.  There was Joe Junior, pouring cold cereal into a bowl.  Such
a good-looking kid, she thought.  Just like his dad.

   But when had he gotten so big?  He'd been taller than his mother for a
couple of years, but this was the first time he'd seemed to filled out in
the shoulders.  Well, she thought, swimming'll do it.  What a heartbreaker!

   "Hi, mom," he said.  "Sorry about the racket.  I couldn't find the
orange-juice squeezer."

   "It's right here, Master Joey, in the dish drainer, where Debbie left it
for you."

   "Oh, sorry, I didn't look there.  I just went ahead and ate the orange,"
he said, point to the telltale rinds on the counter.

   "You just be sure to clean up after yourself, young man," she retorted.
"And next time, don't be so impatient."

   "Yes.  Mom," he rolled his eyes and winked.  "Hey, I made you coffee."

   She raised an eyebrow.  "I think you mean you made yourself coffee, but
you made extra.  But thanks."

   "Oh, mom.  You're the best." He hugged her, as usual reminding her of
those bygone years when she'd been the taller of the two.  He poured her
some coffee and dealt with his orange rinds.  As he sat down at the kitchen
table to eat his cereal, Amelia sighed and sat down across from him.

   "Joey, your father's acting kind of peculiar, and so are you, young man.
What happened at the health club yesterday?  Did you two fight about
something?"

   "Uh, whaddya mean, what happened?  No, we didn't fight.  We told you, we
had a great time." He grinned.  "Real father-son bonding experience." Joe
got up for more coffee.  "What's the matter with Dad?"

   "He's acting, kinda, I dunno, sad, I guess.  I know something went wrong
at the gym and I wish one of you would tell me."

   Joe could see the worry in his mother's eyes.  "Okay, mom, you're right,
something did happen.  But it wasn't a fight, it was nobody's fault, and I
promised not to say anything about it."

   Amelia couldn't believe that.  "Your father made you promise not to tell
anyone?" He'd never, ever done that before.  It's in all the parenting
manuals.  "Are you sure?"

   "He didn't make me promise.  I promised all on my own.  Although, there
isn't much point.  It seemed like everyone at the Club knew all about it. I
just guessed that he'd rather I didn't tell you."



   "Joseph Dunlap Junior, promise or no promise, you will tell me this
instant!" Amelia snapped.  "I will not have big secrets kept from one
another in this house!  I'm surprised that your father went along with it."

   "No, mom, I mean he'd rather that it wasn't me that told you.  I don't
think it's a secret."

   She merely glared.

   "Okay, mom, but it's kind of hard to explain." An idea popped into his
head, scary and embarrassing, but he was often a reckless kid.  "I did
p-promise not to talk about it.  But may-maybe I could show you."

   "Show me?  Show me what?"

   Young Joe sighed, put down his coffee cup, stood up and stepped directly
in front of his mother.  "Well, mom, . . .  this."

   As he spoke, he undid his jeans and let them fall to his ankles.  She
gasped, turning red, staring.  Young Joe had his uncle Owen's cock, hanging
seemingly halfway to his knees.  His balls protruded on either side like
kiwi fruits.

   "Young man, make yourself decent.  NOW!" Amelia stammered.  Her thoughts
were flying in two opposite directions.  One, this did help explain Old
Joe's odd behavior.  Two was her shame; her pussy was soaked.

   Joe, blushing beet red, fixed his clothing and sat back down.  Amelia
took a deep breath, inadvertently drawing Joey's attention to the
topography of her sweatshirt, and said, in her tight, no-nonsense "mom"
voice, "You'd better tell me about it."

   Young Joe told the whole story, trying to be careful with his language.
He knew he was well hung compared to the boys on the swim team, and even
young as he was, he'd had a few hand jobs and one blow job by girls who
marveled at the size of his prick.  He'd never made it to home plate,
though, but he knew he would, surely before his next birthday.  (Amelia was
surprised she told him some of this stuff.  But she was happy for his
honesty and for sparing her the details.)

   Naturally, neither of his parents had known these things about his sex
life or the vital measurements of his penis.  Neither did Joey know
anything about his father's puny prick.  So he and his dad were both
shocked and amazed when they hit the showers after their workout and each
noticed the other's equipment.  The facts were on display and unavoidable.

   As you can imagine, their conversation went from chatty, to awkward, to
silent.  To make matters worse, as they tried to ignore the whole thing,
the other men in the locker room and shower noticed, too, and a few made
jokes that were meant to be friendly, if thoughtless.  "Wow, Joe, is that
your boy or a stallion?" or "Well, Joe Junior, if you have too many girls
calling you, toss one of them my way, will you?  Although it looks like you
could handle three or four at a time."

   Young Joe had seen his father almost wilt in the ten minutes it took to
shower and change.  Old Joe had gone into the locker room proud of himself
and of his son and eager to work out with him, teaching him everything he
knew.  He came out of the locker room still proud of his son, sort of, but
humiliated in a way he couldn't have explained to anyone, not that he
tried. This is when Young Joe stepped up and promised not to say anything
about it.  His dad said nothing, just gave a slight nod.

   But Young Joe also had felt a glimmer -- of virility, of power, almost
of dominance -- that he didn't comprehend but that added a perceptible
swagger to his step.  He understood, suddenly, that the older girls at
school hadn't been wholly teasing him back when they singled him out among
the 8th grade boys for flirtation and sex talk; maybe they'd heard about
his cock and were burning with curiosity, maybe even with desire.  Lately,
he'd noticed that even Mrs.  Cohn, his math teacher, acted more girlish and
flirtsy with him than with anyone else in his class, but not until that
moment in the gym had he thought about why that might be.  Maybe even she
had gotten the word, God knows how.  He had no idea how to make use of this
power, but he knew he had it.

   Within the health club, apparently the word traveled fast.  After their
showers, Old Joe went to the club office to sign the paperwork adding his
son to the family membership.  While he was in there, Betsy B, a personal
trainer, offered Young Joe some free sessions to "get him started." Betsy B
was fitter than fit -- all the personal trainers were -- way over six feet
tall, short blonde hair, and the muscles of a lioness.  Her breasts were
not huge, but her powerful pecs thrust them into Joey's face as if she were
Miss January.  Joe's head was spinning from the difficult truths he'd
learned in the shower room, but he didn't hesitate to set up an appointment
with her for the very next afternoon; today, it would be.  She was hot for
his bod.  He just knew it.

   He didn't mention Betsy B to his dad.

   Joe told his mother all of this except his own private thoughts about
sex and power.  He'd already told her about Betsy B.  Amelia had the same
guess about her intentions as her son did.  If anything, Amelia was more
sure that Betsy B was on the make than Joey was.  She wondered if she
should intervene, but she was too confused to make up her mind, and
suddenly it was time for Joey to leave for school.

   In fact, Amelia didn't say much; not even to thank him or to say that
now she understood Old Joe's problem.  She just listened, wondering how to
deal with both Young Joe and Old Joe.  She knew how sensitve Old Joe could
be, how little dickie undermined his self-confidence, but she also knew how
women young and old had spoiled her brother.  The philosophers were right.
All things in moderation.  Now what?

   And then there was her problem.  In a heartbeat, Young Joe had changed
from Her Baby to Her Convenient Household Lust Object.  Lost in these
thoughts, she walked her son to the front door and chastely kissed his
cheek good-bye.  She didn't sing "Bette Davis Eyes" to him, but she thought
about it.

   Amelia watched her son through the soft focus of her tears as he walked
to the bus stop, alternately enjoying her memories and chastening herself
for them.  Her mind refused to be disciplined.  It wandered back to that
birthday party, late June, almost 28 years ago. . .



   "It's my party and I'll cry if I want to," sobbed Amelia to Julie, her
new best friend.  Julie had just been promoted from second-best friend to
best friend about an hour before.  Just like in the song, updated for the
libertine '70s.  One by one, people at the party had noticed the absence of
Amelia's then-best friend, Linda, and Amelia's then-boyfriend, Bradley, and
a kind of nervous anticipation brought the mood way down.  Sweet Amelia,
flushed with all the attention and wine coolers, was the last to catch on.
She had no clue until in walked the guilty pair, a pathetic ten seconds
apart, as if that would fool anyone.  Linda, henceforth named
Thatwhorelinda, was wearing a smug, triumphant smile.  She was also wearing
her tube top inside out.  She and Thatassholebradley seemed to be the only
two in the room who didn't notice.  Or maybe they did.

   She never knew, not that she cared.  She made it to her room before she
started crying her eyes out.  The party, obviously, was over.  Her brother
Owen, younger but so charming he made himself welcome at this high-school
party, helped Julie downplay the incident and get everybody out the door,
but it was obvious that they all knew.  Tonight, the whole gang was rigidly
polite to the new couple, and as soon as they were gone, there was a bedlam
of excited buzzing.  Linda and Bradley would be ostracized for a week or so
in solidarity with Amelia, and then social lives would adjust and they'd
move on.  Amelia never found out if Thatwhorelinda and Thatassholebradley
even understood they were being ostracized.  [I can tell you.  They
didn't.]

   When everyone was gone, Julie and Owen came to Amelia's room and tried
to comfort her.  Julie, at least, had the good sense to keep quiet.  Owen
was all action: "You want me to punch him out for you, sis?  Better still,
why don't you run him over with the car?  At least, if you can talk Mom
into letting you borrow it. . .  " It took him a while to catch on to
Julie's frantic signals to shut up, but he did, eventually.  Julie got up
to use the bathroom, Owen wordlessly reached to stroke his sister's back,
and Amelia turned over to see where Julie was going all in the same
instant.

   The result of all this was that Owen got a pleasant handful of
sixteen-year old tit.  Then he did, or didn't do, something that changed
their lives forever; he didn't let go, and he didn't abandon his stroking
motion.  Gently he massaged her left breast, just as if he'd done it a
hundred times before.

   Amelia was too surprised to react and too cried out to be indignant. 
She found herself relaxing and enjoying the sensation, the petting and the
yummy illicitness of it.  Ironically, just moments before she'd been
telling herself that she was totally through with all boys, but here she
was with this boy, wiggling into a more comfortable position and almost
purring.  Neither spoke.

   When they heard Julie returning, they quickly became respectable.  Owen
leaned over and kissed Amelia's cheek, murmuring, "Don't forget, dear
sister-mine.  I'm right down the hall for you, day or night." Somehow, he
forgot to leer.  Then he stood up turned away from the girls, and left. 
But he didn't turn as quickly as he'd intended.

   "Did you see his jeans?" whispered Julie, wide-eyed, checking to make
sure that the door had closed behind him.  He must have shoved a lacrosse
stick down there while I was in the bathroom." She paused, looking her new
best friend in the eye.  "What happened?"

   "Oh, nothing.  He rubbed my back a little.  Teenage boy, anything'll get
him hard."

   "Yeah, but didn't you see the size of his . . .  thing?"

   Amelia giggled for the first time since the awful events of the evening.
"Calm down, girl.  He's my little brother.  There are rules, you know."

   Julie knew that one.  "Jimmy Stewart, The Philadelphia Story, 1939!"

   "Good!" Amelia said, still giggling.  "And don't you forget it.  Hands
off children and drunks, no matter what size their equipment."

   After a moment she continued.  "Besides, I saw him first."

   Julie didn't giggle on cue.  Instead, she gazed at her new best friend
for a long moment, pondering.  For bestest friends, they sure didn't know
each other very well.  Best to fix that right away, in case Amy was
disgusted and ran away screaming.  But Julie was confident; Amy was a
kindred spirit.  She was sure.  She spoke, overemphasizing every syllable
in a singsongy way.  "I think I'd better stay over tonight, on guard. 
You're awfully horny and confused and you just might try something I'll
regret forever."

   Amelia giggled again.  Not all her girlfriends had the chutzpah to
invite themselves to spend the night.  "Hey Julie, I have a great idea. 
Would you like to sleep over?  I can lend you some pajamas.  But you'll
have to help clean up after the party in the morning."

   "Why, what a wonderful idea!  I'd love to!  But I'd better check with my
folks."

   As Julie picked up the phone, Amelia changed out of her party dress and
laid out pajamas and other necessary items for her friend.  Julie soon hung
up, bouncing up and down like a fourth-grader at a slumber party.  Amelia
said, "I take it you can stay.  You're in luck.  I found a brand-new,
still-in-the-package toothbrush.  Now you don't have to use mine, or even
Ow-ow-en's," she winked, drawing out her brother's name into three
syllables.

   "Oh, I'll just use yours.  What the heck.  Keep the new one for your
ne-e-ext boy friend." Julie bit her lip, then sprang up to start pulling
off her party dress.  "Ames, can you unzip me in the back?" she said, then
after Amelia complied, shrugged the dress off into a pile of chiffon on the
floor.  Still standing, with her back to Amelia, she stood on one foot,
then the other, pulling off her pantyhose and panties.

   She didn't look around, but she knew Amelia was watching.  When she was
down to only her bra, she nonchalantly reached around to unclasp it, then
stopped for a long moment, frozen in place but tense, like a cat about to
strike.  Amelia watched as if mesmerized as Julie, hands still on her bra
strap, looked at her friend over her shoulder, winking a slow wink, then
turned around slowly to face the bed.  Julie undid the strap, hook by hook,
and gave Amelia a flirtatious, pouty smile, clutching the cups to her boobs
with her forearms.  She half-turned as if to turn her back again, but
stopped, winked again, and pulled the bra completely off, reaching out to
dangle the cups in front of Amelia's fascinated nose.  Then she
deliberately placed her hands on her hips, the bra still dangling from her
hand, and cocked one hip at Amelia.  She simply stood there, waiting to see
how Amelia would respond.

   Julie was fairly short, but very well-proportioned.  Top-heavy, in fact.
She was the only well-endowed girl in the whole school that Amelia liked;
the rest were cheerleaders or whores.  Amelia had seen Julie's tits,
changing for gym class and such.  She knew they were big but she'd never
really looked at them.  Tonight she did.  They didn't stick out like
artillery, the way some girls' did.  Instead, they molded themselves to
Julie's slight frame.  As topped by Julie's big aureolae, they reminded her
of fried eggs in a skillet.  Ordinarily, that thought would have made her
giggle, but not tonight.  She simply gazed, agape, at Julie's face and
boobs as though Julie were a goddess.

   Julie's bush, trimmed and waxed to the bikini line, was thick and black
like the hair on her head.  After an infinite minute, Amelia's friend
crossed her arms under the supple orbs, hiking them up a little, and smiled
like the cat who just ate the canary.  "Thanks for the pajamas, but I don't
think I'll need them," she purred.

   Holding Amy's eyes in hers, Julie stooped to lean face to face over
Amelia, who was still lying on her back in her Flintstones pajamas. 
Julie's right hand slowly came forth and entwined the hair on the side of
Amelia's head.  With her lips only an inch from her friend's, Julie
breathed, "I think we should both be naked tonight.  After all, we're brand
new best friends."

   Half-consciously, Amelia obeyed, letting her hand creep to the buttons
of her pajama top, undoing them one by one from her throat.  When she had
done them all, Julie's other hand pulled the two halves apart, exposing but
not touching Amelia's pretty-good tits.  Julie left her hand on Amelia's
torso, motionless, as her mouth approached Amelia's.  Their lips touched;
Amelia felt something like a spark between them.  Then Julie commanded,
"Kiss me, Amelia.  Now!"

   Amelia obeyed as if she were Julie's sock puppet.  She jerked her mouth
up the final millimeter to Julie's and kissed, lips only, for a very long
moment.  Sighing, she wrapped one arm around Julie's neck and collapsed
onto her back, never breaking contact.  Soon they were necking for keeps,
tongues wrestling, nibbles and little bites here and there, neck-nuzzling,
light petting of throats and cheeks and hair.  For the first time in her
life, Amelia completely abandoned herself not only to her partner, but to
the act itself.  She was kissing Julie.  Julie was kissing her.  And that
was all they were doing, and they were holding nothing back.  The kiss was
everything.  Amelia could feel the tingling all the way down in her toes.
One thing for sure, it was far more satisfying than fucking in the back
seat of Thatassholebradley's car had ever been.

   After what felt like several hours, Julie broke the kiss and worked her
way down, with tiny kisses and tongue caresses, to Amelia's left breast. 
Amelia almost gasped, and all her muscles tensed hard as mahogany at the
sensation.  It went right through her, like lightning seeking a ground.  It
felt like electricity must feel too, she thought -- tingly all over,
especially at her clitoris.

   Amelia tried to relax.  Julie's intentions were easy to guess, now,
although five minutes ago, Amy had had no clue.  She wasted no energy
pondering the grand questions of what they were doing.  Her mind was
focused entirely on Julie.

   As expected, Julie continued to kiss and nuzzle her way down to Amelia's
navel, then sat up and tugged at the elastic of Amelia's pants.  Amelia
automatically, almost dreamily, levered her butt off the bed and helped
Julie pull her pajamas, and her panties, down to her thighs.  Julie whisked
them completely off, and Amelia lay naked on the bed with Julie reared
back, on her knees between Amelia's legs, appraising Amelia's body.

   "Y'know, Ames," murmured Julie.  "Every woman's body is beautiful.  But
yours is more beautiful than most." Amelia, who had had difficulty tearing
her eyes from Julie's tits, almost started crying again.  She wanted to
reply in kind, but couldn't think of anything to say that didn't sound
dorky.  Julie understood; she put her finger on Amelia's lips and smiled.
Then she scooted farther down the bed, lifted Amelia's foot to her lips,
kiss her smaller toes gently, one by one, then without warning bit her
friend's big toe, hard.

   Amelia had a small orgasm right then and there, although she didn't
realize it.  As of today she'd fucked two boys twice each and one maybe six
or seven times, and although about half those times had been sort of
pleasant, she'd never had a real womanly orgasm until Julie bit her toe.

   Julie jumped from langourous to fiery.  She dived forward and buried her
nose and tongue in Amelia's cunt.  She wasn't licking, and she wasn't being
gentle and feathery like a lot of men think girls always do each other; she
was bathing her whole face in Amelia's juices the way a cat takes to
catnip. It felt to Amelia almost as if Julie were trying to crawl through
her pussy into her womb.  And Amelia felt the first rumblings of a real
orgasm, 6.2 on the Richter scale, stirring deep within her loins.  When the
tremors really got going, Julie switched to gently flicking Amelia's clit
with her tongue, and the tremors got more intense.  Amelia knew she tasted
pretty good; she'd tested herself plenty of times, so she felt no anxiety
about displeasing Julie "down there." Actually, she felt no anxiety about
anything, except maybe that the tremors gathering in her body would become
powerful enough to knock her out of bed or set her to screaming so loud her
parents came running.

   She needn't have worried.  As Julie skilfully brought Amelia all the way
to her powerful climax, Amelia was well beyond caring about falling or
screaming or anything else, but Julie was in total command.  All of Amy's
attention was focused on the exquisite sensations pouring out of her pussy,
up through the rest of her body; a zillion rapid sensations or one long
earthquake, she didn't bother to decide.  She started to moan.

   Once again, Julie's experience showed; she quickly stopped tonguing
Amelia's cunt and returned to her face, burying her tongue in Amelia's
mouth.  Her hips circled slowly, pressing her mons veneris into Amelia's.
All Amelia could manage in that position was a low, indecipherable
"nnnnggg-gghhhhh!" but, repeated as needed, it was plenty.

   The tremors calmed down, and eventually so did Amelia's pulse.  She
opened her eyes and looked into Julie's, patiently smiling down at her. 
She felt weak.  She wanted to thank this girl who awoke those overpowering
feelings; no, she wanted to skip the thanks and pledge herself to love,
honor and obey Julie until death did them part.  But when she opened her
mouth, all she could manage was a hoarse, "Wow." Not even an exclamation
point.

   Julie braced herself on the bed and pulled her knees up so she was
straddling Julie's belly.  "Shhh," she said.  "We can talk in the morning."

   "But I want to do you like you did me."

   Julie giggled, transforming herself back from sex goddess to high-school
girl.  "You will, sweetheart, you will.  But not tonight.  This was your
night.  It's your birthday, remember?"

   Amelia sighed and closed her eyes.  In fact, she was struggling to stay
awake.  "Can't I -- can't I at least kiss your tits?"

   Julie giggled again, and leaned forward so her left boob dangled in
Amelia's face.  Amelia pulled her head up and wrapped her lips around the
nipple, pressing in to her aureola, then tickled Julie's nipple with her
tongue.  Then she lapsed back down onto the bed.  "That's not enough," she
said, "but I'm so sleepy."

   Her new best friend and newer lover had an idea.  "We'll lie down and
make a spoon," she whispered, "and you can wrap your arm around me and cup
my tit in your hand.  But you have to promise to keep me from screaming
when I hit my climax."



   Amelia was too charged with endorphins to know she was being teased. 
"OK," she mumbled.  And that's how they nestled together to spend the
night.



   Joe left the house, wondering what had possessed him to expose his prick
to his mother.  All he'd needed was a wisp of an excuse, and thwack!  his
pants hit the floor.  And he marveled at the smell wafting up from his mom;
he'd never smelled excited pussy, so he didn't know what it was, but that's
what he guessed.  Then he chided himself for the egotism of it -- What am I
thinking!  She's my mother!  One look at my penis and she's creaming her
jeans?  Yeah, right.  I gotta get a hold of myself!

   He snickered to himself at the old joke -- he usually "got hold of
himself" about twice a day -- but continued walking as if in a trance. 
Could she be. . .  ?  -- Nah.  She's his mom.  That kind of thing happens
only in porno stories.  But he'd seen his dad's microscopic penis; she must
be desperate.  I bet she's got some killer dildoes, he thought.  I wonder
if she's getting some on the side?

   As he struggled with all his new thoughts, his own prick was painfully
trying to stand up straight.  Painfully because it was tangled in his pubic
hairs, pulling them as it grew.  Ordinarily he had a little bit of will
power over his erection.  If he ever got fully hard at school or someplace
it would extend, or try to, beyond his belt by two or three inches.  But
usually he could will his willie [ha ha!] to soften a little, so he could
adjust his pants and divert it sideways, so it didn't leap out of his
pants. It was uncomfortable, but not painful.

   Today, naturally, he didn't have the power, because all his thoughts
tended to make his dick harder, not softer.  As he walked to school, he
could keep it concealed under his spring-weather jacket, but he wasn't sure
how he'd handle himself at school.  "I won't think about this morning.  I
won't think about this morning.  I won't think about this morning," he
repeated to himself, thereby guaranteeing that he'd continue to think about
this morning, the smell, the light of lust in his mother's eye, matching
the surge of lust in his own imagination.

   His worries were for nothing, at least so far.  He ran into some of his
friends, also walking to school, and when he remembered to check, his
member had folded itself back into place.  He was able to control himself
until Connie, who was fairly good-looking, had the biggest tits in the
school (not counting the really obese fat girls), and was also the biggest
cock-tease, leaned over him in the cafeteria, rubbing her boobs on his back
and over his shoulders, wheedling him to share the answers to his math
homework.  Today, of all days.  He was so primed and ready that he almost
shot off a load right then and there; he thought the muzzle velocity might
have been plenty to break Connie's glasses.  Fortunately, he had the
presence of mind to "accidentally" knock over his ice-cold Pepsi, which
"somehow" spilled into his lap, and his cock shriveled.  He was a mess, but
at least he wasn't going to be expelled from school.  This also gave him an
excuse to dash off to his locker, where he had some clean gym clothes he
could wear.  (In all the commotion Connie forgot to vamp him out of his
homework.)

   This all made him a couple of minutes late for math class.  He reached
the classroom without being caught by the hall pass storm troopers, but as
he eased through the doorway, Mrs.  Cohn stopped talking and gave him such
a big smile that everyone knew she had to be faking.  Wasn't she?  "Well,
class, now that Mr.  Dunlap has made his grand entrance, and shown off his
shapely legs, we can begin.  May I have a volunteer to do number four of
the homework on the board?" Silence.  "Oh, come now, you can't all be
breathless at the sight of Mr.  Dunlap."

   Her first jibe had been more or less ignored by the class, for which Joe
was grateful, but now there were a few laughs.  Joe turned beet red and
hurried to a vacant seat.  He didn't notice that he'd sat next to Connie
until it was too late.  She winked at him and silently mouthed the words,
"nice legs," then inhaled in her practiced way, drawing several pairs of
eyes to her deep cleavage.  Joe willed his gaze away, only to find himself
looking right into the eyes of Mrs.  Cohn, who was waiting for his
classmate to finish problem four on the board.  Her eyes were half-smiling,
half-smouldering.  Joe blushed again and looked down at his math book.

   Time crept by, but the bell did ring.  At the words, "Class dismissed,"
the half the class who had quietly packed up already were out of their
seats and out the door; Joe was the last to get up because he, distracted
and a little nervous, dropped his notebook and had to gather up all his
papers.  Mrs.  Cohn intercepted him at the doorway.  He didn't know how old
she was, but he knew her youngest son, slightly, a senior at this same high
school, and her brunette hair hadn't gone gray, but it looked worn out. 
Other than that, though, she had a great body, tall, leggy, physically fit,
and with good-sized boobs sticking straight out under her soft,
close-fitting sweater.  She must have pretty hot in her day.  She was still
very MILFish.

   She put her hand on his arm, high, fingers under the arm of his t-shirt.
"I need to apologize," she said.  "I shouldn't have picked on you twice. 
Once would have been enough." She caught him in her gaze again and this
time held it for several seconds.  Joe thought she was almost begging to be
fucked, by his magnificent cock, but then thought, "What's got into me?" He
smiled at his teacher, mumbling something about how it was okay, don't
worry about it, sorry I was late, etc.  etc.  She let him talk until he
caught himself, then said, "OK then.  You'd better get to your next class."


   As he turned and pulled away, she ran her nails down his arm, shoulder
to elbow, and halfway back up, before turning back to her desk.  Joey's
dick leapt to attention, pulling his pubic hair again and straining the
seams of his shorts.  Over his shoulder he stuttered, "see you tomorrow"
and lurched out into the hallway.

   After school, Young Joe sat in Starbuck's for a while, trying to do his
homework but really contemplating the day's encounters with his mother,
Connie, and then Mrs.  Cohn., and also about his appointment with Betsy B.
He reached the Club in plenty of time to be dressed for exercise by 4:30 on
the dot, which was easy because he'd changed into gym clothes at lunch
time.

   He reported in at the front desk and the receptionist handed him his
file (two pieces of paper, so far) and paged Betsy B.  The latter was
unnecessary, as Betsy B walked up to the desk.  "Hello, Joey," she smiled.
"Ready to start?"

   Joe gulped, and nodded.  Really, he was tongue-tied.  Betsy B had
swapped her usual prim, crew-neck Danskin for a model that emphasized her
dramatic cleavage.  She had perfect posture, which emphasized her boobs
even more.  Joey had pretty good posture, for an American, but Betsy B's
was purely Prussian.  Her tits weren't that huge, but her pectoral muscles
and her posture shoved them into Joe's face.  If they had collided, Joe's
nose would have been buried between her tits, even though in true feet and
inches he and Betsy B were about the same height.

   Betsy B gently grabbed his elbow, saying, "This way." She guided him
back to the staff's lair, explaining that she could give him four free
sessions, but after that all she could do was keep an eye on him while he
followed her program.  She was booked up solid; she couldn't take him as a
paying client even if that's what he wanted.

   They arrived at a small office, smaller than a lot of people's closets.
She threw his file down onto the desk.  The outer wall was glass, but as
she said, "sit down, please" she slowly pulled the drapes closed.  As she
eased her body into the desk chair and took her time about leaning to pull
a pen out of the jar, Joey's prick was showing some definite interest.  She
gave a private chuckle, then sat up.

   "OK, sir, first things first.  What do you like to be called?  Joe,
Joey, Young Joe, your highness, what?"

   Sitting down, she was less intimidating, and Joey thought he was going
to like her, aside from his aching desire to fuck her brains out.  He would
have laughed when she offered, "your highness," but his rod was straining
to escape, again, just from the way she had closed the drapes and showed
off her breasts.  "Joe or Joey, please.  I'm trying to get my family to
stop saying Young Joe."

   "Besides, you're a Club member now," she chuckled.  "You have
authority." In her low voice, those words teased him about wanting to "be a
man" without putting him down for it.  Pause.  "Anyway, from what I hear
about your, uh, 'endowment,' maybe we should call you Big Joe." Joe blushed
a deep red and simply stared.

   "I had an interesting conversation with your mother this morning," she
went on.  She drew a deep breath, but crossed her arms over her boobs
first. "She called, explaining that she'd heard about your visit here
yesterday -- she was probably the last Club member to find out -- and she's
afraid that you're going to be passed from bitch to bitch, sampled and
tossed aside.  Those are my words; she was nicer, but that's what she
meant. She thinks I'm the first bitch in line.  And, I confess, she's more
than half right.  I would like to find out what it's like to be fucked all
the way up to the cervix.  But I'm a professional, after all, and I have a
job to do.  It's also against the law."

   "Not in this state."

   "Shut up.  Don't tempt me!  I need this job." She let that sink in, then
continued.  "So, here's the pitch.  If I can get over my inhibitions about
being blacklisted by health clubs from here to Alaska, and paying the rent,
maybe we can fuck some day, but only if we've earned it.  Probably not, but
maybe.  I say 'we' because I'm as eager as you are.  Cocks that can satisfy
a big girl like me just aren't all that common.  Certainly not attached to
any recent boy friend of mine.  Oh, and meantime you don't have to be
faithful.  I'd prefer it if you weren't.  You'll need the experience,
believe me.  I won't be faithful, for sure."

   She unwrapped her arms and took another deep breath, but Joe's senses
were already overloaded.  "Sorry, I shouldn't tease you like that.  Here's
the truth.  I'm a lot stronger than I look." She grinned, more like baring
her teeth; she and Wonder Woman would have fought at even odds.  "With the
right man, my orgasms can be long and violent.  I broke a man's back once,
and he wasn't even all that great in bed.  I got off with community
service, but the judge said no more fucking anyone who couldn't handle the
gee forces.  And that means, Mister Young Big Joey Dunlap, that you and I
might some day have some great sex, but not until you're in a lot better
shape than you are today.  No major improvement, no Viking maiden.  Major
improvement, no promises, but it's possible."

   This speech was full of so many astounding items that all Joe could do
was protest her assertion that he was not fit enough for her.  "Major
improvement?  Better shape?" he said.  "I swim at least a mile four or five
times a week; twice a day during the swim season."

   She slapped his folder.  "Yeah, but last season you never placed better
than third, and that was only once," Betsy B shot back.  "When I'm through
with you, you might not win every time, but you'll be in the top three more
often than not." She reached for his bicep, raising her eyebrows when she
spied his souvenir scratches from Mrs.  Cohn.  Then she squeezed.  It felt
to Joe like her she could rip the whole thing right off his arm.

   "Aaaaaggggghhh!" he screamed.  Pulling on her wrist had no effect at all
on her grip or her demeanor.  It wasn't until Joe thought to lunge back
from the desk that she let go and the pain subsided.  "What was that
about!?" Joe yelled.  "Are you crazy?"

   "Shut up.  Now!  A lot of people think I am crazy, at that," she said.
"But I think I made my point about your crummy muscle tone, at least in
your bicep.  Should we test your other muscles?"

   "Nooo!" cried Joey, but even as he did he was recovering his dignity. 
"I mean, no, you've made your point.  Should we get started?" Out loud, he
didn't complete the sentence formed in his mind:'And out where there are
witnesses!'

   "I have to get your height," she barked.  "Stand up by that measuring
tape there, on the wall."

   As Joey complied, Betsy B's gaze and smirk told him that his gym shorts
stood out like a pup tent.  He hadn't known.  He was still flushed red from
the pain in his arm, so he couldn't blush.  Thank goodness for small
favors. "I see that your friend there likes Amazons.  I wonder if you knew
that." Joey said nothing, but as he stood against the wall, she seemed to
soften, from drill sergeant to girl on a second date.

   She seemed shy and embarrassed.  "Joey, I've just got to get a look at
that instrument of blissful torture I've heard so much about.  May I?"

   It worked like the bad cop - good cop ploy.  He wasn't about to deny
anything to the nice version of Betsy B.  He nodded.

   "You dear boy.  I'm sorry, but I really want to hear you say it.  May I
make a personal inspection of your penis?"

   Said penis was confused.  He got hard for Betsy B, minor sadist with the
Gestapo, but even harder for Betsy B, pride of her Sunday school.  Joey
gulped.  "Yes, I think I'd like that," he stammered.  "Should I take my
shorts off?"

   "No, I'll do it." Which she did, pulling shorts and jock over his hips
and leaning in close as the garments fell to his ankles.  As she leaned,
she wrapped her hand around his naked prick.  It was harder than it had
ever ever been, although Joey was not forgetting what that same hand had
just done to his arm.  "Hmmm.  Length, seventeen point three.  Girth, eight
point six on the Fleischer scale.  Color-- Color and hue, eight points out
of ten." She pulled the wooden pole away toward her, then left, then right,
pretending to test its hardness.  "Wow.  Rigidity, ninety-two, no, make
that ninety-four percent."

   She looked up at him, still playing scientist.  "Y'know, Mr.  Dunlap,
I've seen, oh, thirty, forty, fifty specimens before, but this one is the
best I've ever seen.  I really do think that once you're strong enough that
it's safe, you and I should run some more tests.  Or do you refer to your
di-- excuse me, your penis as a 'him'?"

   This was all far more than Joey's inexperienced body could control. 
"Betsy, you'd better get a towel or something," he gasped.  "I'm about to
explode."

   Fortunately, Betsy B was trained to keep her head in emergencies.  She'd
never been trained to give head in emergencies, but, hey, this was an
emergency.  She didn't let go of his cock, or run for a towel; she wrapped
her mouth around the top two or three inches.  Just in time, too, because
as she did, Joe moaned, "nngghh-shiittt" and his cum gushed out, hard and
fast.  If she hadn't been so quick-thinking, the room would have been one
big mess, wall to wall.

   Those thirty or forty or fifty guys were lucky men, though, because she
was a really good cocksucker (certainly compared to the one inexperienced
girl who'd serviced Joe before).  She never moved her hands, still firmly
clasping the shaft; all she did was vary the pressure of her fingers, like
she was playing the clarinet, and suck gently, coaxing out every drop of
semen and swallowing the whole load.

   When he was spent, Joe softened a little, and got weak in the knees, as
if he were about to collapse onto the ground.  Instantly, sweet Betsy B let
go of his prick and hardass Betsy B stood up, almost lifting him by his
shorts and jock strap as she pulled them up to his butt.  "Oh, no, you
don't, mister!" she snapped.  "Stand up straight!  Now!"

   Startled, Joe complied, even though both of his heads were still
spinning.  Betsy B stood up to her full height and glared down into his
eyes.  "Training starts now, buster.  We've had a taste of our reward.  Now
we earn it."

   Quickly, she finished the paperwork, clipped it to a clipboard, grabbed
an old-fashioned stop watch like the one on "60 Minutes" and led Joe to the
floor of the gym.  "First.  This little running track is one-eighth of a
mile.  Give me two miles.  Fifteen laps, two slow, one fast, two slow, one
fast, like that, then one all-out sprint at the end.  Got it?"

   He nodded, still a little disoriented from the events in the office. 
"Yeah, I've got it, Betsy.  Two slow, one fast."

   "When I say 'got it?' you reply 'Got it!' Two words, no more.  And don't
you dare call me 'Betsy' ever again!  You've done it twice.  Three strikes
and you'll be out, cold.  It's 'Betsy B,' pal, and don't you forget it. 
Got it?"

   Joe was no dummy.  "Got it!"

   "OK, go!" she barked, clicking the stop watch.  The whole session went
the same way, Nautilus machines, more running, free weights, medicine ball,
more running, more stomach crunches than he could count, until Joe felt
like the best he could do would be to crawl to the bus stop.  "I thought
you said you were in shape," she taunted.  "You want me to call your mamma
to come pick you up?" He said nothing, but squared his shoulders with
determination.  "Same time, Wednesday?" she asked.  Joe nodded, and she was
gone.  Joe wanted to melt into the floor and rest, but he was afraid she'd
come back and catch him.  He staggered to the same shower where all this
had started, twenty-six hours ago, and then dragged himself home.

   Everything seemed normal when he got home.  He was too late to help get
supper on the table, so he'd have to do the dishes instead, but that was
okay.  The three of them -- Debbie was home for once -- chatted about the
usual stuff.  Debbie had, of course, heard about his encounter with Connie
and teased him about it, but nobody mentioned how spilling his Pepsi might
have been smart, not clumsy.  He thought his mom gave him a look to tell
him that she knew anyway, but he shook it off.  How could he have gone from
thinking his mom was a near-virgin to thinking she thought about sex -- and
her son -- all the time?  He told her and his sister about Betsy B,
honorary Nazi, but naturally left out the good part.



   Later, as Young Joe was washing the dishes, his mother came back to the
kitchen.  "I know we should talk more about you and your father, and what
to do about it, but I'm not up to it tonight.  I'm all confused.  You
should be, too.  But right now I have to think about what to tell your
father when he calls."

   Joe, Senior, called like clockwork at 9:00 every night when he was out
of town for the week.  He didn't really need to call that often.  The
custom began when he was a young lawyer who needed a way to get out of
being seen and not heard at those dreary dinners with the clients and
senior partners (the lawyers always picked up the check, then billed the
expense back to the client's corporation).  He and Amelia had hatched the
plot when Amelia was pregnant with Debbie; Joe went to work one day to tell
them that Amelia had "put her foot down" and was "nearly hysterical" at
being "abandoned" all week in her "delicate condition." She'd said if Joe
wanted to keep the job and travel all the time, he would have to choose
between calling her every evening or coming home to an empty house. 
Actually, Joe wanted to get away from the dinners and go to a gym, even the
hotel gym if that was the best he could do.  The ploy worked great.  He
gained respect within the firm for standing up for his marriage, but not
too much, and the clients were always told that Mr.  Dunlap had wanted to
come to dinner, but the firm was being thrifty with the client's company
cash.  And, like any eccentric behavior, in time nobody noticed any more.

   Tonight, though, the phone custom looked perilous.  What should she say?
Joey's idea was simple, the classic lie: "Tell him the truth, but leave the
sticky parts out.  Remember, I didn't tell you anything this morning, I
showed you.  You knew most of the story right away, before I said a word;
so you can truthfully tell him that I didn't tell you anything about it. 
If he asks.  Which he won't."

   He stopped to breathe.  "Tell him about how dead I was when I came back
from the Club.  He'll get a laugh out of that, and you can change the
subject."

   Amelia didn't know whether to laugh or cry.  "Are you a lawyer's son or
what?" she said.  "Tell me, young man, have you ever used your devious mind
on me that way?"

   "No, ma'am, I'd never do that.  Never." Joey put on his most innocent
face, so his mother knew he was guilty as sin.  "Well, once.  You remember
when I was eleven, the time the living room window got broken?  My buddy
Glenn and I were horsing around indoors and broke it, but we ran outside
and picked up all the glass, and scattered it around the room.  Then Glenn
threw a baseball against the wall so it left a mark, and we got the hell
out of there before you came home.  Boy, you sure were mad at some
neighborhood kid.  We tricked you so bad you never even asked me if I did
it.  But that was the only time."

   That was years ago.  Amelia could laugh about it now.  She gave him the
"boys will be boys" look, saying, "I still don't believe that that was the
only time," she said.  Rising up on her tiptoes, she gave him a fond kiss
on his cheek.  "I guess I'll have to forgive you.  The statute of
limitations has run out." She winked.  "Now, young man, get the kitchen
cleaned up and try to do your homework.  I know it'll be hard.  I'd give
you a hand if I dared."

   She left Joe gaping at her back as she left the room.  He wondered if
she could really have meant the double entendre.  So did she.



   Joe finished up and went to his room, belly full of so much food for
thought that he was almost nauseous.  He sat down at his computer, but it
was futile.  He was lucky he had no exams any time soon.  He needed
somebody to talk to, and his mom and dad were both out of the question. . .


   Heart in throat, he knocked on Debbie's door.  She, as usual, had some
chick band turned up loud in her ear buds, and since he didn't want his
mother to know what he was up to, he opened the door a notch, slipped his
hand into the room and waved.  It was an old routine between them, because
they both played their headphones or ear buds way too loud.  She hopped off
her bed, flinging some massive work of literature onto the spot where she'd
been sitting, and opened the door.

   "Whaddya want, little bro?  No, you can't borrow my iPod.  You'd better
find your own.  It's probably in that messy room of yours.  Or maybe you
want to arm wrestle?  C'mon, tough guy, let's go to it, and chirp, chirp,
chirp. . .  " He couldn't get a word in.  But it meant she was in a good
mood, and once she'd calmed down she'd be glad to talk to him.  They were
fond of each other, and helped each other out when they could, without
admitting that they were doing it for love.  Besides, they liked the
squabbling routine.  It brought out the clever in them both.  They'd been
doing it since Joey could talk.

   "What are you so chipper about, Deb?  Have you been invited to
Wimbledon?"

   "Very funny, little bro." She grabbed his arm and pulled him into the
room, shutting the door theatrically.  "Better than that, actually.  I got
my period!"

   "What's so great about that?  You get all sick and cranky when you're on
the rag."

   "No, Pal Joey, you're not thinking.  I.  Got.  My.  Period."

   It took him a moment, but he caught on.  "And you were afraid you might
be. . .  "

   She put one index finger to his lips, and the other to her own.  "Shhh!
To say the word is to invite the calamity."

   "You want me to explain to the asshole about condoms?  Maybe make him
eat a box of 'em?  Who is it, anyway?  I thought you and Dan broke up."

   "Our minds and hearts broke up, but our bodies didn't.  This is a
secret" -- they knew they could trust each other absolutely -- "Dan's my
new fuck buddy!"

   "Oh, come on.  Who's the secret from?  Mom's gotta know you're fucking
Dan.  She's clairvoyant."

   "Maybe so, but Dan's new girlfriend doesn't know.  And she's not gonna
find out from me.  Or you."

   "Who is it?"

   "Some girl named Anna from over at Lincoln High.  Dan hasn't exactly
introduced us.  Now, whaddya want?"

   "Can I sit down?"

   "Sure.  We can both sit on the bed.  I have extra pillows.  See ya,
Tolstoy!" The book hit the floor.  "I'm on the rag, so I won't attack you."
[Which was doubly false; she'd never wanted to attack him, but if she had,
being on the rag would not have stopped her.]

   After they got settled, she looked at him quizzically, waiting for him
to start.  It was obviously something awkward, but all she could do was
wait.  "Should I try to guess?  Like twenty questions?  Or Jeopardy?  I'll
take 'problems with girls' for sixty, Alec.  Hey, it's the Daily Double!!"

   Joe held up his hand, and she stopped.  "It is about girls, sort of. 
Sex, really.  I dunno, maybe I shouldn't have bothered you. . .  maybe I'd
better go."

   She grabbed his arm.  "Fat chance, buddy!  You've got me curious.  I
know you can be dumb, but you have to know that your dear sister will let
you know no rest until she knows.  Everything.  "

   He inhaled deeply, then blew it out.  "OK, sis, here it is, plain
English.  Are the girls at school talking about my cock?"

   If Debbie had been a cartoon character, her jaw would have dropped to
her knees.  Her first impulse was to start laughing.  "Wow, you get right
to the point, don't you?" Pause.  He was serious.  "No, they don't," she
said soberly.  "At least, I haven't heard anything, and I don't think it's
because bitches like Connie are sparing my sisterly feelings.  What should
we be saying about your cock, little brother?  I can probably figure out
how to start some rumors, if you think it would help you get laid.  What's
going on?"

   He astounded her again.  "Do you know about dad's dick?"

   She grimaced.  "Brother Joseph, you'd better explain what you're getting
at.  If you're after a little incest action, you've come to the wrong
chickadee."

   "No, sis, far from it.  If anything, a little incest action might be
looking for me." He told her about his and their dad's discovery in the gym
shower yesterday, and how badly dad was reacting.  He said as little as he
could about their mother's flirtatious comments, except as was essential to
the story.

   "I can't be hearing you right.  You dropped your pants in front of Mom?
In the kitchen?  This morning?  To show her this uh, penis, you think is so
huge?  Have you gone totally pervo?  Or are you just out of your mind?"

   "Hey, it seemed like a good idea at the time.  Besides, what difference
does it make whether I told her about the gym shower or showed her?  It's
not like she's never seen a cock before!"

   "Yeah, but from what you say it's been decades since she's seen one
without her glasses on.  Poor woman!  You know, for the past couple weeks,
for obvious reasons, I've been thinking a lot about what motherhood means,
the responsibility.  She's suffering through a life without orgasms for our
sake.  What can we do for her?

   This was an angle Joey had never considered.  It wasn't just about his
dad; his mom was paying the price, too.  For all their sakes.  Then it
dawned on him that talking to him about women on the make could be a way of
vicariously spicing up her sex life, maybe her solo sex life.  It still
made him queasy to think of his mother masturbating, and since yesterday,
even queasier to think of her screwing his dad.  But if that's what she
wanted, he should give it to her in technicolor.

   "Hey, I'd never thought about it that way," he replied.  "That's why I
came to you.  You're soooo smart.  So, what should I do?  Is it all over
the school?  What if some girl comes up and says, he simpered, 'I've heard
about your cock.  Wanna fuck?' I'm only a kid, you know.  I'm still a
virgin, a 'technical' virgin, I guess.  If I was twenty-one, maybe I
wouldn't care; I'd just fuck her silly and move on.  But I do care.  Now I
sort of understand why girls get mad when boys look at their boobs instead
of their face."

   "Wow, Joey, your, ahem, 'problem' seems to be turning you into an honest
man.  Are you sure you want to go there?"

   "Har-de-har-har.  I really want to know what you think.  I- I like you;
if you were my age, I'd want someone like you for a girlfriend.  What do I
do?" He heard what he was saying a little to late to word it better.  He
forced a laugh.  "Hey babe, you got a sister?"

   He was embarrassed; Debbie let it go.  Too easy.  "OK, Joe, here's what
I think.  Straight.  I'm glad you told me about this -- to think of all the
lurid dreams I've wasted on Dad, when he's Mr.  Shrimpy!  -- but I think
your questions are ridiculous, and I won't even try to answer them.  But
you're just a kid, so that's okay.  Whenever you need it, I will give you
the perspective and advice of a typical gorgeous, athletic, smart, popular,
witty, talented high school senior with tits, that you look at too often,
by the way, that will never expand to fill the bright promise of the name
De-bra.  I like you too, brother.  I love you, of course, you're my
brother. But I like you.  I'm totally, one-hundred percent, on your side.
We both could have done a lot worse in the sibling department.

   "But there's one thing you've gotta do for me," Debbie finished.

   "What's that?" asked Joe, but he knew.

   "Whip it out.  I wanna see the steel bar that's causing all this
heartache."

   Joe shook his head slowly, then rolled off the bed, saying, "Sorry, I
don't know any good strip tease moves," he said, "and sorry, no steel bar
right now.  Toothpaste tube is more like it." And he spoke he undid belt
buckle, buttons and zipper to pull his johnson out and show her.  It did
have some heft, half-heartedly trying to stick straight out, but drooping
in the attempt.  It was longer that way than totally deflated, but it was a
whole lot bigger at full erection.

   "Wow, that really is the Daily Double.  Or Triple." Debbie's eyes were
focused on his penis, but she was inspecting, not staring in rapture. 
Without thinking, and with no sexy intent, she reached out and let the
weight of it rest in her palm.  She couldn't imagine that cock buried in
her birth canal -- it was her brother's, after all!  -- but she could and
did compare it to the eight or ten cocks she'd known.

   Even at half mast, Joe's fuck organ was over twice the handful of any of
the others.

   She scooted around so she was lying prone on the bed, still hefting
Joe's member in her hand.  Joe was speechless, watching.  Her face was so
close to his member that it responded to the warmth of her breath.  The
magic dick began to harden, angling upward.  Debbie didn't move her hand
with it, she just watched it grow.  And grow.  And grow.  She pulled her
eyes away to look up at her brother.  He just shrugged, silently telling
her that he had no control over the situation or over his mighty penis,
which had a dirty mind of its own.

   "Wow, maybe I should start calling you Big Brother." She gave a nervous
giggle, then reached out to wrap her hands around the engorged pole,
telling herself she was still in scientific mode, gauging its
circumference. Her left hand, first; clutching him at the base, her hand
looked small and diminished, in comparison to the obscene mass it was
gripping.  So she reached out with her right hand, placing it above her
left.  Joe had the lewd thought that Debbie might find Betsy B's
fingerprints, but no, he'd had a shower since.  Debbie gazed at the
uncovered part of his dick.  She'd known boys whose whole endowment wasn't
much bigger.

   "Is this as big as it gets?  Can I measure it?" she asked, fighting off
the impulse to pull Joe onto the bed and impale her pussy on his rod,
menstrual blood be damned.

   "No!" Joey snapped, then he said, "Sorry, D-bra, but I don't want to
know.  I really don't.  If I measure it once, I'll be measuring every day,
keeping a daily record.  I do not want to go down that road."

   "That's probably wise," she mused, still focused on her own pangs of
lust.  She was thinking, 'Maybe I could suck it.  Compared to incest,
that's not so bad.' For a brief moment, the idea of only sucking, not
fucking, her own brother made her feel chaste and virtuous.  Then she
realized how idiotic it was, thinking that blowing Joey would be okay
somehow.

   She pondered how a hand job -- it would have to be a two-handed "hands
job" -- would rate on the sin meter.  Her hands were already in place, and
as she pondered she half-dreamily gave him one long two-handed stroke, up
and down the whole length.  She'd sometimes played tennis two-handed, but
she'd never done a two-handed hand job.  She'd never had room.  She loved
the feeling of the solid flesh, and its veins and other bumps and lumps,
all under the cover of loose skin.  She was glad he was cut.  She'd seen
both, cut and uncut, and had a strong dislike for foreskin.  Debbie knew
that if she gave him even one more stroke, she'd be committed to a complete
hand job, and who could know how much cum would shoot out of such a big
tank?  But even so, her lust and curiosity were in control, damping her
inhibitions.  Once more, her hands slowly slid upwards.

   Joe, who had been standing as stiff and rigid as his mahogany woody,
grabbed her wrist and stopped her.  "Sorry, Big Bad Sister, but no.  Not
now, anyway.  I'm still too scared to break the big taboos." That woke her
up.  Not because she cared about big taboos, but because the way he said
it, made her sure that he was tempted by both her and their Mom, and he
knew they were both tempted by him, or It, and he was scared, just as he
said.  She needed to think about all that.  Still, before she let him go
she pulled him closer and gave the smaller of his two heads a little kiss.

   There's no rule saying you can't have more than one fuck buddy.  Or
maybe there is.  Who cares?

   Tuesday

   When Amelia rose the next morning, marveled at how normal the morning
had been.  Her husband's phone call last night had been innocuous; she'd
hadn't anticipated that he'd want to stay a mile off the subject.  Joey was
long gone, to morning swim practice.  Deb was more scatterbrained than
usual, but not so much as to alarm her mother.  Both Joey and Debbie had
acted like it was just any other day.  What were they up to?  As the
obvious possibility popped into her mind, she caught her breath.  Young Joe
and Debbie. . .  She had to solve this problem before it really got out of
hand.  It was all up to her; there was nobody else.

   Amelia's actions all day were the usual, some COBOL work, appointment at
the hair salon, a hard workout at the gym, but in her thoughts, it was
anything but an ordinary day.  It seemed as if she was seeing thick, hard
phallic symbols everywhere.  Telephone poles, pencils, the bananas at the
Club's snack bar. . .  She wasn't exactly mad with desire, but she couldn't
stop thinking about all the possibilities of a thick, meaty cock.  She
couldn't deny to herself that all those phallic symbols, were really
symbols of one particular thick, meaty phallus, or maybe two.

   Joey's mom found a moment to talk to Betsy B, who told her all about her
son's training session but nothing about its prologue.  Amy, who'd been
thinking about hard, thick penises all day, was suddenly confused; her
concern about Betsy B seducing Joey led her to imagining her face buried in
Betsy B's pussy, just as Julie had taught her.  And doing anything else she
was told to do.  What a hard, stern, sexy woman!  Achtung, Baby, indeed! 
Amelia was revolted by the idea of leather and whips and chains, but short
of that she knew she'd be willing to do anything Betsy B told her to do,
groveled for the privilege of serving her more, if only she could have one
more taste of that natural-blonde pussy!  Please?  At last, Amy got away
without embarrassing herself.  Even so, she was sure Betsy B had seen and
understood her need.  Probably better than Amy did herself.



   In the sauna after her workout, at last she admitted to herself that
she'd been through all this confused anticipation before.  With Julie, with
Owen, and once, the last night she saw Julie, all three together.  Now, she
really didn't know if she wanted history to repeat itself.



   The morning after her birthday party, she and Julie had enjoyed each
other for as long they dared, and flirted outrageously as they cleaned up
the party mess.  Amelia's mother was obviously clueless, although back they
she would have said "oblivious." When they had finished she gave Julie a
proper girl friend-to-girl friend girl kiss at the door, then walked Julie
to her bus stop.  As soon as she was out of her mother's sight, though, she
gave Julie a highly improper kiss, forgetting or not caring who else might
be watching.  She felt sad and empty as Julie got on the bus, but they had
the telephone, and she knew she'd see Julie at school on Monday.

   A little later that same day (it was a Saturday), Amelia and Owen were
killing time, sitting on Owen's bed playing a board game.  [So-called
because you don't play them unless you're bored.] Owen didn't want to hurt
her feelings by mentioning the party, but he did comment that his sister
didn't look like she'd been up all night crying her eyes out.  "No," she
replied.  "Julie stayed over, and I slept like a rock."

   "Some of the guys say Julie's a lezzie," said Owen.  "Did she try to
kiss you?"

   "Owen, it is really mean to go around badmouthing people.  Julie's my
new best friend, and you should keep your dirty thoughts to yourself.  And
I'd better not catch you spreading rumors about me and Julie around
school."

   "OK, OK," Owen said.  "I won't spread rumors.  I won't even spread the
truth.  So, what happened after I left last night?"

   "Julie and I got undressed for bed, she gave me a kiss for good luck,
and I went right to sleep.  I assume Julie did, too."

   "That must have been some kiss, to knock you out like that.  Which pair
of your lips was she kissing?"

   "Dammit, Owen, stop it." She slammed her fist on the table, causing some
of the game pieces to topple or bounce.  "Leave the subject alone."

   "Amy, it's a good thing for you we're not playing poker," Owen crowed,
"because you are very awful at bluffing."

   Just then, their father's voice came booming down the hall.  "Hey, kids,
your mother and I are going to play tennis; we'll bring Chinese home for
dinner.  About 6:30." Three and a half hours.

   Owen went to the door and yelled down the hall, "OK.  We'll be here. 
Get some governor chicken, please." He left the door open, and stood by the
bed.  "Well, dear sister, I'd better tell you what I heard last night."

   "When?"

   "Last night, after you and Julie sent your little brother off to bed."

   Amy's face gave her away, and then the tears came.  She cried, "You
spied on us?  How could you?"

   Owen, still standing, didn't retreat.  He held her gaze.  "Oh, c'mon,
sis, when have I not spied on you and your friends?  Especially like last
night?  When I heard Julie invite herself to stay overnight, I almost
creamed my jeans.  I wanted an eyeful of those tits!  I was sorry I'd never
drilled a hole in your wall.  But I listened, and heard plenty."

   Amelia snapped, "I suppose you have a tape recording and a--, a--, a
transcript, too!"

   Ludicrous and hypocritical as it was to feel this way, Owen recoiled in
genuine hurt.  "Amelia, you might think I'm bad, but don't ever think I'm
evil.  I don't have a tape.  The thought never entered my head."

   "Well, if you heard everything, what do you want?  There's nothing left
to tell."

   "There's plenty left to tell," Brad corrected.  "Did you like it?  Was
it better than regular sex?  Are Julie's tits as hot in person as they are
under a t-shirt?  Are you going to be a lesbian now?  That would sure show
Brad."

   As his eager questions poured out, Amelia glumly accepted the fact that
her brother knew the whole story.  "Yes, brother, you're right.  You heard
what you heard.  I don't know if I'm a lesbian, or even bi.  I just don't
know!!" she sobbed.  "Julie gave me the best orgasm I ever had.  I don't
think thatassholebradley ever game me a single one.  It was like some drug
trip.  My whole body shook, then I felt like I was flying, and suddenly I
could hardly stay awake." Reliving her orgasm stopped her sobbing, anyway.
She meant what she said.

   "But this morning I noticed something missing.  Deep in my, uh, uh,
vagina, there's this need, kinda like an itch that hadn't been scratched. I
guess that's why lesbians use strap-on dildoes.  Even so, though, I hope to
see a lot more of Julie."

   Owen knelt by the side of the bed and took his sister's hand.  "I heard
you and Julie talking about my, uh, uh, penis." Neither of them noticed the
way he echoed the way Amy stumbled before naming her own genitals.  "It's
too big, I know.  Some of the guys on the team call me a 'freak of nature.'
I try to think they're jealous, but sometimes I wish I could get some kind
of, I dunno, d-- dick reduction surgery." He stopped talking; his voice was
threatening to break.

   He took a half-minute to recover.  "Sorry, sister-mine, I'm not asking
what I want to know.  Uh, uh, when you said, to Julie, last night, 'I saw
him first,' what exactly did you mean?"

   "Whoa!" she exclaimed.  "What are you getting at, little brother?  You
had just been feeling my boobs.  Remember?  What was that about?"

   Owen was red with embarrassment and near tears.  "It's just -- It's just
that twice, now, I've been with easy girls, pushovers, real sluts, who've
said the same, that I'm a freak.  I thought they'd fuck anything with
pants, but they were both afraid to fuck me." He snatched a tissue from the
box and blew his nose.  "I don't get it.  I thought girls were supposed to
like a big dick."

   Deep in her loins, Amelia felt the twitch.  It really hadn't stopped
since this morning.  She was trying to ignore it, and failing.  A desperate
desire to at least see behind that bulge in his pants was welling up from
deep inside.  She looked at the corner of the ceiling, away from her
brother, so she could concentrate on what she wanted to say, so she didn't
notice her brother's fidgeting.  But when he stood up, the sight of him
drove all those trivial thoughts away.

   Owen had undone his pants as he knelt next to the bed.  When he stood,
his pants and underwear clung to his ankles, revealing his enormous penis
standing tall, proud, and very, very hard.  In this condition it seemed to
reach his ribcage.  Its color ranged from the dark of his pubic hair,
through the beige that people call "white" skin, to pink, to a dull brick
red, the color of dried blood.  Its head, the size of a golf ball, was
perfectly in proportion to the massive shaft.  His meat was so erect, and
so hard, that there was no room anywhere for his veins and other vessels;
they were molded just under the loose skin, which strained to hold them. 
Owen's cock was, in a word, magnificent.

   "Wha-- what do you want?" stammered Amelia, the shaky tone in her voice
saying, 'Whatever it is, you shall have it!' "Incest is a crime, you know.
I think it's a f-- f-- felony."

   "I need your help, Amy.  I need it bad.  Not fucking or sucking, I can
jack off whenever I need to.  But I need -- I really, really, need, to find
out if this monster prick will actually fit into a girl's-- vagina, and if
it will hurt her, or whether it's just a big useless piece of meat."

   Amelia tried to focus on her ears, not her eyes.  If this was Owen's
line, it was at least original.  But what did he want, if not fucking or
sucking?

   "What are you asking for?" she repeated.  "You just want to see if your
cock will fit in a typical teenage pussy, and you figured, hey, I've got
one around the house somewhere?  Is that it?  Brother-mine, you have a lot
to learn about women!"

   Owen looked miserable, but didn't back down as he replied, "I know I
have a lot to learn about women.  That's the point.  But, yes, that's
exactly what I want.  Besides," he said through the ghost of a grin,
"you've helped me before.  Remember that hand job you gave me when I was
seven?"

   That broke the tension, at least some.  "Don't remind me," his sister
grimaced.  "Every time I think about it, my butt hurts from the spanking I
got."

   "Mine, too," agreed Owen.  He didn't repeat his plea, but stood there
looking forlorn, thumb and index finger loosely circling the base of his
member.

   Amelia never answered, but she lay back on her brother's bed and lifted
her butt to remove her jeans.  "Lucky for you, I'm plenty wet," she
scowled. "Otherwise you'd have to eat my pussy first.  And I wouldn't let
you, so that would be that."

   "Oh, I'll do anything for your help, dear sister.  I'd even eat your
pussy."

   "Sorry, you're like the plumber.  If he's not needed, he's not invited."
Pause.  "But don't just stand there, take your pants all the way off, then
do mine.  Then lie down on top of me.  But don't put it in, even a little
bit, until I say it's okay.  And do it slowly, and stop whenever I say. 
And whatever you do, don't stroke!" She grinned.  "And if I happen to
change my mind and say you can stroke, don't pay any attention.  Maybe I
should put wax in your ears, like Odysseus."

   Owen listened dumbly, staring at her bush, showing no sign that he
comprehended, or even heard, a word of what she had said.  He slowly pulled
his sister's jeans and panties off her legs, stroking her thighs a lot in
the process.  Then he climbed onto the bed and knelt between her feet. 
Leaning into a crouch, he slid his head and shoulders forward until his
face was about level with hers.  The tip of Owen's cock lay less than inch
from his big sister's cunt lips.

   Neither spoke, but Amelia nodded, and Owen's cock crept forward until it
touched her vulva.  Amy reached down to guide him, and pulled a little to
tell him he could enter, gently.  She stopped him when the head was about
halfway in.  It didn't hurt her; so far, so good.  She pulled him in
another half-inch.  The walls of her vagina resisted, at first, but relaxed
to admit the intrusion.  Her clit was sending off sensations like an orgasm
fountain.

   Amelia soon discovered that her cunt could easily handle the thickness
of her brother's organ, as long as he took it slow.  In fact, she felt her
body craving the thick cock, gushing more and more juices to lubricate its
entry deeper into the warm darkness.  Owen, who was a virgin, remember, was
propped up on his elbows, classic missionary position, and doing his best
to obey Amelia's commands about starting and stopping.  But when he was
about four inches in, his elbow slipped on a fold in the bedsheets and
without any warning he sprawled over Amy's body as his cock slid in all the
way, to its hilt.

   Amy was instantly breathless, but not from any of Owen's weight crashing
down on her chest.  As Owen's cock slid in, it deflowered her in deep
recesses of her body she didn't even know she had.  Absolutely nothing,
animal, vegetable or mineral, had ever been up that far.  She felt organs
actually shifting to accommodate him.  It hurt like hell, but at the same
time she felt the dizzying, weightless pleasure Julie had brought her, just
a few hours before, layered with another, deeper ecstasy from deep within,
as she imagined this relentless, rigid massive invader rearranging her
internal organs to suit his own desires.  She opened her mouth to scream
her pleasure and pain and confusion, but only a weak "aaah" came out.

   She forgot all about her plans for one stroke, in and then out.  She
forgot about Odysseus.  She wanted to be ffffuu-uucckked, hard.  Owen could
tell she wanted him to start stroking, to thrust in and out until the force
of his cum propelled her off the bed and across the room.  It was what he
wanted too, of course, but he wasn't yet out of his mind with lust and he
did remember his promise.  Somehow, he found the will power to pull out. 
But as he eased his dick back, she grabbed his butt cheeks with the nails
of both hands and pulled him back in.  He didn't want to break his promise,
but he didn't want the skin torn off his butt, either.  Undecided, he
stopped still.  But Amelia took care of that.  If he wasn't going to thrust
with his fuck machine, she'd do the work for him, writhing herself every
which way, directing the cock to explore the inner regions of her body, and
as a bonus, massaging her clit as it did.  Once she'd broken the ice that
way, Owen did the same, instinctively matching her rhythm.

   He never did hear that scream, or moan, or whatever was trying to escape
from her throat.  Every time she almost gave it voice, another spasm would
shake her from the inside out, forcing her to inhale and try to push
another, higher, moan out over the first.  She felt her body tension
ratcheting higher than she would have ever thought possible.  All her
muscles throbbed from the strain, and in her right foot they cramped
painfully, but she didn't care.

   By now Owen, too, recognized the early signs of his own orgasm, as his
semen began its rush to do its duty, for the first time, in what a waiting
womb.  "Oh, Amy, I'm cumming!  Can you feel it?  I'm -- " As his cum neared
the end of its tube, flooding past the pleasure centers in his cock, or
brain, or wherever they were, he, too, was unable to speak except in
grunts. Then came that odd little pain as his cum hit the exit.  As it did,
Amelia finally got out one shriek of pleasure, followed by cooing sounds:
"oooh, aaah, oooh" are the best way to write them, but they aren't really
right.  Owen found himself repeating the same syllables right back at her
as he continued to stroke slowly, gently, and his cock gushed, and gushed,
and gushed, longer than it ever had before.

   Several minutes of silence, as they listened to each other's heartbeats
and breathing to return to normal.  Neither one of them could think, yet,
far less comprehend just how profoundly the past ten minutes had changed
their lives.  Then Owen felt cold, and for the first time he noticed that
he, and his sister, were drenched in sweat.  He didn't know the rules.  He
didn't want to be the first to speak, or move, because he wasn't sure if he
should.  But he could tell that Amelia was getting cold, too, so he reached
around with one hand, trying to yank the blanket over to cover them both.

   Amelia noticed what he was doing and gave him a little smile, to his
relief, as she lifted herself as much as she could, to help.  Owen was
tongue-tied.  Now that the blanket was draped over them both, he started to
roll off her, even though his softening dick was still buried deeply in her
pussy.

   But as he moved, she grabbed his hips and stopped him, pulling his
semi-soft cock in as deep as it would go.  As she looked into his eyes with
a far-off glazed expression he'd never seen before, she gave him a wide,
happy smile.  "Hey, guy," she said.  "Don't run off yet.  You really ought
to kiss a girl after a performance like that."

   Owen didn't process her words; at the mere sound of her voice he burst
into tears and collapsed his full weight onto her torso.  "Oh, Ames, I'm so
sorry.  I promised.  Then I raped you.  I didn't mean to.  Really.  I
slipped.  It just-- happened." His big sister readjusted the blanket with
one hand and then hugged him to her chest with both, kissing his head and
ear wherever she could reach.

   "Oh, Owen, Owen, stop it.  I'm the older one, and the girl, and could
have stopped you at any time.  I know it.  I also would have ripped your
ass to ribbons, and then your ribs, and anything else I could reach, if
you'd tried to escape.  I'm just glad I didn't have to hurt you.  How would
I explain the dead body to Mom?  Anyway, I'm still waiting for that kiss."

   Still in the saddle, Owen levered himself up to his sister's face and
kissed her, lips extended the way you'd kiss a spinster aunt you didn't
like.  Amy had a different notion.  Her jaws opened, and her tongue
attacked his closed teeth.  Then his jaws opened, too.  Owen had done
plenty of French kissing, but unlike other times there was no tongue
wrestling.  It was as if they simply wanted to explore as deeply into each
other's mouths as they had done in each other's loins.

   Owen rolled off of Amy, his cock leaving her warmth with a protesting
"pop!" They lay still together, dozing and trying to think.  They never
knew where the time went, but luckily Owen looked at the clock.  "Ames, get
moving!  Mom and Dad will be home soon and we've got to get cleaned up."
Their post-coital lassitude was no match for their panic.  They were up in
a flash, changing the sheets, showering.  They put the board game away and
recovered their clothes.  If anything, Owen's room looked suspiciously
neat, but their Mom wouldn't notice.  Owen wanted to smoke a joint to cover
up any smells, but Amy talked him out of it.  "Why get yourself into
trouble?" she said.  "If they smell anything, they'll just figure you were
beating your meat.  They'll never think I was helping."



   She and Owen kissed, sucked, fucked, and wore out their imaginations
thinking of other things to do for the next 11 years, until, as we have
seen, the night before Amelia's wedding.  After that, their relations were
at least as chaste as those between you and your siblings, if you don't
count the smutty reminiscences they exchanged on the telephone.



   Just after lunch, Amy's cell phone rang.  The caller ID made her catch
her breath.  Owen!  She raised the phone to her face.

   "Owen!  I was just thinking about you!" . . .  "No, not like that, you
lecher," she lied.  That was exactly how she'd been thinking.  "You wish!"
. . .  "No, he's in Fort Worth all week.  You want his number?" . . . 
"Tonight?  Sure, the kids'll be glad to see you.  You'll hardly recognize
Debbie." Yeah but he'd recognize Joey, if he'd just look in a full-length
mirror, naked. . .  "Are you sure you can't stay longer?  Joe'd be glad to
see you, and you can hang out with the kids.  There's no school Friday." .
. .  "One of those 'in-service' days.". . .  "I suppose they're getting
some kind of training.  I never bothered to ask.". . .  "That's an awkward
time to drive to the airport.  Sorry, you'd better take a cab." . . . 
"Okay, 7:00 or so.  It'll be good to see you."

   Her brother owned an import-export business in Long Beach.  Not
glamorous, but he made pretty good money and he had plenty of time to rack
up teenage nookie at Huntington and Santa Monica.  He had to come back to
his old home town on business, just for the day, and he'd suddenly thought
to drop in on Amy's family this evening instead of taking the early early
flight tomorrow morning.  It was uncanny, Amelia thought, how he'd call at
this particular time.  Transcontinental ESP.  She was confident she could
keep her hands off him.  Or was she?

   She finished up a programming project, e-mailed the code, and an
invoice, to the client, and yawned.  "It's take a nap or do the laundry,"
she said to herself.  Her kids were supposed to toss all their own dirty
clothes down the chute, but they weren't reliable.  As she picked up her
own wash, she almost lay down for a nap, but trudged on to Debbie's, and
then Joe's, room.

   She'd been thinking about Joe's bed so often lately that seeing it gave
her a jolt.  She did need a nap, and here was a bed handy.  She was half
asleep almost before she hit the bed.  The dirty clothes fell every which
way as her body relaxed.

   Under the circumstances, an erotic dream was inevitable.  As she drifted
off, she had fuzzy thoughts about fucking her well-endowed son.  How would
she approach?  "Hi, Joey, wanna fuck?" or on her knees: "Please, sir, favor
me with the honor of servicing your fuck-meat." Maybe she could dig up the
old baby monitor (long ago given away) and wait 'til he was jacking off:
"Hi, Joey, I see you started without me." Walk around the house naked until
he noticed?  She had a great body, for her age.  In fact, a lot of girls
half her age would be proud to inhabit her body.  Yes, that would be the
way to go, just walk around naked. . .

   * * *



   In her dream, she got up from her nap, got the laundry sorted and
started, when she noticed a red stain on her sweatpants.  'Dammit!' she
thought.  Debbie had used up all her tampons.  'Oh, well, I guess I'd
better wash these clothes, too.' She took off her pants, then her panties,
then shirt, bra, everything, throwing them all into the machine one by one.
Then she went upstairs to make some coffee.  As she sat in the kitchen in
her usual chair, drinking her coffee, Young Joe appeared and poured himself
a cup.  He didn't notice she was naked.  He was crossing back to sit at the
table when she snapped, "Joseph Dunlap Junior, put that coffee down and
look at me." He looked, but still didn't notice.  She said, "Young Joe, I'm
totally naked.  My naked cunt is as wet as Lake Huron.  Is that enough of a
hint for you?" As Joe gazed at her nakedness, his pants fell down, just as
they had on Monday, and disappeared.  "See, Mom, I'm naked too." She looked
between his legs for his dangling member, but it wasn't there.  Then she
saw it -- as big and hard as a baseball bat, standing straight up from his
groin almost to his chin.  She screamed, but Joey leaned over and kissed
her.  "It's okay, Mom, let's go to my room." "Good idea, son," she replied,
and suddenly she was kneeling on Joey's floor as he sat on his bed, begging
him to fuck her.  "Please, Young Joey, I'll do anything for you.  We can go
out for ice cream afterward.  Or to the zoo.  Would you like that?  In her
mind's eye, Joey was both ten-year-old with Young Joe's teenage cock, or
Joey the teenager shrunk back to his ten-year old size.  His feet dangled
in the air in front of her face.  She gave another awestruck peek at his
crotch.  To her relief, his prick had shrunk with him; in fact, it looked
exactly like Owen's.  As she whimpered for Joey's cock, Joey kept saying,
"We can't, Mom.  That's incest.  We have to have Dad's permission, and he
has to be here to watch." But Old Joe would be gone for months; what could
she do?  She bowed her head, her hands pressed together as they taught
children to pray, in the old days.  "Can I at least suck you off?  Please?
I know how, better than any of the girls at school." "Of course you can,
sister mine," a voice replied.  "You don't have to beg.  You don't even
have to ask.  Just yank down the ol' zipper and have at it." She looked up,
beyond the Louisville Slugger, to see her brother, looking exactly as he
did that first time.  Owen took her hands and tugged.  She rose.  "C'mon,
sister mine.  When did I ever turn you down.  I'm the one who's always
begging you!" Then he pushed her back to her knees and pressed the head of
his dick into her lips.  He wound his fingers in her hair, as he'd always
done when he wasn't going to take 'no' for an answer.  "You can take it
all, Amy.  I know you can." Amy opened her mouth to accept the monster
dick. She took it in, and in, and in.  She could feel it sliding down
toward her stomach.  Not too far!  The acids in her stomach would burn him.
The muscles in her alimentary canal squeezed the cock, as long as a broom
handle and twice as thick, as if it were a banana.  She couldn't breathe,
but she didn't care.  "Wow, Amy, you beat your personal best!  No one sucks
dick like you!  I've had six hundred and nineteen babes, and you're the
best of them all!  My own sister!  It's time for your reward." Suddenly she
and Owen were fucking, missionary position.  They were taking it slow,
until Owen's elbow slipped; he came, instantly, ejaculating gallons and
gallons of cum.  It filled her whole body, rising until she could feel its
silky texture and sweet taste in the back of her mouth.  She pulled his
head down to kiss him, and as she did she shot a mouthful of his cum back
into his mouth.  He looked annoyed, and began to pull his prick out of her
desperate cunt.  "Owen, I'm so sorry!" she cried.  "I want to keep all your
sweet cum for myself!  Let me suck it back out of your mouth." But Owen had
disappeared, slamming the door behind him. . .

   * * *

   The sound of the door slam was real.  It was the front door, though,
slammed by Debbie, with no tennis dates for a change.  "Mom?  Mom?"

   "Right here, dear," she called.  She'd staggered into the hallway, still
woozy from sleeping so hard.  "Just a little catnap, Debbie, that's all it
was.  Just a catnap." What a dream?  As she rubbed her eyes she could smell
her own pussy juices on her fingers, and assumed that Debbie could, too. 
"Hey, what are you doing home so early?"

   Debbie patiently said to her, "It's almost four o'clock, Mom.  What time
did you lie down?"

   "Four o'clock?  It can't be.  Don't you mean 2:30?"



   Debbie smiled sweetly, put her arm around her mother's shoulders and
guided her to the right bedroom.  "Mom, you just take it easy and wake up.
I guess I did slam the door kinda hard.  It must have woken you up from the
deepest part of sleeping." Amy sat on her own bed, disoriented.  Debbie
brought coffee, still with that sweet smile, and left without disturbing
her mom any more.  Gradually Amelia returned to the world.

   What she didn't know was that Debbie had actually come home about twenty
minutes before, had not slammed the door, and had found her mother in a
restless sleep on Joey's bed.  'Hmmm,' she thought, 'the plot thickens.'
Amy started muttering in her sleep; Debbie, nosy about everything, tiptoed
closer.  Judging by her mother's flushed face, and her hand in her
sweatpants fingering her pussy, she thought (hoped, really) that she was
dreaming about Joey, not that Debbie knew what she'd do with that
information.

   So Debbie was shocked beyond measure when she heard her mother
whispering the name not of Debbie's brother, but of her own brother,
Debbie's Uncle Owen.  "Fuck me, brother-mine, fuck me with that big
sausage. . .  fuck me again. . .  let me suck it. . .  personal best. . . I
can't fuck any more, I'm getting married tomorrow!. . .Eleven years of
fucking will have to be enough, little brother. . .  Surely you've got six
hundred and nineteen other girls to fuck. . .  Not in the ass, I have to be
virgin for my new husband!. . .  Yes he has a micro dick, but I have to be
faithful. . ." And much, much more.

   Eventually Amy stopped muttering.  Debbie crept out of the room.  She
put her jacket back on, opened the front door and slammed it, calling
"Mo-om!  Mo-om. . .," like usual.  Not like usual was the way Debbie's cunt
was gushing her own juices, or the way she was trembling, from her solar
plexus outward.  'Mom and Owen!  That's so hot!  Eleven years!  That's
where Joey gets the big dick genes." After helping Amy to her own room and
getting her coffee, Debbie rushed to room, yanked off her pants and started
fingering herself madly.  She cuppped three fingers around into her pussy
with her palm on her mons; not squeezing, but massaging both places at the
same time.  Hard.  That was her magic spot, although after the visions of
her mother fucking her uncle, fingering herself was almost redundant. 
Debbie had had her first orgasm before her mother even woke up.

   By and by Debbie was sated and Amelia was awake.  Debbie found her
mother in the kitchen.  They both were freshly showered and changed, Amy
into tight jeans and an old white oxford shirt of her husband's.  She loved
these 100% cotton shirts, and they lasted forever even after they were Not
Suitable For Work.  "Hello, sweetie, thanks for taking care of me back
there.  I don't know what got into me."



   'I do,' Debbie sniggered to herself.  'Could Mom still be under her own
spell?  She's not wearing a bra!' She couldn't be certain from this angle,
but she was close to certain.  Aloud she said, "Don't worry about it, Mom.
I have some time this evening, can I help you get caught up?"

   If Amelia had been thinking better, she'd have wondered at Debbie's
kindness.  Ordinarily, she'd have had to threaten Debbie, at least
implicitly, before the girl would do any more than the minimum.  "Why, how
sweet!  Thank you, Debbie.  Will you do one small thing for me?  Check the
guest room and get out a set of towels for your Uncle Owen.  He'll be here
in a couple of hours."

   "Uncle Owen!" Debbie gasped.  She'd been thinking about him for an hour
or more, and now he was about to materialize, like on Star Trek.  This was
magic.

   Debbie's mom explained about Owen's quick business trip.  "It's been
what, three, four years since you've seen him?  He'll be amazed at the way
you've grown."

   'If I play my cards right, I'll be amazed at the way he's grown, too,'
she chortled, again silently.  Debbie gave her mother an affectionate hug
and dashed to check the guest room before she inadvertently gave her secret
away.  Then she sat on her bed to think, 'Wow, Uncle Owen, coming here,
tonight!  The two biggest dicks in the whole city, right here in our house!
What fun!' That brought her up short.  What, exactly, was she thinking? 
Fucking Owen?  Fucking Joey?  Maybe taking them both at once?  'Pull
yourself together, Deb, and don't think with your gonads.  Indulge your
snatch, girl, but don't let it do your thinking.'



   Joey sat through math class, distracted in one direction by the teacher
and in another by Connie, who did her breathing routine whenever she
thought he might be watching.  He was focusing what he hoped was seductive
body language on Mrs.  Cohn, though, so he was trying not to pay any
attention to Connie.  He was sure that young Rachel Cohn had just despised
cheerleading cock teasers like Connie, back in her day, and he tried to
project the same disdain.  So far so good, he thought; whenever the teacher
looked his way, she looked into his eyes and immediately glanced away, as
if flustered and shy.  Mrs.  Cohn was hooked, he thought, now she had to be
reeled in and landed.  'Who is this egotist in my body?' he despaired. 
Then he thought, 'Maybe I can fuck Connie, too.'

   Connie was getting to him, flaunting her big tits.  He had the silly
thought that maybe the biggest cock in the school ought to hook up with the
biggest tits in the school, sort of like Homecoming King and Queen. 
Yesterday three beautiful girls had admired his naked prick, two others
come on to him, and he'd gotten his first competent blow job.  This week
was turning his brain to oatmeal. . .

   Young Joe, hell, no, Big Joe, wondered for the hundredth time what had
come over him this week.  He had the same cock he had last week, and it was
the same size relative to the guys on the swim team.  But this week, all
this action, or prelude to action.  He was certain that two hot MILFs were
working up to nerve to seduce him, risking their lifestyles and
reputations. All because, he realized, that his Dad's little secret was
out. Little Joe had sensed his life would be turned upside down when he saw
his Dad's boy's cock.  He was right.

   The bell rang.  Joe winked at Mrs.  Cohn, a "Killer" wink [surely you've
played the drinking game Killer] that only she could see, then joined the
crowd at the door.  Connie slipped in right behind him, using the occasion
to tease him with the tried-and-true boobs to the back maneuver.  She
whispered in his ear, "Hey, Joe, whatcha gonna do now?  No Pepsi handy to
put out the fire in your balls?  Waddle down the hall pretending no one
notices?"

   Joe was on such a power trip that he wondered why Connie wasn't under
his spell.  How could she dare tease his cock?  If she had any idea about
the mightiness of his dick, she'd be begging, not teasing.  She was way out
of line, playing her usual game as if he were just like the other boys.  It
was time to put her in her place.

   In the hallway, as soon as the crowd thinned out, he whirled to face
her, smiling.  "Do you know what you're teasing?"

   Connie didn't expect this.  She was no bimbo, though; she thought fast,
and raised the stakes.  "Sure, I know.  Your peeeee-nisssss.  Why do you
think I'm teasing?  I hear it's big."

   "You obviously don't comprehend just how big it is.  I'm sure that you
have never seen anything like it, except maybe in porno movies.  Well, I've
heard that maybe your humongous tits aren're really so humongous.  They
can't be.  They have to be mostly falsies.  Water bra, probably, until your
mother'll let you get a boob job." Connie looked amused, until outrage took
over.  "See how it feels?" Joe pressed on.  "The idea that someone would
think you're faking and lying makes you sad and angry.  Me, too.  So, let's
have it out.  You're thinking that I can't comprehend your tits and I'm
thinking you can't comprehend my cock.  Lay 'em on the table.  Put up or
shut up."

   Connie grinned a predatory grin.  This was her turf.  "'Have it out?'"
she smirked.  "You mean put out or shut up, don't you?"

   Joe chuckled in spite of himself.  "Only if you play your cards right.
You heard my challenge.  What do you say?  Show me yours and I'll show you
mine." Now he was having fun.  Let her sweat it.

   "You're serious!" she exclaimed.  She was not used to losing control of
any conversation with a high school boy.  "I don't know.  I do have a boy
friend."

   "I know you have a boy friend.  Where did you think I learned about your
tits?"

   "Now I know you're lying.  Brian would never talk about me like that,
even if it were true.  Especially if it were true."

   "Right.  And he'd never mention that cute four-leaf clover birthmark on
your thigh, about an inch from your pussy." He had heard about that, but so
had everyone.  She'd broken up with Brian over it, but apparently they were
back together.  Joe didn't care.  "I gotta go.  Have your second answer my
challenge by this time tomorrow." He turned and walked away, well
satisfied. Whatever she did tomorrow, she wouldn't be teasing him any time
soon.  He wouldn't have to deal with his cock pulling his pubic hairs or
the Pepsi stunt.





   Somehow, Joey came down from his testerone haze to realize that he
hadn't talked to his buddies since Sunday.  Women were crowding his brain;
he needed a break.  On his way home from school he stopped at the usual
hangout -- a stretch of street near the college packed with burger joints
and pizza palaces.  Years before, the high school boys and the fast-food
owners had reached a sort of truce; as long as the boys would switch
hangouts every few days, the owners wouldn't squawk when it was their turn.
He found some of the usual gang eating pizza and playing arcade games.

   "Hey, Happy Birthday, Joe!" one sang out.  The others, the ones not
playing games, jostled around to slap his back and say inane things about
cars and chicks and dicks and do the usual guy routine.  A couple guys even
started to sing "Happy Birthday," but it fizzled out after two lines.

   Nick had seen him talking to Connie in the hall.  "Hey, what's between
you and 'Connie Cantaloupes'?" He made air quotes.  Nick quickly told the
others what he'd witnessed, and they all chimed in: "C'mon, Joe, tell us!
Are you planning to fuck her any time soon?" "Careful, her boy friend's a
linebacker.  At Reagan High." All the high schools in town were named for
presidents; theirs was Jackson.  Jackson High's football team was awful. 
Reagan was the city champion, third in the state.  "Yeah, Joe, did you cop
a feel?  Right there in the hall?"

   Joe knew that the best way to lie is to tell the truth, but in a way
that won't be believed.  "I told her I thought she wore falsies," he
grinned.

   "Gimme a break, Joe!" "C'mon Joe, you wouldn't have the nerve." "You
know you're her number one tease, why spoil it?"

   Joe didn't like deceiving his friends, but his priority this week was
sex, not hangin' with the guys.  After a while, when he was no longer the
center of attention, he was sitting back, just shootin' the shit with Nick,
who told Joe the rest of his story about Joe and Connie.  "I know this
sounds crazy, Joe, but I think Mrs.  Cohn's got a thing for you.  She
passed you and Connie in the hall, then stopped and turned around.  I was
right behind her, I turned around, too.  She was glaring at Connie.  If
looks could kill . . .  I don't think Connie saw her, though." Pause.  "You
know, I just can't see you and Connie.  She's a bitch and you aren't."

   Lucky for Joe, and for Mrs.  Cohn, that sharp-eyed Nick wasn't in his
math class.  "Thanks, Nick.  I thought I was getting some signals from Mrs.
Cohn, too, but I figured it was just my ego talking.  I can't believe she'd
do it with me, though.  It could cost her her job." He grinned.  "Besides,
her husband is six-foot-six.

   "As for Connie, much as we'd all like to fuck her, I don't think she'd
be a good girl friend for any of us.  She's a whore for football players,
probably because she gets more attention that way.  Who, besides us and our
parents, pays any attention to swim meets and tennis matches?  By the way,
I really did tell her I thought she was wearing falsies."

   "Nnnoooooohh!" laughed Nick.

   "Yeah, after that bit with the Pepsi yesterday, I decided I'd had enough
of her prick-teasing.  So I hit back."

   "Do you think it's true?"

   "No idea.  But now that I've told you guys, I'm sure that the rumor will
be all over school by lunchtime tomorrow.  I'm counting on it." Nick was a
good friend, he took that statement as Joe intended.  They were no more
gossipy than anyone else.  But they could be relied upon to spread any word
that Joe, or any other of their friends, wanted spread.

   Joe looked at his watch.  "I gotta get home, Nick," he said, "you wanna
come over for foosball Saturday?  Maybe you can nail Debbie before she
thinks she's in love again." Nick was on the tennis team with Debbie, where
they enjoyed a light, if obscene, flirtation.  As Joe got up to leave, they
were both laughing.



   First thing when Joey got home Debbie told him about Uncle Owen, but not
about their mom's wet dream or what she'd heard about their uncle's
package. A bit later, Amelia found him at his desk, in his room.  She had
mixed motives for this visit, but told herself that she wanted to ask Joe
not to talk to Owen about the oversized cock problem they had in common. 
But how to start?

   As she entered, he looked up and smiled.  From the doorway she said,
"Deb said she told you about Owen.  It'll be nice to see him." She crossed
to stand behind him.  "I bet that today you're really sore from yesterday,"
she said.  "How did you ever manage to swim this morning?" You know it'll
get worse before it gets better." Young Joe threw his head back to look up
into her face, like a golden retriever might do, smiling silently.  He knew
his mom thought this pose was cute.  He was overacting, but he couldn't
help it.

   His mother continued: "Just so you know, I asked around at the Club
about Betsy B today.  Nobody knows about any boy friends.  A lot of people
think she's gay, but no one really knows anything.  Some think she's a
lesbian, or bi, but that's only because she looks and acts like a Nazi.  I
talked to her, briefly.  I don't think we have anything to worry about. 
She'll keep her hands off you."

   Joey's first thought was, 'Whaddya mean we, paleface?' He was a little
anxious, but also curious.  "Oh, yeah?  She said to meet her tomorrow, same
time.  She is a Nazi, told'ya so."

   Panicky change of subject.  "Mom, can you rub my shoulders?  I'm sore
all over from yesterday.  I don't see how I ever managed to swim this
morning." Repeating her words was a very old routine, going back as long as
Joe could remember.  He sure loved his mom.  Did he want to risk it all by
fucking her?

   Sure that Betsy B had not told her the whole story, Amelia decided to
tease it out of her son.  She grabbed his shoulders and let her braless
boobs straddle his neck, much as Connie had done, only yesterday.  Her
voice dropped an octave.  "If you're sore all over, baby, why should I only
rub your shoulders?  Can't I be a full service masseuse?" she cooed. 
"Maybe you'd like to rephrase the question."

   As his mom had predicted and wanted, Joe's prick twitched.  'I guess
that answers my question about fucking,' he thought, then gave an
exaggerated whine.  "Jeez, Mom, how can I keep my mind out of the gutter if
you keep pulling it back in?"

   "Don't move." Smiling, she left for a moment, returning with a bottle of
lotion.  When she was gone she unbuttoned another button.  Joey was a smart
kid; he'd notice her this time.  'This time?  What does that mean?' she
thought; her dream was buried in the back of her subconscious mind.  No
matter.  She'd make it as easy as she could for her son to see her tits on
display.  Joey and Owen, between them, had in two short days turned her
clock back more than twenty years, from faithful, prim wife back to randy
teenager.  She had to learn just how far she was willing to go.

   She poured some lotion into her palm, saying, "Hey, meet me halfway. 
Take your shirt off." She gave a silly wolf whistle.  "Nice bod," she said,
and got to work.  After she'd found a good rhythm, she got serious.

   "I called Betsy B yesterday morning," she said.  "I told her to keep her
pants on, at least until the thirty-third date.  And then I saw her today,
at the Club.  She caught me asking someone about her.  We had a nice chat,
though.  I don't think she has any designs on you."

   Joey answered the unstated question.  "She told me about your call.  We
flirted a little.  Talked about sex, some.  She didn't seduce me, or even
try.  She did say that I'd have to be in a lot better shape before she'd
dare, you know, do it with me.  She told me her orgasms killed a man once;
tore him limb from limb.  She doesn't want me to be the second.  It's just
teasing." All Joey's experience at deceiving his mom failed him, he could
tell.  He knew she raised an eyebrow even though she was behind him.  She
just rubbed his shoulders, saying nothing, waiting for the other shoe to
drop.  "Mom, you've gotta promise not to call the cops, or the Club
management, or anything."

   "No deals." she snapped, then softened.  "Whatever happened, it's my
fault, too, in a way.  I should have told you not to go.  But you'd better
tell me the whole story."

   "Everything I said was true," he began.  "Then she gave me a f- f-
fellatio, sort of." The stutter and the Italian word told him he wasn't as
brave as he'd thought.

   "Sort of?" This boy was always saying, 'sort of.' "How do you get a
'sort of' blow job!?" Joe was no longer startled by his mother's earthy
language, but he hemmed and hawed a lot at the beginning.  It was
unbelieveably weird, telling his mother about Betsy B inhaling a half a
gallon of his cum.  But as he told the tale, and she rubbed his shoulders
and upper back, his enthusiasm grew -- he told his mom every detail he
could think of, and made up a few as well.  Amelia hadn't heard him yak
like this since he was four.

   "I take it this was your first 'sort of' blow job?" she asked.

   "Welllll-- a girl tried to give me one last summer, at swim camp at
Cornell.  But only the head part would fit in her mouth.  I told you about
her yesterday."

   "Tell me again." Joe still couldn't believe he was being to
matter-of-fact.  To his mother!  It was the last night of camp.  The two
had met at this place in the woods where they'd been hiding out and necking
since the first week, but it was the first time she'd seen his cock.  She
wouldn't fuck.  She said she was afraid of getting pregnant, but Joe
thought she was afraid that taking his penis -- Joe had said "prickus
maximus" -- would hurt too much.  She even said it was too big for her to
suck him off.  But Joe had already done her pussy, and it was her turn. 
She did some licking and kissing as she pumped him with her hands, and
after he came she licked most of the cum off his dick and balls.  The rest
was sprayed all over the ground and bushes.

   For all the X-rated content of this tale, he was still her baby when he
twisted around to face her.  "Does that count as a blow job?" He really
wanted to know!

   When his mother didn't answer, he blurted out, "Mom, I can't believe I'm
talking to you like this.  Suck and fuck and dick.  What is happening?" His
mom still didn't answer.  This time, she didn't know the answer herself. 
She wanted to know how old the girl was.

   "I dunno, my age, give or take a year.  We were in the same group at
camp.  Nice bod, small boobs, though.  That was the last night of camp, I
haven't talked to her since.  She lives somewhere near Denver."

   "Your age."

   "Yes, mother.  And don't ask me her name, I won't tell you."

   She was proud of him for that, at least.  But the sexy talk was having
its effect.  As he spoke, Amelia didn't exactly burst into flame, but she
could feel herself getting warm and thinking about her dildo collection. 
She realized that she didn't care how many teenage girls he fucked, but she
did care about the adult women, especially Viking queens like Betsy B. 
'Could I really be lusting after my own son?' she thought for the
seventy-seventh time.  It was her job to protect him, not corrupt him.  But
that one sight of his cock, and a hundred memories of Owen, had knocked her
judgment off kilter.  She'd been thinking about nothing else for almost two
days.  And Owen would be here soon.  Maybe he was the reason.  'Oh, I just
can't figure it out!' she wailed, in her mind.

   She had made her big decision almost before she realized she was
deciding something.  "Listen, this is a bigger deal than you can realize.
The girl at camp, I don't exactly approve, but at least it was
age-appropriate.  You're a teenager, with not much experience of sex and
girls and that stuff and, I'm sure, none at all with women twice your age
or more.  On the other hand, I know that sex is a powerful urge, and if I
tell you to ignore these harpies tearing at your zipper, you'll just start
ignoring me instead, and fucking your brains out, and lying to me about
it."

   'Harpies, plural?' thought Joe.  'What's that about?  She can't possibly
know about Mrs.  Cohn!'

   She paused, collecting her thoughts.  "We've also got your father to
deal with.  He wasn't a virgin when I met him, but he certainly didn't have
girls in heat breaking down doors to get to him.  He's always been
gorgeous, but the news got around.  I'd heard of the big jock with the
micro dickie even before I met him.  If the stories get around that you're
fucking all the hot babes at the gym, he might get so depressed he can't
work.  He might even kill himself.  And you and I would never forgive
ourselves.

   "Promise me that you'll resist these women as long as you can; for one
thing, it'll prevent them from treating you like some sex toy.  Don't give
it away too easily.  When girls do that, they're called 'whores' or
'sluts.' It's no better when the slut is a male."

   It was time to 'put up or shut up,' she thought, having no idea that
Joey had said those same words to Connie a few hours before.  Heaving a
huge sigh as she went, one that lifted her breasts a good two inches and
then let them fall, jiggling, she let go of his shoulders and moved around
him to sit on the edge of his bed, leaning forward, facing him.  "Most
important, promise me that when sexy stuff happens, like yesterday, you'll
check in with me that evening and we'll talk about it.  If there's a risk
of your father hearing, we'll go get coffee or figure some other time.  But
you have to let me help guide you through the next year or so, anyway. 
Otherwise you could end up hating yourself, hating me, hating your father,
hating women -- and there's no need.  So, promise?"

   Halfway through this soliloquy, Joey discovered her unbuttoned buttons,
and without really meaning to, he was trying to see the forbidden flesh
behind them.  Amy saw, of course.  During the long pause as Joey tried to
think and tried to scope her tits, Amelia had another,
thinking-outside-the-box idea.  Immoral and illegal, but at least a
rationale she could tell her conscience.  She'd happened to think of
Pasteur, who learned how to protect people from smallpox by inoculating
them with a mild case of cowpox, a less harmful disease.  Maybe the Pasteur
principle would work for her.  To protect Young Joey from all those harpies
and witches, maybe she should provide him with a known, safe, experienced
sex partner, like for instance. . .

   Joey could see the edges of his mom's aureolae, and of course the plump
curves of the mammaries themselves, and was trying to take it all in.  All
too weird.  But the bottom line he understood.  His mother sincerely wanted
to help him, and she thought the best way to do that would be if he and she
sat down in his room every night to talk about sex.  Just the thought made
his pecker start to twitch a little.  'Do I really want to fuck my own
mother?' he thought for the seventy-seventh time.

   He was ready to agree to her plan, but he was still a lawyer's son. 
"You're talking about adult women, right?  I don't have to tell you about
girls at school?" She scowled at him, but nodded slowly.  "The girls," she
frowned.  "Just the women older than, . . .than. . .  than your sister."
Amy immediately regretted bringing Debbie into it, too late.

   Young Joe immediately replied, "Yes, mom, I promise.  Every time an
adult woman gets sexy with me, I'll tell you about it that night, or as
soon as I can, and I'll listen to what you think.  But Mom, I can't promise
that I'll always take your advice.  This is all too new to me."

   Even though it was serious business, he couldn't resist joking.  "And I
won't promise that I'll certainly turn her down.  What if it's Miss
January? Or Catherine Zeta-Jones?" Amelia's resemblance to CZJ, especially
from certain angles, was a staple of family lore.  As I believe I've told
you, there was a vague resemblance, but Amelia would have had to live at
the gym to be movie-star svelte and what was the point?  She was plenty hot
for her husband, and, apparently, younger men as well.

   His mom had stood up to leave the room.  Now she blushed, and smiled, at
the mention of Ms.  Zeta-Jones, although her eyes were misting with tears.
Right there with Joey watching, she nervously fussed with the shirt buttons
still buttoned.  The topmost one slipped open.  Joey unabashedly stood up
for a better look.  Standing, he could see her boobs all the way to the
nipple.  His cock leapt to attention, extending upward for a better look,
too.  She left the lower buttons buttoned.



   "Good, Joey.  Excellent.  Honest and practical.  As for me, I promise to
do my best not to be judgmental, and without fail to keep all your secrets
from everyone.  Who knows?  I might wind up telling you about my sex life,
such as it is." She crossed her forearms over her abdomen.  Then she raised
them up to her chest, hefting her boobs in Joe's direction, as if he needed
the hint.  "I think I should start calling you 'Big Joe'," she grinned. 
Nervousness ebbing, she gave him the mother of all come-hither looks, and
her index finger flicked just enough to point to his dick, which was
straining against his waistband and pulling his pubic hairs again.  "Tits
for tats," she winked.

   Against the smooth cotton of her oxford shirt, her braless nipples
strained for attention, and they got Joe's.  He figured they had to be as
hard as his erection.  He gave them a long, unmistakable look, then smiled
into Amelia's eyes.  "Maybe by then you'll have a sex life to talk about.
It's been what, twenty years for you?" He reached under her folded arms and
pushed aside her shirttails to place his hand flat on her belly.  His
fingers pointed down, right at her waistband.  If her pants hadn't been so
tight, in a heartbeat he could have shoved his hand into her pants, then
curled his fingers up, spearing deep into her recesses.  She trembled with
anticipation, hoping he'd try.  Once he did, she'd tear at her pants
buttons herself.  She couldn't deny it.  And at that moment, she
desperately wished he would make a move, or gesture, that would break the
ice and permit her to ravish him right here, on his bed, right now.  Even
if all she could get was his fingers in her cunt, they would do the job at
least as well as his father's little dickie.  Alas, Joey opted to move up,
not down.  He unbuttoned her last shirt button, and let his hand inch
upward to the next one.

   Her cunt was soaked, of course, with enough left over to soak the crotch
of her panties, if she'd been wearing any.  'This boy is sure getting
bold!' Amy thought.  'He knows I'm near the end of my resistance.  He's
getting cocky.  I guess that's natural, given his equipment.'

   Amy got hold of herself.  'I can't do this.  I stood there in church and
promised.' Later she realized that at the critical moment, she'd forgotten
that in addition to being adultery, incest was also a crime.

   She slapped his hand for his impertinence, and redid the button, all
while grinning the happy grin of a horny woman with high hopes for the
future.

   "If my name ought to be 'Big Joe'," her son went on, "then Dad's should
be 'Little Joe.' Or even Minuscule Joe.  Pathetic, Puny Joe."

   'Uh-oh!  Not the Oedipal power trip.  Not yet.' "Not to your father's
face, ever.  We really do have to be careful about humiliating him." Then
all those years of sexual frustration and her aroused hormones, together,
ganged up on Amelia's better sense, and knocked it senseless.  "But when
it's just you and me, sure.  Big Joe and Little Joe." She giggled, boobs
dancing merrily.  "Or Humungous Joe and Puny Joe.  Or Massive Joe and
Microscopic Joe.  Why not?"

   She leaned over with her hands on his knees, breasts on display through
the open top buttons of her shirt, ostentatiously letting her gaze linger
on his crotch.  She resisted the urge to blow on it, and let her gaze rise,
following the bulge in his pants that was growing even as she was looking,
and then slowly up his bare abs and chest to his face.  He was cute, no
mistake.  "Big, Big Joe.  My son.  You've always been a good boy, and very,
very soon you're going to be a man, a good man, a man we can all be proud
of." She stood, and leaned over to his face, and kissed him, lightly, on
the lips.  Neither was yet ready to admit how hot their lips were.  They
were on fire.

   She stood up and sashayed to the door like Lauren Bacall.  In the
doorway she turned.  "A.  Very.  Good.  Man." As she shut the door behind
her, Joe's dick exploded.  Luckily, the sticky mess was all confined to his
pants.



   Dinner conversation was uneasy.  Amy and Joe wondering if they'd gone
too far, or not far enough, and not wanting to talk about it, especially
not in front of Debbie.  Debbie, for her part, was fantasizing about her
uncle or her brother, or both together.  Everybody's face was flushed.  Oh,
well.  Silence falls on all families' dinners, sometimes, although rarely
for these reasons.

   Just as they finished, they heard a car door slam, and, a few seconds
later, the doorbell ring.  Amy hurried to open it.  "Owen!  How are you! 
Come in!" Brother and sister were sharing a chaste hug when Debbie and Joe
reached the door.  "Owen, surely you remember Debbie and Joe."

   "Hello!  Happy Birthday, Young Joe!" their uncle said.  He looked them
over, Debbie very slowly.  "What I remember was a little stick drawing of a
girl and a very loud and annoying little boy," he laughed.  "And here you
are, woman and man.  And athletes!  Wow, who'd-a'-thunk-it?" He turned to
Amelia.  "Nice work, sister-mine," he kissed her cheek.  "You've made silk
purses out of sow's ears."

   Owen had talked to Amy at least every other month ever since he'd moved
to California after Amy's wedding.  He knew all the news about sister,
husband, and kids, and sometimes had exchanged the awkward "hello" that
usually follows when your mom says, "Hey, [your name here], come say hello
to your Uncle [your uncle's name here]." This was the first time he'd
visited, though, since he'd become self-employed, for reasons anyone who's
ever been self-employed will easily understand.

   Their uncle was a good-looking man, in pretty good shape, for someone
having black hair flecked with gray.  In fact, he and Amy resembled each
other closely.  Owen had never married, for reasons Debbie could now guess
at, and had no kids of his own.  His only experience relating to teenagers
was, if they were female, getting into their pants faster than a
safecracker, and if they were male, none at all.

   Still, he was a glib talker, and funny, very good at the kind of verbal
gymnastics Debbie and Joe used on each other.  As the conversation took on
the shape of a shootout between those three, Amy surprised her kids by
wading in and holding her own.  Her conversation had always been warm and
wise, but rarely witty.  Owen scored his first point just by breaking the
ice.

   After a while the party broke up.  Everybody, including Owen, had work
to do.  Debbie showed him to the guest room, even though this was the same
house he and Amelia had grown up in.  (Their parents had died in a car
accident about a year before Amy's wedding, and Amy took the house as her
share of the estate.  Debbie and Joe had never known their grandparents nor
lived anywhere else.)



   The younger pair of siblings were in their rooms, trying to focus on
their homework.  Owen stayed in the kitchen with Amelia.  "OK, Ames, what's
going on.  You can cut the tension in this house with a knife.  Everybody
has something they're not saying.  I think it's about sex."

   "Oh, Owen, you think everything's about sex."

   "Not good enough, sister-mine.  Does this family problem involve me?"

   "No, Owen, of course not."

   "Ha!  Then you admit there is a problem!" Owen crowed.  "You're way out
of practice, to fall for that one."

   Amy turned to scowl at her brother.  "I should know better than let you
start talking.  Okay, then, I've gotta tell somebody, it may as well be
you." She gave her brother a big smile, that changed into a frowning pout
as the collected her thoughts.  "You've been to our health club, I
remember. Best in town.  Well, Sunday, we gave Young Joe a membership, for
his birthday.  He and his dad went there and had a real nice father-son day
of it.  Until they hit the showers, and they and all the other men in there
got to compare their uh, penises." She looked miserable, tears in her eyes.
"You know about Joe Senior's pathetic little dickie.  Well, guess whose
monster cock Young Joe inherited."

   Owen wanted to grin, but he suppressed it.  "So what?"

   "That's easy for you to say, you're the one who's well hung.  How'd you
like to be the dad with the micro dick of the boy with the nightstick? 
There with all the other guys, maybe your law partners, and the difference
on display?  I think Joe, senior, just shriveled up," she gave a mirthless
snicker, "as if he wished his body would match his little dickie.  When he
came home he looked like he was about to cry.  That was Sunday.  He did
disappear the next morning; he left as early as he could for Fort Worth. 
He hasn't said anything about cocks on the phone, but he sounds awful."

   "Dare I ask, Amelia dear, how you know so much about Junior's
equipment?"

   She glared at him.  "I oughta slap you silly for that," she hissed. 
After a few seconds she calmed down.  "Sorry, but this is embarrassing, if
you can believe that.  Young Joe had promised his dad not to talk about it,
but when I saw that he had a serious secret I ordered him to tell me." She
gave a small smile at the memory.  "That kid's a lawyer's son, for sure. 
He absolutely wouldn't tell me, because he promised.  But he found the
loophole.  He showed me."

   Owen burst out laughing.  "That kid just whipped his dick out to show
his mom how big it is?  I'm gonna like this kid.  How'd you manage not to
spread 'em right then and there?"

   Her brother's irresponsible good humor never failed to cheer Amy up. 
Her tone lightened an octave.  "Well, I didn't," she said, in her primmest
Mary Poppins voice.  "Since then, less than two days, he's turned the house
upside down.  He's cracking jokes about how we should call him 'Big Joe'
and his father 'Pathetic Joe,' he's been propositioned and sucked off by a
Viking maiden personal trainer at the Club, and he's worked his way into
the fantasies of his own mother, who was walking around this afternoon with
her tits almost hanging out." She told him about her "inoculation" theory.
"How perverse is that?"

   Owen took all this in, quietly.  After a while he spoke, in a low, calm
voice.  "So tell me this, sister-mine.  We spent all those years committing
incest.  Do you think you were harmed by it, all things considered?"

   'What was her brother driving at?' she wondered.  "No-oo," she murmured.
"All things considered, one in particular, I'd do it all over again.  I've
thought about this often; I suppose you have, too.  I wouldn't have been so
fussy about what other boys I fucked if I didn't have your fuck rod handy.
God knows who I'd have screwed if I was really horny.  Agh!  Listen to me.
Fuck rod?  I do miss your fuck rod, Owen, and I'm terribly grateful for all
the times I put it to use.  If you'd lived around here, being a constant
temptation, it would have been a problem.  I've often thought you moved
away for my sake, but I know you'd never admit it.  I'm grateful anyway,
although I do miss your-- smiling face."

   Owen kissed her cheek.  "Go ahead and say it, then it's my turn."

   Amy grabbed his cheeks with both hands and gently shook his face.  With
her face in his, nose to nose, she laughed, "Damn you!  All right, then, I
meant to say, 'although I miss your smiling face and your massive, hot,
thick, steel fuck-pole!' Satisfied?  That whole statement was good for me.
Was it good for you?"

   By now, they were both laughing.  "And I miss your sweet, lubricated
cunt, most of all, dear sister.  I miss the way you could wrap your muscles
around the shaft and play it like a saxophone.  I haven't met anybody else
who can do that.  I miss all the control you had, how every time it was
your decision whether to let me come and there was nothing I could do about
it.  And your trick of sucking out that deep orgasm, the oil after the
gusher.  I miss the absolute trust I had in you.  And the blow jobs!  I'd
trade anal sex with six Santa Monica teenyboppers for one of your blow
jobs. If I'd stayed around here I'd have been pestering you for sex all the
time.  Of course I knew how noble it was to go away and not interfere with
your marriage.  I asked the Chief of Police if he wanted to come with me to
join the French Foreign Legion, but he didn't want to go.  So, I moved to
California.  Hell, California girls are just as eager for a big dick as any
others.  I've never been looking for a wife, at least not mine.  So, except
for missing the ol' homestead, and the sexy woman who lives there, it was a
win-win.  I did it partly for you, but for me, too."

   "Only six teenybopper asses for a blow job?  I'd like to think my blow
jobs are better than that.  Or did you find somebody who could take the
whole thing?"

   "Now that you ask, I did see somebody who could suck me all the way down
to my balls, but I haven't actually had that experience."

   "Why not?  Is she married to Shaq or somebody?"

   Owen's eyes danced.  "Gotcha.  She's a python at the zoo." His sister
rolled her eyes.  Owen continued, "Oh, yeah, and thanks for all the help
with my homework."

   "Pish.  You're lucky you graduated, trying to do your homework with your
cock down my throat." Wrist to forehead, she pretended to swoon.  "Those
were the days!" Pause.  "But tell me brother-mine, why did you ask, anyway?
Why after all these years do you wonder if our affair was a good idea?"

   "How often do I get you alone?" Owen leaned forward and kissed Amy on
her full lips.  "I was thinking about your inoculation theory.  You didn't
say that you'd be doing the inoculation, but you didn't need to.  I don't
know if it's a good idea or not.  It never crossed my mind to fuck our mom,
ever.  I was too afraid she'd catch us.  So, I have no way to answer, none.
But, just between you and me, you're gonna seduce that boy, or vice versa,
and you're gonna fuck his brains out, soon, and I know it and you know it."
He poured himself some more decaf.

   "What about Debbie?" Owen asked, abruptly.  "Do you think she and Joey
are following. . .  "

   Amy's jaw dropped all the way, which was pretty far, considering all the
training she'd given it.  "G-- I started to say, God, I hope not.  But I
guess that sounds silly after telling you how great our experience was.  I
don't think she knows about Joey's uh, endowment, yet, she'd have mentioned
it somehow.  But she will know soon, either around school or around the
Club.  And I don't know what she'll do."

   "The real question is what you'll do.  You don't think she's a virgin?"

   "Oh, hell, no, Owen.  My daughter?  Besides, I never taught her to save
herself for marriage.  My line wasn't 'just say no,' it was 'don't do it
unless you're in control and always use a condom on the first date.'"

   "C'mon, you didn't say all that about the first date."

   "Well, okay, you're right.  But I got a rise out of you."

   "Ames, you get a rise out of me just by being in the same room.  Or even
on the phone, half the time." He hesitated.  "How mad would you be if I
took on the duty of inoculating Debbie?"

   Amelia raised one eyebrow.  "Owen, are you really asking my permission
to fuck my daughter?  Your own niece?" You really are a piece of work."

   "And, excuse my French, she really is a piece of ass.  Look at it this
way.  Sooner or later she's gonna find out about Joey's dick.  Then she'll
want to see it, and do you really think Joey will turn her down?  If it's
the first time she's seen such a cut of meat, she's likely to demand to try
it.  If she likes the first time, no parents earth could keep those two
apart.  You know that from experience.  On the other hand, if she happens
to have seen one before, hint, hint, she might be able to resist the
temptation.  And if she can't, then what difference does it make which
monster cock was her first time?"

   "What about Joey?  You think he wants sloppy seconds after his own
uncle?"

   "She might keep it to herself, you never know.  I'm going back to the
coast tomorrow, I won't be a temptation.  And if she tells Joey, tell him
to call me.  In fact, he and I should have a good long talk anyway.  If it
happens, I might tell him myself.  Maybe tomorrow evening, before I leave?
I can take Joey for burgers and then catch the red-eye flight."

   "I can't believe we're having this conversation.  My mind's all whirling
around, and I have to talk to my husband in a few minutes." She looked into
her brother's eyes.  "I wish you wouldn't.  Maybe I can't tell right from
wrong any more, but I just don't think it's a good idea.  I can't believe
I'm not pushing you out the door and throwing the bolt just for making the
suggestion."

   "OK, sister-mine.  I promise to stay out of little Debbie's cute little
pink panties.  And her cute little pink bedroom.  In fact, I think I'll go
to the guest room now, get my papers together for tomorrow, and won't come
out until morning.  I assume that half-bath is still working?"

   "Ha!  She hates pink.  Yes, the bathroom works, and thanks, Owen.  You
may be right, but it's really unfair to Debbie for you to walk in her room
with your schlong hanging out.  I told you, I don't want her having sex
unless she's in control.  She couldn't be in control once she sees the
Eighter from Decatur."

   "Niner in Vaginer," was her brother's retort.  His face was lit up with
glee and laughter, but he still kept his voice down.  "Like mother, like
daughter." He reached out to give Amy a hug and a kiss.  As he did, she
looked down and pointed to the pup tent in his pants.  "That boy hasn't
aged a bit, has he?" she asked.

   "Nah.  I keep him young by fucking teenagers.  You want a look?  Or even
a taste?  For old times' sake?" Without waiting for her response, he worked
his zipper and pulled it out.  She knew it was painful, the way he had to
bend and twist his erection just to get it out from under his belt.  Then
it was simply there, erect as a rocket to the moon, and almost as imposing.
"Good as new, sis.  Whaddya think?"

   "I wish I was half as well-preserved as your penis," Amy replied.  She
leaned over and kissed the end of the rod, sliding her lips open to cover
the top part of the helmet, teasing the big hole with her tongue, as she
hummed "mmmm-mmmmm-mmmmmmm." The cavity between her thighs, the one
custom-remodeled for exactly that cock, was wet enough for sex, but oddly,
nowhere near as wet as she'd been almost constantly for the past two days.
She and Owen were a closed chapter.

   Just the same, her will power only narrowly defeated her lust..  Amelia
stood up.  "Now, you can just put that big boy away, brother-mine.  And
don't pester Debbie.  I mean it." She took her brother's arm and propelled
him out of the kitchen, and down the hall to his room.  "The bathroom works
fine in there.  Get in there, and don't come out until breakfast.  Promise
me."

   "I promise," he said.



   Unsuspected by either her mother or her uncle, Debbie had other plans.
She knew that tonight there were two majestic towers of erectile tissue
almost with reach; one, her uncle's, was right across the hall.  She
reckoned she'd be a fool not to at least try.  Nothing ventured, nothing
gained.  How often does a girl get this kind of opportunity?

   She sat on her bed, "Anna Karenina" heavy in her lap, working out her
strategy.  Her best ideas were variations on two themes.  One was sultry
and sexy -- deck herself out in nothing but her gauzy negligee, open the
door slowly and drape her body against the door frame, silhouetted by the
dim light of the hallway, saying nothing, like you'd see in some movie from
the 1940s.  The other was to play Gidget, the perky and wholesome teenager,
in her cute flannel pajamas, flouncing in to chat, tell him about her day,
kiss him goodnight, and fuck his brains out.

   Neither one would fool Owen for a second.  She knew that.  But it just
wouldn't do to knock on the door and, when he got up to open it -- dressed
how?  she wondered.  Boxer shorts and a Grateful Dead t-shirt?  Linen
pajamas he was given by his latest conquest?  Completely naked?  -- saying,
"Hey, Uncle Owen, wanna fuck?"

   She decided that her best odds were with the flannel jammies, which she
happened to be wearing already, anyway.  If she'd had big boobs like her
mother, the negligee might have done it, but her B+ cups looked a little
anemic next to Mom's and probably next to those of the thousand other
women, over the years, who'd begged him for his service.  He'd probably had
some cute teenagers in flannel pajamas, too, she thought, but none of them
had been his niece.  The final decider was in the unthinkable.  If, for
some ridiculous reason, he wasn't interested, they could smooth over the
embarrassment by pretending she'd just dropped in to say good night.  Which
she had, in a way.  Body language.

   Her hand was down her pajama pants, fingers marinating in her cunt
juices so she could check the juices for taste, when she heard her mother
escorting her uncle down the hall.  'Oh, no!' she wailed, in her mind.  'If
mom's in there with him, giving him a good night blow job, I'll never get
my chance!' She figured there was no way her mother would cooperate in a
threesome, so that was out.  She thought about setting her alarm for 4 AM,
and attacking her uncle then, but she didn't think much of that idea.  Too
mechanical.

   Through the door Debbie heard her mother say something about the
bathroom and then "Get in there, and don't come out until breakfast. 
Promise me." She heard Owen mumble something, then his door shut softly and
she heard her mother returning up the hall.  'Phew!' she thought.  'She's
not going to spend the night.' A thought struck her.  'Maybe they already
did it in the kitchen!  Or even in Mom's room!' Well, whatever.  If he
couldn't get it up for Debbie, she'd just ask, sweetly, "why not?" or, even
better, "how come?" He couldn't just say, "Well, your mother just sucked me
dry in the kitchen." Or could he?  How would she respond?  "I see.  It must
be your unlucky day, then, because I am going to suck you even dryer, in
the bedroom." Her hand gripped her mons, fingers plunging into her pussy,
just at the excitement of the thought of it.  'God,' she thought, 'I'm
really going to do it!'

   The phone rang; a glance at the clock told Deb it was her father
calling. A few minutes later, with no sound and no warning, her mother came
back to Debbie's door, knocking once, softly, and entering.  Debbie pulled
her hand out of her twat, but nowhere near fast enough.

   Amelia saw, and she wasn't surprised.  In fact, it ratcheted up her
horniness to the next level.  Somehow, as she had talked to her husband,
her last inhibitions about cuckolding him and flouting all social
convention hung by a thin thread.  She snickered at the way Debbie was
flustered as she walked towards the bed.  Smiling her motherly
"tut-tut-tut" smile, she grabbed Debbie's hand, and pulled it to her nose,
inhaling deeply.

   Deb was too surprised to resist, not that she would have.  Then she got
her biggest jolt of the week (so far); Amy pulled Debbie's damp fingers
into her mouth and sucked on them, laving them with her tongue until all
the flavor of her daughter's cunt was gone.  Still smiling, she gently
tugged Deb's fingers out of her (Amy's) mouth, rasping her teeth along
them, a little, as they passed, wiped them with a tissue and guided the
hand back to Deb's loins, where it had been.  "Not bad," she said.  "Little
salty."

   Now Deb was not only gushing, she was trembling with excitement.  Her
imagination ran wild: maybe her mom would do a threesome after all!  She'd
never had any kind of lesbian experience in her life, but suddenly in her
thoughts she was screaming, 'Mom!  Kiss me!  Please!  I want to suck on
your boobs!  I want to bury my face in your pussy and then shove my tongue
up your ass!  I want you!  I never knew it before!' and so forth and so on.

   Amy stood there quietly, smiling that serene smile, giving no clue as to
what she was thinking.  Debbie was so stoked up on hormones by this time,
what with fantasizing about her uncle and then her mother, that she
listened to those inner voices.  Once again dropping Tolstoy to the floor,
she lunged up to kneeling on the bed, grabbed her mother's face and kissed
her, deeply.  Kissed her for keeps.

   Her mother kissed her back.

   And then the two of them were necking, passionately, running their hands
over each other's bodies, feeling their heat through the clothing.  Amelia
rolled onto Debbie, pushing Deb's legs apart, and planted her mons against
her daughter's.  That was all it took; on contact, both cunts exploded,
overloading every synapse in their bodies with the message: "orgasm! 
orgasm!  orgasm!  I'm cummmmming!"

   Their muscles were all so tense it's a wonder they could move at all. 
But as the orgasm washed over her, Debbie pulled her mouth away from the
kiss to scream her ecstasy.  Her mother moved faster, plugging Debbie's
mouth with her tongue, stabbing it in as deep as she could, to hold the
sounds in.

   Debbie sucked on that tongue like it was one of the cocks she'd been
dreaming about, even as her hands explored the seat of Amy's jeans,
kneading the supple ass within, then slipping under the shirt and massaging
the skin of her mother's back.  As her hands groped higher, hiking Amy's
shirt up and over her breasts, Debbie discovered that there was no bra in
the way.  Then, as their orgasms floated away, Debbie's strong,
tennis-playin' muscles went to mush.  Her hands fell away from her mother's
body, she broke the kiss so her head could fall back onto the pillow.  She
never did get to suck, or even see, Amelia's boobs.

   Amy's orgasm had been totally as intense as her daughter's, but her
greater experience showed.  She gave herself totally to Debbie's pleasure,
just as Julie had done for her, all those years ago.  And the whole time,
in the back of her mind was the incessant question, 'Amelia, what in the
hell do you think you're doing?'

   She didn't know, except that flirting with Owen, and then talking to him
about Debbie, and then kissing his cockhead, called up all the memories of
that first weekend.  Not just Owen, but Julie too.  And then Old Joe, Puny
Joe, had interrupted her fantasies just as she was about to cum, and cum,
and cum.  It wasn't his fault, of course, but her hormones were on fire and
didn't like being doused with cold water; as soon as the phone call was
over, they flared back up, hotter than ever.

   And here was her brother, the best fuck she'd ever had or could even
imagine, right across the hall.  Much as she wanted to, she couldn't cross
that line to fuck Owen, it wouldn't be right.  Bewildered, in a fog, she
came to her daughter, a girl a lot like Amy herself had been.  Without
thinking twice Amy appointed herself to be Debbie's Julie, and initiated
her into the pleasures of Sappho.  Not because she thought either one of
them, or Julie either, would ever be a full-time lesbian, but because the
sheer joy of pleasuring another girl, one you loved and trusted, was
totally unlike sex with men or any other sensation she'd ever had.  Not
exactly better, the two feelings were beyond comparison.  But great.  Well
worth experiencing.

   They lay together, quietly, on the bed.  After a while, when their
bodies had returned from the ether, Debbie looked at her mother.  "I know
about you and Owen.  And about his cock.  You were talking in your sleep
this afternoon." She kissed her mother lightly on the lips, then fell back.
"It must have been a great dream!  I'm sorry for tricking you.  I know
about Joey's cock, and Dad's, too.  Joey showed his to me last night.  He
wanted advice on how to handle the girls at school and I agreed to help
him. My price was a chance to fondle his tool."

   As you can imagine, Debbie's confessions didn't come out in one
premeditated stream.  She said it all dreamily, one sentence at a time,
staring at the ceiling, mostly, but really not seeing anything at all.  Her
mother simply lay on her side, head propped up on a bunched-up pillow,
using one hand to caress Debbie's belly, and listened.

   "You were planning to go visit your uncle later tonight." It was a
statement, not a question.  Amelia knew.  Debbie squeezed her eyes shut,
and while they were shut, she nodded.  Amelia went on, "He's expecting you.
Go ahead."

   Debbie turned to her mother's face, to the look in her mother's eyes. 
She meant it.  She understood.  Suddenly Debbie had an image of young Amy
and Owen, fucking like bunnies.  "What about you, Mom?" she said.  "You
have first dibs on him.  Or, are you going to take Joey tonight, too?"

   "No, sweetheart, let's leave Joey alone, at least for now.  He needs a
break, things are happening too fast." Looking away, she continued,
speaking to the wall.  "I wanted to fuck Owen, right there in the kitchen,
an hour ago, but I couldn't.  I still have those wedding vows, you know. 
And I still love your father."

   Amy slid off the bed, and stood, looking down at Debbie.  "I know it's
driving you crazy, having the two biggest cocks you'll ever see or know
about both right here in the same house, and you think you can't have
either one.  Well, you can." She pointed.  "Right over there."

   By now, Debbie was beyond surprise.  She'd had a brief, but satisfying,
girl-on-girl session with her mother, and now she was condoning --
inviting! -- her to go fuck her own uncle, who'd been her mother's lover
for years.  But instead of all that, what concerned her was Owen's
integrity.  "Didn't he promise?  I heard him promise you."

   "He promised to stay in his room all night.  He didn't promise to kick
you out if you came to him.  I left him a loophole.  I guess. . .  we're
all turning into lawyers around here."

   Debbie stood up and hugged her mother, giving her a full kiss, then, as
she broke the clinch, stroking Amy's breast through her shirt.  "This is
all too bizarre, but it feels so normal."

   "Tell me about it." Amelia slapped her daughter's flannel-clad butt. 
"Now, get your cute little butt over there before I change my mind and take
your place." They left the room together.  As Debbie shyly lifted her hand
to knock on the guest room door, Amelia went back to her room, alone, and
got out her vibrator.



   Owen must have been standing right by the door; he pulled it open, wide,
before Deb could knock twice.  His body was framed in the doorway, backlit
by the bedside lamp.

   Debbie's uncle was stark naked.  He had a great bod, muscles that said
'strength' without being huge and only a little of those inevitable
middle-age love handles.  The hair on his chest was bristly, like a
doormat. His tan lines showed his good taste not to wear Speedos to the
beach, but he'd obviously done some sunbathing in the nude, as well,
because the pale part wasn't livid white, it was a healthy, early-summer
tan.

   Of course, she noticed these details only much later.  Her attention was
riveted on his cock.  Even though it was relaxed and hanging straight down,
she thought that if he ever tried to shove it through a toilet paper roll,
it would be a tight squeeze and even then, she guessed, its head would be
sticking out.  Erect-- well, she'd know that soon enough.

   "Uncle Owen!" she said, somewhat taken aback.  "Am I interrupting
something?" She heard the innuendo and tried to stop her mouth.  Too late!

   "Come in, Niece Debra," he mimicked.  He reached out and lifted her
chin. "C'mon, didn't your mother teach you to look a man in the eye when
you talk to him?" He was laughing at her, she could tell, but she didn't
care.  She was committed.

   "Sorry, Uncle, but I was-- distracted." She pulled his hand from her
face and put her hands on his shoulders.  "I'm sure I'm not the first.  Mom
said you were expecting me, so I hurried right over.  She didn't say what
you wanted, though.  What can I do for you?"

   'Amelia said that?' he thought.  'Wow, that's one smart woman.  How
could she be my sister?' Aloud, he said, "What can you do for me?  How
'bout a strip tease?  Sorry, no music, though.  We gotta be quiet."

   Just about every word this man said doubled Debbie's sense of
anticipation and arousal.  "Strip tease" gave her the first tremors of an
orgasm.  Luckily, strip teasing was something she knew about, because as
fifth and sixth graders, she and her friends had worked out routines at
slumber parties.  Oh, no sex, just silliness.  Still, she had some moves.

   Debra winked and pushed on her uncle's chest.  "Uncle Owen, you just sit
in that chair and get comfortable." The chair was a straight-back chair for
sitting at a desk, but he knew where she was heading.  He pulled it away
from the desk to the side of the room, played the two lamps in the room in
Debbie's direction, and sat down, ready to enjoy her performance.

   His niece didn't need music.  She retreated into the dim light off stage
left, then stepped into the light, wrists on hips, like a runway model. 
She walked up to her uncle, made a half turn, and looked over her shoulder
at her audience of one.  Her head made a disdainful gesture, as if to say,
'you're not good enough for me.' A quarter turn, and she sashayed off to
the edge of the light, stage right.  With her back to Uncle Owen, she
raised her left hand to her pajama top and made exaggerated motions of
undoing buttons, then whirled around.  She was teasing!  Only one button
was undone.  Owen, who had seen plenty of strippers, nodded his praise. 
'The girl might have a knack for this,' he thought.

   Then Debra clutched her hands together and raised them to near her
throat, at the same time using her upper arms to emphasize her boobs, and
pouted.  As she turned her back to him again, slowly this time, her hands
went to the lower hem of her pajama top.  In one looonnnggg casual motion,
her hands inched up, pulling the garment up and over her head.

   She was naked from the waist up, but still had her back to her uncle. 
She showed him how her supple ass could move, with a little belly-dance
action.  She cut this part short, however.  She wanted to get down to
business.

   Then Debbie made a full turn to face him, now clutching the flannel to
her tits, miming that she was cold.  Doing the runway slink again, she
stood knee-to-knee with her uncle, ostentatiously giving him the once over.
She saw that his prick was getting to be very interested.  Good.  'He's the
one I have to please, not Uncle Owen.' She leaned over as if to kiss her
uncle, only to spread her pajama top on his torso, in position as if he
were wearing it.  He got one quick eyeful of her tits as she made the same
half turn and flirtatious pout as before.

   Now, standing in the fullest light in the room, she faced her audience
again, hands on her hips, this time like Supergirl, not like a fashion
model.  Her boobs jutted out, bold as brass.  (One advantage of small tits
is that gravity has less to get hold of and drag down.) With her smooth,
strong musculature, all she needed to look like a superheroine was a flag
fluttering in the background.

   Her hands crept forward, to the string on her pajama pants.  I mean
crept.  It must have taken a full minute for her hands to go from hip to
navel.  One hand pulled the string out, with tantalizing slowness, directly
toward Owen, as she gave him the haughty look of a woman in total control
of everything.  The thumb of the other hand was hooked in her waistband, as
if to hold up her pants when the string was loosened.

   In fact, she did the opposite.  At the moment the knot popped open, she
pushed her pants down, and in a well-rehearsed lightning fast movement had
the pants completely off, dangling in her outstretched hand.  She was
totally naked, except for her cute, little-girl socks.  They were white,
though, not pink.  She hated pink.

   Once again she approached her uncle, now letting the pants dangle with
her hands on the waistband, and once again draping the garment over him as
if he was wearing it.  Her hands brushed his stiffening member, as if by
accident, then she backed away, and resumed her Supergirl pose.  She glared
at him as if he was some evildoer she'd apprehended.

   Owen had way too much experience to be overwhelmed, but he was
impressed. The girl was sexy!  Her muscles and grace and the sultry way she
carried her body more than made up for her lack of tit-flesh, which anybody
could buy for a few thousand dollars anyway.

   His eyes danced all over her body.  Her pubes were trimmed but not
shaven.  He approved.  Shaven pussy made him feel like a child molester,
which he most certainly was not.  He'd actually spurned girls and women,
desperate for his cock, because their bush was all shaved away.  She had
great legs, naturally, from competitive tennis.  Same for her arms, torso,
everything.  The muscles running just beneath her tawny skin made him think
of a lioness.

   Debbie was pleased with her performance; she'd been worried that she'd
mess up the quick-removal of pants routine.  More important, at least for
now, was that the most important member of the audience was immensely
appreciative, as well as simply immense.  She got a standing ovation; her
uncle was clapping softly, and his dick was standing up tall and thick,
with that little banana curve most cocks have.

   Maintaining her stern demeanor and dominant pose, she caught her uncle's
eyes and held them.  "Lap dance, one hundred dollars," she said.

   He took the cue.  "Miss, as you can see, I have no wallet.  Can you
extend me some credit?"

   From the back of her throat came a feline growl, that startled his
member into standing up even taller and thicker.  "I'll extend you as far
as you can go.  And then a little more.  And more.  And . . .  more." As
she spoke, she approached him, as if ready to pounce.

   Debbie had only a vague idea of what a lap dance was supposed to be
like; she was improvising.  She gyrated amateurishly mere inches from Owen,
but never touching.  She did know to stay in character, no matter what;
with a couple more growls and glares, she'd done the best she could.  Owen,
of course, could see that she didn't know lap dancing, but didn't care. 
After all, she'd kept her promise; his prick had grown yet again.

   Just as she returned to her Supergirl pose her uncle stood up, dropping
her pajamas to the carpet.  Still in character, she took two long strides
to him and, with one hand flat on his chest, pushed him back down into the
chair, then used both hands to pry his knees apart.

   Abruptly she dropped to her knees with a thunk that would have hurt if
she hadn't been Supergirl.  She commanded, "Uncle Owen, sit back and
relax," emphasizing "Uncle," as she clamped her hands around the gigantic
cudgel, a prick a prize stallion would have been proud of, and pulled it
toward her a little, as her mouth plummeted onto the cockhead.



   She'd never sucked a cock so thick.  In fact, she'd never had anything
so thick in her mouth before.  'Golf ball, maybe racquet ball.  Not a
tennis ball.' Her face registered distaste at the fleeting image of sucking
cock with tennis-ball fuzz all over.  Golf ball in dark pink, with a slit
at the top.

   Using her lips to protect his flesh from her teeth, after two or three
bobs she had taken two or three inches of his cock.  Even with her two
hands wrapped around the base, one above the other, there was still an inch
or so of exposed flesh.  She tried, but she couldn't cover it.  The thought
popped into her head, unbidden: 'I'll have to practice on Joey until I can
take it all, down to my hands, anyway,' she knew she'd never be able to
take it all, 'and then call Uncle Owen for a return match.' She hadn't
realized that she took it for granted that she'd be blowing her own
brother. Soon.

   'But hey, like mother, like daughter.'

   She licked and sucked, sucked and licked, as she slowly stroked the
shaft with both hands.  Her tongue penetrated the slit at the tip.  Even
the cock slit was huge!  She thought that maybe her Dad could fuck the slit
of Owen's cock.  Or Joey's.  Gross!  Distracted from her primary task by
that little blasphemy, she let her lip slip, and her tooth scraped the
cockflesh, just below the helmet.  Oops!  I hope I didn't hurt him!  Debbie
started to lift her head away from its task, to apologize, but Uncle Owen
rapped his finger on her head to say, "keep going." That was the first time
he'd moved, and he hadn't yet spoken.  'The man has class,' she thought. 
If he'd done the "Oh, baby, oh baby, suck it baby, suck my monster cock
baby, take it all, baby, you know you want to, baby. . .  " routine, she'd
have been disappointed.  (She had no way of knowing that her mother's
attitude was exactly the same.  How did that happen, anyway?)

   By and by she could feel her uncle's cum start its climb out into
futility, expecting a warm, fertile womb but landing in a hot mouth and
throat.  She didn't feel sorry for the little sperms, though.  'Screw 'em.'
Uncle Owen's muscles began to tense up, and he made tiny moans, that you
couldn't have heard across the room.  She had another lewd thought,
'Probably he learned to keep quiet getting blow jobs on airliners.'

   When his load blew into her mouth, it caught her at the wrong stage of
breathing, and she almost gagged.  'Oh, no!  Uncle Owen will think I'm just
a kid!  Or a beginner!' But, she stifled the reflex, because this cock
served up only a mouthful or so of cum.  She'd been prepared for thick,
hot, streaming jets that she had to swallow rapidly or spew it all over the
place.  That had been her experience with teenage boys.  Apparently in
middle age, she discovered, even if a man's cock was as big and hard as
ever, there just wasn't as much jism in there, and it came out as small
spurts, not hot jets.  'Why not?' she thought.  'His balls are the size of
tennis balls.' For testicles, fuzzy is appropriate.

   She didn't know whether to be disappointed in the small payoff for all
that sucking or not, but she brightened when she thought of how it had been
so easy to suck up all the cum, without a drop escaping from her mouth. 
Maybe he'd be impressed.

   Only when the dick-and-a-half got a little soft did she pull her mouth
away, keeping her hands in place, and look up to give Uncle Owen a huge
smile.  Still silent, he reached under her armpits and lifted, signalling
her to stand up.  As she did, he let the skin of her ribcage slide along
his open hands until his thumbs were just under her tits.  He pulled her to
him, actually pulling this time, and because she wouldn't let go of his
dick, he was supporting her body with his arms as he leaned her forward,
guiding her tits to his mouth.  He kissed each nipple in turn, back and
forth, by swinging her body back and forth; his head never moved.  Debbie
knew he was showing off.  Her smile told Owen that she knew.  His eyes told
her that she was right.

   After a little more of that, he swung her around, so she had to let go
of his dick, and sat her on his lap.  She wasn't small, 5'8" and solid, so
it wasn't like some old lecher with a little girl, but even so she felt
warm and protected and cuddled.  His arm was around her waist, hand on her
thigh.  She jumped, a little, when he finally spoke.  "Are you sure you
haven't been practicing on your brother?" he asked.  "Nobody does it that
well on the first try."

   Before she could answer, he kissed her, and she gave his tongue a sort
of encore blow job, the way she always liked to do.  Eventually she came up
for air.  "Why, no, I haven't sucked Joey.  Why, is he as well-equipped as
you are?  Maybe I should practice on him, then try you again.  What do you
think?"

   "Darling niece, I can see right through you.  You haven't sucked Joey
off, but you're thinking about it.  You know all about his cock.  You've
seen it, up close and personal.  You know how I know?" She shook her head,
suppressing giggles.  Grown men don't like teenagers who giggle.  "Because
when you first saw my bad boy, you didn't gasp or catch your breath or
anything like that.  You've seen a big one before."

   Then she did giggle.  "I confess.  But I only found out yesterday."
'Geez, was it only yesterday?  So much is happening so fast!'

   "But he was at full attention?"

   "Not at first, but as I fondled him, yes indeed, I think so.  Maybe he
could get even bigger!  I wanted to take it up every hole I've got, and
then do it all again, but Joey wouldn't.  Can you imagine, my own brother!
He wouldn't even let me do a hand job."

   "Just bide your time, girl, just bide your time.  You and your Young Mr.
Joey will be pleasuring each other before the end of the month, if not the
end of the week." He nudged her to stand up, stood up beside her, pulled
the blankets to the foot of the bed and, lifting her in his arms, carefully
laid her down on the sheets.  "Meanwhile, here we are, naked, with a nice,
pleasant room, a good strong bedstead and your mother's blessing.  So, how
do we pass the time?  Do you want to save your deepest cherry for Joey? 
It's up to you."

   "I'm on the rag, but there isn't much discharge this time."

   "So what?"

   His niece's answer was to cup her hand around his cockhead and pull him
down on top of her.  They used the missionary position, the first time,
Owen pressing himself into her cunt with infinite slowness, giving the
tunnel a chance to expand.  He had plenty of experience at this.  After
every girl or woman he'd ever fucked had had to be broken in like this. 
Again, he didn't cum much, but that didn't diminish his orgasm.  He liked
to joke about how the second coming was so much better than the first. 
(You won't be surprised to learn that Owen wasn't much of a religious man.
A girlfriend had talked him into going to church one Easter.  That
afternoon, he persuaded the minister's wife to join them in a
menage-a-trois.)

   Owen's prick was unusual for an old guy in another way; it would get
plenty hard enough to do its duty even if his hormones told him not to
bother.  He didn't fake orgasms, but even when they didn't happen, most
women were so busy with their own they never noticed.  He was happy to
please them.  It helped his reputation, and his self-esteem.

   Debbie was focused on the night stick that her cunt had swallowed up,
and gave no more thought to her uncle's age.  She was lost in the moment,
moaning "oh, uncle, I'm fucking my own uncle," and didn't wonder that he
still had an erection.  In due course she hit a spectacular orgasm,
thrashing this way and that, still impaled on her lover's awesome rod.  In
her spasms, she threaded her fingers through Owen's chest hairs and pulled,
without realizing it, until she brought tears of pain to his eyes, and she
came back down.  "Oh, Uncle Owen, I'm so sorry!" she said, but he brushed
it off.

   Naturally, Debbie noticed when he didn't cum.  Her birth canal had been
pulverized, but she still had her manners.  Her uncle hadn't cum, not even
a trickle; he didn't say anything but she could tell by the way his meat
was still so hard as he gently withdrew it from her body.  As hostess, she
insisted on an encore performance.  She didn't tell him how battered she
felt, partly because her body's natural opiates were covering up the pain,
only that he'd done her such a wonderful service that she just had to
return the favor.

   In such situations, she preferred dog-style, and after she recovered
from her missionary climax she insisted that they try it that way.  But
he'd also learned from many experiences to be careful entering a cunt from
behind; a woman needed several gentle fucks from his shaft before she was
flexible enough to take it that way without a lot of pain.  They always got
impatient with him until he gave them a couple of hard and fast strokes
that brought tears to their eyes.  Alas, Debbie was no wiser than the
others.

   After he'd penetrated his niece's pussy from behind, he took it slow and
gentle.  This was pleasant, but Debbie was a high roller; she wanted him to
cum, and cum as hard as a virile old man could, into her inner chambers. 
She wanted it hard and fast, and pleaded with him to turn up the power a
few notches.  He told her it would hurt, it always did, but she said she
wasn't worried.  He stalled as long as he could.  He did give in, saying,
"You ready?" Without waiting for a response, he gave it to her hard and
deep, like a pile driver.  She gasped the kind of gasp a man would make
when he was kicked in the balls.  But give her credit, she hung on the next
two minutes as their symphony rose to its crescendo.  Tears were rolling
down her face and her cervix felt like it was being pounded to damp sand,
but she wouldn't say "uncle," at all, not even meaning, "keep fucking me,
uncle," lest he hear it as meaning "I surrender."

   Owen groaned, "Here it comes," and injected twice as much cum as he'd
managed with other any other woman in several years.  Even his jaded brain
was paralyzed, it was all he could not to swoon.  She knew it; she could
feel the difference, even through all the pleasure and pain.  She was damn
proud of herself.

   Wordlessly, Uncle Owen nudged her over onto her back and applied his
tongue to her pussy, setting her off on another round of multiple orgasms.
Afterwards, they remembered that they both had to work in the morning and
needed to sleep, and that meant Debbie had better sleep in her own bed. 
Three final kisses and they parted, the three kisses being, in order,
Owen's lips to Debbie's cunt, Owen's lips to Debbie's lips, and Debbie's
lips in a long farewell to her uncle's incredible penis.

   "Good night, Uncle Owen."

   "Good night, Debra." And good-bye; you'll be long gone for tennis before
I get up tomorrow."

   "Yeah, but I'll see you again.  Sooner than you think."

   "I'll be delighted.  You're a damn good girl, Debbie, and in all ways,"
a slight gesture toward the bed, "a credit to your mother.  Please tell her
I said so."

   She smiled through wet eyes, turned and left.

   Wednesday

   When Amy and Owen met for breakfast, the kids were long gone.  Amy had
wanted to check in with Debbie, but when the time came she decided to let
it alone.  Owen was "bright-eyed and bushy-tailed," as the saying goes. 
He'd woken up early, but left his room only after he'd heard Debbie and Joe
leave the house.  By the time Amy came down to the kitchen, he'd made
coffee.

   As she entered the room, she gave him a long, blank look.  He spoke
first.  "Yes, we did.  You want details?"

   Still the blank look.  "You're not the sort to fuck and tell.  At least,
you didn't used to be."

   "Yeah, but this is a unique situation, at least for me.  Should I tell
you because you're her mother?  Or because you were the go-between?" In
fact, over the years Owen had had three women whose daughters he would
service when mom wasn't looking.  But in those affairs, the mother had not
been aware of his services to her daughter.  She probably found out,
eventually, but not until Owen was long gone.  And, oh, yeah, way back when
he was just twenty-one, that weekend of the unending threesome of himself,
a Canadian girl he picked up in a motel bar, and her mother, an experience
even he had been unable to repeat.



   Owen had been driving all day that Friday, from Southern California to
Seattle, but there was a bad ice storm in the Oregon mountains and he'd had
to pull into the first motel he came to.  The motel was full of stranded
travelers like himself.  He'd met them at the registration desk.  Mother
and Daughter were both petite, slender, well-proportioned, and brunette. 
They were both attractive enough, not gorgeous, although the Mom was
handsome in a mannish way, with her brown hair cut short.  While waiting in
the line they chatted the usual chatter, which led to Daughter meeting Owen
in the hotel bar & grill later, and from there to Owen's room.  She was
twenty-four years old, horny as hell, and Owen was a lot cuter than her
fiance back in Winnipeg, eh?  Despite being half Owen's weight, she soon
had him down on one of the beds, necking and nibbling something fierce and
fumbling with any buttons or zippers she could reach, his or hers alike. 
Owen was just going with the flow, letting her have her way, not thinking.

   If he'd been thinking, he would have warned her about his dick, because
he knew that although average-sized girls were delighted that he was so
big, many petite girls were just plain afraid to have such a gargantuan
cylinder stuffed into their cunts.  What had worked the best for him was to
drop hints about his massive endowment, so that when they saw the
instrument in the flesh, if you will, it was smaller than what they'd been
led to expect.  They could deal with that.  (His natural charm neutralized
the risk that a girl would view him as one of those pencil-dicked weasels
who hang around bars boasting (lying) about the length of their hoses.)

   But, like I said, he wasn't on his game, and when petite Daughter tore
his shirt over his head she saw an inch or so of his dick, hard and thick
and a menacing shade of red, protruding out of his pants above his belt. 
After all, it is an unusual sight.

   Owen had the prudence not to mention that the Eighter wasn't yet fully
extended, but the damage was done.  She gasped at the sight and all her
groping and fondling ceased.  "Jeee-susss," she gasped.  "I don't think my
pussy can handle that monster."

   "Oh, come on," he replied.  "Some day a baby's gonna come out of that
same opening, and johnson here is nowhere near the size of a baby."

   In the context, talking about babies was unwise, but it probably
wouldn't have made much difference if he's chosen his words better.  She
was nervously pulling on pants and buttoning her blouse a decent amount;
she seemed to think that anybody with a dick like that must be a sex maniac
and a rapist.  Then she bolted, leaving behind her panties and bra, her
shoes, and her purse.

   Owen shrugged, you win some you lose some, really for him, you win most,
lose a few, and implemented Plan B.  He finished undressing and stepped
into the bathtub.  He'd found that jacking off in the shower was a simple
way to deal with the unpredictable amounts of jism and the force of the
spurts that shot from his balls.  So, he did what he could to ease the
worst of the ache in his cock, cleaned off the walls, then took an ordinary
shower.  Just as he stepped out, there was a knock on the door.  He pulled
on his jeans and answered it.



   It was the Mom.  Would he kindly hand over her daughters purse and other
possessions, eh?  Was it true, eh, that he'd tried to fuck her daughter
with an instrument of torture?  Owen was still young; he was tongue-tied by
this attack.  As she spoke, he pulled the door open wider, wordlessly
inviting her in, because that's what you do when someone comes to the door.
The Mom walked into the room, stopping at the foot of the first bed.

   (These motel rooms are the same everywhere.  Door, short corridor,
bathroom to one side, coat hangers to the other, the room just big enough
for two beds and two or three feet of walkway around them.  Under the
window with its heavy drape was a malfunctioning heater/air conditioner, an
uncomfortable armchair, and a little wooden table and chair.  TV. 
Telephone.  Room service menu.  Cheesy pictures of sailing ships on the
wall.)

   As he stepped from the dim corridor into the light, she caught her
breath.  Owen was tall, and naked from the waist up, revealing his strong
torso and arms.  And from the waist down, she could see a bulge the size of
a softball comfortably resting in his jeans, which had long since stretched
to accommodate him.

   Her train of thought was thoroughly derailed.  She opened her mouth to
continue to scold him, but said nothing, as she stared disbelieving at the
evidence of the penis she'd been told about.  Her cunt was wet and her
clitoris was hard.  She caught her breath.

   These symptoms were familiar.  Owen was immediately back on his game. 
One stride, and he thrust his hands into the Mom's armpits, half-lifting
her, half-leaning down to kiss her before she could speak.  She was primed
and ready, he could tell, and her body was betraying her brain.  After two
seconds of resistance, she kissed him back, as he hiked up the back of her
shirt as far as it would go and worked the clasps of her bra.  She started,
but voiced no objection.  Her mouth was full of Owen's tongue.  He whirled
her around and lifted and pushed her gently onto the second bed, the one
he'd already turned down for her daughter.  (Never fuck on a hotel
bedspread.  It probably hasn't been cleaned from the last six couples to
fuck there.) Owen ran his hands along the Mom's ribcage, under her bra, to
knead her small tits for a moment before pulling his hands away.  He wanted
to get his jeans off before his rod was at its full rodness; otherwise
unbuttoning his jeans would be painful and awkward.

   The Mom had her sweatshirt off, bra wrapped in it.  Owen pushed his
jeans to mid-thigh, then sat on the other bed to pull them off.  As he did
so, the Mom stopped her fumblings and simply stared.  The Daughter had told
the absolute truth.  This boy's member was indeed magnificent, and it was
still rising and thickening.



   He caught her staring and grinned.  The motion caught her attention and
she looked up into his face.  To the Mom, his expression embodied male
qualities she'd always despised: the triumph of a predator, the smug and
self-satisfied look of a man who simply expects as gifts favors that other
men have to beg for, and his confidence that she would do anything he told
her to.  The damnedest this was, she thought, that it was all true.  'I
know what's going to happen, I know I'm going to love it and hate it all at
once, but I also know I can't stop it and don't want it to stop.'

   She broke off eye contact and refocused on his cock, which she preferred
to look at anyway.  She was almost drooling from both mouth and cunt.  Owen
unlaced her boots and pulled them off, then her socks, slowly, one by one.
She undid her own pants, and pushed them to her knees so Owen could pull
them off.  Owen broke the silence.  "What about your panties?" he smirked.
"Madam, please remove your panties."

   Glaring at him, she did as she was told.  Lying there naked, she was
cold, and moved to tuck her feet under the covers and pull the covers up.
"Don't," commanded Owen.  He and his penis were still standing over her,
filling her line of sight.  "You'll be warm enough in a minute." He grabbed
her ankles and abruptly pulled her legs apart, dropping one foot onto the
carpet and the other on the middle of the bed.  He could see the drops of
her wetness glistening in the uncertain hotel light.  He stopped to
appreciate the beauty of the sight, then almost fell with his hands on the
bed by her sides, and his thick cock head poised at her dripping labia.

   "Listen, I've done this a hundred times," he said, partly to reassure
her and partly to humble her, both of which she knew.  She didn't doubt it
was true.  "But never with a woman so small.  We'll take it nice and slow,
to give the muscles of your cunt a chance to expand to take such a monster.
If it hurts, say so."

   His fuck-meat had penetrated about an inch when she said, "Wait.  Stop
here."

   Still wearing that masterful grin, he said, "While we wait, tell me
about your husband's cock.  I can tell you've never had anything like
mine."

   The Mom's mouth opened, and she whispered, "I'd rather not talk about my
husband."

   "I'm sure you wouldn't, but I'm curious about his cock.  It is long? 
Thick?  How many times can he cum in one night?  Is he really the father of
that pretty daughter of yours?" He nudged his own cock forward a little,
bringing her tears of pain.  "I'd really like to know." Another nudge.

   "Y- yes, she's his daughter," the Mom wailed.  "I've never been
unfaithful.  Never.  When he was your age, he could ejaculate all night. 
Like other young boys, it's nothing special." She stopped there.

   Owen let the moment linger.  "If you're worried about being unfaithful,
just say the word.  After all, you're not some slut who'll fuck a total
stranger in a motel, especially not a man her daughter had first dibs on.
If you want, I'll pull out, gently.  I don't get off on hurting people, I
really don't.  I don't want you to think I'm forcing myself on you.  So,
just say the word." He stopped talking and simply waited.

   "No, don't pull out," she whimpered.

   "I'm sorry, I can't quite hear you."

   "Don't pull out!" she snapped.

   Owen mocked her motherness.  "P- p- p-."

   "Damn you!" she said, "Please.  Please don't pull it out."

   "Don't pull what out?"



   "Your, uh, penis."

   "Sorry, ma'am, I don't know that word."

   She saw where this was heading, and decided to get it over with.  "Your
cock.  Your dick.  The huge mass of fuck-meat that hangs right above your
overloaded, arrogant balls.  The cock that's already a couple of inches
deep in my pussy and I wish you'd push it in deeper.  Please don't pull
your massive cock out of my dripping, flooded cunt."

   "You should watch your mouth, ma'am.  With your daughter right down the
hall!" Daughter was three years older than Owen himself, and he knew it. 
"I'm still curious about your husband.  I'll give you another inch to help
refresh your memory." As he did, she gasped, but she had less pain.  Her
vagina was learning to cope.

   "My husband's dick is average, compared to the other boys I had before I
met him.  Longer than most.  Not as thick.  But he's a really good lover
just the same, eh?" The Canadian "eh" meant maybe she was relaxing,
accepting his dominance, letting it happen.

   Owen repeated his wolfish grin.  "If he's such a good lover, maybe I
should help you get up and get home to him.  You're obviously horny for
someone." He slid in another half-inch.  "Okay?"

   She got the hint.  "Compared with other men, he's about average.  But
compared with you, he's puny.  You're probably twice as long, four times as
thick, and twice as hard as he's ever been.  I'm lucky to have met your
powerful penis.  Please give me a little more.  And please, please be
gentle." As she was speaking, her tone of voice moderated, from bitten off
syllables of "I'm saying this because I have to." to forthright,
matter-of-fact honesty.  Owen's patented mixture of domineering thug and
nice teenager was working again.

   But he still didn't move, even as her voice changed, except to raise his
eyebrows in a quizzical expression.  Warming to the nasty fun of it, the
Mom added, "You're plowing new places my husband's pathetic little prick
could have never reached.  You're taking my virginity in places I didn't
even know I had, eh?" She sighed.  "What am I going to do after this? 
Nothing will ever compare.  I'll be so stretched out that my husband will
be trying to fuck me and I won't even know he's in there.  You'd better
give me some really great orgasms, Mr.  Stud Boy, because I may never have
another one as long as I live.  What's your phone number, eh?"

   Now, Owen let himself down to rest on his elbows, and kissed her long
and slowly.  When he came up for air, he laughed, "Okay, okay, don't lay it
on too thick, eh?" He told her a fake phone number.  Much as he loved to
bed desperate married women (the term MILF had not yet been invented), he
hated to be involved with them.  Nothin' but trouble.

   He laughed again, then pressed another segment of cock into her virgin
depths, then another,. . .

   These successive invasions of her birth canal hurt the Mom, sometimes a
lot, but nothing like the pain when his cockhead collided with her cervix.
She caught her breath and went nearly as white as the sheets she was lying
on, her eyes proclaiming her shock and agony.  Owen instantly pulled his
cock back a little, murmuring, "I think I've hit your cervix.  I'm sorry, I
misjudged the distance.  I'm going to pull out a little more, then make
tiny strokes to help you get past the pain.  This works, I know it." She
couldn't reply just then, but a half-minute later, as his version of
therapy took hold, she grabbed his biceps and smiled, indicating that she
was about ready to resume.

   Now came the patient, serious fucking.  Owen pulled his rod back slowly,
about halfway out, then thrust in to exactly the same depth he'd been, not
violently but fast and smooth.  His piston reared back for another cycle,
and another.  Sometimes he envied the average guys because they could just
slam it in up to the hilt, where he had to remember how much this
particular pussy could handle with every stroke.  He'd gotten better at it
with experience, but he didn't dare, for instance, do any fucking if he was
drunk.  He avoided doggie-style and more exotic positions for the same
reason; he didn't want to hurt anybody.

   The Mom flexed her hips like a metronome, timed to his thrusts.  After
their rhythm was well-established, she gave a quick peck to his lips.  "I'm
not on the pill," she said.  "You'll have to pull out before you cum."

   Without breaking stride, Owen replied, "Are you sure that's what you
want?  If you have a son, maybe in a few years he can do this for you
himself.  Now's your big chance." He noticed that his attitude didn't make
her as nervous as he'd expected.  Maybe she really wanted a baby.  Maybe he
was calling her bluff.

   After a few more strokes she spoke, in quick gasps as her orgasm
gathered steam: "I guess I'm -- trapped -- under your -- beautiful -- body
and impaled -- on your -- incredible -- cock.  -- Please -- please -- have
mercy.  -- Please."

   "Tell me more about your husband," Owen laughed, without breaking
stride. "Maybe I'll think about it."

   Her eyes were glazing with endorphins and adoration and girlish glee as
she gasped out (dashes omitted), "My husband is a wimp.  He's an
accountant, for Christ's sake.  He looks like one, except no pocket
protector.  Until now his little prick was good enough for my little cunt,
but from now on I'll be all stretched out and he'll get lost in there.  I
never knew what it was to be fucked by a real man until tonight.  And your
body!  Your cock is worth three of what's-his-name's, my husband's, and you
body is worth two.  He's puny and pathetic through and through. . . .  "
She was cumming, hard.

   Even at twenty-one, Owen had plenty of experience.  He'd timed his
strokes so he had two or three left to go when she hit the first of her
rapid-fire multiple orgasms.  He stopped stroking when she first lit up; he
liked to feel the muscles of a woman's cunt as they wrapped around and
squeeze his dick in their ecstatic convulsions.  He was about to cum.

   He quickly yanked his cock from her pussy and, without moving his body,
lay it on her bush with a northern exposure, toward her tits and face.  Two
quick strokes against the fur of her unshaven bush touched it off, spewing
his jism from her belly to her forehead.  Quite a bit sailed all the way to
the headboard.  "Yagggh-tee-aggh," he groaned.  As he finished, he rolled
off of her, sprawled on the bed, sweating.

   The Mom was still enjoying mutiple orgasms, but as her head realized
that he was cumming on her, not in her, she came down off that trip.  Too
fast!  One reason she'd had such wonderful orgasms is that she really had
thought of herself as at his mercy; that he would cruelly pump his seed
into her womb, not caring about whether she got pregnant.  When she
realized that he'd kindly creamed all over her body instead, she was oddly
disappointed.  But there was no denying the extra power of those orgasms;
she knew that if he'd assured her that he wouldn't risk pregnancy she
wouldn't have cum half as hard.  Nobody with equipment like that should be
a nice guy.  It didn't fit.  It was like eating cottage cheese with
ketchup.

   Besides, if the slick feel of his semen on her face and body wasn't
orgasmic, it was sensuous.  It was drying quickly, but she used her finger
to squeegie some from her cheeks into her mouth, then some more.  It tasted
good.  After she'd sluiced her face, she sat up, picking here and there at
her chest and tits to recover more.  As she did, she looked at him with
those same adoring eyes, now with a glint of silliness, free hand playing
with his chest hair.  "My young stud, my god," she smiled.  "Please don't
be angry with me, eh?  I lied.  I am on the pill."

   Owen's expression didn't change, until he started laughing, loud and
long, and she laughed with him.  He was a good boy.  And fun.  And he was
the best fuck she'd had since months before her wedding, possibly ever.

   Still laughing, Owen gasped, "Ha!  You think the joke's on me, don't
you? Well, now you're just gonna have to coax Mr.  Cock to one more
hard-on, and then take that monster up your lovely hot little cunt again,
so he can deliver his load where it belongs."

   She leaned to kiss him.  "Twist my arm, eh?" she purred.

   A knock at the door.  They both knew who it was.  "I'll get it," they
said together, but as the Mom was closer to the door, she got the honor.

   She checked the peephole.  It was, of course, Daughter knocking,
wondering what had become of her mother.  She found out as her mother
pulled the door open wide, revealing her naked, glazed body to anyone in
the hallway.  The smells erased any doubt about what that stuff was on her
skin.  "Mom!" she shrieked.  "What happened to you?!"

   Mom grabbed her wrist.  "Come in here and calm down and stop acting like
a twit," her mother hissed.  "What in the hell do you think happened, eh?
What does it look like?  What does it smell like, eh?" The younger woman
crept in, past her mother, wary.  She saw Owen, who still lay naked on the
farther bed, watching her enter, curious what she would do.

   As she took it all in she turned to the Mom, right behind her, intending
to say, "Mom, how could you?!" But Mom cut her off.  "You saw him first,
remember?  Then you turned him down.  Finders keepers.  But I'll give you a
turn, if he's willing.  Hurry up, eh?  I want another turn." Over
Daughter's shoulder she saw Owen shrug and nod, eyes still laughing.  "But
you've gotta let your old Mamma watch."

   Daughter leaned toward the door, as if to flee, screaming, from this
bordello, but she took another look at her mother's serenity and at all
that cum still tacky on her tits, and elsewhere, and stopped still.  After
all, she had picked this guy up in a bar.  She would have looked much as
her mother did then, maybe with that same indescribable look of a sexually
sated woman, if she hadn't turned chicken.  She pretended to think it over.


   Her decision was obvious when she wiped her finger in the fold between
her mother's boob and her body, then licked it clean, taking a big taste of
cum like a little girl licking the cookie-dough beaters.  Wordlessly,
Daughter yanked at the buttons of her blouse, tearing two of them off. 
Turning toward Owen, she dropped her shirt and unbuckled her bra, revealing
tits almost identical to her mother's.  Her pants and panties followed, and
she took two slow, dreamlike steps toward Owen.

   Her mother winked at Owen, over Daughter's shoulder, and prodded the
girl.  "Didn't I teach you any manners?  You can't just climb into
somebody's bed.  At least you have to ask for an invitation."

   Although focused on Owen's cock, Daughter caught the tone.  "Will you be
so kind," she said, word by halting word, like Oliver Twist asking for a
second helping.  "Sir, will you be so kind as to serve me the way you
served my mother?" When Owen didn't reply, she added, "Please?  Sir? 
Please?"

   Owen smiled, but with a neutral expression.  "Served?  I don't know what
you mean.  I didn't serve your mother anything." The Mom was delighted; he
was going to put Daughter through the same catechism she'd been through. 
"You have to be explicit," she whispered to her daughter's back.

   "Oh." Daughter cut loose, savagely listing her ravenous desires.  "I
want you to fuck me with that hockey stick you've got there, eh?  I want to
take it in my mouth, in my cunt and up my ass.  I want to clamp it between
my tits so you can cum all over my face and tits.  I've never seen a cock
even half as big and I bet my Mom hasn't, either." She wondered what to say
next.  Her meek "Please?" was intentionally comical, an antidote to the
carnal fire she'd been spewing.

   Owen rose from the bed and stepped toward her, hands on her naked
shoulders and his massive member pressed against her belly.  "I thought you
were afraid of my prick.  It belongs to some guy who's ten feet tall."

   "I was afraid.  I am.  But if my mom can do it, I can do it, eh?"

   "And your mom can watch.  She can even participate if she wants to."

   "What do you mean?"

   "You know what I mean.  Threesome.  Your French Canadians would say,
menage a trois.  And I'm in charge.  Yes or no?" They both glanced at the
Mom, who nodded.  Daughter, unsure what to do, tore herself out of Owen's
hands and went toward her mother, undecided about a hug from Mom or to bolt
from the room.  She got neither.  With firm, steady hands on Daughter's
shoulders, much as Owen had done, the Mom drew her daughter in and kissed
her on the mouth, jaws open, tongue probing.  The girl stiffened, then
surrendered and kissed her mother back.  They all three knew that they all
three had assented.

   As the two naked women continued necking, opening the sheets of the
empty bed, Owen sat back to watch.  Two girls necking, naked or not, never
failed to arouse him.  As he watched, his penis filled itself up with blood
and muscle for the next round, as his body hastily recharged his testicles.



   "No, no details," Amelia said.  "I take it you were both pleased by the
evening's events?"

   "I'd have liked it better if you'd been there with us," Owen winked.

   "I bet you would have," his sister shot back.  "But what about poor
Joey? When's his turn?  He's the one who started all this."

   Owen grinned.  "Both of you would drop your pants and spread your legs,
no questions asked, at Joey's command.  You know it.  Debbie knows it. 
When Joey figures it out, he's got a lifetime of the best piece of ass in
the U.S.A.," Amy was blushing, but she gave a regal nod of acknowledgement,
"and of the girl with the potential to be the second-best, both whenever he
wants.  And that doesn't even count the girls at school, or the dentist, or
the mail-woman, or any other female he runs into.  Don't ask me to weep for
poor Joey."

   Quick scenarios of Young Joe commanding her to drop her pants and spread
her legs flashed through Amy's mind.  Joe gentle: "Mom, I've got this boner
growing.  I've just got to go.  Could you stop the car somewhere soon and,
you know?" Joe harsh: "Drop your pants, woman!  Right here!  Now!  You've
got serious work to do on my cock.  And try not to screw it up like you did
last time!" Joe matter of fact: "You can lie down right there, Mother. 
Please remove all your clothes except the stockings I told you to wear. 
I'll be over to fuck you as soon as I finish this math problem.  While
you're waiting, put some K-Y jelly on your asshole." She liked the
scenarios she saw.  A lot.

   She scowled at Owen.  "You're right, damn you, you're right, right,
right.  The only thing I can do to save my marriage is to castrate the
boy."

   Owen's jaw dropped in mock dismay.  "That would be like smashing up the
Pieta with a hammer!  Or dynamiting the Washington Monument!" The aptness
of his second metaphor got them both to laughing.  "Ames, dear sister-mine,
you've got a problem to solve, and it's going to be heartbreaking no matter
what.  I'm there for you, whenever, wherever.  But I gotta tell you now, I
don't see an answer."

   "Oh, there is one, don't ever doubt it," she said, but her long,
thoughtful face said otherwise.  "Anyway, you have work to do, I have work
to do.  It's been lovely having you here, brother-mine.  I mean it."

   They bantered like the good friends they'd always been through
breakfast, then Amelia saw her brother into the cab and gave him a chaste
kiss good-bye.  Then she texted Joey's cell phone: "Owen will meet you at
Club after Betsy B -- dinner and man-to-man talk.  Don't let him take you
to McDonald's."



   Joe had woken up and gotten dressed, dreading the day.  Not school, but
his session with Betsy B.  To him, she was gorgeous, superhuman, and scary,
like Daryl Hannah in Blade Runner.  And so matter-of-fact about sex! 
"We'll fuck when we've earned it," she'd said.  And with that defining
their relationship, she was going to run him ragged today, no doubt
laughing at him behind her professional face.

   He'd bumped into his sister in the kitchen.  Debbie was dragging herself
through the morning routine, but she looked happy, like he imagined a girl
would look if she'd had her brains fucked out.  He'd heard a few sounds in
the night, too, that could have been the sounds of a girl getting her
brains fucked out.  'Hmmm.' But he couldn't think of a way to broach the
subject, and in any event they both had to hustle to get to their team
workouts.

   He was getting so used to miraculous good things happening that when at
school Wednesday morning was totally ordinary, he was bored.  During lunch,
he thought of an experiment to try on Mrs.  Cohn.  After lunch he went to
the classroom early, just as the previous class was leaving.  Even before
everyone was gone, he walked up to where she stood, hear the chalkboard,
and deliberately invaded her space.  "Mrs.  Cohn?" He and Woody were both
excited, and tense.  What would she do?

   His teacher backed away a step, by reflex.  He delivered his line: "Mrs.
Cohn, I apologize for being late the other day.  I'd spilled pop all over
my clothes and had to change into the only other clothes I had."

   She bit her lip and looked up at him.  She was a tiny woman, he suddenly
noticed.  Everybody knew she was short, but she wasn't much taller than
five feet.  Not that that kept her from being a MILF; lots of Playboy tit
models are 5'3" or so.  I suppose it's because their tits look even bigger
against a small frame.  So did Mrs.  Cohn's.  They went well with her black
hair and her excellent skin.

   "Don't worry about it, Joey," she said.  "But next time, I'll have to
send down to the office for a tardy slip.  And you know the detention
policy."

   The moment of truth.  Joey stepped forward, invading the older woman's
space once again.  His rigid dick was not touching her, but it was only a
couple of inches below her ample breasts, and even though shielded by his
loose cargo pants, it was pointing right between them, aimed at her face.
Joe caught her stealing a glance downward; when Rachel looked up again, she
could see that he'd caught her looking.  They both blushed.  He grinned
what he hoped was a lecherous grin.  "Thanks, Mrs.  Cohn," he said. 
"Although maybe I should do it again.  Then I could come and serve
detention with you some afternoon.  It'd be fun."

   "Oh-- oh, Joey, you don't want detention, especially not with me.  I run
the strictest detention hall in the school."

   "Strict discipline?  I guess you're right, ma'am.  Spending the
afternoon in detention with you wouldn't be much fun at that." He'd
stressed the words "discipline" and "detention," hoping to convey the
message, "not detention, but maybe something else."

   Joey's classmates were arriving; Mrs.  Cohn sent Joey to find a seat. 
Just the same, she got the message.  She was annoyed, mostly, a little bit
amused, and a tiny bit aroused.  Joey was obviously new at this, surprising
for a boy with his equipment.  And he was clumsy and unsubtle, but in a
cute way.  A painful memory broke out of storage at the thought of fucking
Joey.  There was that other kid, the little shit, anything but clumsy and
unsubtle, nineteen years ago. . .  The details were still bright and clear
in her mind.  They distracted her for the rest of the day.  She was
half-dazed all afternoon, and her students could tell.  At long last, the
final bell rang and she could go home to her vibrator.  For the thousandth
time she thought bitterly about her husband's accident.  She made sure to
buy batteries on the way home.



   It had been a Thursday, the end of the last class meeting of the day,
early in the second semester, not long after last semester's grades had
been mailed out.  The complaining would start any time now.  She'd been
married for a little over a year and a half, and she and her husband,
Sandy, were working hard trying to make a baby.  If you don't think fucking
can be hard work, think again.  You and your partner have to fuck like
bunnies, repeatedly, during one week of the month, whether you feel like it
or not, whether you're tired, angry, working overtime, whatever.  Then you
rest for three weeks, crossing your fingers that she won't get her period.
If she does, the whole cycle starts over.

   According to all the tests, Rachel Cohn's most fertile times would be
this weekend.  She looked forward to it, more or less.  At least it would
be on a weekend, so they wouldn't be so exhausted.

   She'd met Sandy when she was a sophomore and he was a lecturer in an
advanced math class.  Her crush on him lasted long after the end of that
term, and finally she asked him out.  Her friends wondered what she saw in
him; he was short and skinny and pale, and he'd obviously be balding in a
couple of years.  And he was a nerdy math grad student.  Nevertheless, she
said, "I do."

   When Sandy had finished his course work and started to work on his Ph.D.
dissertation, he took a job at the small liberal arts college in this town,
a hundred miles from the university where they'd met.  She'd obtained an
emergency teaching credential -- the schools are always desperate for math
teachers -- and was now beginning her fourth semester of teaching math. 
She liked to teach, and although she'd always thought she wanted to go to
graduate school herself, watching her husband struggle with his
dissertation warned her that maybe she didn't.

   As her class pressed to the door, one teenager was working his way in.
She knew him.  His name was Tony Forsythe; he'd been in her class in AP
calculus the semester before.  He'd gotten an A, and he'd deserved it. 
He'd never been lower than third on any of the exams.  What did he want? 
Maybe he'd heard from M.I.T.  She'd been glad to write him a reference
letter.

   Tony was six feet tall and gorgeous.  And ambitious.  He had brown hair
and skin that was neither dark nor fair.  He had muscles on his muscles,
and was the most graceful teenager she ever seen.  Curious, she'd asked
around a little.  He didn't play on any school teams, and he didn't have
much of a reputation regarding girls.  Probably he had a girl friend at
some other school and didn't mingle much.  Too bad, she thought.  He could
inspire two or three orgasms just walking down the hall between classes.

   All Tony had ever said about his off-campus life was that he wanted to
be an engineer, and go to M.I.T.  or Cal Tech or one of the other
top-ranked engineering schools.  She didn't know anything about his
parents, but she knew that his aunt, his father's sister, was Susan
Forsythe, the architect, a designer of bold and striking buildings for
middle-sized institutions, like hospitals and schools, and some homes for
the super-rich.  Tony had once said he spent most afternoons in her shop,
doing some drafting and asking a million questions about stress, load, and
other items of importance to engineers.  He said he liked to work with
electronic stuff, too.  He'd built a computer, and was designing another.
She remembered thinking that he'd definitely be the only heartthrob hanging
around at Radio Shack.  She had no idea where he got all those muscles, but
for a pretty, petite, untenured woman it was wiser not to ask around the
faculty lounge.

   One day, a Thursday, Tony approached her, shyly, asking for math help.
He showed her a complicated system of partial differential equations, far
more difficult than anything he would have been assigned at this school,
and not a subject she understood, either.  But she was pleased and proud
and flattered that he'd continue tackling difficult problems, and would
come to her for help.



   She asked him, "Tony, what class is this for?"

   "Oh, no class, ma'am," he replied.  "My buddy told me about a book that
would help me figure out how to cool the computer I'm building.  I was
looking for it in the library over at the college when I picked up this EE
journal, and I, kinda got distracted."

   'Wonderful!' Rachel thought to herself.  "A boy after my own heart. 
God, he's just what I want my son or daughter to be like." She pondered a
moment.  "Y'know, Tony, my husband is a math professor at that very same
college.  Maybe we could go over there right now and see if he can help
you. At least, he'd know someone who could help."

   "Thanks, but no, ma'am.  In fact, I have leave soon to be on time for my
lesson."

   This was an opportunity ask, 'lesson in what?' but something about him
suggested that he wished she wouldn't.  So she didn't ask.  But she wanted
to help, and it did her ego good to have this hunky kid pleading for help.
She thought, 'I guess this is okay, he's not in my class any more,' and
said, "Well, how about this evening, after dinner?" she pressed.  "Sandy'd
be happy to help you, I know." Ideally, Sandy would get a little jealous,
too, and start hitting the gym.



   "Are you sure it'd be okay?" Tony asked.  "It's hard for me to get to
his campus except at night, or I'd ask to meet him there.  But I don't want
to intrude."

   "Nonsense, Tony.  I don't recall you fishing around for an invitation.
It was all my idea.  Sure, come on over for coffee and maybe cookies, if I
have time, about eight o'clock." As she spoke, a voice told her she
shouldn't.  She assumed it was her conscience, and ignored it.

   "I bet you make great cookies, Mrs.  Cohn."

   "Now, don't overdo it, Tony.  You've got me interested, and that means
I'm excited.  But I'm not much of a housewife.  I'll just stop at the
store."

   "Oh, I can do that, ma'am," said Tony.  "Do you like those fancy
Pepperidge Farm cookies?"

   "Calm down, dear.  It's not like a first date.  You come over to consult
with Sandy, and I'll be in charge of the coffee and cookies."

   'Dear?  First date?  What was she thinking?' she wondered.

   Just as she wrote down her address and phone number he eyed his watch.
He snatched the paper from her hand, and turned to hurry away, saying,
"Sorry, gotta run.  I'll be late!  Thanks!  See you tonight.  Eight
o'clock."

   It was only as she was leaving the grocery store, with the Pepperidge
Farm cookies, that the little nagging thought in her mind leapt out into
clarity.  It hadn't been her conscience, it had been her secretary!  This
was the night Sandy had to take that big donor out to dinner.  The donor
was planning to endow a new science building.  Even though Sandy's
department was math, not lab science, he was on the committee that would
meet with the Mr.  Westbrook and the architect all afternoon, looking at
the building site, plans, decor, and then to dinner.  Not something she
could interrupt on behalf of some high-school student.  He wouldn't be home
before eleven, probably later.

   Later, as she wondered if her absent-mindedness had been somehow
deliberate [c'mon, this is porn, you know where we're headed], she also
wondered why she had failed to get Tony's phone number.  She had no way to
call him and cancel.  'Oh, well,' she thought, 'I guess Tony and I'll have
coffee and cookies.  It'll be nice to have such a good-looking boy in the
apartment, after all these months with flabby, sunken-chested Sandy.' Sad
but true.  She'd loved him a lot, back when he was the lecturer and she was
the student, but as his wife, she was in daily contact with his
inadequacies.

   As eight o'clock approached, she was all fluttery, like some girl in one
of her classes.  It took all her will power to stop her impulse to dash
around, moving the throw pillows here, then there, looking for the right
effect.  It would be hopeless to try to grade homework assignments, so she
turned on the TV.

   The buzzer buzzed at two minutes after eight.  She pressed the answering
buzz, and a minute or so later, Tony was knocking at the door of the condo.
He looked great.  She'd showered and changed clothes in anticipation of
this evening, and she when she saw that he'd showered and changed, too, she
felt one of those ominous spasms that often preceded the soaking of her
panties.  Then she remembered that he'd been to his practice, so of course
he'd changed, and she calmed down again.  All this happened in a couple of
seconds.

   "Hello, Tony!" she exclaimed.  "Please come in." As he entered the
living room and was about to speak, she cut him off.  "Before you say a
word, Tony, I have to tell you that my husband isn't here, so you're
wasting your time," and she gave the short version of how she'd forgotten
Sandy's prior commitment.  "So, if you want to say good-night and try again
sometime next week, I would totally understand."

   She'd known he was charming, but not that he had more aplomb than a
high-school student ought to have.  He grinned and pointed to the cookies
on the coffee table.  "You bought Pepperidge Farm cookies?" he laughed. 
"You're not getting rid of me so you can eat them all yourself, are you?"

   Rachel giggled, gave him a Scarlett O'Hara, "Well, I never!" look and
batted him lightly on his chest.  In a bad southern accent,
"Fiddle-dee-dee. This young scay-amp has figured me in-sahde and out.  What
ever shall ah do?"

   "Well, you could let me in the rest of the way, and maybe offer me a
cookie.  My math problem can wait 'til later tonight, if your husband comes
home.  Heck, it can wait until the cows come home." He countered her bad
Scarlett with a bad Groucho.  "I could dance with you 'til the cows come
home.  But I'd rather dance with the cows 'til you came home." He couldn't
do Groucho's patented leer, but he could tell she got the joke.  And the
message.

   Mrs.  Cohn turned away to hide her blush and retreated to the small
kitchen.  "Decaf okay?  I'm an old woman and can't handle the hard stuff
after lunch time."

   Tony was gallant; too gallant.  "Oh, Mrs.  Cohn, you're not an old
woman. What are you, twenty-five?"

   Rachel, who was thirty-one, hid behind Scarlett again.  "Flattery,
flattery will get you nowhere, Mr.  Butler, but ah'll take the compliment
just the same.  No, young man, I can hahdly remember my twenty-fifth
birthday." [One reason is that she'd been stoned out of her mind.] "But you
just stop guessing, so I won't have to tell you any lies."

   "Wow.  Over twenty-five?" He looked genuinely surprised.  "You look
great!  In your class I used to think sometimes that hiring sexy teachers
isn't fair to the girls at school.  It's very confusing to us
hormone-crazed young boys." That brought her up short, appraising him as a
genuine sex object for the first time.  This boy just took a step beyond
light flirtation to heavy flirtation.  Should she play along?

   Saved by the beep.  "Excuse me," she said, poured coffee and took it to
the coffee table.  They sat on the couch, with a chaste interval between
them, and made the usual boring small talk people make when the real
conversation is passed eye-to-eye.  No, he hadn't heard from M.I.T.  Yes,
he was glad to be in his last semester.  No, she and Sandy had no plans to
buy a house.  Sorry, she had no use for the services of an architect.  A
voice in her head finished the sentence: 'but I do have a definite use for
the services of an architect's apprentice.'

   "It's a sort of coincidence, you being here while Sandy, that is, Mr. 
Cohn, is meeting with an architect himself, tonight.  The old moneybags
donor is going over the plans for the new science building."

   "Oh, yeah, I remember that," Tony grimaced.  "My aunt bid on that
project.  I worked on it some.  Oh, well."

   "All that work for nothing?" Rachel exclaimed.  Tony shrugged, and gave
her a rueful smile.  "Do people ever call your aunt a 'designing woman?'"
she asked, smiling sweetly and leaning back on the couch, thrusting her
boobs out as she adjusted the pillows behind her.

   Tony chuckled at that.  "If they do, they do it only once," he laughed.
"She's pretty tough.  It's been hard for her, breaking into a man's
business.  But she's doing really well.  She'll even be hiring one or two
more drafts-persons and maybe even another architect, soon." He mirrored
her langourous posture, thrusting his groin center stage as he moved. 
After a long moment he made as if to stand up.  "You know, I think my aunt
may be working late and may need help.  Besides, maybe I shouldn't be here
anyway.  I'd hate to ruin your reputation or get beat up or shot by your
husband."

   Rachel gave a silent chortle at the prospect of her husband beating up
anyone, let alone young, virile Tony.  She bent forward to put her coffee
cup down, show off her cleavage, and step in front of Tony all in one
graceful motion.  "Are you sure it isn't your reputation you're worried
about, young man?  Sitting here eating cookies with an old lady?"

   "Oh, I don't have much of a reputation.  Or if I do, I don't know about
it.  Whatever they say, it's all false.  When I'm not at the studio, I'm at
my aunt's shop.  That's it."

   She sat down, perched on the edge of the couch, her knee to his. 
"Studio?  Are you an artist?  I bet you're a sculptor." 'God, I sound
idiotic,' she said to herself.



   "I never tell anyone, but I'll tell you.  I dance.  Ballet."

   "Ballet!  How wonderful!" 'So that's it.' she thought.  "Tony, I've been
wondering where you got all those mus-- er, how you got to be so physically
fit.  Of course!  Ballet!"

   She was overdoing it now, but he rescued her, gushing.  "I've been
dancing since before the first grade.  I've danced in college productions
since I was thirteen and danced and sometimes even acted in plays around
town since I was sixteen.  It takes up a lot of time, but I really like it.
I suppose you think I must be gay, but that's a myth.  I don't know any
gays in ballet.  At least, no one has ever hit on me.  I was in the Seattle
just last week auditioning for the dance company there.  I didn't make it,
but the choreographer told me some things to work on and to come back next
year.  And I'm coming along really well as an actor."

   As Tony spoke, he stood up, putting his hand on Rachel's knee as if to
brace himself, but he deftly caressed her as he pulled his hand away.

   "Here, I'll show you." And he did, dancing around the room with all the
grace of a swan lake.  He wasn't doing ballet, it was simply free-form
self-expression, finding uses for objects he found here and there, doing
moves that showed off his amazing flexibility and strength.

   He danced for only a couple of minutes, and when he stopped, his hostess
broke into applause.  "Bravo!  Bravo!  If I had any roses, Tony, I'd throw
them."

   He smiled, clearly happy that he'd made such an impression.  "I could
show you more, but these jeans are not the best thing for dancing."

   "No," Rachel said, looking him over.  "You can't perform well in tight
jeans, although you do look great in them, and you were wonderful."

   Tony grabbed Rachel by the hands.  "Mrs.  Cohn, do you waltz?" Without
waiting for her answer, he pulled her off the couch by the wrists, and
waltzed her all over the living room and down the hall, everywhere they
could go without actually entering a room, humming bits of Strauss and
other classics.  Rachel did know how to waltz, but even if she didn't, it
wouldn't have mattered.  Tony almost carried her around as her toes barely
touched the carpet.  She was waltzing, but for all it mattered she could
have been doing the Tennessee Two-Step.

   They returned to the living room.  Tony bowed, formally, saying, "Why,
thank you, madame.  The pleasure was all mine." Ever since that night,
she'd believed that from that moment, through the rest of the evening, she
was enchanted, like some fairy-tale character.  She must have been, to say
what she said now.  Drawing drapes across the glass balcony doors, she
fluttered an imaginary fan.  "Why, thank you, kind sir.  I believe there
are some empty lines on my dance card, should you care to . . .  " She let
it linger.

   Then, the point of no return: "Tony, if your jeans constrict your
dancing, maybe you should take them off.  It's just us here."

   "Well, Mrs.  Cohn, I really can't. . .  "

   "Nonsense.  If you're worried about my husband, it's not even nine
o'clock.  We have two or more hours yet." Before he could speak, she
continued, laughing, "Besides, I'm sure you could escape over the balcony
and climb down.  It's only two floors.  And he doesn't have a gun." Her
eyes rolled inwardly at the pun.  'Sad but true.  No gun.'

   Tony laughed, but looked embarrassed.  "Yes, ma'am, but that's not the
reason.  You see, I'm not-- I don't have-- There's nothing under these
jeans, ma'am.  I'd be dancing around naked."

   If she'd been drinking, you'd have said she was tipsy.  Call it
reckless. She replied, recklessly: "Ooh, what a treat for me!  Go right
ahead." He didn't move, so she crossed to where he stood and yanked open
his belt.  "Who does the rest of it?  Me or you?" Tony might have answered,
but he got no chance.  She unbuttoned his jeans, Levi's 501's, button by
button, fully aware of the hard tube of muscle right behind them.  But
before she set him free, so to speak, she knelt in front of him and
silently pulled off his boots.

   That done, still on her knees, she unbuttoned the last button of his
Levi's, with her other hand pulling the jeans down off his butt.



   His cock sprang out right in front of her face, tapping her nose, almost
gratefully.  Objectively speaking, it wasn't huge, maybe an inch above
average, but compared to what she'd been seeing for almost three years, it
was the Seven-Inch Wonder of the World.  She gazed, rapt, for a moment,
then returned to her task.  Rachel wouldn't let Tony sit, but she made him
lift his feet one by one until his jeans lay in a heap on the floor.  She
kicked them into the kitchen, out of the way.

   Then she stood up, calling up her memories of other six-foot tall men
she'd pleasured with her five-foot-two body.  The two bodies were separated
by about an inch, except where Tony's prick pressed into her ribs.  Tony
stood there, apparently speechless, until a thought struck him; he began to
dance.  As he did, he threw off his shirt and socks, so his dancing was
totally unrestricted.  Even without his encore performance, it was a show
Rachel would remember all her life.  The boy was a very talented dancer.

   She was swallowed up by one of her oldest fantasies, that could maybe
come true, here and now.  She was near climax just at the thought.  As Tony
danced, Rachel reached up the skirt of her dress and pulled off her
panties, exposing her cunt to the open air.  She didn't try to hide what
she was doing; Tony saw everything.  On his next circuit, she held up her
arms and intercepted him.  Tony took the cue and began to dance her all
over the room, once again.  They were laughing and dancing and didn't stop
when she beckoned him to lean over so she could whisper her request in her
ear.  Tony was so excited, she thought that all he could do was to grin and
agree.  'Here I am, taking advantage of a boy only a little older than half
my age.'

   Tony let go of Rachel with a gesture commanding her to stay right where
she was.  Slowing down to a graceful ballet, he glided a couple of naked
laps around the room, setting a course to pass right in front of her.

   As he did, he placed his powerful hands on her ribcage, lifting her
straight up like a ballerina.  But she didn't then rotate to horizontal,
like they do in the ballet; she didn't know how, and in any event she
didn't want to.  Instead she waited, floating in his hands, as he teased
her, drawing out the moment.  Then he guided her down, so fast as to feel
like falling, until her cunt was impaled on his shaft.

   Tony, bless him, never broke step, so Rachel enjoyed the
one-chance-in-a-lifetime fulfillment of a sexual fantasy.  She was riding
the cock of a muscular faun, pleasuring herself like never before as he
danced for her.  She was sure he was taking his pleasure too, but
concentrated on her own needs.  She lifted her legs to horizontal, so as
not to interfere with Tony's dancing, and between them they didn't do the
usual pistoning motion of conventional fucking.  Their coupling took the
little twists and turns as they came, almost at random.

   Tony's meaty pole was not bearing her weight, mind, although maybe it
could have done.  He still had her firmly by the ribs, even lifting her up
and down an inch or two as he danced.

   Rachel was the first to blow.  The orgasm welled up from her toes; she
clamped her jaws, tight, to stifle her scream into a high-pitched
"eeeeee..." Then again, and again, continuously rising rapture.  She was
oblivious to everything else, except the whirling room and the unending
shock waves of ecstasy flowing from her cunt.

   Without warning, Tony threw her down onto the couch, never breaking
contact, with his pole firmly planted in fertile soil and his sweaty, naked
body on top.  She was startled, then she didn't care.  There on the couch
Tony pumped his last two or three pumps and gave a hugh sighing groan. 
Several cups of teenage cum flooded into her pussy, and deeper and deeper
inside her, and eventually when those areas were full, out onto the couch.
It was comical, the way they both wanted to scream out their rapture but
didn't dare, for fear of alerting the neighbors.

   By the time they had finished, Rachel's pulse had rocketed to a rate as
fast and hard as Tony's, and she was gushing out her own sweat, too.  Tony
rolled off her and tumbled onto the floor, the first ungraceful thing she
had ever seen him do.  He showed a sheepish smile, then lay back. 
Simultaneously, they both said, "That was wonderful," although not in the
same words, that would have been too weird.

   Then Rachel murmured, "Tony, you dear, dear boy.  That was one of my
oldest fantasies come true, and you performed as if I'd scripted you
myself. I'll never, ever forget any moment of this evening." She leaned
down and gave him a sloppy French kiss.  "But, Mr.  Butler," Scarlett said,
"you have got to get yo'self dressed and out of he-yah before mah husband
comes home with his shotgun.  He has no gun, if you catch mah dree-ift, but
he does have a shotgun."

   Tony complied, but slowly.  He was too prudent to say that she'd just
satisfied one or two of his fantasies, too: fucking a married woman in her
husband's own home, carrying her around perched on his prick until his
knees got so weak from his own orgasm that he had to put her down, and then
hearing that adoring, submissive murmur telling him without words that he
was the best lover she could even imagine.  Yes, Tony had done okay
tonight, and didn't really mind being thrown out.  He dressed quickly,
kissed Mrs.  Cohn at the door, whispering "You're fantastic.  Maybe another
time?" She shut the door without replying.

   It wasn't easy, but as soon as Tony was gone, Rachel pulled herself
together and cleaned up all traces of the evening's festivities.  Twenty
minutes' soak in a hot tub, with a little self-stimulation thrown in, and
she was more than ready to collapse in sleep, enveloped in a cloud of
bliss. Tearfully, though, she knew she had to wait up for her husband.  She
dressed for bed and sat up with a magazine unread, body still wrapped in
bliss, eyes fighting off tears.

   When she heard Sandy's key in the lock, she tossed the magazine aside
and gave one long last sigh, steeling her nerve and her powers of
prevarication.  She was about to piss on a Picasso.  She was absolutely
sure that it had to be done.  As her husband entered the bedroom, and
started to say something about his surprise at seeing her awake, she
purred, "It's time, darling.  I need you.  Now." Sandy, who was a little
tipsy and not very shrewd even when sober, lit up.  It was rare for her to
come on to him.  He wasn't so crass as to say "oh, baby, here's my cannon,"
but enjoyed the chance to role-play out one of his own fantasies, of being
such a stud that women threw themselves at him.

   Next morning, Rachel got up first -- Sandy never had to teach a class
before ten -- and got ready for work.  As she sat at the kitchen table, she
saw the glossy folder the architect had prepared for the presentation
yesterday, full of complicated diagrams and artists' renditions of how
beautiful the building would be with some cars in the parking lot, dogs
playing frisbee, and students coming and going.

   When she put it down, she noticed the logo: "Copyright 1991, Susan
Forsythe and Associates, L.L.P." 'How nice,' she thought, 'while I was
fucking Tony's brains out, Sandy was with Tony's aunt.  We were both
covered.' Although she was a math teacher, and should have been able to put
two and two together more quickly than most, she was out the door and in
her car when the significance of the brochure struck her.  She couldn't
see; she had to pull over to the side.  The tears dammed up in her eyes,
then abruptly poured down her cheeks.  "That shit.  That shit.  Damn that
shitty, shitty, kid," and similar sentiments were all she could say, or
even think.  It took five minutes until she was even coherent.

   By the time she parked her car at school, she'd decided what she had to
do.  Risky, but there was no choice.  Instead of heading for her classroom,
she went directly to the principal's office.  Mrs.  Reynolds, the
principal, had things to do, but when she saw Rachel's face she dropped
everything and ushered her only female math teacher into the inner office.

   Rachel shook off the offer of a chair.  "Martha, I need a favor, and
I'll tell you why.  If you have to fire me for it, go ahead.  I deserve
it."

   Martha was about forty-five, and something of a MILF herself.  Nice
shape, great legs.  "Good heavens, Rachel, what's the matter?  Fire you?  I
doubt it's really that bad.  What's the matter?"

   She told the principal the short, relatively clean version of
yesterday's misadventures.  How Tony Forsythe, F-o-r-s-y-t-h-e, had
discovered that his aunt and her husband would be schmoozing the donor last
night, and how he'd faked a preposterous math problem to cadge an
invitation to her home, where he then seduced her.  She left out the
intimate details.  As she spoke, she could picture him wheeling away before
she could get his phone number, which would have given her a chance to
cancel and scotched the whole thing.  She described how he'd told her about
her aunt's bid on the project, and the clever way he made it sound as if
she'd lost.  She left out the part about how it was the best fuck she'd
ever had, and how if she hadn't profaned it with her husband's clumsy
fucking afterward, she'd probably still be glowing.

   Mrs.  Reynolds heard her out.  "He's not in your class now, and just
between us, you can swear that he earned the A you gave him last term?"

   "Oh, yes, Martha.  Tony's really bright and hardworking." She clenched
her teeth.  "Obviously."

   "OK, Rachel, what do you want?  I don't see how we can do much for you,
without the details all coming out."

   "Please.  Just page him down here after classes start and give me two
minutes alone with him.  One minute.  He won't suspect anything; he'll
assume it's about M.I.T."

   Mrs.  Reynolds frowned.  "Rachel, you'll have to promise me that you
won't do anything to interfere with his college plans.  After all, you
weren't exactly an innocent victim, you know."

   "Of course," Rachel said.  "I just want to look him in the eye and let
him know what I think of him.  It'll take a minute, tops."

   Mrs.  Reynolds reluctantly moved toward the corner of the room where the
P.A.  microphone was installed.  "You're making a mistake, Rachel, but
don't worry about your career.  If there's a penalty, it will be in your
heart." She spoke into the microphone, summoning Mr.  Forsythe to her
office.

   A few minutes later, Tony showed up, in the outer office, puzzled.  "You
sent for me, Mrs.  Reynolds?  What for?"

   "Go into my office and wait, young man.  I'll be with you in a moment."

   Tony walked in, but had just barely crossed the threshold when he saw
Rachel.  "Mrs.  Cohn, what are you doing --" He never got the question out.
With all the force and momentum of her 108 pounds and her towering rage
behind it, her open hand hit the side of his face with a slap!  Off
balance, he tried to duck, and he fell hard against the door frame.  He
acted like he'd hit his crazy bone.  Good.  There was a pattern of four
fingers and a thumb and a palm on Tony's face, and with luck, she thought,
he'd get a bruise in the same pattern.  Tony retreated to the corridor, and
got out of there fast.  For good reason, he didn't want to explain anything
to the principal.

   "That's it?" Mrs.  Reynolds asked.

   "That's it," Rachel responded.  "Sometimes us short people have to
remind people that we can be pushed, or pulled, or even carried, only so
far."

   The principal shut her office door.  "Sit down, dear," she said.  Rachel
didn't want to; she wanted to put it all behind her and get back to work.
"Sit down, Rachel.  I have something to tell you." Rachel sat at the edge
of the armchair's seat, leaning forward, jaw still clenched, tense.

   "Rachel, you're the third woman on our faculty to have had their little
encounter with Mr.  Anthony Forsythe.  One two years ago, one last October.
Probably others I haven't heard about.

   "It's infuriating, I know, but there's really nothing we can do about
it. Think about it.  Did he rape you?  Assault?  If anyone broke a law, it
was you.  And, I gather, until you realized you'd been tricked, you were,
shall we say, well-satisfied by his visit.  Yes?"

   "Yes," Rachel mumbled, looking away.

   "The school's lawyer says that if I even warn the other teachers, it's
borderline slander.  And I certainly can't kick him out of school.  For
what?" Mrs.  Reynolds paused.  "My advice to you, Rachel, is to chalk it up
to experience and don't do anything else.  In fact, you may calm down and
decide that you'd like a second helping.  I strongly advise against that,
too."

   Rachel snorted.  "Fat fuckin' chance.  Martha, do you really think that
I should just take it?  Is that what the other two women did?"

   "I don't know what one of them did.  I heard about it secondhand, no
details.  As for the other one, yes, I just let it go.  I felt stupid, and
used, and betrayed." With a knowing and wistful smile, she sighed.  "But it
was the best fuck I ever had."

   Two hundred and eighty-three days later, Rachel gave birth to a lovely
boy.  If Mrs.  Reynolds made the connection, she never said anything.  Her
husband never had a clue that he wasn't the boy's father.  The boy's father
was long gone, studying architecture at Rensselaer.  He never had a clue
that he had a son.  Rachel had made damn sure of both.

   Now, all these years later, the baby had grown to be as good-looking as
his father.  She hoped he wasn't as devious as well.  About a year and a
half after the baby was born, Rachel had had enough of Sandy's ineptitude;
she divorced him.  Sandy never finished his dissertation.  He followed the
mathematical crowd to Wall Street, where he contributed his share to the
miscalculations that bankrupted Orange County, California.  No one who knew
him was surprised.

   Not long afterward, Rachel married her gynecologist, a six-foot-six
part-Samoan god whose huge cock petite Rachel could suck without leaning
over.  His name was an unpronounceable eleven-letter Samoan word;
everybody, Rachel included, called him Dr.  Fixit, and she opted to keep
the surname "Cohn" for convenience.  She had two more children and several
thousand orgasms by Dr.  Fixit [guess what she called him in bed?], until
he lost his testicles in a freak accident.  That was several years ago; she
loves him madly, and they are still happily married.  They see to Rachel's
sexual needs as well as they can, and most of the time it's enough. 
They're both very creative people.

   But every now and then a girl's cunt demands a real, live, dick, not
merely a plastic tube or an electrical appliance.  Ron had often said he'd
understand if that's what she wanted, but couldn't predict how he'd take
it. Rachel had always assured him there was no need, and had never deceived
him.  She never would.



   Mrs.  Cohn watched as Joey left the classroom.  He just happened to be
getting fresh during one her intense hot pants phases.  She didn't blame
him for thinking she'd be awed when he shoved his pole into her ribs.  The
thing was impressive, for a kid.  But she'd spent years making real love to
a real, capital-J Johnson; seeing another one was enticing, but not
awesome. She guessed that the difference between Joey and Dr.  Fixit was
hardly worth measuring.  As she watched her next class take its quiz, she
had an idea, then a plan, to maneuver Joey into bed and then, after she was
completely sated, to serve Joey his comeuppance for thinking that he was
some deity's gift to women.  And, by proxy, getting some long-overdue,
symbolic revenge on Tony.  What fun!

   Her cunt was overflowing with nostalgia for Dr.  Fixit's huge fuck-pole
and in anticipation of Joey's.  After long thought, she decided to talk her
plan over with her husband.

   * * *

   The rest of Joey's school day was actually dull.  Not even Betsy B got
him aroused; today's role was stern nurse, not German jungfrau.  She even
greeted him with passed for praise: "You're here!  You're not as much of a
wuss as I thought."

   He thought she was joking, and he answered in what he thought was the
same spirit: "Hit me with your best shot, Betsy B.  Fire away." She just
glared at him.  His feelings were hurt, but he couldn't say anything, for
fear of losing his "not a wuss" status.  As he learned weeks later [yes,
she fucked him silly, several months later; we'll get to it by and by], it
was simple: she wanted him to work, not waste time flirting and making
dirty jokes, so she took absolute charge of the atmosphere the moment she
saw him.  Goading him to perform better was just part of the package.

   So, he ran, squatted, lifted, ran, boxed, crunched, lifted, ran, curled,
pulluped, and ran again nonstop for another hour.  At the end Betsy B
grabbed his bicep and squeezed it, thoughtfully, then wrote something down
on her clipboard.  "Saturday morning, 6:30." she stated.

   "OK," Young Joe replied.  '6:30?  Was she crazy?' "Yes ma'am, Betsy B.
6:30 sharp."

   "Do about half your normal swimming routine tomorrow, but don't lift
anything bigger than a dic-," she smirked, "-tionary on Friday.  You'll
need to be fresh and well-rested." She grinned, and turned away so fast her
grin seemed to still be hanging in the air.  Not unfriendly, just no small
talk.



   As his mother's perplexing message had promised, Owen was waiting in the
Club juice bar to meet him.  "Hi, there, nephew.  You got the message?"

   "Hi, Uncle Owen.  Yeah, Mom texted it to me.  How'd your meeting go?"

   "Excellent.  I've got the contract.  Smooth as silk.  Turns out old Sam
Hitchcock, founder and sole proprietor of Hitchcock Imports, is about to
retire.  His daughter does all the negotiating now.  Ellen Hitchcock.  My
age, little younger maybe.  Fine looking woman.  Really fine.  Tough
negotiator, sort of.  I met her daughter, too.  They say they know you, by
the way.  Your whole family."



   Owen was a few minutes early to his appointment at Hitchcock Imports. 
Some people thought being a little late gave them the upper hand; Owen saw
no point in being rude.  He stood in the small reception area, knowing from
the receptionist's expression that she was admiring his package.  She
didn't drop to the floor with her legs open, though.  Most women didn't. 
His endowment improved his odds over the guys with less of one; he never
left a party alone unless he wanted to.  But on a typical work day in a
typical work environment, he'd get admiring looks but that was all.  He was
pretty sure that girls with big boobs could say the same.

   Mr.  Sam Hitchcock came out to meet him.  Mr.  Hitchcock was old, Owen
never learned how old, and prematurely frail.  He walked like someone too
proud to use a cane, far less a walking frame.  On the slow walk back to
the main office, the old man explained that he was officially retired, and
came to work only to help coach his daughter, Ellen, who was now in charge.
It couldn't have been clearer that Sam thought his daughter was a damn good
businesswoman.

   As they entered the main office, Ellen Hitchcock stood up to greet him.
The woman was drop-dead gorgeous.  A MILF -- he did not know yet how apt
that title actually was -- about Owen's age, probably a little younger. 
Blonde hair pulled back into a stark pony tail, charcoal suit that showed
off her tits and legs better than if she'd been standing there naked. 
Something about the way she filled the suit made a man sure that everything
it concealed was magnificent.

   Her voice was not her best feature, but pleasant enough.  Oh, and on her
left ring finger were two rings, one a simple circle of plain gold and the
other supporting a large diamond.  Married, to a rich guy.  If she was a
trophy wife, at least the guy had won first place.

   "Mr.  Gwynt," she said.  "Did I get that right?  Is that Welsh?"

   "Yes to both," Owen replied.  "My father was Welsh, my mother English.
They emigrated to America right after they were married." Owen's fair
complexion had been his mother's gift, just as his sister's dark complexion
had been her father's.  "But please, call me Owen.  After all, I was born
here, right in this city, and now I'm a Californian.  Totally laid back
American, that's me."

   "Excellent!  You're a dangerous man, Owen.  Too charming.  Please call
me Ellen, as well." They spent the morning looking over the Hitchcock
inventory, Owen making notes and thinking about which of his lines of goods
would best complement theirs.

   They returned to the office.  The old man was gone; Ellen gave a
dazzling smile, saying, "My dad's a dear old man.  He comes in most
mornings to help, he says, but mostly because getting up and coming here
was what he did all his life.  He thinks I need help, but I really don't.
But I won't have him much longer; I enjoy his company while I still can."

   Owen said appropriate things, then when the time was right he got down
to business.  He pulled out his samples and photographs of his wares,
pitching some, simply stating that the others were available, explaining
why he'd emphasized the ones he had, inviting Ellen to look over everything
he'd brought.  She asked sharp, hard questions about price, delivery,
guarantees, and so on.  They were each impressed with the other.

   As 11:30 passed, Ellen suggested lunch.  "I think we're about finished
here, anyway, Mr.  Gwynt," she smiled.  "You could save yourself a trip
back here if you pack up your briefcase and take it along."

   "Oh, I was thinking about taking up your whole afternoon, as well," Owen
replied.

   "You might do just that," she purred.  "But right now, let's have
lunch."

   She took him to the usual opulent, overpriced, rigorously themed
business lunch place, which by being opulent and rigorously themed looked
like a thousand other places, even though each of them had its own unique
theme.  At lunch Ellen deployed her megawatt charm and sexuality as she
sharply tried to shave the tentative terms they'd agreed to, always in
Hitchcock's favor, of course.  She was a gorgeous woman, and totally
willing to let that asset earn a return in the form of concessions she
could wring from bewitched salesmen.

   They say it takes one to know one, and by the time the busboy collected
their plates she'd discovered that Owen was not only nearly immune to her
strategy, but that he was trying to do the same to her.  When they sat down
he'd held her chair, then paused before sitting himself, standing so as to
lead her eyes down to the commodious bulge in his pants.  Later, excusing
himself to use the washroom, he did it again.  Ellen was on to him, of
course.  She'd noticed his package many times as they toured the Hitchcock
premises, and first noticed his aggressive use of said package when they
were negotiating in her office.  She decided to cut to the chase.

   "Mr.  Gwynt, I think we are wasting our time.  I'm trying to hypnotize
you with my cleavage, and you're trying to do the same to me with your uh,
apparatus.  It's a draw, my friend.  Perhaps we should sign the contract
without any further games, and then I will take you to another place for
dessert."

   Owen tried to act embarrassed, but he couldn't do it.  "OK, Mrs. 
Hitchcock, you've got me, although in my defense let me say that I didn't
think my trusty negotiating partner would impress you much, but I had to
try just the same."

   Laughing companionably, they stood to go; Owen had grabbed the check,
saying "You can pay for dessert," but knowing full well what sort of
dessert she had in mind.  She assented, and drove them across town to what
had been corn fields when Owen lived here, but were decent middle-class
condos now; E-Z access to freeway, plenty of parking.  As she parked and
they climbed out of her BMW, Owen remarked, "Wow, this is all condos; I
don't even see a Dairy Queen."

   Ellen let her smoldering lust show a little, and gave Owen a look that
said, "Stop playing innocent with me, buster.  You know what I meant. 
You've known all along." With a toss of her head, she led the way among the
buildings, into one and up some stairs to a second-floor condo.  After
unlocking the door, she turned to Owen, still in the hall, and kissed him.
"Won't you come in, Mr.  Gwynt?"

   Owen refrained from smirking and followed her in to the small apartment.
It was tastefully furnished, but empty-looking, as if nobody actually lived
here.  "Nice place," he said.  "You live here alone?"

   He was talking to the empty air; she had disappeared, silently along the
soft carpet.  Owen took that as implying, "wait here," so he wandered into
the living room, contemplating the cars on the freeway through the patio
doors.

   Ellen stopped at the boundary of the living room and startled him. 
"Would you like a drink, Owen?"

   Owen turned, knowing sort of what to expect, but not completely.  He'd
expected sexy and seductive.  This woman looked sexy and seductive in a
business suit.  But he was as near flabbergasted as he ever got at the
female vision in front of him.  She'd changed into a baby-doll style
lingerie, color bordello red, that reached just a half inch below her
labia. Which were on display because she wore no panties.  Or bra, for that
matter.

   "You're not as surprised as I expected, Mr.  Gwynt.  Am I so
transparent?"

   "I confess.  I'm not surprised that you're standing in the living room
with bedroom eyes.  After all, me and my cock have had our own adventures.
I'm not even surprised to see you in that baby doll.  But I am absolutely,
and pleasantly, surprised at the total vision of lovely sexy woman that I
see before me.  I knew you were a gorgeous woman, Ellen, and I was pretty
sure your lovely tits were real.  But the total picture is one that will
live in my dreams," he smirked now, conveying the kind of dreams he meant,
"forever.  You are one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen."

   "Flattery, Mr.-- Owen, flattery will get you nowhere with me.  Because I
already intend to take you everywhere; flattery can add nothing.  But
still, it's pleasant to hear." She paused, eyes drifting over every part of
his body.  "Come with me to the boudoir." In the bedroom, she continued,
"Much as I'd love to return your compliments, sir, I can't see through your
clothes, particularly your pants.  Would you care to undress?  Would you
like a hanger for your suit?"

   Owen had way too much experience simply to throw off his clothes or yank
down his zipper to show her his stuff.  He walk across the room, saying,
"I'm not finished flattering you, yet." Hands upon her upper arms, he
pulled her in to kiss for a long moment, then let his right hand, turned
upside down, nails on her skin, creep down from just under her generous
breasts to rest in the trimmed hairs of her bush.  He didn't invade her
pussy, not yet, at this point, he kneaded her mons with his knuckles, and
that was all.  He leaned a little, to kiss her collarbone and then the top
of each breast, through the sheer cloth.  "Very nice," he breathed.  "Very,
very nice." He knelt and gave a small but lingering kiss to her bush,
inhaling the womanly smell of her cool arousal.  This woman had been around
the block once or twice.  His tongue flicked out to tease the leading edge
of her labia, very near to her clitoris.  Ellen gasped a little, but still
wasn't responding like Owen was used to.

   Ellen grabbed his shoulder and pulled him upward.  "If you won't do it,
I guess I'll have to," she muttered.  She knew her way around good suits,
too; her deft fingers found the buttons and hooks and then took their time
about pulling his zipper down.  It didn't matter, of course; the head of
his erection was poking out of his pants and into his navel.  His pants
were held up by suspenders, so there was no unseemly pile of worsted wool
at his feet.  She reached through the opening in his boxers to wrap her
hand around his erect member.  The first time didn't work; she'd failed to
account for the girth of his cock and hadn't worked her fingers to good
effect.  The second time, she squeezed, hard, and pumped his dick a few
strokes.  She wanted to know if he was so excited he'd explode too early.
'No need to worry about that,' she thought.

   Owen found himself being pushed back to where he was sitting on an
armchair, Ellen kneeling in front of him, unbuttoning the lower buttons of
his shirt.  She reached up and gave an expert pull on the knot of his tie,
undoing the knot; she then pulled the tie through his shirt collar and off.

   "Mr.  Gwynt, I'm afraid I misled you," Ellen murmured.  "When I invited
you for dessert, I meant dessert for me.  I don't have anything to offer
you."

   Owen matched her tone.  "Oh, I think you do," he said, as her lips
closed over his cock head.

   She stroked him once or twice, while laving his upper shaft with her
saliva.  Then Owen got his biggest surprise of the day.  Maneuvering her
body and especially her head into position, her mouth plummeted down the
shaft.  His cock head collided with the back of her mouth or her throat, he
couldn't tell which, and her lips reached more than halfway down the shaft.
Here he was, over forty years old, with a woman about forty years old who
could take more of his shaft than any woman ever had before.  It felt as if
she'd taken an inch more than his sister ever had.  He moaned, "wow. 
wooowww."

   Sucking for real, now, she pumped his dick with one hand and sucked
hard. When she could sense the pressure of his cum rising, she pumped and
sucked even harder, accelerating the rate of the white goo rushing into her
mouth.  Despite Owen's age and the way his niece had depleted his cum the
night before, she hit a gusher.  Cum poured from his big balls.  He was no
teenager, of course, but she got more than she'd expected.  Tasty, too!

   The giant prick finished cumming, so right away Ellen stopped sucking,
looked up at its owner and said, "That was my dessert.  How 'bout you?"

   Owen liked to eat pussy, but it depended on the pussy.  He felt like he
was being played, somehow.  Still, he wanted that Hitchcock contract. 
"Damn straight," was his answer.  She led him to the bedroom, shedding her
gray pinstripes on the way, and lounged on the satin sheets, legs splayed
apart to reveal her cunt.  Owen enjoyed his dessert, although he'd had
better.  He skillfully sent the serving-dish, Ellen's cunt, into tremors of
excitement, followed by fireworks.  Owen knew his stuff.  But by the time
Ellen had returned to earth, Owen was ready to take the initiative.  He
didn't want to be a doormat in their commercial relations.

   "Turn over," he barked.

   Ellen arched an eyebrow, as if to say, "Who the hell do you think you
are?" but she complied.

   He bounded into position behind her and, grasping her hips in both
hands, pulled her up to dog-style position.  Just as he thought, her anus
was pinker than most, and the opening was wider than most.  This woman took
it up the ass, frequently.  He judged he could penetrate clear to her
throat, without lubricant.  With no further ado, no warning to his hostess,
that's what he did.  His dick, not superhumanly large but uncommon even in
Ellen's wide experience, found its way deep into her digestive tract, and
he hadn't had to push very hard at all.

   Ellen yelped at this invasion of her asshole, but acquiesced.  Truth to
tell, if anything she'd fucked twice as many pricks than Owen had cunts,
although neither of them knew it.  Her pussy was so jaded that taking it up
the ass, even as frequently as she did, was the best way to send her into
her little corner of the stratosphere.  On the other hand, he hadn't asked
and hadn't had the courtesy to ask for a little K-Y jelly.  Also, fucking
the client wasn't necessarily bad for business, but letting the client take
control of the fucking was.  Who had the power here, anyway?

   As she thought these thoughts, her body betrayed her.  Her, Ellen, who'd
turned down more sex partners than this man has ever fucked, she thought.
How could she want this guy so badly that she'd let him lead?  Terrible for
business, as well as terrible for sex.

   Timing herself to Owen's lunges, as he was backstroking for his next
thrust, she slid forward.  His massive cock popped out of her anus with a
protesting 'pop?' She whirled around to lay on her back, glaring up at him.

   "Here in the Midwest it's customary to ask a lady before shoving hard
objects up her asshole, Owen," she hissed.  "I don't care how you do it in
California.  And no K-Y jelly!  Even Brando used butter on that poor French
girl.  You're a creep."

   Owen didn't take the bait.  "If you really meant any of that crap you'd
have complained before I got to the second stroke," he leered.  "You were
liking it just fine, 'til you remembered I was in the driver's seat.  Well,
like it or not, if this car is going to go another inch, it'll be me in the
driver's seat.  And I want to fuck your ass or nothing, and you're gonna
have to rely on my gentlemanly instincts, and the madder I get the less I
care about whether it's good for you.  So, roll over, you lazy cunt, roll
over!  Now."

   Ellen blustered.  "Oh, so now you're gonna rape me."

   "Just shut up and roll over, bitch.  No rape.  Here's my threat.  If you
don't obey my orders, I'll put my pants on and leave.  Think it over."

   She saw no way out; the fact was that her ass was on fire and it had
been complaining ever since being deprived of Owen's rigid magnificence. 
It was Owen now, or her barely adequate husband, who didn't like anal sex
anyway, tonight.  Ellen swallowed her pride and rolled over.

   Owen wasn't angry, exactly, but he was impatient.  He hauled her hips up
into position again.  "You want some K-Y jelly, cunt?  You stay right where
you are and I'll go find it.  You move, and I'm outta here."

   "Oh, goddamn it Owen, forget the K-Y jelly!  Just give it to me!  Bury
that hot fuck-pole so deep in my ass it comes out through my throat! 
Please!  I'll give you whatever you want!  Better prices on the contract?
Cash? . . .  "

   Owen cut her off with a slap on her jaw, startling, not painful,
signalling, "Shut up." He said, "Listen.  I don't want your money.  I don't
even care that much about fucking your ass.  So far, at least, it's not
much different from the other three hundred asses I've fucked.  Listen. 
What I'm gonna do is fuck you so hard and so painfully and so orgasmically
that you know I'm in charge.  Next time I see you, you won't presume to
drive me to your little fuck-pad here; you'll beg me to throw you a fuck,
and you'll beg for commands, and if I say in the middle of the street
you'll drop trou in the middle of the street.  Other men you lure in here,
make wimps of them, all you want.  But right now you have a capital-M man."

   Ellen was so turned on by this speech that she was trembling even
without the benefit of Owen's organ.  Her, Ellen, the submissive one! 
Who'd have guessed?  The forbidden words came out: "Please Mr.  Owen,
please put that iron bar back into my asshole and push it in as far as you
can.  I'll throw myself backwards, hard, to meet your strokes.  Or not. 
Whatever you say.  But please, please get started before my hot ass gets
hotter and melts.  I need it!"

   He said nothing, but did stuff his dick up her ass again, this time
swinging his hips back and taking a good running start from several inches
away.  The impact threw Ellen's whole body forward and crash her head into
the headboard so hard she saw stars; she'd have a lump in the morning. 
Owen continued to pound her ass, pulling her toward him by her hips as he
forced his huge prick deeper and deeper into her intestines.

   She was terrified and sick when she could feel the orgasm building, big,
broad, all-encompassing -- it felt like it would be better than any she'd
ever had.  This was the fruit of her submission.  Could it be?  Even as her
panting and strangled sounds of pleasure took over her ability to voice her
thoughts, and the pleasure-chemicals in her brain took over her thinking,
she fought the sensations of the mounting orgasm, because she had no idea
how to cope if she weren't in total control.

   Then Owen injected his hot cum into her asshole, and a few seconds later
her earth-shattering orgasm wiped her mind clean of all thoughts.  Her
moans were rising in pitch; some of the neighbors thought they heard
screaming.  Nobody called the cops.  With a weak sigh of surpassing bliss,
she passed out.



   Owen was stepping out of the shower when he heard the key scrape the
lock.  'Who could that be?' he wondered.  Surely Ellen didn't have a steady
boyfriend.  She wasn't the type.  He advanced to the kitchen and stood in
the gloom, watching the door.  He was so curious, and so tense, that he
forgot he was naked as he watched the doorknob turn.

   The door opened to reveal a girl, twenty maybe, give or take a year,
dressed in a sixth-grader's plaid Catholic-school uniform with her hair in
ponytails.  Despite her fine, firm boobs pressing against her blouse, she
was trying to look like she was about twelve years old.  Why?  Then he
noticed the man behind her; nondescript guy in a suit, 55 years old,
potbellied, balding, watching every move her body made under that school
uniform.  He reminded Owen of his old school vice-principal.  In a flash,
he understood; Ellen and this girl, and maybe others, used this apartment
for turning tricks, including this perv.  They were in for two rude
surprises; naked Owen in the kitchen and naked Ellen on the bed.  He stood
still, and continued to watch.

   "Well, come on, Mr.  Smith!" the girl squealed.  "I'm ever so glad you
could come to visit!  Please don't tell my Mommy what a bad girl I've been.
I'd get in so much trouble!  I'd do anything to stay out of trouble, Mr. 
Smith!  Anything at all!: She squatted at his feed.  "Here, let me take off
your shoes, right here at the door.  Does that feel better, Mr.  Smith?"
She grabbed his hand.  "Come with me to the sofa so I can rub your feet."
This time, instead of squatting or kneeling at his feet facing him, she
straddled his legs and bent over, showing off her butt as she ministered to
Mr.  Smith's bony feet.  Owen suspected that she wasn't wearing panties.

   Mr.  Smith, or whatever his name really was, leaned forward to kiss her
ass, maybe to run his tongue over her asshole or cunt; Owen couldn't see.
The girl squealed again, "Oh, Mr.  Smith!  That was so naughty!  You
shouldn't do things like that to such an innocent young girl like me, Mr.
Smith.  Oh, but if I tell my mom on you, I'll be in sooo much trouble!  And
if you tell my mom on me, I'll be in just as much trouble!  Well, Mr. 
Smith, I guess I'll just have to take it.  You may have your way with me.
Whatever nasty things you want me to do, I guess I have to do them!  You
have all the power here.  But please be gentle, Mr.  Smith.  Please be
gentle."

   The girl's chatter, and her cunt in his nose, were finally getting a
rise out of Mr.  Smith.  She gave off rubbing his feet and turned around to
face him, squatting now, so her butt and labia caressed his sock-clad toes.
"Mr.  Smith!  You really shouldn't put your toes up my-- my-- pussy, Mr. 
Smith!  Oh, did I say the p-word?  That is sooo naughty!  I think maybe I
need a good spanking, Mr.  Smith.  Maybe ten good strokes with your right
hand and ten with your left?  Would that be enough punishment, Mr.  Smith?
I'm sure it would hurt.  I'd probably start to cry!  But if that's what I
deserve, you'd better do it, sir.  Should I assume the position?

   All this time, the girl was caressing Smith's legs, working her way up,
slowly, to his crotch.  The slowness was so excruciating to both Smith and
to Owen that Owen was relieved when the man pre-empted her slow assault and
pulled his fly open himself.  His cock, sprung out at attention, hard and
straight, and Smith wordlessly pulled the girl's face toward it.  From what
Owen could see over her shoulder, the cock was about average.  At least
this guy was no limp-dick Tom Thumb.

   "Oh, Mr.  Smith!  What do you want me to do?  Should I kiss your--
thing, sir?  It's sooo big and thick, Mr.  Smith." She kissed the shaft. 
Smith mumbled something.  "Ooohh, Mr.  Smith, I don't think I could take it
all in my mouth.  Noooo.  It's way too big!  I'm just a little schoolgirl,
remember?  I don't know about things like cocksucking.  Ooops!  Not again
with the nasty words!  I don't even know what this one means.  Cocksucking?
I can't believe that anyone could suck on a thick, meaty pole like that
one, but I'll try, Mr.  Smith, just for you.  Now, please don't thrust in
my mouth.  I'm too small and you're too big for that!  You just relax, Mr.
Smith, and let little Jessica take care of everything."

   Owen remained in the kitchen, enveloped in the dark.  Jessica, whoever
she was, blowing this dork did not arouse Owen, or Jessica, either, from
what he could see.  Owen was merely hoping she'd get rid of the dork soon.
He got his wish about on schedule, after Jessica took about half his cock
and gave him just a few short strokes with her hand.  Judging by the look
on Mr.  Dweeb-Smith's face, that was all she wrote.  But what a crummy
cocksucker!  Especially for an upscale whore!  She could at least give him
some good value for his money.

   Jessica resumed her simpering one-sided conversation: "Oh, Mr.  Smith,
that was fabulous!  And you taste so good!  Mmmmmmm.  Let me try to suck
some more of that stuff out of there.  Mmmmm! . . .Awww, that's all, Mr. 
Smith.  You're such a tease.  You're holding back the good stuff for
someone else, aren't you?  Someone even younger and more innocent than I
am? I think you should give me another try, Mr.  Smith?  I think if I lick
on you here for a little while, your-- thing will grow even bigger than
last time!  And I bet we'd get a lot more cu-- milk out of there!  Of
course, Mr.  Smith, I'd need a hundred and fifty dollars more.  I'd love to
do you for free, Mr.  Smith, sir, but I have rent to pay and, well, you
know -- expenses!  But y'know, seeing as it's you, sir, and I love you so
much, I could do it for, oh, I don't know, a hundred even.  My landlord
will kill me!  And I can't even pay him this way," she wiggled his slowly
recovering cock, "because I've gotta be faithful to you."

   Now that he'd cum, even Mr.  Smith soon had enough of this drivel. 
Mumbling something that sounded like "No thanks, and a confirmation of
'same time, next week?' he pulled his pants up, zipped them, and shambled
out the door.  If anything, he looked more downcast than when he'd come in.

   The girl showed him out, and as soon as he was clear of the jamb, she
shut the door and threw the bolt, click-click.  As she pulled at the ties
of her ponytail, she cursed to herself, "Cheap bastard.  Not even a fucking
tip!  And I go through that whole dopey sixth-grader routine for him!. . .
"

   Owen thought he'd better make his presence known.  "Yeah, but if he
comes every week, it's steady money, right, sweetheart?"

   The girl almost jumped out of her bobby socks.  She didn't scream,
though; as she turned and saw him her right hand flashed to her skirt and
came out with a switchblade, open, held underhand the way the savvy kids
do. Owen raised his hands and still didn't move; he'd been standing in one
spot for over fifteen minutes.

   "Who are you and what are you doing here?" Jessica snapped.  Her body
wasn't cringing; it was poised to attack.

   Owen kept his hands in the air.  "Calm down, please.  My name is Owen,
and as for what am I doing here, until a little while ago I was pleasantly
fucking a woman named Ellen.  She has a key, so I assume you know her. 
She's asleep, I think, on the bed in there." He pointed toward the bedroom
with a small tilt of his head.  "She invited me.  You can check if you
want. I won't go anywhere.  And you can see I'm not carrying any concealed
weapons."

   Jessica's eyes flicked up and down, noting his oversized dick without
comment.  "Do you know someone named Ellen who might use this apartment?"
Owen continued.

   "Yeeessss." Jessica hissed.  "She's my mo-- roommate."

   "May I put my hands down?  This is tiring." She gestured her permission.
"Thanks.  Now, should I go wake up Ellen or do you want to do it?"

   "We both will.  You first." Owen, taking care not to make any false
moves, whatever that means, slowly led the way to the bedroom.

   Ellen was there, thank heaven, and gradually waking up on her own.  As
her eyes cleared, she saw Owen, naked, and Jessica holding the knife on
him. "It's okay, Sam, he's with me," she said, once she comprehended what
was going on.  "You can put your knife away.  He's a selfish bastard, but
hey, what's new about that?  He's with me."

   "He stood there and watched my whole session with Mr.  Smith,"
Jessica-Sam complained.  "He never made a sound."

   Ellen looked at Owen, then back at Jessica-Sam.  "Samantha, I met Mr. 
Gwynt only this morning and he's already surprised me seven or eight times.
You're just getting started."

   Owen, looking back and forth at the two women, ventured a question. 
"Can I assume that Jessica is not your name?  That the name your mother
calls you, Samantha, is the right one?" They looked at each other, then at
him, suspicion all over their faces.  Samantha's hand stayed close to her
knife.  "Oh, come on." Owen said.  "I can't be the first to notice how much
you two look alike.  I bet you make pretty good money for a mother-daughter
threesome, am I right?  A hot blonde sandwich?"

   Samantha looked like she still wanted to knife him, just to teach him
some manners, but Ellen jumped in.  "You're too smart for your own good,
Owen.  You're lucky you're going back to California this evening. 
Otherwise we'd have to kill you to keep our secret."

   "Well, it's been real," Owen winked.  He picked his watch up from the
night table.  "Four o'clock!  I've got another date, with a boy this time,
though.  My nephew.  Would one of you ladies like to drive me to The Health
Club, or else recommend a cab company?"

   "Your nephew is a member of The Health Club?"

   "Yes, why, do you know him?"

   "What's his name?

   "Joe Dunlap.  Young Joe, they call my nephew.  Old Joe is Joseph,
Senior, Joey's father.  My sister and niece are also members; Amy and
Debbie.  Do you know them?"

   Ellen smiled.  "Why, yes, I know them all, slightly.  Samantha, you
remember the other day I told you about Joe and Joey, how Young Joe was
hung like a horse?" She looked at Owen.  "Or, even better, hung like his
uncle here?"

   "Oh, yeah, I remember," Samantha exclaimed.  "And his dad is a
micro-dick." She took a closer look at Owen, lingering over his naked
crotch.  "Are you sure you have to go so soon?" she asked.  She may as well
have been licking her lips.  "I'm sure I could get you uh, ready again."

   "Thanks for the offer, but no, I've really gotta go.  Besides, you were
so convincing as a school girl I don't think I could get it up for you at
all.  I'd feel like a child molester!  I'm a horny bastard, but I'm no
pervo.  Maybe after a couple of days and I see you in lingerie like your
mom was wearing.  Probably not, though.  I bet you shave your pussy."
Samantha nodded, laughing through her nose.  "You let some hair grow on
that jailbait pussy, and any time you come to Long Beach, I'll clear my
calendar to, you know, show you around." He looked over as Ellen stood up
and pulled some sheets out of a drawer.  "Your mom has my address."

   Samantha gave him a friendly grimace of mock disappointment.  "You'd
better be careful, Mr. . . .  "

   "Gwynt.  It's Welsh for Hung-Like-a-Horse."

   ". . .  Mr.  Hung-Like-a-Horse.  I just might show up." Then to her
mother: "Mom, you'd better get dressed and take him.  I'll do the sheets. I
have to get ready anyway, for my five-o'clock.  It takes a while to get
into the outfit."

   Owen was amused.  "What's the outfit this time?"

   Samantha looked as stern and sadistic as she could, then laughed.  "It
involves a lot of black leather."



   "She knows us?" Joe echoed.  "I know only one Ellen your age, but her
last name is Mansfield, not Hitchcock.  At least I think so. . .  What's
the daughter's name?"

   "Ah-- Samantha, she said," his uncle replied.  "You know them?"

   "They're both really hot, blonde, nice ti-- er, nice --"

   Owen interrupted, "Nice tits.  Yes, yes, yes.  That's them."

   "If it's who I think they are, they're the wife and stepdaughter of
Brian Mansfield.  He's the managing partner of my dad's law firm."

   "Oh?"

   "Yeah.  They're scorching hot and he's a rich old lecher.  Most people
think they're a matched set.  Trophy wife and trophy stepdaughter."



   Owen laughed at that, wondering if the old lecherous lawyer knew his
trophies spent their idle hours as expensive prostitutes.

   After an awkward minute, Joey said, "Mom said you wanted to have a
man-to-man talk.  About what?"

   "Let's go find some hamburgers or something, and all that is mysterious
shall be revealed."

   Joey hated it when people talked in that fakey carnival barker way. 
"Mom also told me not to let you take me to McDonald's.  How about Chinese?
Or Thai?  There's a great multi-Asian place not far from here."

   "Sounds good to me."

   As they drove, Owen was wondering why Joey seemed so hostile and how to
get him talking.  Joey was burning to know what happened last night.  The
very fact of this meeting confirmed his hunch about the sounds he'd heard
in the night.  But he didn't know how to ask his uncle, "Hey, did you fuck
my sister last night?  Or was it my mother?"

   By the time they'd been seated by the waitress, they both had the same
plan: short, blunt and to the point.  Owen was a split second quicker on
the draw.  "Nephew, your mom tells me that you and I have the same genetic
affliction.  I thought we'd better talk about it."
Joey shook his head.  Genetic affliction?  What was he talking about? 
The answer hit him in a flash, but it was so farfetched that he didn't know

what to say.  "Go on," he said warily.

   Owen leaned forward.  "Your mom says your johnson hangs halfway to your
knees, that is, when he's not ready for action.  She says he looks a lot
like mine.  Oh, and I was impressed by the way you just whipped it out to
show her.  My kind of man."

   Too much information!  Joey said nothing, trying to stop his mind from
whirling and process this.  'Mom knew her brother has a big dick.  She told
him about mine.  How did she know about his?  Why were they talking about
this in the first place?  Where does Debbie fit in?  Where does Uncle Owen
fit in?' At least he could answer the last one.  He knew just where his
uncle fit in.

   Just then, the waitress came for their orders.  Luckily, they'd
discussed it, so Uncle Owen handled all the conversation, while Joey
crossed his own Rubicon.  As the waitress left, Joey hissed, "Which one of
them did you fuck last night?  Mom or Debbie?  Or maybe both?  You'd better
tell me what's been going on, or, or. . .  " Joey had no plans for "or."
Fight his uncle?  For what?  Threaten to rush home and twist the
information out of his mother?  Joey knew Owen knew he'd never hurt his
mother.  Joey just gasped his "or, or. . .  " and glared at his uncle.

   Owen replied, "Debbie," in a matter-of-fact tone that made Joey furious.


   "And now you're going to tell me all about it?  What she was wearing? 
How good a cocksucker she is?  Some good ol' man-to-man talk like that?"
For all his virile appearance, Joey was still a kid, right now a shocked,
angry, bewildered kid.

   "Listen, Joe.  Take a minute to calm yourself down and just listen. 
Because you and your endowment are about to cause a lot of pain and
upheaval in the lives of four people I love, and you love, and I think you
need to know all the facts.  After I've finished, you decide whether you
need my advice, as well."

   The waitress brought tea.  Joey figured the part about calming down was
good sense.  When he'd done that, he figured he'd hear what his uncle had
to say.  He wanted to hear how a man could just out and tell his nephew
that he'd fucked his own niece, nephew's sister, as if that was the most
okay thing in the world.  After a while Joey scowled, "Go ahead."

   Owen pulled no punches; before beginning, he forced his nephew to admit
that he had illicit, carnal designs on his mother and his sister.  Owen
pointed out that in this bizarre situation, he held the moral high ground,
because he'd never lusted after nor fucked his own mother (who was pretty
hot in her day, as well).  And, he said, he would have lived happily ever
after with Amelia, but if he'd done so Debbie and Joey would never have
been born.  Only then did he lay out for Joe the whole story, with a
gentlemanly omission of the intimate details.

   First, he took his nephew on a quick tour of his own sex life,
emphasizing the limitations and responsibilities that fall on a man with a
monster cock.  It sounds absurd, but in his mind he was an honorable,
responsible adult even though he spent most of his life fucking teenagers,
and when opportunity offered, other men's wives, because he did so alert
for their comfort and pleasure and safety, usually over his own.  He told
Joey that the important thing, the first time with any girl or woman, was
to take it very slow.  If he was so horny he couldn't stand it, ask her for
a hand job first.  How blow jobs were going to be kind of dull, compared to
what the other guys got, because so little of his cock would fit in a
girl's mouth.  (He used his python joke, but right now, Joey didn't think
anything was funny.) How he had to be so ultra careful about a girl's
cervix.  And so on.

   This was all beside the point, though, because the main topic was Joe's
and Owen's relationships with Amy and Debbie.  He told Joe that he and his
sister (Amy, Joe's mother) had been regular fuck buddies, although the term
hadn't yet been invented, from that fateful birthday party to the eve of
her wedding; that several times since, he had tried to fuck Amy again, or
get her to blow him, but she'd always refused.  Owen was sure that starting
on her wedding day, she'd been absolutely faithful to Joe Senior.  It was
pure coincidence that he'd come to visit just when the household was in
turmoil after the father and son confrontation in the gym shower.  Amy and
Debbie both had told him of their struggles to reconcile their lust for
him, Joe Junior, and the usual rules of the sex game, not to mention the
criminal law.  Owen told Joey how Debbie had come to him in the night
(omitting Amy's role) and how Debbie had good as told him that she was
acting out her lust for Joey by fucking her uncle.  (Debbie had never gone
so far as to say this, it's bad manners to say you're fucking person A
because he reminds you of person B, but Owen was sure that's what she had
been thinking.) Owen was sure that Joey had plans, or at least dreams, of
fucking his mother and his sister and who knows how many others, and if
Joey made a big fuss over what Owen had done, Joey was nothing but a
hypocrite.  And, finally, how he, Owen, was leaving, going back to
California, and wasn't going to involve himself in their affairs any more
except to talk to his sister, Amy, by long-distance telephone if she called
him and brought up the subject.

   Neither one of them ate much, during all this, and Joey didn't say much.
They had the dinner boxed up.  Owen paid the check and asked the cashier to
call him a cab.  Only as they waited for the cab did Joey reply.

   "All right, uncle, I've heard all the facts.  But how am I supposed to
feel?" He went on: I'm angry at you, but I don't know if I'm angry because
you fucked your sister, long ago, and my sister, last night, and I'd
shocked to find out you're such a toad, or because I should have protected
them somehow, or if I'm simply jealous because I want to fuck them and you
did it instead.  And once they've had you, how is my inexperienced dick
going to impress them?  Will they lay there thinking, 'Owen would have done
it this way,' or 'Owen would have done it that way,' or 'Owen would have
done it better.'?  And now it sounds like it's up to me whether I wreck my
parents' marriage.  I'm just a kid!  I want to fuck my math teacher, and
the head cheerleader, and my superwoman personal trainer, and they're all
beginning to take the hint.  That's the kind of cunt my monster dick should
be plowing!  Not my mom and sister!  What am I gonna do?

   Joey had held the floor until they got into the cab.  Owen told the
driver the Dunlap address, then turned to his nephew and snapped, "Joe,
were you listening to the first half of what I said?  About how wishing for
a big dick is like the story of King Midas?  You have to take the bad with
the good and only guys like you and me, the guys who have the big dicks,
can appreciate the bad.  But it's your endowment, boy, and you've gotta
find your own way.  You've been slapped upside the head with a lot of
information real fast, and that's always tough, but you can't erase it from
your memory.  Now that you know, you have to cope.  That's what a good man
does.  And that's what you're going to do, my friend.

   "I know your dad thinks I'm wasting my life chasing the chicks, but
that's my right, it's my life, and it's your right too, although I admit it
might not be the best way to go.  But what I've been talking about for two
hours is your duty, your responsibility to think about the effects of what
you do on the people you love.  I do my thing a thousand miles away, where
it has zero effect on Amy or the rest of you.  I have fun.  Sometimes I get
bored.  You can choose some other route, but you can't ignore your family.
I moved to California because that was the only way to do right by my
sister."

   The cab pulled up to the Dunlap house.  Owen finished up: "One last
thing, kid.  You know those babes were talking about?  Ellen and Samantha?
After Ellen and I were finished sealing our deal, so to speak, and praising
each other's charms, they said how much they'd miss me and my, . . .  Hell,
who am I kidding!  Ellen and I bargained to a very fair contract, then she
enjoyed my dick immensely, and when Samantha came home, she asked for a
ride, too.  They both were sorry I had to put it away and take it home. 
That's when I mentioned you."

   'Uh-oh.' "What did you say, Uncle?"

   "I told them my nephew is a charming young fellow who has a replica of
my cock in his genes, if not bigger and badder, and although he's a little
inexperienced, he's completely equipped to take my place, and Ellen and
Samantha might be just the ones to give him some instruction.  That's when
your name came up."

   Young Joe, memory filled with his lust for the Mansfield-Hitchcock
women, forgot his uneasy pique.  "Thanks, I think.  Did you give them my
phone number, too?"

   "No.  You mean your cell phone?  I don't know the number."

   Joe told him.  "My mom doesn't like cell phones, but Dad and Debbie and
I all have them.  I suppose you know Debbie's." This brought Young Joe back
to the heavy topics of tonight's conversation.  Tears welled up in his
eyes. He stepped out of the cab, hoisted his books and his gym bag onto his
shoulder, the bag of Chinese food in his other hand.  He was coherent,
despite his tears.  He wasn't sobbing.  Standing on the pavement, he leaned
against the door of the cab.  "When I pull myself together, I'll probably
feel different about this.  But right now I think the best thing I can do
for my family is have myself castrated."

   Owen grinned.  "Don't do that!  That would be like dynamiting the
Washington Monument!" The cab driver, who had overheard enough of the
conversation to get the joke, was laughing and laughing as she pulled away
to take Owen to the airport.  Until then, Joey had not even noticed that
the driver was a woman.  He waved to his uncle, wondering if they'd make
time for an unscheduled stop along the way.

   Debbie and his mother were just finishing dinner, so he put the Chinese
leftovers in the fridge and poured himself some fresh decaf.  None of the
three of them said much, or even met each other's eyes.  Even though they
all knew the whole story except about Amy's enjoyment of a little
girl-on-girl relaxation, now and then, and not counting some technical
details, they couldn't talk about it.  The tension finally got to Young
Joe. Muttering "fuck it, just fuck it," he picked up his cup and headed
out, bound for his room and an attempt to do his homework.

   Deb's voice pulled him back, snapping, "Hold it, brother.  Sit back
down." He obeyed.  He wanted to talk all this over with them, but he didn't
know how to start.  Maybe Debbie did.

   She didn't know, either, so she just plowed right in.  "Listen, bro. 
We're all three in deep shit together, here, and unless you're on your way
to pack for your move to a monastery, sit down and be part of this!  And if
you're going to a monastery, don't bother to pack, because monks aren't
allowed to own anything anyway." The joke fell flat.

   After a couple of false starts, she went on.  "OK.  Right.  Well, I'm
assuming that we all know -- we all know the facts.  Owen and Joey have
huge-- penises.  Dad has a tiny one.  Mom and Owen were fuck buddies for
more than ten years.  Night before last, I wanted to beg my little/big
brother to fuck me.  Last night, I had this great make-out session with my
mother,. . ." She hadn't known that Joey didn't know this part; she
shrugged as his jaw dropped and went on, "which happened to be my first
girl-girl experience, and I loved it.  Then I. . .  then I went to my
uncle's bed, all on my own, and he fucked my brains out.  Uncle Owen's
gone, out of the picture." Her expression said, "for now, anyway," but she
didn't go that far.  "Each one of the three of us is going crazy trying to
keep their hands off either of the others.  Giving in to our sexual urges
is immoral, illegal, and idiotic.  It could wreck the family and
everybody's lives.  So what do we do, short of all moving away from each
other as far as we can get?"

   As soon as she finished, Amy added, "And just thinking about it is
making us all about as aroused as we've ever been.  Debbie, I've seen you
checking Big Joe, here, so you know and I know that he's standing up at
full attention, ready for action.  And you, young man, surely know that us
girls' cunts are both soaking through our jeans.  Our bodies vote that even
if we're playing with fire, the experience might be so fantastic that it's
worth the risk."

   The women looked at Joey, as if it was his turn to say something useful.
"Hey, don't look at me!" he burst out.  "I'm the youngest one here.  Hell,
I'm still a virgin.  If it was up to me I'd fuck both of you, right here in
the kitchen, and to hell with the consequences.  And I'll tell you right
now that I don't love my father any less today than I did last week, but
when I think about us having a free-for-all orgy right here and now, I
couldn't care less about how he feels about it.  Is that Oedipal or what?"
He tried to pull himself together.  Into the silence he said, "By the way,
ladies, that wasn't a proposition.  I think we should all keep our pants
on, tonight, if we can."

   Nobody laughed.  They all three looked at the floor, or the clock,
anywhere but at each other.  Joey broke the silence.  "Uncle Owen said that
he and I are living the King Midas story.  Every guy in the world wants a
huge dick, but having one is probably gonna wreck my life.  He good as
admitted that it had wrecked his life." At the look in his mother's eyes,
he raced to continue.  "Not you and him, Mom.  Best I can tell, you're the
steadiest girl friend he ever had, and there's no doubt he loves you better
than anybody.  But he's addicted.  He'll never have a family, or wife, or
even another steady girl friend, because there's always a new girl begging
for a chance to ride his cock.  Jeez, I think he's fucking the woman
driving the cab right now.  For her tip, maybe.

   "And he's too nice, too sensitive, not to care about the lives he
disrupts.  Think of all the wives he's ruined, so fucking their husbands no
longer does it for them.  Sort of like you, Mom.  And all the teenagers
who'll be looking for his dick the rest of their lives, and not finding it.
He had Brian Mansfield's wife, and almost had the stepdaughter, this
afternoon, and as he left recommended me as his replacement.  I don't think
he would have fucked Debbie if I hadn't been here to take over." That last
bit might sound vain, but he meant it.

   The image of Owen and Brian's famous pair of trophy fems, and his casual
way of tossing them aside to his virgin nephew, pushed everyone's lust up,
a few more degrees.  Amelia spoke up.  "Well, I have an idea.  It sounds
crazy, but maybe it'll get us through the next few days, and then we'll
have a better handle on all the pieces." Pause.  "Pun not intended.  We're
all horny.  I don't know about you, but I can hardly keep my hand out of my
pants.  So here's my idea.  We all three go sit on the sofa together and
watch a movie or something.  With our pants off.  Joey in the middle.  Deb,
if your hand, or mine strays to help relieve your brother's frustration,
tonight, that's okay, and Joey can do the same for each of us if he wants.
But no touching except by hands!  It's crazy to think that that's a
wholesome answer, but it's the best I can think of.  At least I'll be
scratching this damned itch."

   Debbie gave a frustrated, bitter laugh.  "Just a nice, sitcom family at
home together.  I'll bring the dildoes!  Should we should watch 'The Sound
of Music' while we do it?  'The hills are alive, with the sound of
moaning,'" she sang.

   Despite the weirdness of it, nobody had a better idea, so they went with
Amelia's plan.  It was awkward, as you can imagine, but it worked.  They
sat on the couch, naked from the waist down, and in Debbie's case, totally,
until she was chilly and borrowed her father's cardigan from the hall
closet.

   They soon found that the movie sex scenes that had always turned them on
before just didn't do it as well as their sexual reality, so Debbie popped
in a DVD of old "Leave It to Beaver" episodes and turned the sound off. 
Amelia, who thought about such things, wondered for the hundredth time why
June Cleaver called her son "Beaver Cleaver." She pictured the Cleavers'
home after the camera crews had left, Ward working late again, June naked
in the middle of the sofa, Wally on her left, Beaver on her right, fondling
each other's genitals while watching DVDs of the Dunlaps' decent, wholesome
daytime life.  And later, Beaver cleaving June's beaver while Wally watched
and waited his turn.  Even in perfect TV sitcom families. . .

   Joe had one hand on each cunt at the same time; licking the juices off
his fingers, he declared that he couldn't tell which tasted better and he'd
have to sample again.  Amy and Debbie gave Big Joe a slow multi-handed hand
job.  They caught the explosion in a damp towel, then passed it back and
forth between them, all three taking a turn licking or chewing it until all
the cum was gone, like other people would pass a bong.  Both women agreed:
they'd tasted better cum, but to be sure they'd need another sample, maybe
more.  Joey had tasted his own cum many times, even eaten tissues full of
the stuff, but he had nothing to compare it to.  That was okay with him.

   I doubt that their neighbors, or you, or anybody else would have called
their evening just clean fun, but it was the justest cleanest fun they
could think of, and it kept them out of worse trouble.  Everyone took a
shower, alone, and went to bed, alone, and slept all night, alone.

   Thursday

   None of Young Joe, Debbie or their mother saw each other Thursday
morning; whether they were avoiding each other so to prevent any discussion
of last night's three-way crotch massaging session I cannot say.



   We join Connie, who arrived at school in the nick of time before the
first bell, as usual, except when she was actually late.  The reason was
flakiness, not so she'd have the maximum audience as she did her slow strut
into the classroom, but the latter perk didn't hurt, either.  She loved the
scrutiny; the boys admiring her breasts and undressing them in their
dreams, the girls despising the boys for their infantile obsessions and
despising Connie for the ease and contempt with which she manipulated the
boys and pitied the girls.

   She was good at this game, no mistake; she could stop traffic without
showing an inch of skin below the knee or below the throat.  She knew
because she'd done it, more than once.  She didn't want to actually cause
an accident, she just loved the squeal of tires that saluted her when she
distracted one driver so badly that another driver had to slam on the
brakes.

   It wasn't just her tits, either, although they were the star attraction.
Every star needs a good supporting cast, and she had it.  She was very
pretty, for one thing, an All-American apple-cheeked blonde, genes imported
from Norway by her grandparents.  Her surname was Knutsen, pronounced with
the "k".  Her legs, long and shapely, complemented the ensemble, as did her
overall posture and grace.  The posture and grace were due to long hard
work at a modeling school; you could find her in a few catalogs, and on the
corresponding Web sites.  She had ambitions.  She got them from her mother.

   In sum, she'd put most of her chips on her persona of wholesome blonde
sexpot; think, for example, young Ann-Margret (ask your dad), but taller.

   Today, though, she could sense something different about the way the
other kids looked at her as she promenaded down the hallway; it wasn't as
if people were laughing at her, the way they would if someone had somehow
fixed a streamer of toilet paper to the back of her sweater.  But the
awesomeness factor was down, way down.  Something was up.  As she crossed
the classroom to a chair, she gave a mental shrug; she'd find out soon
enough, and deal with it then.

   It didn't take long.  At the end of that first-period French class, in
the bustle of changing classrooms, she thought she heard the word,
"falsies." Only seconds later, Jennifer gave her the bad news.  A rumor,
spreading fast, said that someone with reason to know had revealed that her
boobs were not the Grand Tetons they seemed to be; part of their shape and
mass were artificial.

   By lunchtime she'd overheard or been told the extent of the damage. 
Everybody believed her tits were not what they seemed; a few of her closest
friends pretended they didn't.  There was no consensus as to whether she'd
had a boob job, was wearing falsies or some kind of overpadded bra, or had
resorted to black magic in some backstreet gypsy's shop.  Nor was there any
consensus as to just how much was God's doing and how much was artificial.

   "God damn that Joe Dunlap!" she almost yelled to her friends at her
lunch table, and to the tables in the vicinity, although she didn't mean
to. Her friends included some other cheerleaders and some of the mean girls
and the Heathers (although none was afflicted with that name).  But she
avoided belonging to any single clique.  This queen would accept any bee,
as long as she remained Queen.  Underneath her obsession with attracting
attention, she was a nice, friendly kid.  She hid it well.

   "What are you talking about, Connie?" someone asked.  "I haven't heard a
thing about Joe being part of this rumor.  In fact, he's been pretty scarce
for a week or more." Others at her table agreed.

   "Although," chirped Angela, meaning no harm, "I did see you two arguing
in the hallway outside Mrs.  Cohn's room yesterday.  I was wondering what
that was about." Angela hadn't intended to say anything except to Connie
alone some time.  It didn't take much to get a rumor going.

   "Arguing?" someone said.  "I thought all you did with little Joey was
tease him until he showed you his geometry homework." "Yeah, what's going
on, Connie?" asked another voice.  "What about your boy friend?" asked a
third.  "Do you think he started the rumor about your boobs, like he did
before." "Nevaeh, that was no rumor.  She really does have a four-leaf
clover on her thigh." "Well, what about her boy friend anyway?" "Who else
would know?" "Joe might know, the way you shove your tits into all the
time." "Buzz." "Buzz buzz." "Buzz buzz buzz." And so on.



   Connie had to bite her lip to keep herself from explaining why she
thought it was Joe.  'I'll tell 'em how he challenged me to show him if my
tits were real and he'd show me if his dick is real.  Yeah, right.  That'd
sure help fix my reputation.' Even so, she decided it was better to accept
the small defeat than to risk the large one.

   "Yes, I was talking to Joe after geometry yesterday," she announced. 
The volume of the buzzing dropped a couple of notches.  "He's no worm. 
After his Pepsi 'accident' the other day (which had been all over the
school by the end of Tuesday, ancient history), he'd had enough of what he
calls pri-, oops, he calls 'teasing' and I call being friendly.  Give him
credit, though, he's no worm.  He got right in my face and told me to stop
it." Connie paused, letting the information percolate out to other tables.
"And I will.  If he doesn't want my friendship, I'm not going to press it
on him."

   The table erupted in laughter and applause, interpreting the coded
message: "Listen, girls, we all know I've been prick teasing Joey without
mercy, rubbing my tits all over his back and neck and once on his face, in
exchange for homework tips, but we all know I'd do it anyway, just to be
mean.  But if he doesn't want me to press my tits into his virgin, easily
aroused body any more, I won't, at least for a few days." The translation,
too, percolated across the cafeteria.
Thus Joe's cock, size thereof, did not become a topic of that day's
conversation.  Did Connie know her audience or what?  But she still hadn't
decided what to do about his challenge.  He'd thrown down his gage at her

feet, and she had only an hour or so to pick it up.  Or not.

   Joe and Debbie, meanwhile, sat with their friends at their usual tables.
They'd talked briefly at the beginning of lunch break, comparing notes on
the rumors about Connie.  Joe confessed to making the whole thing up and
having Nick and the boys spread it around.  Debbie already knew that part,
because Nick had told her at tennis practice that morning.  She didn't
bother to tell Joe that she knew.  In her view, there was too much serious
business going on to worry about the high school rumor mill.  Besides, Nick
would tell him everything in a few minutes.

   Several members of Joe and Nick's lunchtime crowd were not regulars in
the after-school pizza crowd, so the table conversation stuck to the
literal rumors, not to anything true.  Nick, who with Joe had set this
wildfire, and two others, who had helped to spread it, spent the lunch hour
laughing up their sleeves.  As they got up to go, however, Joe, Nick and
the other two managed a moment alone, out of traffic.  "Thanks, guys," Joe
grinned.  "You did great.  I mean really great.  I owe you, big time.  Next
week, Tuesday, I'll spring for pizzas."

   One of the foot soldiers spoke up.  "Hey, Joe, next week we'll be at
Constantine's Gyros." General laughter.  "Gyros!" Joey exclaimed.  "In that
case, forget it.  I hate Greeks." Nick, who was as Greek as the Parthenon,
slugged him in the shoulder.  More laughter.  Boys will be dopey boys.

   Lunch was over.  Everyone had touched base with almost everyone he or
she needed to touch base with.  Joe waited for Connie's response to his
challenge, due in one hour.

   As Connie left the cafeteria with her best friend Nicole, she gave Joe
her No.  2 smile, half-dazzle, but didn't stop to chat.  Those two were
having a mobile strategy session.

   "Nic, the trouble is that I've got about a half-inch of padding.  Not
that much, not nearly as much as most people are thinking, but enough to
make the rumors seem true.  What do I do?"

   Nicole thought it was obvious.  "Tell him to go fuck himself." She
hadn't known about Connie's padded bra; in time, she could retail that
information herself and didn't see the advantage of letting Joe do it
first. Besides, Nicole knew, Joe was playing a deeper game.  She couldn't
verify it, but she was sure, and in fact her instinct on the whole thing
was 100% correct.  She figured Joe wouldn't mind seeing Connie's tits,
maybe even hefting their soft mass in his palms a few times, but that
wasn't a big enough thrill to go to all this trouble.  He wanted Connie to
see his endowment, and maybe let the sight of her tits inspire Mr.  Penis
to his maximum extension.  Connie might want to entertain Joe's cock
herself, and whether she did or didn't, she'd certainly verify to the
grapevine that although the rumors about Joe's cock might be exaggerated,
they were basically true.  He wanted all the girls to know about his hidden
talents, and to have Queen Bee Connie be the one to tell them, first hand.
Nicole would have bet twenty dollars that Joe had no further interest in
Connie or her tits.

   She also realized that simply by making the challenge, Joe had verified
the rumors about his dick.  He wouldn't have dared if he didn't have the
goods.  If Connie accepted the challenge, she was going to end up with
cider in her ear, and maybe, if Joe played his cards right, with other
fluids in other orifices.  Nicole was earnestly trying to persuade her
friend to ignore the whole challenge.  But just then, she had a delicious,
treacherous, idea.

   "Y'know, Connie, maybe I should be your second."

   "Whaddya mean?"

   "In the old, dueling days, the guys who wanted to duel would each ask a
friend to make all the arrangements.  The friends who did it were called
the 'seconds'.  Didn't you say that Joe asked for your second to make the
response?"

   "I know he said that, but I didn't know what he meant," confessed
Connie. "But it's the twenty-first century.  Who needs seconds now?"

   "Well, for one thing, in one hour half the school is going to be outside
of Mrs.  Cohn's room, waiting to see what happens.  But if they follow you
one way, I can draw Joe off in the other.  Also, he may snub you, and send
his second, probably Nick, to accept your answer.  You don't want that. 
It's all about status, girl, status!"

   Despite her urgent need for a decision, Connie had an irrelevant
question.  "How do you know so much about it?"

   Nicole's forehead wrinkled and her eyebrows hunched together.  "You see
this skin?" Nicole grabbed her cheek for emphasis.  It was a beautiful dark
shade of mocha.  "Y'know why I'm not black, like an African?  Because of my
white ancestors.  My grandma says her grandfather was Jefferson Davis
himself.  That's how come I'm Nicole Davis and not Nicole E.  Lee or Nicole
Jefferson.  So in freshman history, when we were supposed to research our
ancestors, I read all about those fool Southern gentlemen, talking 'bout
honor and duels all day and raping the slave women all night.  It's in my
blood, girl, the same as my black blood is in you, even if your grandfather
is from Norway or whatever."

   Connie wasn't used to this kind of racial passion from her friend.  It
made her nervous.  She could joke about fucking stallions or pissing or
being gangbanged by the football team, but talking about race with an
African-American, even one who happened to be her best friend, was too
much. Without grace, she pulled the conversation back to the subject at
hand.  "Okay, Nic.  You can be my second.  You're a match for three Joes.
Tell him hell, no, what kind of childish suggestion is that anyway?"

   Nicole grinned.  "Well, we'll find out who's the fool, anyway." They
made a quick plan for Connie to leave math class by the back door while
Nicole waited for Joe, or Joe's second, at the front.  Connie made it to
class with seconds to spare.

   An hour or so later, Nicole confronted Joe in the hall as he left Mrs.
Cohn's room.  They agreed to meet after school at the Starbuck's near
Nicole's house, where they could settle matters without worrying about who
heard what.  Math class had been the same ol' same ol', plus a pop quiz. 
Mrs.  Cohn had banked her fires; as we know, but Joe didn't, she was
hatching her own plot, and wanted to throw him off balance.  She did catch
his eye a couple of times, but seemed to have quenched her lust.  Tomorrow
there was no school because of that "in-service" day; he'd have to wait
until Monday to make his next move on his math teacher.



   At the beginning, Amelia's day was no more exciting than Joe's, and
spiced up at about the same time.  She caught up on some paperwork for her
consulting work and spent some time on the telephone, agreeing to go
on-site at a client's offices on Monday morning.  She kept a long-standing
Thursday lunch date with a couple of her old friends, to whom she intended
not to breathe a word of her week's turmoil, except to mention to Barbara,
who'd been Owen's girl friend for a while, long ago, that he'd been in
town. Back then, of course, Owen would fuck Barbara unmercifully and then
come home to Amy's bed, where they'd laugh about Barbara's (or Stacy's, or
Gwen's, or . . .  ) gullibility or inexperience while they played friendly
games with Owen's rod.  He came to visit Amelia as often as he could, right
after fucking some other girl.  She liked to lick the other girl's juices
off his cock.  He liked to let his sister have that privilege.

   Hannah, Barbara's twin, unexpectedly joined the women for lunch; when
Amy arrived, it was Hannah, Barbara, and Sheila in gleeful animated gossip.
As Amy approached, Barbara kicked her sister's ankle, but Hannah was a tad
too slow on the uptake; Amy caught enough of her spiel to know they'd been
talking about Young Joey's Cock, and that Hannah, the only Club member of
the bunch, was the bearer of the news.

   Amy sat down into the uncomfortable silence, trying to think fast and
lighten things up.  After the waiter had brought her coffee -- no need to
order, they came here every week -- she gave her friends a tired smile. 
"Yes, I've heard about Joey's, er, penis." The other women sat perfectly
still.  "If it was one of your sons, especially, Sheila, your son Patrick,"
who was the only other son any of them had, "I'd be all excited to talk
about it myself.  But as the mother of Subject A, I really can't talk about
it or listen to you talk about it." She sipped her coffee.  "I will tell
you one thing, if you'll promise to keep off the subject afterward." The
other women all nodded.  "If you want to verify the rumor yourself, it's
okay with me.  But not on a school night." The table erupted in laughter;
Barbara even clapped a few times.  As the laughter died away, Amy sighed in
relief as her friends skillfully avoided any more mention of the subject.

   She couldn't picture Joey with any of her three friends, although the
twins were handsome women, no doubt about that.  Maybe if they offered him
two for one. . .



   Amy, Julie and Owen had just gotten together for what they all knew
would be their last weekend, and last threesome, ever.  Julie was leaving
on Monday for Seattle, and the University of Washington; Amy would be going
to the University of [their state] a couple of days later.  They'd all
agreed -- it didn't even require much discussion -- that they'd let their
relationship lie, even if they all three were in town together, like during
vacations.  You can't ever go back, they knew.  What you discover if you
try is that the thing you're going back to doesn't exist any more, and not
only have you gained nothing in the attempt, you've damaged all the good
memories that drew you back in the first place.

   Julie, without happy-go-lucky, well-endowed Owen to distract her,
expected to be a full-time lesbian, unless she happened to meet another
mega-dick charmer like Owen.  Fat chance, she knew.  If Amelia's brother
wasn't one-of-a-kind, he was certainly so rare that she doubted she'd find
another by cruising college bars.  But she liked girls, she knew where to
find them, she knew how to guide and instruct them to where they made her
happy.

   Amy, without the guidance of Julie's serenity and creativity, didn't
foresee a lot of girl-on-girl action.  There'd be some, she knew -- lots of
girls wanted to try, and she had the experience -- but nothing like her
relationship with Julie.  Besides, she'd still have her brother, three
hours away, and like Julie she strongly doubted that she'd ever do better.

   Owen, for whom fucking men was not on the menu, would continue fucking
any girl or woman who crossed his path.  He'd still have Amy, too, who was
destined to be his soul mate for life; he'd never come close to having the
intimacy he'd had with her all his life.  In fact, although he didn't know
it yet, his relationship with Julie was to be the second-longest of his
life.  After Amy and Julie, over the past few incredible months, had reset
his standards into the stratosphere, he was fated to get bored by other
women, often even before he'd dropped his first load of cum into their
stretched elastic cunts.  King Midas indeed.

   So, there they were in Julie's family's cabin along a lake in the wilds
of northern Minnesota.  They'd brought along everything they'd conceivably
need for a weekend of constant sex by wood heat and gas lighting;
everything, apparently, except the exuberant joy that had always marked
their times together.

   Soon after their arrival, Amy persuaded Julie to try a replay of their
first time together; Julie was crying before she finished the striptease
routine, and when she fell on Amy in the bed, neither one of them could see
through their tears.  They hugged each other, tight, and for the first time
in their lives, they were really terrified of the future.  Owen tried to
keep it lighter, but they all could tell that he was clowning by rote and
he gave it up.

   It was still, by the clock, Friday evening when Owen was the first to
say, "Maybe this was a mistake.  All I can think about, Julie, is how much
I love you and how much I'm gonna miss you.  I never thought there'd be a
day when I was too goddamn sad to fuck.  But here it is."

   Julie and Amy were lying on layers of blankets and sleeping pads in
front of the fireplace, naked.  They had their arms around one another and
were doing a little fondling, but mostly still and silent.  Julie spoke
softly and slowly, in two or three word batches, as she stared at the fire.
"I'm willing to admit a mistake, but I don't think coming here was a
mistake.  But we shoulda known that it couldn't be the same, not this time.
Trying to do some big finale just reminds us how it's the last time."

   They all three talked, low and melancholy, about totally banal things;
Julie's drive cross-country, what they'd heard about Seattle, bullshit like
that to fill up their ears as they struggled to keep their tears inside.

   Finally, Amy had had enough.  She'd anticipated this droopy depression,
and brought along something she thought might help, but for the past few
hours she'd been too uncertain to show it to her friends.  She'd thought of
it as she packed for this trip, and dug it out of the closet.  For her and
Owen, it had been the go-to device when feeling sad or bored, before they'd
discovered the wicked pleasures of incest.  She hadn't mentioned it to the
others, because wholesome fun didn't really fit their plans for the
weekend. But now she took charge.

   "Okay, listen.  Everybody get dressed.  Completely.  Like you would if
we expected Julie's folks to be arriving soon."

   "Oh, come on, Amy, what's the point?" Owen whined.

   Amy's eyes narrowed as she snapped, "The point, brother-mine, is that
you are going to go a month without the best pussy you've ever had if you
say one more word.  Now, get dressed." They obeyed, Julie trusting Amy's
judgment and not having any better idea anyway, Owen reluctantly, like a
little kid.  Amy and Julie dragged the kitchen table over to the fire and
set up the gas lantern to the table was relatively well-lit.  Then Amy sat
the others down at the table and groped around in her bag until she found
what she wanted.  Concealing it from them, she held it to her belly and,
crouching, crept backward to her place at the table.  Then, with a
flourish, she turned around and produced -- a thick deck of Uno cards,
remnants of probably ten decks she and Owen had acquired over the years.

   "Ta da!" she said, sitting down.  "This is going to seem pretty lame, at
first, and awkward and glum and depressing.  But we're going to stick with
it until it works its magic on all of us.  It's done that for me and Owen a
hundred times."

   Julie, the philosopher of the trio, and who'd always been on Amy's
wavelength, perked up with enthusiasm.  "I get it!" she exclaimed.  "We've
always had wonderful sex because we were doing adult sex with the innocent
joy of children." (She really talked like that, about half the time.)
"Well, if the sex isn't working right now, or even all weekend, we can at
least try to have the joy."

   Amy was laughing, both at Julie's speech and at her brother's annoyed
face.  "Julie, any more of that analysis and we'll put you out in the snow
for the wolves." It was late August.  "Let's just play the game and see
what happens.  Sit down, brother."

   "I was just going for the coffee pot."

   "Later.  It's now or never, Owen, and I mean it."

   It worked, although the first hour was excruciating.  It was only as
their thoughts melted into the game, and half-perceived childhood memories
floated up from the backs of their brains, that the simple game cast its
unlikely spell.  For Amy and Owen, the memories merged with the present as
they got into a reversing-directions battle, punctuated by extravagant
threats about what Owen was going to do with, or Amy was going to do to,
Owen's meaty, throbbing bratwurst.  While the siblings were bickering,
Julie quietly buried all but one of her cards back into the deck, and when
at last the play reached her, she played her card and said, "I win." The
other two knew damn well she must have cheated, and, with all three yelling
and laughing, they searched Julie head to toe for the missing cards.  Owen
demanded a rematch, if his dear sister would permit him to make coffee; the
second game went on forever, partly because they were all shouting and
laughing like kids would shout and laugh if they'd spent the last eight
months exploring one another's erogenous zones.  They got to where they
were laughing so hard they were crying.

   Owen finally won the second game, dropping his last card onto the stack
and swearing on all the gods that he'd said "uno" when he'd had only one
card.  Amy and Julie attacked him, pushing him down onto the quilts and
blankets on the floor, and tickling him all over his body.  Amy had his
arms pinned, with her thighs pressing inward upon his ribs, and her butt,
in threadbare denim jeans, in his face.  Julie was sitting on his legs.  He
must have liked being so helpless, because they all noticed the rapid
tenting of his Army-surplus fatigue pants.  Owen couldn't see it, but he
knew it best of all.
Owen: "Oh, ladies, have mercy!  It hurts, it hurts."
Julie: "Now what?  Should we let him jack off?"
Amy: "Hell, no!  If we let him loose he'll probably rape the both of
us."
Julie: "Me first!  Me first!
Owen: "Oh, ladies, I wouldn't rape you.  I'd be a good little boy and
play with the toy just like you said."
Amy: "How about if I let go of just one hand?  Which one, brother-mine?
Right or left?"
Owen: "Right."
Julie: "Hold it!  What exactly are you going to do with your right hand
and that foul p- p- penis?"
Owen: "Why jack it off, like you said."
Amy: "He's got us, Julie.  It is what we said."
Julie: "Weee-lll, okay, buster, but one false move and you'll be a
gelding."
Julie freed Owen's cock, opening his belt and unbuttoning his pants,
pulling the loose material well away from his balls.  As Amy let his right
hand go, replacing her thighs so as to straddle him and hold his left arm
down, Julie was squeezing Owen's balls, reminding him that he was helpless.
It had no effect on his hard on, though, because it was already at maximum

extension.
Amy: "Get to it, brother.  We haven't got all night."
Owen obeyed, wrapping his hand around the shaft and starting to stroke.
"Hold it!  Stop!" Julie ordered.  She pulled his hand off the organ,
saying, "No lubrication!  Are we really that cruel?" She turned Owen's
wrist so his palm was up and spit a couple of times into his hand.  "Ok,

back to work," she said.

   Owen had just regained his rhythm when Julie told him to stop, again. 
"I can still hear the rasping and scraping," she giggled.  "Not enough
lube. Take your hand off that apparatus, mister!" When Owen complied, Julie
leaned over and took as much of Owen's member as she could, from that
awkward angle, hocking up a large load of saliva that she could spread
around to moisten the whole thing.  At least, that's what everybody
thought.

   Then she dug the tip of her tongue into the slit at the end of his
prick, and blowing as hard as she could, tried to force her saliva into the
tubes where his cum usually came out.  Owen was laughing at the odd
sensation, and as he realized Amy might not be able to tell what was going
on, said, "No!  Julie!  No!  It's suck!  Suck!  'Blow' is just a figure of
speech!"

   Amy got it.  "No, keep going, Julie.  He's given us so much stuff out of
there that it's only fair to give him something back."

   Julie, of course, was having no success, and wouldn't have had even if
she hadn't been laughing so hard, through her nose.  So, she spread her
saliva all over the shaft of Owen's cock and sat up, breathless.  "You may
commence again, Owen.  Get on with it this time."

   Owen did, and in a very short time they could all recognize the familiar
symptoms of his cum rushing from his balls, intending to escape out of the
end of his cock.  "I'm cumming!  I'm cumming ladies!  Please assume the cum
position!" He expected a wet mouth or cunt to clamp itself around the
opening; he hadn't actually cum into the atmosphere with either of these
two girls nearby in weeks and weeks.

   But the girls had, with some semaphoric winking, agreed to let him beat
his meat into the air, so his jism would spew all over his bare chest,
because Amy had unbuttoned his shirt, or Amy's bare chest, because she'd
done the same for her own.  She thought maybe she could catch a drop or two
in her mouth.

   The girl had skill and lightning reflexes.  She knew Owen's fucking
noises and habits so well that she could tell by his groan the amount and
muzzle velocity his cum would have.  She hunkered down like a shortstop
ready to take away the single up the middle.  Then he shot, and Amy caught
the first long, stringy blob, square in the middle of her open mouth.  In
fact, some of his cum hit the back of her throat, right where it would have
landed in a blow job.

   Julie was yelling, "Yay!  Yay, Amy!  Amy saved the home run!  But the
runner tagged up and is coming home!  Throw the ball, Ames!  Throw it!" Amy
responded immediately, shooting what was left of the cum she'd caught over
the foot and a half or so from her mouth to Julie's, where Julie
successfully caught it as well.

   "He's out at the plate!" Amy yelled.  "We win!" The girls then flung
themselves against Owen's torso, frantically licking up his cum, as if
competing to see who could get the most.  They'd gotten most of the cum,
leaving Owen's body wet and shiny from their licking, when Julie noticed
more cum on Amy's breasts and belly.  With a lioness's roar she launched
herself at her friend, hands under Amy's armpits to lift her off her
brother's chest with minimal pain to either of them.  Amy was sprawled on
her back, Julie madly licking her boobs, when she figured out what was
going on.  Just then, Owen, who was free to move at last, turned to
participate, but with his pants around his thighs he couldn't move and
Julie was too fast for him.  He got a few licks in, but not much.  Julie
took pity on him, though, and kissed him, injecting gobs of his own cum
back into him.  Their theory was that it would be like fuel, and help him
recover faster.

   By this time they were all weak and in pain from their long, intense
laughter.  They all, without speaking, knew that if they'd just cuddle up
and calm down, they'd either sleep, with two more days for just funnin', or
they'd have some giddy sex, which was okay too.  Ten minutes later, they
were all three cuddled together, warm in front of the fire, and out cold.
Owen sometimes snored.  Tonight no one cared.





   At Starbuck's Joe sat down with a grande coffee and Nicole.  They were
local kids, they'd known each other since first grade.  Teasing her, he'd
poured milk into his coffee trying to match it to Nicole's skin.  Teasing
back, she used the old joke, "What's the matter, can't you take it hot and
black?"

   Their table was as far away from everyone else as they could manage; it
would have to do.  Joe opened the negotiations.  "So what's Connie's
reply?"

   Nicole leaned across the table to murmur in his ear.  She'd rehearsed a
couple of versions; this is what came out.  "Who cares about Connie?" She
gave Joe a few seconds to digest that, then continued.  "You wouldn't've
made that challenge if you didn't have the goods.  I wanna see.  If I like
what I see, I wanna do.  I live three blocks from here and my mamma doesn't
get home 'til six.  Get the picture, or should I draw it on this napkin
here?" She quickly drew the outline of one of their distinctive local
skyscrapers, proud and tall against a diminutive skyline.

   For Joe, this was a no-brainer.  Nicole was a little plump but pretty,
and the way she moved was hot hot hot.  Even inexperienced Joe could tell
that she'd be a holy terror in bed.  "Are you sure?" he hissed.  "I
remember how you felt about Jefferson Davis."

   "Jefferson Davis can go fuck himself," came the reply.

   "What about your best friend Connie?"

   "She can go fuck Jeff Davis."

   Ten minutes later she unlocked her front door and motioned Joey in. 
Nicole lived in a townhouse-style condo that still looked new; she'd told
him on the way over that her mother had insisted on a new house when her
father got a big promotion.  Even a boy could tell why.  The place was
absolutely clean, almost antiseptic.  But when he paused just to gape at
the perfection of it all, Nicole grabbed his hand.  "My mother's
obsessive-compulsive about cleaning.  I'm obsessive-compulsive about
fucking.  Come on!"

   Her room was the bedroom of a good girl, tasteful, tidy, and bland,
which is how Nicole's mother wanted her to be.  He started to look around
again; in truth, he was trying to hide his nervousness.  Nicole had no
patience for this kind of thing.  She wasn't gonna wait for him to get
adjusted to his new surroundings, like some goldfish.  She had a medical
emergency to deal with.  There was this annoying, painful twitch in her
pussy.  She was usually wonderfully considerate and had perfect manners,
but right now, she had no patience for protocol.  She reached under the
Starbuck's cup Joe was still holding and pulled the flap of his belt from
his belt loops.  "Let's get down to it, Mr.  Big Dick.  If you've got the
goods, maybe we can do business.  And if you take one more sip from that
cup before I've had three orgasms I swear I'll pour it all over you."

   Joe hastened to reach over and set the coffee on her desk.  From
somewhere, a voice instructed Joe on coyness.  "Oh, no, Nic.  You don't see
him until he's ready.  Like if you go to a concert.  They don't come out
until they're ready to perform.  Mr.  Big Dick, as you call him, is still
half asleep.  You're gonna have to wake him up.  I can't do it.  It has to
be a female."

   Nicole's eloquent look said, "Don't give me that bullshit.  I'm in
heat." But her traitorous voice said, "Okay.  That's fair."

   Joey, of course, wanted and expected to see her undress, maybe even a
strip tease, or even better, a blow job.  Like every boy his age, he wanted
to see all the tits he could; after all, he'd expected to have seen
Connie's by now.  To his chagrin, though, Nicole chortled a smug chortle
and foxed him good.  She squatted down, face up close to his zipper, and
from her open mouth breathed several long, hot breaths onto the crotch of
Joe's pants until she saw the cloth shift to accommodate his growing shaft.
When the motion of Joe's pants resolved into the outline of a stiffening
prick, she turned her head to the side and clutched the growing bulge in
her teeth, straddling the zipper, all the while continuing to pour hot
breath over and into and all around Joe's hidden member.

   That little technique worked fast.  The unseen wonder grew and grew in
the humidity, outlined against the cloth as it strained to free itself. 
Joe backed away a half step, surprising Nicole into releasing her bite. 
Joe had to pull down his zipper to free his dick before it was too late. 
Momentarily, the helmet was trapped behind his belt buckle and his pants
button, so he pulled it clear with an almost-audible twang.  He opened the
single button and pulled his pants down halfway over his butt, then pulled
down the front of his briefs, hooking the elastic under his oversize balls,
so Nicole could see the whole thing.  Although the sculpture Nicole was
seeking was still a work in progress, not yet at full length, girth or
hardness, it was now proudly, if a little painfully, on display.

   Nicole inspected the exquisite statue as if it were a work of art in a
museum, not touching it, but shifting around to get a good look from all
angles.  It would have been totally in character if she'd pulled out a
sketch pad and started to draw.  Instead, she looked up at Joe, using the
line she'd been saving all afternoon.  In an exaggerated accent that would
have been racist if she'd been white, she said, "Honey, dontcha know that
us black folks is de ones with de big dicks?"

   She stood.  To raise the curtain on this afternoon's matinee, she pulled
her "Jackson High" sweatshirt over her head; as she pulled it inside out,
it ejected her bra.  As the hem rose past her boobs, they tumbled out, into
the light.  At that lovely sight, and in homage to the boldness of the
gesture, the star of the show decided he was ready for his big entrance,
rising to his full height and size.  As Joe admired her tits, Nicole looked
back down at his crotch, noticing how his underwear was pressuring his
balls.  Saying, "Oh, you poor things, let me help you," to the balls, not
to Joe, she pulled his pants and shorts away, and then off.

   Joe moved to cooperate as she pulled off his shoes, socks, pants and
briefs, but mostly he was strangely quiet.  He wanted to knead her boobs,
test their heft and soft sponginess, but didn't want to appear too eager or
to disrupt her spell.  Above all, he was wrapped up in the historic
significance of all these events.  Historic to him, anyway -- he was about
to lose his virginity.  That happens only once, and he wanted to savor the
moment.  He was also scared half to death.  Nicole, standing again, looked
at him closely, expecting him to do something, or say something.

   The look in his eyes tipped her off.

   She smiled an open, genuine smile of friendship, lacking any hint of
condescension.  Joe was getting lucky twice today; getting laid and getting
laid by Nicole.  Right about now, Connie would have been laughing at him,
and hiding it poorly.  Nicole caught his eyes for a long moment before
stating the obvious.  "You've never done this before."

   He wanted to deny it, but he knew that that would be futile, and
foolish. He nodded, slightly, torn between his sexual thirst and his wish
to pack up his embarrassment and flee.

   Nicole to the rescue!  "I guess that makes me the teacher.  I've had sex
with three different men, make that two boys and one man, a total of seven
times.  One of those boys was white.  Not exactly a slut, but compared to
you I'm the Happy Hooker.  Take off your shirt."

   He complied.  She gave him her best smile, the full 200-watt version,
and bit her lip.  "Now, you do my jeans.  I took yours off you, it's your
turn."

   Joe began to kneel, when that ancient affliction of virgin teenage boys
struck.  "I'm about to blow, Nicole.  Sorry." She grabbed the first thing
she saw, her Jackson High shirt, and caught the first blast of cum like an
outfielder, then the rest as it was launched, in spurts of diminishing
force.  She didn't like cum, and wouldn't even consider giving head.  She
liked it simple: missionary position, dog-style, cowgirl.  Call her prudish
and old fashioned, but she knew what she wanted.  She wanted to fuck, not
twist around in bed following some sex-recipe book.  Even so, the sight of
all that cum was exciting.  It promised that he'd be big and hard for as
long as she needed.

   Not until she'd used clean portions of the arms to wipe off his dick,
now at half-staff, was she ready to speak.  "Sorry for the waste, Joe, but
I don't do oral.  But Jeez, Joe, if you were into yoga you could learn to
blow your own horn." Again the 200-watt smile, then a thoughtful frown. 
I've gotta deal with this mess.  Wait right here." She stood up to leave
the room.  "Unless you want to borrow my sweatshirt and keep this stuff. 
Doggy bag?"



   That, at last, broke the ice.  Joe gave a burst of a guffaw: "Arf!  Arf!
Well, I would, but I've already got plenty at home." Laughing, she excused
herself, ran to the bathroom and washed out the worst of it, draping the
wet shirt over the foot of the bed.  "Sorry about that.  I got my white
genes from Jeff Davis by way of my dad, but I don't know where my mother
got our obsessive-compulsive genes."

   Without any further ado she pulled her own pants and panties off, took
his hand and led him to her bed, pushing him into it when he hesitated. 
She pulled a condom out of her dresser drawer.  "I hope this fits," she
said, not kidding.  "It's too late to run back to the corner store for the
extra large size."

   His hard on was still recovering from its eruption.  Joe's silence was
making her nervous, or at least self-conscious; in all the years she'd
known the boy, she'd never heard him be silent for this long.  "Joe, don't
you at least go to the movies?  This is the part where you feed me all your
lines about how beautiful I am with special mention of my eyes, my breasts
and, ahem, my vagina, and how you're mine forever and you'll make an honest
woman of me first thing in the morning."

   He'd been wondering if he was being unfaithful to Amy or Deb; Nicole's
jab jarred him into talking.  But despite the way his confidence had been
swelling this whole amazing week, he'd learned nothing about how to make
sexy small talk with a naked girl, whom he was about to fuck, not merely
flirt with in the hall.

   He shook his head, hard, as if to clear away the cobwebs.  "I guess you
must think I'm a nerd, or something.  I bet you weren't as speechless as I
am on your first time.  You are beautiful, and you know it.  You're one of
the prettiest girls in school, and that's not counting your perfect skin
and its perfect color and, as far as I can see, no pimples.  But, sorry, I
can't make you an honest woman in the morning.  It's a school holiday."
'Lame, lame, lame.' he berated himself.  'At least I didn't compare her
tits to Connie's.'

   Nicole gave him an indulgent look, flavored with pity.  "Joey, that was
lame, lame, lame.  This boy -- she gave his cock a gentle couple of strokes
-- will carry you a long way, but you have got a lot to learn about talking
to girls." As she spoke, she nudged him over and joined him in the bed. 
They lay side by side, just looking at each other, tense.

   "You know," Joe said, "I know how to ease my tension, at least.  We've
gotta wait for Mr.  Stiffy to stiffen anyway, so let's do something I'm
good at while we wait."

   "What's that, play Uno?"

   Joe stuck out his tongue.  "Oh, come on.  Work with me here.  I mean --
" Words failed him again, so he showed her.  He rolled over, halfway
covering her body, and kissed her, hard.  He loved kissing, in all its
forms; nuzzling a cheek, or a breast, French kissing, Irish kissing, Kenyan
kissing, all of it.  He didn't know about sex, that is, fucking, yet. 
Simple, lazy kissy face that lasted all afternoon was the most intimate act
he knew.  In his inexperience, a half hour of necking provided him a week's
worth of serenity, even if he didn't particularly like the girl he was
kissing.  He didn't know if that would work with kissing ugly girls,
though. Even a shy boy has to have his standards.

   Nicole was a pretty good kisser herself, and between them Mr.  Stiffy
got the message and stiffened.  Nicole's roving hand noticed, and wrapped
itself around the loose skin and hard meat.  After one or two small tugs,
she broke the kiss to say, "Hey, Joe, we've got company," pulling his cock
every which way, to fully demonstrate and admire its size and rigidity.

   Joe, whose attention had been focused on fondling her breast, paused and
looked down.  "Oh, ignore him.  He'll go away."

   "Not as long as we're kissing like this," she shot back.  "It's time,
Joe Dunlap Junior.  It's your bar mitzvah." Neither one of them was Jewish,
but he knew what she meant.  She was right.  She continued, "I don't want
to crush your fragile male ego, but I'm gonna take charge, and get this
show on the road.  Otherwise you'll be here when my mamma gets home and if
she sees this boy you'll be here all night."

   "Sounds like fun to me." She smacked the flank of his butt.  "I guess
you're the boss, Nic." But even as he said this, his hand moved to cup her
cunt as he thrust two fingers inside.  He'd had a lot of practice at this,
just last night in fact.  He could do it right-handed and left-handed.  It
was the last sexual maneuver in his skimpy bag of tricks, and even as he
pleasured Nicole with his new skill, he felt a twinge of guilt for his
infidelity to the two lovely girls he had at home.

   Nicole tingled at the suddenness of it, as he'd moved just when she'd
been assuming she have to do absolutely all the work herself.  But she
wanted to fuck, big time.  She let him massage her cunt as she broke open
the condom packet.  As she unrolled the latex envelope over the size of
Joe's rod, she wondered if it would fit.  She hoped so.  It had to.  Soon.
Her own urges were running away with her will power.

   She pushed his hand away from her pussy, rolling so she straddled his
body, facing him.  Her pussy was poised to tease, a half-inch from his tip.
She backed down almost upon him, wiggling her loins a little to tease her
own labia against the spongy helmet.  "Are. . .  you. . .  ready. . .  for.
. .  manhood?" she breathed, giddy with anticipation.  What would such a
huge shaft feel like?  Could she take it all?  Could virgin Joe control it?

   Just as Joe was gasping, "Stop teasing me, Nicole.  Please.  Please!"
the front door slammed.  The almost-lovers froze in alarm.

   From downstairs came the female voice, "Nicole!  Nicole!  Nicole are you
home?  Hurry up, darling, we've got to get moving.  Our appointment's in
twenty minutes."

   Tears of frustration welled up in Nicole's face.  She leaped off Joe and
off the bed, dashing to the door to yell, "Just a minute, Mother!" while
grabbing at her jeans.  To Joe she whispered the obvious, as she zipped her
pants and grabbed a button-up shirt with a collar from the drawer.  "Damn!
I forgot all about that damn hair appointment!" Socks.  Shoes.  Joe stayed
where he was, out of the way, and mimed a telephone with his thumb and
pinky to his ear and mouth.  Nicole, shoving feet into shoes, nodded
assent, then stood and leaned over him.  "Give us five minutes to get away,
then get out of here.  Right?" she murmured.  Joe nodded.  A peck on the
nose for Joe, a quick caress for his dick, and she was out the door.



   For Debbie, Thursday was just another day.  The only thing that happened
pertaining to our story was that she told Dan, her fuck buddy, that she'd
have to take a rain check and break their date tonight.  Dan was
disappointed, but that's in the fuck buddy's job description: Lovers Take
Precedence Over Fuck Buddies.  Who, Dan wondered, was Debbie's new lover?

   When Debbie got home, Joe was already there, sitting in his room with
his homework laid out on his desk.  To Debbie, he seemed to be staking out
an alibi.  'Doing your homework the night before a three-day weekend? 
C'mon, Joe, who do you think you're fooling?' But she saved it.  "Hi,
brother!" she called from his door.  "What's the latest with you and
Connie?"

   Joe looked up, at her, and laughed.  "Last I heard, Connie was fucking
Jefferson Davis."

   Well, that was a new one.  Joe was quick, but this wasn't quite his
style.  Debbie was really smart, and her intuition worked like lightning.
She'd seen, down the hall, Joe talking to Nicole. . .  Davis, sparking in
her memory their family legend that they were all bastards of one
particular traitorous bastard. . . .  "So, how's Nicole?  Smug and
contented?"

   Joe just laughed.  "Damn, you're good!  Tell me the rest."

   Debbie put on a thinker pose.  "Hmmmm.  You and Nicole, Connie's best
friend, at least so far, . . .  "She looked up, looked at her brother right
in the eye.  "When you said, 'Last I heard,' about Connie, was that the
literal truth?"

   "Oh, c'mon, Debbie.  Surely you know Jefferson Davis has been dead for a
hundred years."

   "No, but it was the 'last I heard.' Nicole and her father are the only
people in town who ever talk about Jefferson Davis, so what you heard must
have been 'Connie can go fuck Jefferson Davis.' Now, why would Nicole say
that?  Hmmm.  You were talking to Nic in the hall today, and she's Connie's
best friend, and you told me all about the big grudge match between you and
Connie Canteloupes.  Hmmm. . .  "

   She looked up with "Eureka!" written all over her face.  "Connie asked
Nicole to answer your challenge, but Nicole decided she'd rather see your
railroad spike than hear about it from Connie, maybe even test it out, so
she said to you, 'You can see Connie's tits or you can fuck my hot, juicy
pussy.' And you, dear brother, wisely chose Door Number 2, Nicole's cunt.
How'm I doin'?"

   Joe's bemused look gave him away.  "I pity your children, I really do.
How are they going to get away with anything?"

   "But what I don't get," Debbie continued, "is how you could have been
fucked by Nicole and lost your virginity, two hours ago but be sitting here
doing your homework now.  Shouldn't you be out celebrating?"

   Joe, who hadn't decided whether to tell his mother and sister about
Nicole, confessed everything, including Nicole's unusual take on oral sex
and how he was only a half block from Nicole's house when her father drove
by.  And that he wasn't doing his homework, he was just sitting here,
staring, thinking over the day.

   "Well, tell me the rest." Deb insisted.  "What's Nicole's pussy taste
like?  Is her beautiful cocoa skin the same shade all over?  C'mon,
brother, details!"

   All at once Joe realized his big sister was jealous.  He stood up and
went to her, put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her, all without a
word.  This was a major step for their relationship, the first time the
initiative had passed to Joe.  Debbie felt pretty sure that Joe would be
the leader from now on.  'With Mom, too?' she wondered.

   Once again, Debbie's eyes filled and she threw herself, face down, on
Joe's bed.  He went to her at once, sitting on the edge of the bed, one
hand on her back, rubbing gently.  He didn't ask, "what's wrong?" She'd
tell him when she was ready.

   After sobbing a while, Debbie turned over in a twinkling, long before
Joe could react.  Instead of rubbing his sister's back, he was suddenly
fondling her left boob.  Neither of them could have known that precisely
this happenstance was what had kindled their mother's incestuous
relationship with her brother, all those years ago; you and I can see,
though, that it's pretty spooky.

   Joe started to pull his hand away, but Debbie grabbed his wrist and
pressed his hand into her breast, with a tentative half-smile.  Joe smiled
back, and continued to caress her tit.  "Oh, big-little brother Joe, I was
so jealous just now," his sister sighed.  "And when you said you and Nicole
hadn't quite done it I wanted to tear my clothes off and beg you to let me
be your first.  I didn't know how much I want you, right here, right now,
or anytime you want, really.  Please don't waste your cherry on Nicole or
-- bleahh!  -- Connie.  It's okay with me if you fuck them both every day,
but I've been dreaming about being your first, ever since you came to me on
Monday."

   "Debbie, do you realize what you're saying?" Joe prodded.

   "Sure I do," she replied.  "I've been thinking about nothing but, all
week.  I broke a fuck date with Dan, just in case you were ready tonight.
You know I fucked Owen; Mom told me it was okay.  I mean, beforehand.  She
said she could tell that I wanted to go to him and she said 'go ahead.'
Fucking Uncle Owen was fun, but what I've really been thinking about is
what Mom's 'go ahead' can mean for you and me.  Mom and Owen have the
perfect relationship.  Even now, after twenty years, they can hardly keep
their hands off each other, and even so Mom can lend me to Owen, or Owen to
me, just because she knows it's what we want."

   She took a deep breath, punctuated by a couple of sobs.  "I think you
and I could have that kind of permanent, perfect relationship.  Will you
think about it, Joe, please?"

   Joe let go of her breast and hugged her close.  "Debbie, I think about
it all the time.  I love you in ways I didn't even know were possible just
a week ago.  Like last night, when you and I and Mom were stroking each
other on the couch.  Or even today, as Nicole was lowering herself onto my
cock, I was thinking, 'Is this right?  Am I cheating on the women I love?'"
He stopped talking, embracing Debbie, feeling the wetness of her tears
through his shirt.

   "But, Debbie, we have to think about Mom, and probably Dad, too.  Where
do they fit?  Mom wants me and I want her, too, just as much as I want you.
Neither one of us has the nerve to just say it out loud, 'Hey, wanna fuck?'
You're the only one with the balls to say stuff like that, and I envy you.
I want you both equally, I can only fuck one of you first, and I can't
forget that fucking Mom would be a kindness as well as a mindblowing
orgasmic experience, because she's had to go so long without it.  You said
so yourself.  But when I think about doing Mom, it feels like disloyalty to
you.  And vice versa."

   "Oh, Joey, I haven't forgotten Mom, and I know exactly where you're
coming from.  We can't sneak around behind her back, she'd be totally alone
if we did.  But I don't think she'll be coming to tell me 'if you want to
fuck Humongous Joe, go ahead,' any time soon, like she did with Owen.  She
wants you, too."

   Joey and Debbie both brooded for a while.  Joey broke the silence:
"We've all three gotta do it together, at least the first time.  Or at
least, all three have to be invited.  Hey!  What's the idea of playing
kissy face with Mom the other night without inviting me, anyway?  Sneaking
around behind my back?" He leaned down and tickled his sister, who
protected herself by clutching his rigid dick in her free hand.

   "Don't blame me, blame Mom!" she laughed.  "She's the one who came on to
me." She paused, then continued.  She didn't let go of his cock.  "You're
right, though.  It's all three, or none.  'All for one and one for all!' .
. .  But if we just ask her, she'll get all tied up in worrying about Dad,
and we won't get an answer.  And if she says, 'Oh, go ahead you two, but I
have to be faithful to your father,' we'll feel guilty and won't have any
fun.  Right?"

   Joe nodded.  "So we're trapped!  Everybody wants to fuck but nobody can!
Although it's okay with me if you and Mom get together without inviting me.
But I want to watch!"

   Debbie giggled.  "Be careful what you ask for, brother, you just may get
it.  But hey, that's an idea, at that!  What if Mom won't play with us, but
she'll come and watch?  Then we wouldn't be cheating and she wouldn't be
adulterizing."

   "Adulterizing?" Joe winked.

   "Whatever."

   Joe's immediately thought was, "Do you think we could just fuck,
casually, with Mom sitting there?  I don't think I could even jack off."

   "You goof.  She wouldn't be sitting there; she'd be participating,
coaching, maybe lending a hand, so to speak, now and then.  Maybe she'd be
playing with herself over on an armchair.  Or maybe we should ask her for a
strip tease to get us started.  Get the idea?  There's lots of ways she can
play without breaking any of her rules.  We just gotta be creative."



   Her enthusiasm was contagious.  "Okay!" Joe yelped.  "But I'm counting
on you two to do most of the creativity.  At least at first.  I'm a virgin,
and I'm a boy, so I doubt that I'd know anything that would help you two
hot babes."

   Debbie snorted.  "Typical male.  Wants the women to do all the work. 
No, Brother Joe, you are going to toss out ideas and reveal your secret
fetishes the same as me and Mom, and if they won't work, we'll tell you
why, and eventually you'll understand.  Just like learning your ABC's."

   "Hey, aren't you forgetting something?  That cock, there, the one you're
stroking, little by little, there, with your hand?" Joe was laughing so
hard he was gasping.  "The almighty cock makes the rules!"

   "I don't know where you've been living, brother, but here, it's 'United
pussy makes the rules!' We'll see who holds out longer, you playing with
yourself, or me and Mom licking each other's cunts dry."

   Debbie could sense that the image of her and their mother doing lesbian
69 had pushed Joe to maximus maximus.  She reached to open his belt, but he
beat her to it; between them, they soon had his colossus free and alert. 
Debbie was still lying on Joe's bed, hand still clutching said colossus,
face close by and ready for action.  She looked up into her brother's face.
"May I get down to business, here?  Or are you going to chicken out again?"
She squeezed, reminding him of her hard tennis-playin' muscles.

   Joe nodded.  "Go for it, Debbie.  Go for it, my sexy, perfect sister."

   She almost leaped into position to fit her lips around his cockhead,
forcing herself down as far as she could go.  She was pretty sure she had
more of Joe's cock than she'd had of her uncle's identical cock, two nights
ago, but she felt like she had a lot to learn.  Propped on one elbow, she
stroked his member with her other hand, letting it run up the whole length
of the shaft, until her wrist hit her chin, then all the way down to his
balls.  On one downstroke, just to see what would happen, she jostled his
balls a little with a sharp feminine fingernail; what would happen was a
quiver that felt slight to her, but, she was confident, profound to her
brother.

   It took a little while to prime his long pump; he'd already cum twice
this afternoon, once with Nicole and once when he got home, hot and
bothered by his near miss.  Debbie was patient, however, and, when she felt
the cum rushing upwards, she snapped her stroking into high gear to work
the spurts up to maximum power.  Then they were pounding into the back of
her throat; hot, slimy, and tasty.  "Ping, ping, ping," she imagined,
conjuring the picture of a carnival shooting gallery set up in the back of
her mouth.  'This boy is one good shot, I'll tell you that,' she thought.
That thought reminded her that at the other end of this erect pump there
was a boy, her brother in fact.  He was moaning and saying stupid male
things like, "oh yeah, Debbie, oh yeeeeaaaah, big sister, you suck so good.
. ." 'Christ, I hope he's teachable,' she groused, silently, of course,
because she'd been taught not to speak with her mouth full.  She hoped he'd
read that junk in on-line porn and that it wasn't spontaneous.

   She hadn't milked him completely dry when she stopped sucking.  She
stopped because she wanted him to shut up.  After planting some wet kisses
along the shaft of his deflating prick, she rolled over onto her back and
pulled her brother to her, giving him a large, open-mouthed kiss as he
landed on her.  They lay there, entertaining themselves with lazy necking,
when Deb noticed their mother standing in the hallway right outside the
door, watching them.  Mom wasn't angry, or hurt, Deb noticed; it was more
of an indulgent, mommish look, as when she'd catch them as little kids
breaking some rule but having so much fun that she didn't want to stop
them.

   Amy caught Debbie's eye, with its look of panic, and gestured with her
hands, "No, no, don't mind me, I'll go away and leave you to it," which she
did.  For Debbie, though, the spell was broken, and she disengaged from
Joe's kisses.  "Okay, okay, brother.  It's been nice, but all things in
moderation.  I gotta go."

   Joe thought she meant "go to the bathroom," which reminded him that so
did he.  He wanted to hurry, too, while his dick was at half-mast; peeing
through an erect cock is tricky business for any male, let alone one whose
cock-slit was higher than his navel and pointed right at his face.  So,
their little make-out session ended, and they went down to do their
making-supper chores.



   It was Debbie, of course, who popped the question.  The three of them
had finished their supper, and cleared away the dishes; right now they were
lingering over their decaf, laughing about Joe's misadventures with Nicole,
as Amy waited for them to say whatever it was that was obviously on their
minds.  "You should have borrowed that sweatshirt like she said," Amy said.
"Dessert, you know."

   "Hey, Mom, I can whip you up a batch whenever you want one," Joe leered.
"Or, you can have it hot and fresh straight from the source."

   "Oh, Big Joe, massive, Washington Monument Joe, don't I wish.  But I
made these vows. . .  "

   Debbie saw her opportunity.  "Mom, Joey and I were just talking about
just that.  I think you should get Joe's cherry before he wastes it on some
stranger like Nicole.  She's cute and all, but she's not family.  I'm being
noble, here, because I want to be his first.  But it's okay with me if you
do it first."

   Joe interrupted.  "Hey, don't I get a vote?"

   "Not if you know what's good for you," his sister shot back.  "Shut up."
She looked back at their Mom.  "Now, we understand and respect your vows.
But I can't wait forever; I gotta have this boy's cock the way some people
need a crack fix.  So here's what we decided.  If you don't want him first,
then I get him, but we want you to be there."

   Amelia gave them each a long look, thinking.  "What, you want me to
watch?" The way it came out, she sounded like you'd sound if you thought
someone was trying to cheat you: "What, you want a hundred dollars for that
fake Rolex?"

   But Debbie was on a roll.  "If you want to, you can watch.  But we'd
rather have you participate.  Whatever you can do without breaking your
vows."

   Joe piped up.  "You, know, coaching, helping, maybe a nice motherly kiss
here and there.  Coaching especially.  You've got all those years of
experience with Uncle Owen.  Debbie's had one session with a monster cock,
and I'd bet she screwed it all up but Owen was too nice to say so."

   Debbie gave him a backhand slap to the shoulder.  "He couldn't say much,
little brother.  He was moaning."

   "Now, children," Mom warned, as if they were ten years younger and
arguing about something innocent and pure.  "I'm sure Debbie would do just
fine without my help."

   "Of course she would," countered Joe.  "But she'd do it so much better
if you were helping."

   Amy said, "It's sweet of you not to go behind my back, and I appreciate
the offer.  I suppose you want to start now?"

   Debbie beamed at her mother, a look packed with her love and affection.
"Oh, Mom, we want to start yesterday.  But we don't want to rush you,
either.  Even Joe can keep his pants on for a little while longer.  But
don't forget, tomorrow's Friday. . .  "

   "I love you both, and thank you, thank you, for thinking of your old Mom
at a time like this.  Please don't fuck until I've thought it over.  In
fact, Joe, let me put you on the spot, like you two did to me.  I want to
bury my face in your sister's cunt.  Right here, on the kitchen table.  Do
you want to watch?  May I have your permission?"

   Cunning old Amelia had neatly turned the tables, and turned on both of
her kids to boot.  Deb's hand was in her crotch, rubbing her snatch through
her jeans and breathing in the humid smell of her excitement.  Big Joe's
bigness was straining to its biggest.  It hurt, of course.  He stood up to
readjust his pants to ease the pressure and pain.  Deb stood up and leaned
her butt on the table, arms back, legs open the picture of a girl ready to
be taken by all comers.

   Joe's answer was to swiftly clear the coffee cups off the table.  He
even grabbed a cloth from the sink and wiped the table off, clean.  Amy
watched in awe.  Her kids could still surprise her sometimes.  Joe
positioned himself in front of his sister.  "Okay, big sister.  Pull those
legs together so I can de-pants you.  I'm a full service sex attendant
tonight." Debbie complied, and was soon back in position on her elbows,
legs apart, naked from the waist down.

   Joey stepped over to his mother, bowed, and held out his arm.  "Madame,
all is prepared just as you requested.  If you will come with me. . .  "

   By this time Amy was gushing just as much as Debbie.  She let Joe lead
her to where she was standing in front of Debbie.  Flustered and
self-conscious, she simply looked at her daughter, whose vibes were those
of a bitch in heat.  Amy never exactly made the decision; the decision made
her.

   Stepping in close to Debbie's cunt, she leaned over her daughter, hands
on the table, and engaged her in a deep, but motionless, kiss.  Their
tongues didn't wrestle, they danced politely, Amy leading.  Debbie lifted
her legs to embrace her mother's waist, gently crossing her calves over
Amy's ass.  Then she lowered her shoulders to the table.  Her mom didn't
break the kiss; she levered herself up a little and followed Debbie down to
where they were both half-lying on the table.

   Joe stood off to the side, keeping quiet for once.  'Girl-on-girl sex!
The ultimate turn-on, right here in our kitchen!' He quietly freed his iron
cock, taking care not to let even his belt buckle make a sound.  But he
willed himself not to start stroking, or even touching, his fuck-tool.  He
just watched.

   Amy ground her pubis into her daughter's, eliciting from Debbie a gasp
of pleasure.  She worked her loins into a better position, and pushed more
firmly, not harder, stoking the fires in them both.  Debbie hiked her feet
up higher, using her heels to massage her mother's back, and at the same
time forced her hand between their two bodies to fondle Amy's breast.

   With her other hand, and her eyes, she tried to command Joe to reach
under Mom's shirt and unclasp her bra.  This was comical, I wish you could
have seen it.  Joe was slow on the uptake, looking at his sister
quizzically.  Debbie wanted to yell at him for being so obtuse, but didn't
want her mother to know what they were up to.  She was afraid that Amelia
would resist even such a small participation by her son.  So she gestured
with her free hand as well as she could, all the while enjoying the handful
of tit that she did have.

   Joe finally got the message; he figured it out by some sign language by
Debbie's feet, which she'd raised to the level of Amy's bra strap.  As Joe
hiked up Amy's t-shirt, Debbie's feet loosened their grip; Joe worked the
clasps.  Rather than back off like he was supposed to, he ran his hands
around his mother's ribs and forced them both, under Mom's shirt, between
the two women, cupping Amy's boob with one palm, brushing Debbie's boob
with the other, briefly, as he lifted the cups of her bra out of Debbie's
way.  Amy, of course, was aware of all this busy-ness by her children but
opted to stay in the moment and let it happen.  Debbie's two hands, still
unable to touch the skin of her mother's tits, caressed them from outside
the shirt as Joey slowly pulled his hands away.

   Now that he was involved, Joey started to think.  'What else can I do
that might be helpful?' From where he stood, with only one thing preventing
his naked cock from riding the groove of his mom's ass cheeks, the answer
was obvious.  He reached around Amy's waist, and pulled the string of her
favorite Old Navy sweatpants, tugging open the knot.  As he eased off her
pants and panties, Amy pulled her legs together to help.  When the pants
reached her knees, Joe noticed for the first time that she was wearing
running shoes and socks.  As he reached around to work the knots of the
shoes, deja vu from this afternoon strong in his mind, he thought that he
could pull the loose sweatpants off, without removing her shoes.  He gently
nudged Amy's right foot as he pulled the elastic ankle band down to her
heel.  His mom got the message and lifted her foot to help.  Soon Amy, too,
was naked from the waist down.

   Meanwhile, up at table height events were becoming more animated. 
They'd broken the kiss, and Amy slid one hand into Debbie's shirt,
approaching her daughter's boobs but unable to reach them.  Amy, whose
boobs were bigger than Debbie's by over one letter-size, had to rear back
to make enough room for them both to feel each other up at the same time.
When she did, super-sex-attendant Joe was on the job; he pulled his
mother's t-shirt up from the waist and eased it over her head, arm by arm.
The bra stayed behind, hanging from Amy's shoulders almost into Debbie's
face.  Joe moved to take that, too, but Debbie shook her head and he backed
off.

   He did want to get another handful of Mom's tits, though.  Returning to
his position behind her, he reached around her chest and got not one, but
two handsful of aroused, bullet-nippled breast.  Joe hugged his mom too
him, kissing the back of her neck.  They both were acutely aware of Joe's
erection, captured between the cheeks of Amy's butt.  He was nearly in
agony, wanting to stroke himself off and cum all over Amy's back, but he
didn't dare.  Then into the wordless drama Mom spoke: "Go ahead, Joe. 
Gimme what you've got.  Just keep that nightstick out of my ass.  Or cunt."

   Joey didn't speak, but he planted several kisses on the back of his
mother's neck, to thank her.  He stroked slowly, wanting the moment to
last. Debbie tried to help, but her legs had tired and her efforts to
augment Joe's rhythm by pressing her ankles into his ass failed.  She
couldn't hold her feet up any more.  But she could caress her brother's
hands where he braced himself on the table, just to let him know that his
intrusion into their girl-girl act was okay with her.

   After a few more strokes, with a few small moans Joey felt his dick
explode, albeit weakly (remember, he'd already cum at least three times
that day, maybe more that we don't know about), shooting his cum as far as
his mother's shoulder blades, but that was it.  When fully primed, he could
have shot clear over her head.

   As soon as Amy felt the hot cum on her back, cooling rapidly, she
reached around with one hand to collect some on her fingers, then sucked
them.  Debbie released her grip on her mother's boob to do the same.  Just
about then Amy had to stand up straight; her arms were tired from propping
her up over Debbie's body.  Joe was still behind her; when she stood, he
surprised her by licking some of his own cum from her back.  He leaned his
face over her shoulder; understanding, she turned to kiss him, rewarded by
a generous dollop of the cum he'd salvaged.  They both backed away from the
table, still stuck together by Joe's softening cock in his mother's ass
crack, Amy holding Debbie's hands to assist as Debbie stood up, as well.

   Debbie and Joe wrapped their arms around their mom, they being the bread
to this sandwich.  Amy was the first to speak, however.  "Don't forget,
children, that I still haven't buried my face in Debbie's pussy.  D'ya
think maybe we can get on with it?  It's been more than twenty years; I'm
tired of waiting."

   "My room," Debbie ordered.  She broke from the sandwich to race ahead of
them, to turn down the sheets so as to receive her mother properly.  Joe,
ever the gentleman, helped Amy put her t-shirt back on; he knew her back
must be cold.  Again he escorted his mother on his arm, but only to the
door of his sister's room.  This time he wanted to keep out of the way. 
Debbie was waiting, naked, sprawled on her several bed pillows, legs open
wide.  Intoning, "dessert is served," Joe released Amelia's arm and
gestured for her to enter the room.

   Amelia wasted no time on politeness or anything else.  She rushed to
Debbie's bed, pulling her daughter around so her cunt was at the edge of
the bed, feet on the carpet, in much the same position she'd been in in the
kitchen.  Debbie was pulled off her pillows and flat on the bed.  Without a
word, or any other ado, Amy's tongue was deep in Debbie's cunt, as far as
it could reach.  Her sighs of pleasure at the sensations, and the taste,
were soon joined by Debbie's sighs of gradual, sexual pleasure; not
orgasmic, but pleasant in themselves and in their promise of orgasms to
come.

   After drenching her tongue in Debbie's juices and massaging Debbie's
clit, Amy gave her daughter what she and Julie, all those years ago, had
liked to call the "catnip treatment." Just as Julie had done on that first
night, Amy buried her face in Debbie's pussy, rubbing it up and down, left
and right, until it was totally coated in Debbie's juices.  It seemed to
both Debbie and Joe, who had never seen such a thing, that their mother was
wishing she could crawl into Debbie's womb, which would have posed a
paradox, seeing as how Debbie had emerged from Amy's.

   Debbie was learning that rapture can have many, totally unanticipated,
dimensions.  She was coming in a way she'd never experienced or imagined;
without being penetrated by some foreign object, without even having her
clitoris stimulated very much.  It was the ferocious assault on her pussy
itself, the way she felt her mother's all-consuming need for Debbie's
cunt-juices, and only Debbie's cunt-juices, and Debbie had almost
life-or-death power over the woman worshiping her cunt.  All she had to do,
in her delirious fantasy, would be to sit up and close her legs, and her
mother would starve to death right before her eyes.  Of course, Debbie
would have no intention of doing any such thing.  But in our fantasies, at
least, we can enjoy power even without planning to use it.  Debbie was in a
very different sort of heaven.  Without warning to anyone, herself
included, she screamed to the world her ecstasy and triumph, then
collapsed, shivering, onto the bed.

   Amy was the only one of the three who wasn't shocked by Debbie's scream.
She wasn't even startled.  Even before Debbie collapsed, Amy was on her
feet, scooting Debbie's legs around so she was on the bed, then pulled up
the covers.  Then she pulled off her t-shirt and joined her daughter in
that cocoon, holding her close, so they could share each other's warmth.

   She beckoned to Joe, who jumped to help his mother, whatever she needed.
She pulled his face down and kissed him, not like a mother (well, duh) but
a real, hot, man-woman kiss, then whispered, "She's passed out already; I'm
about to join her.  Let us sleep a couple of hours, but then wake us up."
He nodded, still dazed by the spectacle of his sister's orgasm.  "Oh," his
mother continued.  "Don't be jealous.  You'll get your turn one day soon."
She winked.  Joe, who had not had even a little twinge of jealousy, took
his mom's hand in both of hers and kissed her fingers.  He left the room
without a sound, and shut the door gently.

   Friday

   Joe had gone to wake up his mother and sister like his mom had asked him
to, but he couldn't get either one of them to respond.  It would have been
a shame to disturb them; they looked adorable, wrapped together in a spoon
position.  He let them sleep.  Then he took the opportunity to watch two
Schwarznegger movies -- movies Debbie and Amy hated -- and after the
second, dragged himself off to bed.

   He slept late, taking advantage of the school holiday.  When he awoke,
the house was absolutely silent.  In the kitchen, he found a note: "Dear
Big Joe: We'll be back soon.  Get some breakfast and go back to bed.  Love,
Deb." That girl was too bossy, still playing the big sister.  He had to
admit it was good advice; he took it, and was soon fast asleep, enjoying
his cat nap, dreaming lurid dreams about what exotic sex toys Debbie and
Amy might be buying.

   In fact, they had no intention of doing anything of the kind.  They were
going from grocery store to butcher to fruit market to Cost Plus, etc.,
gathering the ingredients for a very special dinner they planned to make
for Debbie's father -- Little Joe, formerly known as Old Joe.  They didn't
have any particular reason, except that when they'd seen him last, Little
Joe was really depressed, and would need some attention.

   While they were at it, they found opportunities to caress each other,
including under the loose skirts they both were wearing, unencumbered by
panties or anything else that might thwart a roving hand.  Debbie wanted to
coat her fingers with cunt juice and spread it all over the tomatoes in the
store; she figured it would help sales.  Her mother gave her a firm, "no."
Apparently Mom was still in charge, at least when they both were vertical.

   Debbie avoided any mention of the Big Joe Dilemma that her mother was
facing; she sensed that Mom's resolve was weakening and didn't want to
interrupt.  Amelia brought it up herself, though.  After a long silence as
Debbie drove them home, with three fingers in her mother's pussy, Amy
announced without preamble, "I'll hold out until Monday, then decide.  One
day at a time.  Please, God, help me protect my husband from knowing what's
going on, at least this weekend." She realized that she was asking God to
help her to lie to her husband, not to mention asking him to aid and abet a
mortal sin, so she felt it necessary to explain, silently this time.  'The
way he's feeling, it would be criminal to make it any worse.  If I can get
this straightened out in a week or two, maybe he'll never have to know.'

   To Debbie, the audible part sounded as if her Mom was planning to behave
today and all weekend, then go for broke on Monday.  If so, that was okay
with Debbie.  She and Joe could hold out, she was sure, maybe with a couple
of innocuous blow jobs to tide her over.  Or maybe she could tag along next
time Joe visited Nicole.



   Joe was awake by the time Amy and Debbie got home.  Good thing, too,
because Debbie almost ran to his room and flopped down on his bed, on top
of him.  Between his pajamas and the bedclothes, though, there were several
layers of cloth blocking any access to the naked pussy she'd artfully
exposed and planted right on her brother's crotch as she landed.

   "Good morning, Little Sister!" he said after breaking her long, smoochy
kiss.  What'd you bring me from the sex shop?"

   "As if.  Why waste good money on sex toys?  We have one all-natural sex
toy right here.  All we need." She could tell by the way his legs were
splayed where his penis must be, so she rubbed the blanket there, but Mr.
Dick wasn't standing up to greet her.  She made a mental note to fix that.
"We went grocery shopping.  Now that 'Little Joe' has been demoted from
household studling to harem eunuch, Mom figured he ought to get some extra
special privileges in the dining room.  He's coming home today, you know."

   "Yeah, I know.  Actually, it'll be good having him here.  I think I need
a chaperon."

   Debbie bounced off the bed and threw all of Joe's covers to the floor,
at the same time leaning over to play a little smoochy-face with his cock.
She was glad to see that all-natural sex toy reveal himself as her face
approached.  "He likes me!  He really likes me!" she squealed, like a
little kid.  "Still not tee-totally awesome erect, though." She opened her
mouth to help him. . .

   "Hey, sis, d'ya think I could have a little breakfast first, before you
have dessert?"

   She looked up at him.  "Good idea!" Debbie knew Joe had something like
Cheerios or pancakes in mind, but she had other ideas.  She dived onto the
bed again, on her back with feet against the headboard, head at the other
end, legs making a long, shapely V leading to her still-pantyless cunt. 
"Breakfast is served!" she squealed.  "Take all you want, but eat all you
take."

   Joey rolled his eyes, then grabbed her nearer foot and kissed it,
through the sock.  Then he pulled his body up into a crawl position and
worked his way up Debbie's leg, returning her wet smoochy kisses with some
of his own as he did, favoring the firm sexy muscle of her calf and thigh.
When he reached his goal, he stopped to take a good look, not sure what to
do.

   "Come on, bro," came Debbie's plea.  "Get on with it."

   "Hey, big sister, gimme a little slack here.  I'm still a beginner at
this."

   It was Debbie's turn to roll her eyes.  "You've never done this before?"

   "Once.  Last summer, at camp.  I told you about that."

   "And it sounded to me like you botched it, although I was too kind to
say so at the time."

   "I did botch it," Joe replied with an embarrassed grin.  "I had no
better idea about licking cunts than she did about sucking cocks.  But we
had fun anyway."

   "Well, this will be more fun, brother.  Besides, you got to watch an
expert at work, just last night.  Did you take good notes?"

   Those memories provoked Joe's erection to hurry itself along.  "You'd
better give me the paint-by-number version," he said.  "I couldn't see the
inside game because Mom's head was in the way."

   "Oh, all-right!  First, pull yourself up so you're face to face, or lips
to lips, with my pussy.  Make sure you can breathe okay, don't vacuum up my
cunt hair with your nose.  You're going to be busy for a good long time."
Joe complied.

   "Now.  You see a wet, pink, slit about an inch long, just in front of
your mouth?"

   "No," Joe mumbled.  "All I can see is your t-shirt and your chin.  And
some foliage here in the foreground."

   "Oh, brother," Debbie said.  "I can see this is going to take a while.
Can you feel that wetness there, in front of your mouth?" Joe nodded. 
"Stick out your tongue as far as-- oooooh!  Yes!  Like that!  -- as far as
it will go.  Savor the taste of your first real woman.  A tad too sweet, I
know, but with an impudent aftertaste of orange marmalade." She paused,
working on her next lines.  Joe thought she tasted pretty good, but he
couldn't detect any orange marmalade.

   "Ooohh, oohhhh, yes!  Remember that spot." She sighed a moment, then
resumed giving instructions.  "Without, ever, removing your mouth and
tongue from my wet cunt, slide your tongue upward until you hit flesh. . .
My flesh, you moron, not yours!  When I tell you to start, gently pull your
tongue toward your teeth.  You're looking for a hard button of flesh. 
It'll probably remind you of a pearl in an oyster."

   Joe looked up at her.  "Especially now that you've told me."

   Debbie grabbed his head and shoved it back into position.  "I believe I
said, 'never remove your tongue from my cunt,' brother.  I meant it! 
Ready? OK, now you may search for my clit." Sure enough, he found the pearl
button; he wanted to make another joke about it but figured he'd better
not. Debbie quivered a little when tongue met clit, but she didn't yelp
this time.  As instructed, he continued to pull the tip of his tongue
backward, out of the tunnel.  She slapped his head.  "No!  No!  Bad Joe!"
By this time, Debbie was laughing so hard it almost hurt.  "You were
supposed to stop at the pearl!  Try again."

   Pretty soon Joe had a good mental map of his sister's pussy, and didn't
need any more instruction.  His poor tongue was getting a workout.  'How do
you train for this?' he wondered.  'Go around all day trying to touch the
tip of your nose?' Every now and then he had to retreat and swallow the
juices, his and hers, that had drained into his mouth.  Debbie, who had
eased herself back down to the bed, didn't seem to mind.  She was sighing
and cooing and making other baby noises.  He liked massaging her clitoris
most.  He didn't know why.  Several days later, after Debbie had had a few
practice sessions on available cunts, she told him she liked the clitoris
best, too.  She thought it was because it was a target; she knew that
tonguing a clit was a reliable way to get a girl's pussy rockin' and
rollin'.

   She was right.  Even inexperienced Joe got her started, although he
didn't know how to keep her going.  'He'll learn,' Debbie thought.  'He
must be pretty smart.  He's my brother, after all.' She'd come down from
her mini-climax, but Joey was still at it, tongue lapping up the new batch
of pussy-juice.  'Why?' she wondered.

   About then she realized that he was teasing her; she hadn't given him
permission to withdraw, so he kept at it.  She petted his hair like she
would a cat, saying, "Hey, don't be a glutton.  Somebody else might want
some."

   That got him.  He looked up.  "You said you and Mom got your share this
morning, when you were shopping.  She had to stop you from wasting it all
over the tomatoes."

   'Hoist by my own petard,' she thought.  That always sounded vaguely
obscene.  What's a petard, anyway?  "OK, Joe," she giggled.  "She didn't
get to eat any, though.  Me neither.  So, stop.  Put your tongue down.  Do
not turn the page."

   "How come?"

   "A big, solid, hard prick usually does the trick.  Having my pussy eaten
works sometimes.  I can do it with my fingers, unless I'm feeling sorry for
myself.  Toys and vibrators don't do it for me, though.  That's how I come.
How 'bout you?"

   He finally got the joke, which he thought was kinda lame.  He tried
again.  "Why do you want me to stop?"

   "Because I'm afraid your jaw will get frozen in that Neanderthal-looking
pose and I don't want to explain it to Dad."

   "Why would you have to explain it?  It's my jaw." He regretted the
obtuse question as soon as it left his mouth.  He knew exactly what his
sister was going to say.

   "Because you can't talk if your jaw is frozen," they said almost in
unison.

   "OK, OK," Joe said, pulling away from her loins as he rose to be
kneeling on his bed.  "I'll give you a break.  But I warn you, don't ever
sleep with your legs apart.  You might find me attached to your labia in
the morning."

   She swung her athletic body off the far side of the bed.  "Promises,
promises.  Now I suppose you want your turn."

   "Fair's fair."

   "I've gotta check with Mom first." She sashayed out of the room, as
merry and light as when she entered.  "Mom!  Mo-o-o-m!"

   By the time Debbie returned, with their mother, Joe had stripped off his
pajamas and thrown them toward the closet.  At the sight of them, even
dressed in respectable, conservative skirts and blouses, his dick made its
last jump from balsa wood to titanium.  Amelia noticed.  "Thanks for the
compliment, Mr.  Dick." Joe didn't know where the name, "Mr.  Dick" had
come from, but he resigned himself to its use.

   "Hi, Mom.  Good morning," said Joe, swinging himself out of bed to kiss
her.  On the lips, of course, with his erection grinding into her loins. 
With her arms around his waist, she pulled him in tighter, as they enjoyed
the long kiss.

   "Debbie just apologized for you two starting without me," Amy said as
she came up for air.  "I said it was okay, this time, but that I'd have
thought she wanted me around to give you pointers."

   "Mom, I-- we both always want pointers from you.  Any time."

   "Like now, when I suck his cock," Debbie chimed in.  She pushed her
brother to where he was sitting on the bed.  "Like this?" She knelt between
his knees, pulled his legs farther apart, and scooted in as far as she
could.  But she found, to her surprise, that she couldn't reach his
cockhead; the best she could do was kiss the sensitive skin just below the
helmet.  She hadn't had this trouble with Uncle Owen.

   Amy intervened.  "Debbie, your problem is that the bed is too high. 
That'll work on an average boy, but not on your brother.  If you want to
blow him, you'll have to stand up and lean over, which is a pain in the
back, or persuade him to stand up, or sit in a chair, or get on the bed
yourself, at right angles to his legs, and take him from the side."

   Debbie stood to look at her Mom.  "Which do you recommend?"

   "Well, it depends on the mood.  I could always take the most cock by
lying in the bed." She snickered.  "From that angle I can take all of your
father's.  I could even take his balls, but I'd hurt his feelings. 
Kneeling as he stands or sits in a chair works okay, but you're kneeling.
If you don't want to feel submissive, like a sex toy, don't do it that way.
But you can some times," she hastened to add.  "Even if your relation isn't
always dom-sub.  Role playing is a fun was to spice up your sex life."
Another pause.  "Even your father likes to role-play.  But don't forget to
play nice and take turns being the dom."

   Debbie flopped onto the bed and began to do stagey, exaggerated
maneuvers that everybody could tell were planned to fail.  After a half
dozen tries, she'd gotten her lips around his cockhead only twice; one
other time she took it in her eye, but that didn't count.  With an
exasperated, and exaggerated, sigh she pushed back so she was kneeling on
the bed.  "Mo-o-m, I can't get it right," she whined.  "What am I doing
wrong?"

   Amy wasn't born yesterday.  She knew just what Debbie had in mind.  In
fact, Amy kind of liked the idea, but she felt the suggestion had to come
from the kids, not from her.  "Debbie, you know practice makes better. 
Keep trying." 'And please ask me to demonstrate.  Either one of you! 
Pleee-ze!'

   Her daughter leaned over, nuzzled Joe's shaft with her wet lips, then
sat up again.  She gave Amy a stage wink.  "It's no use, Mom.  Can you show
me?"

   Joe caught his cue.  "Yeah, Mom, I'm getting frustrated here.  Can you
show Debbie how it's done?  There's plenty of time before you have to fix
dinner."

   If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.  Amy gave a theatrical sigh, saying, "A
mother's work is never done." She gave Debbie a wink that was even more
fakey than Debbie's had been.  "Off the bed, girl.  You're sitting right
where I need to be."

   "Okay, Mom.  And thanks, Mom, you're the best." They all left unstated
what Amy was the "best" at.

   As Amy slid into position - the correct position is obvious, Debbie was
a fraud through and through - her son reached out to stroke her hair.  She
slapped his hand away.  "This is purely instructional, not lovemaking," she
grinned.  "No intimate touches.  Keep your hands and your lips to
yourself."

   "Oh, Mom!"

   "I mean it, son.  I have to draw the line somewhere.  Now let me get to
work."

   "Can I finger-fuck Debbie while we watch?" Joe asked, his face the
picture of innocence.  But Amy didn't answer, because right at that moment
she had attached her lips to her son's magnificent member and letting her
mouth open wider and wider as she inhaled as much as she could, inch by
inch.  The cock head plowed into the back of her throat, but although it
had been years since anything had invaded back there, it was a familiar
sensation and she didn't panic.  She controlled her gag reflex, breathed
through her nose a few times, and got busy.  She'd suck as hard as she
could, drawing all the loose skin deep into her mouth, then decompress. 
After a few preliminary sucks, she caught a rhythm.  Joe was in ecstasy. 
His mother's strokes weren't very long - nothing compared to his strokes
when jacking off - but the sucking sensation reminded him of the
approaching orgasm, gripping his dick tighter and tighter, but without the
pain from the tight grip.  Amy's mouth grasped the skin, but not the meat.

   Meantime, Debbie had moved to stand next to the bed right by Joe's hip,
where she could get a good vantage point to learn her mother's tricks.  But
she'd also taken Joe's hint and grabbed his hand, yanking it up to her
pussy and clamping his thumb on her mons with his fingers deep in her cunt.
Then with her skilful fingers over his, she silently gave him another
lesson on the inner architecture of a girl's wet pussy.  (Not that she
expected Joe to be paying that much attention, under the circumstances.  No
matter.  She'd repeat the lesson as often as she had to.)

   After a few minutes of these endearments, Joe felt the first small
tremor, heralding a large orgasmic explosion.  So, with all her years of
experience, did Amy.  To her kids' amazement, she abruptly pulled herself
off of Joe's pulsing rod, leaving it glistening with her saliva.  Before
they could speak, she said to Debbie, "Okay, you take over.  You've been
watching, right?  And hurry up, he's about to blow." As she spoke she
pulled Debbie's free wrist to guide her daughter back onto the bed.  Amy
saw Joe withdraw his hand from Debbie's snatch, but didn't say anything
about it.

   Debbie had miraculously become deft and efficient about placing herself
so as to get the best angle on her sibling's huge member, and with one
lunge she took three and three-quarters inches until the dick head crashed
into where her tonsils had been until she was seven (she'd once stuck a
ruler in her mouth, that's how she knew the exact inches).  But, even with
Amy and Joe's coaching, she couldn't get the perfect suction rhythm her
mother had used.  Amy chuckled, "You've gotta do something before he goes
mad.  I guess it's okay to cheat.  Go ahead and stroke his shaft with your
free hand.  Here, I'll help."

   Suiting action to words, both women wrapped their fingers around the
exposed portion of Joe's massive schlong, using long, languorous strokes.
Debbie even let her mouth retreat until all she had was the helmet, so as
to let the strokes be as long and languorous as possible.

   Joe was in seventh heaven.  "Oh, suck it, sister...  fuck me...  ohhh...
stroke it Mom...  aggghh..." The women could actually see Joe's heart
pounding in his chest.  "Ohhh...  al...  most...  time...  Deb...  bie...,"
Joe gasped.  "I'm...  gonna...  explode!" The muscles in his legs were so
tense that he was drumming his heels on the bed - he couldn't help it.  At
least that didn't hurt.  Then he flexed his toes so far that some of the
muscles deep in his feet cramped up, all at the same instant.  "Agggghhh!"
he howled, this time in agony.  The women ignored him, Debbie because she
didn't realize he was in pain and Amy because she knew that the best way to
help him was to get him to cum.

   At last, Joe felt that hot pain telling him that his semen had reached
his cock head and was about to go critical.  "Aaaahhhh!" he cried.  "I'm
cum... ... ...  ming!"

   As if Debbie needed to be told.  Just before Joe's last frenzied cries,
the first jet of cum had shot from his cock and hit the back of her throat.
She coughed, allowing the next two jets to spill out of her mouth and onto
her face.  Oh, well.  She thought to aim the cannon a little to the side,
where she could catch and control her brother's bottomless well of jism,
swallowing it all on her terms, not Big Dick's.

   Suddenly, just like that, it was all over.  Really, all over.  Joe's cum
was still flowing in a steady trickle, but Joe wasn't around to enjoy it.
His eyes literally rolled up into his eyelids, and he passed out.

   His mother and sister watched him faint, then caught each other's eyes.
They started to giggle, harder and harder.  Eventually Amy recovered enough
to gasp, "It's a good thing he's such an athlete.  We damn near killed
him."

   Still giggling, Amy leaned over to lap up the little pool of cum on her
son's belly.  Then the two women covered Joe with a spare blanket and
tiptoed out of the room.




   

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   BIG JOE AND LITTLE JOE

   by studoenym



   inc (mom/son, bro/sis, mom/dau, unc/niece), MILF/boy, size





   Sunday





   Amelia Dunlap, forty-four year old MILF, was busily coaxing her
husband's cock to a second erection by blowing tiny puffs of air on the
underside of the helmet, alternating with tiny stabbing laps with the tip
of her tongue.  Slowly, more slowly than usual, she had her reward.  "Awww,
here he comes," she cooed.  "He must be all tired out from taking Young Joe
to The Health Club today.  But why would he be so tired?  Old Joe and Young
Joe, sure; they got their first big father-son workout.  But this little
guy --." She slithered around between her husband's legs and playfully
inhaled his whole half-mast cock into her mouth; then, with a good load of
saliva, licked a trail up his muscular torso until she could feel his
warmth as the organ nestled between her tits, real size C-cup, vanity size
D-cup.





   "So, what kind of workout did Mr.  Penis get at the gym today?" she
giggled.  "And you with your son along!  You oughtta be ashamed!"





   Her husband, "Old Joe," tightened his six-pack abs to raise his head and
grin wickedly.  "Oh, the usual," he said.  "Jodi, then Brian's wife and
daughter.  At the same time, of course." Jodi was an aerobics instructor at
the Club, and if she wasn't turning thousand-dollar tricks on the side, she
was wasting a lot of good earning potential.  Brian Mansfield was Joe's
most senior law partner.  He was the only man they knew with both a trophy
wife and a trophy stepdaughter.  They all wondered. . .







   "Aren't you worried about Brian taking your place in his trophy
sandwich?"





   "Oh, I figured he was here with you, so it would be pretty safe.  You
mean he wasn't?  Damn, you should have joined us."





   Amelia loved this kind of talk.  She still couldn't believe that there
really were women who liked to hear the brutal litany of the pornos: "You
stupid fucking cunt.  You slut.  When I get through with you, your holes
will all hurt so bad you won't know which one to beg me to do next." Yuk.
:-(





   Wicked grin.  "Oh, Brian was here, all right.  I begged him for a
facial, but he wanted you.  So, I sent him to the gym." She put on her
concerned mother face.  "And where was Young Joe while Mr.  P was getting
this workout?"





   "Oh, I sent him to swim a couple of hundred laps.  He never suspected a
thing." Young Joe had been a competitive swimmer since third grade,
although he'd moved up to varsity this year and was getting killed in swim
meets.





   Amy grabbed her husband's arm and rolled over, pulling him along,
kissing him and maneuvering so his thigh was tight up against her mons. 
"You'd better watch that boy," she breathed, "he doesn't have to spend week
after week in Fort Worthless.  Now that he has full membership, and the
cat's away, he just might start servicing all your little kittens at the
gym." All the while she was dry-humping his thigh, as her orgasm started to
build like the steam in a teakettle.  She giggled, enjoying the sensation.



   *





   Joe and Amelia were both gorgeous themselves.  Joe was 6'2" and still
close to his college basketball weight of 204, and probably more muscular.
Somehow, given his grueling schedule as a corporate lawyer, none of it had
gone to fat.  As a trial lawyer, he'd travelled a lot from his first month
on the job -- twelve-hour days in dusty warehouses digging through boxes of
old paperwork called "documents," looking for the single "magic bullet"
that would win the lawsuit.  By the time he was made partner, he was so
good at it that now he travelled to the same dusty warehouses supervising
teams of young lawyers who did the actual digging.  But, instead of wining
and dining on the client's dime, watching TV too late or even fucking the
ambitious young women he'd brought along for the job, when they called it a
day, he hit the gym, and it showed.  The family Club membership carried
guest privileges all over North America.  Costly, but worth it.





   Amelia was dark and sleek.  She was half Welsh; not show-business slim
like Catherine Zeta-Jones, but designed along the same lines.  Her hair was
so black it almost gleamed in the dark.  Firm boobs, great skin and muscle
tone, also maintained four times a week in the Club.  Debra, their
first-born, now a high-school senior, almost lived there, playing tennis.
She'd never play Wimbledon, and she knew it, but just last week she had won
a good a good scholarship to play tennis in the Big Ten.  Today, a Sunday
in late March, had been her brother's birthday.  Young Joe, he'd been
called since he was born; his birth certificate read Joseph Dunlap, Junior.






   For his birthday his mom had bought him a couple of small presents, for
the ritual of it, but his major presents were identical to those given to
Debra two years before.  Generous privileges with his parents' cars, if and
when he ever got his license (they joked), and a membership in the Club. 
He was finally old enough to join, and today his father was proud to take
him there and show him around (as Amelia had taken Debra).





   Young Joe and Old Joe had made a real father-son day of it, today,
exploring almost every luxury the Club had to offer: some one-on-one
basketball, weight workout, Olympic pool with 16 lanes!, massage, sauna,
the whole package.  They were beat when they came home.  Of the two, Old
Joe looked the worse, he mumbled something about being exhausted and went
off to take a nap.  Young Joe tired, but he had plenty of energy to talk to
his mom.  "Wow, you wore him out," Amelia said.  "What happened, did he
pull a muscle trying to block your shot?"





   Her son looked uncomfortable.  "Aw, mom, no, of course not.  He can
block my shots without moving.  I think we both tried to do too much,
though.  I'm tired, too." He kept talking, yakking about all the technical
details about the gym equipment, and his first-ever professional massage.
"As a member I can go whenever I want!" One portion of the Club was set
aside for 24-hour access.  "Next year I'll show those Lincoln High swimmers
a whole new Joe!" He was already pretty muscular, but one perk of the gym
was that experienced coaches in almost any sport got large membership
discounts in exchange for advice and pointers to interested members.  A
good deal, all around.





   "Hold it, Joey.  You can go whenever you want, as long as your homework
and chores are caught up.  Right?"





   Joe's face fell a little.  Can I go tomorrow, though, after school?  I
made a date -- an appointment with a personal trainer."





   "Are you planning to rob a Seven-Eleven on the way there?  Those
personal trainers cost.  Your dad didn't mention any personal trainer.  Who
is it?"





   "Betsy B.  Do you know her?  She offered me a few free sessions to get
me started."





   Amelia did know Betsy B.  Not well, though.  But she did know that Betsy
B (don't ever dare call her Betsy!) was a Viking's wet dream come true. 
Six-foot-something, blonder than blonde, and the muscle of an NFL
linebacker, but in a fetchingly feminine form.  Alas, she wasn't
Playboy-bunny gorgeous; she was cute, but I wouldn't recommend saying that
to her face.





   Right now, though, Amelia's mom-radar was beeping.  Joe's dad hadn't
mentioned any freebies; born poor, he was touchy about paying his way.  Why
didn't he know?  What was the girl after?  Young Joe was cute, but he was
still a kid.  Surely Valkyries don't have to rob cradles.





   And Young Joe was being evasive about something, she could tell.  How
come he was so bubbly while his father was beat?  His sport was swimming;
he was awful at basketball, so losing to his father was no big deal.  He
could always get even at the foosball table.  She hoped they hadn't had an
argument.  Father-teenager relations could get stormy without warning.





   Oh, well.  "Okay, Joey, just don't get too excited about any of those
gorgeous fitness instructors.  They're all lesbians, you know."





   He caught the twinkle in her eye.  "How do you know?" he laughed. 
Amelia didn't quite gasp, but she was almost shocked.  She couldn't
remember when Joey had ever made a fresh comment like that.  He'd always
been shy about sex.  Just what did happen today?









   She put the mystery of the gym out of her mind and concentrated on
fucking her husband and on nursing along her orgasm.  She had long decades
of experience stoking herself up to orgasm: masturbating, of course, and
sex toys, dry humping, tickling (when Joe Sr.  had the energy), light
bondage, hot baths and for sure having her pussy licked.  She could get off
on just about any sex play in the manuals except good old, ordinary,
maybe-we'll-get-pregnant fucking.  No matter what the position.  And she
knew exactly why, and she was sure her husband knew exactly why, although
even after almost two decades of marriage they'd never discussed it.





   Joseph Dunlap Senior, for all his good looks, and perfect muscles, and
professional success, had a pathetically small dickie.





   Amelia loved him, and she'd always been faithful, and did her best to
fake orgasm during fucking and not to draw attention to her frustration or
her alternative methods of climaxing.  There were even perks.  Every now
and then he'd fuck her in the ass; she'd never felt the brutalized bliss
she'd heard about, but at least it didn't hurt, and it was pleasant, in its
way.





   And she loved giving him blow jobs, because even at its starchiest
extension, she could take his whole little dickie.  (When with her husband,
she said "cock," but in her thoughts she couldn't do it.  Cocks were for
fucking.) Blowing little dickie fueled her fantasy of being a porn star. 
In fact, she'd learned to angle herself just right so his head hit the
corner of her mouth and she'd gag a little; she'd tell him that he'd hit
the back of her throat and pull away a little.  It was all a little white
lie.  If anything, she was frustrated because she was sure she could handle
his balls and his dickie at the same time, but she didn't want to hurt his
feelings.





   At last, her orgasm bubbled over -- not much of one, but that's the way
it goes sometimes.  She whimpered a little, and pulled away from their
kissing.  Joe had felt her muscles tighten and tremble, then go slack;
otherwise he might not have known she came at all.





   When she'd caught her breath, she peered up at him in the darkness.  Was
he crying?  "Is something wrong, sweetheart?" she whispered.  "Something
happened at the gym, didn't it."





   Joe mumbled something that sounded sort of like, "It's nothing, don't
worry about it." Then he spoke a little more clearly.  "It's this damn case
we're working on.  When you said 'Fort Worthless' I started to think about
it and couldn't stop.  I'm really sorry, darling."





   "Oh, don't apologize for that!" she replied, keeping her voice light. 
"I'd hate to have to tell you about the times I've fucked you to the tune
of 'Bette Davis Eyes' because I couldn't get it out of my head." She
smiled. "Oops.  I guess I let the cat out of the bag!" Pause.  "Did you
ever wonder how they got the cat into the bag in the first place?"





   Joe gave a small chuckle and rolled over onto his back.  "Anyway, the
case is a loser and nobody knows what to do, but I have to get up early
tomorrow and take the first plane back to Fort Worth and try to figure an
angle.  It's really a dog of a case."





   "So, up at 4:30 instead of 5:15?  No problem.  I'll have your eggs
Hollandaise, Benedict, and will be waiting on my kneepads to give you
toasty French.  The chauffeur will have the taxicab running and warm at
5:10."





   "Oh, baby, there's no need for you to get up so early.  I called the cab
company already.  I'll be fine."





   "Yeah," Amelia said, "but I get jealous.  I hate it when you get your
farewell blow job from the cab driver and not from me." But Joe didn't
hear. He was asleep already.  At least, his eyes were closed and he was
breathing that deep rumble that never quite became a snore.





   Monday





   In the morning, she stayed in bed and let Joe get his own breakfast. 
But when the cab pull into the driveway, she jumped out of bed, still in
her transparent lingerie, and intercepted her husband at the front door.





   "Darling, darling, I have something I just have to tell you before you
go!" She flung open the door, fully aware that the cab driver could see
everything.  Then she grabbed Old Joe and kissed him, pulling his ear down
to her mouth as she whispered, "Her hair is Harlow gold; her lips a sweet
surprise; her hands are never cold; she's got Bette Davis eyes."





   Her reward was his honest laugh as he gave her one last peck on the lips
and climbed into the cab.







   Amelia showered and dressed in her usual work outfit of sweatshirt and
jeans.  She liked to get some work done in the quiet hour before the kids
got moving.  She was a free-lance computer programmer and consultant,
specializing in an old language called COBOL.  COBOL had been popular for
business and database applications thirty years ago, and a surprising
number of companies still had COBOL programs needing attention.  She'd
picked up COBOL while in college, serving an internship at a local
hospital. She didn't need the money, but she liked having a niche, and also
liked to keep in practice.





   But she couldn't focus.  Her mind insisted on focusing on the Mystery of
the Health Club.  Eventually she stopped pretending to work and simply
stared out the window at the rising sun.





   "Mom!  Mo-om! . . .  Oh, there you are.  Good morning, Mom.  Can I
borrow a couple of tampons?"





   Amelia turned to the doorway and gazed, pridefully, at her daughter. 
Eighteen, tall, slim, athletic and pretty as a picture in her bed-head hair
and flannel Winnie-the-Pooh pj's.  Even radiant, today.  In fact, except
for being a shade or two lighter in hair and skin coloring, and a tad
lighter in the chest, she looked a lot like the teenage Amelia had looked.
"Oh, Debbie, you don't have to ask.  Of course."





   "Yeah, Mom, but now you know I need some more."





   "Why not just put 'em on the shopping list?" The shopping list was kept
on the refrigerator door, where anyone could add to it.





   Debra crossed behind her mother, kissed her head and massaged her
shoulders.  "It's more fun interrupting you," she grinned.  "But I'll put
'em on the list, too, if I remember.  Oops, gotta go." And she was off,
probably not to be seen until dinnertime.





   She loved it when Debbie rubbed her shoulders like that.  It reminded
her of her old friend Julie.  'Whatever happened to Julie?' she wondered.





   Sighing, Amelia lapsed back into her daydream, thinking back on her
teenage years.  If she didn't count the two big exceptions, she sighed,
she'd always been a good girl, neither slut nor virgin, never having sex on
the first date, and when she did, she'd usually enjoyed the experience. 
She'd had mostly, nice, college-bound boys like herself, and now and then
she'd enjoy a one-night stand with a boy from the wild side.  On average,
she reflected, the bad boys weren't any better in bed than the good boys,
but, you know, variety is the spice of life.





   And then there was that one incredible girl, and that one incredible
boy, on that one incredible weekend.  She'd loved her few months with
Julie, who gave her a complete training course in the techniques of Sappho,
but in the end Amelia decided she was destined to be ninety percent
straight.  The boy, the boy with the monster cock, the boy she'd fucked
every chance she had from just after she'd turned sixteen until the night
before her wedding, was no boy friend or party pickup.  He was her brother,
Owen, two years younger.









   "Dammit, Owen," Amelia snapped, pushing at his hand.  "I can't do it
with you any more!  I'm getting married tomorrow!





   "Yeah, sis, that's why we should fuck our brains out tonight.  We'll
never have another chance.  Besides, you've said yourself that my cock
would make three of Joe's.  Don't you want a big something to remember me
by?"





   Owen was driving Amelia home after her wedding rehearsal dinner.  Amy
had persuaded her mother and grandma that she was exhausted and needed her
brother to drive her home.  Owen had acted put out at missing Joe Dunlap's
bachelor-night bacchanale.  He had to drive his sister . . .  crazy.





   As he drove the car, he had casually taken hold of his sister's pussy,
clamping his right hand over her crotch and using his fingers to fondle the
cloth barring their entrance within.  Something he'd done a hundred times
before, but to Amelia, this time it felt obscene and invasive.





   "As if I could forget." But even as she pushed at his hand, Amelia knew
she was going to succumb [pun intended].  Her cunt had gone from primly dry
to sopping wet as soon as Owen's hand bore down on it, and they both knew
it.  As his fingers played up and down the taut, wet cloth, she sighed. 
Fooling no one, she sighed again.  "Okay, but I'm still not taking that
nightstick up my ass!" she smiled.  "I've gotta have at least one cherry
for my bridegroom."





   "As you wish, madame," smirked Owen.  "But that means you'll always be a
virgin beyond the one-inch line."





   In between her little yelps of anticipation, as Owen's fingers did their
thing, Amelia breathed, "You just watch your mouth, brother-mine. . .  He's
a good man and I love him. . .  I think I love him. . .  I loved him a
little while ago. . .  You know I'd rather marry you and your . . . 
Eighter from Decatur, . . .  but it's against the law.  I have to make do."
They came to a red light and Amelia yanked down Owen's fly.  "Besides," she
snickered, "He'll make it to the one-and-a-half-inch line.  I'll be a
virgin only past the one-and-a-half-inch-line."





   Owen laughed out loud.  "Don't you mean Niner from Carolina?" He removed
his hand from his sister's snatch, and used it to unbutton his own pants.
Neither of them knew how big his shaft was, because when it was at maximum
erection and ready to be measured, they had other priorities.  Owen wasn't
the type to measure things, anyway.  Anyway, at eight or nine or twenty-two
inches, whatever, his powerful rod had molded itself against the cotton of
his underwear.  The helmet strained at the elastic.  As the traffic light
changed to green, Amelia undid her seat belt and knelt on the seat, face in
Owen's lap.  Her toes would have pointed out the window, but it was closed.





   "I guess this is my last chance to deep throat you," she giggled,
pulling the elastic down to his balls and freeing his cock from its shroud.
"At least I can try one last time to beat my personal best."





   "Yeah, big sister mine, yeah!  Go for it!" Owen laughed as he gently
bunched her hair into his fingers.





   Usually, Amelia would slowly paint the tip of the Eighter with her
saliva, interspersed with little kisses up and down the shaft.  For this
last time, though, she celebrated by skipping the little movements and
plunging her mouth down onto Owen's rigidity as far as it would go; the
head crashed into the roof of her mouth.  Her lips, she curled around her
teeth to protect his sensitive skin from being bitten.  Inhaling a little
to make a seal, she bit down gently to put pressure on the underside, then
pulled her head up slowly, pulling the skin along with her, as far as it
would go.  Then she pushed back down, just as slowly, a little farther than
she'd gone the first time.  She adjusted the angle of her head to guide it
farther in and closer to her throat.





   After a few repetitions, she gagged a little as the cockhead invaded her
throat.  She'd spent hours practicing on food items such as bratwursts and
bananas, trying to defeat the gag reflex, but had never gotten it perfect.
On her next thrust she held back a little, to avoid gagging.  This is where
Owen sprung his surprise; with his hand and arm, strong from wrestling, he
shoved her head down farther.  Before she could gag, though, he pulled her
head back upward, by the hair.  Then down again, up again.  At first,
Amelia resisted him, wanting to do it her way, but Owen paid no attention,
so she gave up.  That boy.  It didn't hurt or anything.  But it wasn't deep
throating, any more, or even a blow job.  Her brother was simply fucking
her face, using his hand much as he would use it for jacking himself off --
up, down, up, down.  It didn't hurt, so she figured, what the hell.  His
cockhead penetrated farther and farther down her throat, but she never
fully gagged, because he'd pull her off too quickly.  "I wonder who taught
him all this," Amelia chuckled to herself.  "Starting tomorrow, he's all
hers.  Or theirs."





   Owen abruptly pulled off the road and stopped the car.  She could hear
him moaning, a little, and swiftly his strokes got faster and deeper: up,
down, up, down, updown, updown, updown, updownupdownupdown. . . .  She was
ready for the Eighter to explode long before it was time.  "Oh, my dearly
befucked sister, I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm -- "





   The force and heat of his burst into her mouth and throat felt as strong
as a blast from a fire hose.  She began to swallow his cum frantically
(taste, she'd always thought, kinda average), clearing her throat for the
next burst.  And the next, and the next. . .  It sometimes felt as if he
were injecting his cum directly into her throat, but she knew better. 
She'd learned to be very good at rapid swallowing.





   After four or five such thrusts he thought he was spent and stopped
pulling her hair.  But Amelia knew better.  She kept her mouth in place and
returned to bobbing up and down as she had done before, protecting her
throat, again, but actively sucking, not merely stroking.  All with her
mouth; she felt that stroking the lower half of the erection with her hand
was just for beginners, and at age 26, with over 10 years'
every-other-daily practice on this particular sex organ, she was anything
but a beginner.





   Her up-and-down bobs took on a little torque, as she coaxed the last
remaining fluid from his balls.  When it spilled out, it was more of a
steady flow than the spasms of his first cumming had been; she knew that
this fluid was more nearly clear than opaque, and that her dear brother
would be losing his mind about now in the unbelieveable pleasure signals
rushing from his prick to his brain.  Some boys liked to keep up a little
dopey chatter as she sucked them off: "C'mon baby, suck it, suck that
monster.  It's full of cum all for you.  Yeah baby, swallow it all!  All!"
Very few of the talkers got a return bout.  But even they had never said
English words when she reached this last stage.  A few would voice an
incoherent moan, "Yeeaaa-ggghhhh," but mostly she'd know how they felt by
the rigid tension in all the muscles of their bodies.  That's how her
brother was; he never said much while fucking or sucking, but she could
read his muscle tension like a poem.  She was glad he'd pulled off the
road.









   From the kitchen came the clatter of some small disaster.  Young Joe was
making his breakfast.  Amelia shook off her memories and went to see what
was going on.  There was Joe Junior, pouring cold cereal into a bowl.  Such
a good-looking kid, she thought.  Just like his dad.





   But when had he gotten so big?  He'd been taller than his mother for a
couple of years, but this was the first time he'd seemed to filled out in
the shoulders.  Well, she thought, swimming'll do it.  What a heartbreaker!





   "Hi, mom," he said.  "Sorry about the racket.  I couldn't find the
orange-juice squeezer."





   "It's right here, Master Joey, in the dish drainer, where Debbie left it
for you."





   "Oh, sorry, I didn't look there.  I just went ahead and ate the orange,"
he said, point to the telltale rinds on the counter.





   "You just be sure to clean up after yourself, young man," she retorted.
"And next time, don't be so impatient."





   "Yes.  Mom," he rolled his eyes and winked.  "Hey, I made you coffee."





   She raised an eyebrow.  "I think you mean you made yourself coffee, but
you made extra.  But thanks."





   "Oh, mom.  You're the best." He hugged her, as usual reminding her of
those bygone years when she'd been the taller of the two.  He poured her
some coffee and dealt with his orange rinds.  As he sat down at the kitchen
table to eat his cereal, Amelia sighed and sat down across from him.





   "Joey, your father's acting kind of peculiar, and so are you, young man.
What happened at the health club yesterday?  Did you two fight about
something?"





   "Uh, whaddya mean, what happened?  No, we didn't fight.  We told you, we
had a great time." He grinned.  "Real father-son bonding experience." Joe
got up for more coffee.  "What's the matter with Dad?"





   "He's acting, kinda, I dunno, sad, I guess.  I know something went wrong
at the gym and I wish one of you would tell me."





   Joe could see the worry in his mother's eyes.  "Okay, mom, you're right,
something did happen.  But it wasn't a fight, it was nobody's fault, and I
promised not to say anything about it."





   Amelia couldn't believe that.  "Your father made you promise not to tell
anyone?" He'd never, ever done that before.  It's in all the parenting
manuals.  "Are you sure?"





   "He didn't make me promise.  I promised all on my own.  Although, there
isn't much point.  It seemed like everyone at the Club knew all about it. I
just guessed that he'd rather I didn't tell you."







   "Joseph Dunlap Junior, promise or no promise, you will tell me this
instant!" Amelia snapped.  "I will not have big secrets kept from one
another in this house!  I'm surprised that your father went along with it."





   "No, mom, I mean he'd rather that it wasn't me that told you.  I don't
think it's a secret."





   She merely glared.





   "Okay, mom, but it's kind of hard to explain." An idea popped into his
head, scary and embarrassing, but he was often a reckless kid.  "I did
p-promise not to talk about it.  But may-maybe I could show you."





   "Show me?  Show me what?"





   Young Joe sighed, put down his coffee cup, stood up and stepped directly
in front of his mother.  "Well, mom, . . .  this."





   As he spoke, he undid his jeans and let them fall to his ankles.  She
gasped, turning red, staring.  Young Joe had his uncle Owen's cock, hanging
seemingly halfway to his knees.  His balls protruded on either side like
kiwi fruits.





   "Young man, make yourself decent.  NOW!" Amelia stammered.  Her thoughts
were flying in two opposite directions.  One, this did help explain Old
Joe's odd behavior.  Two was her shame; her pussy was soaked.





   Joe, blushing beet red, fixed his clothing and sat back down.  Amelia
took a deep breath, inadvertently drawing Joey's attention to the
topography of her sweatshirt, and said, in her tight, no-nonsense "mom"
voice, "You'd better tell me about it."





   Young Joe told the whole story, trying to be careful with his language.
He knew he was well hung compared to the boys on the swim team, and even
young as he was, he'd had a few hand jobs and one blow job by girls who
marveled at the size of his prick.  He'd never made it to home plate,
though, but he knew he would, surely before his next birthday.  (Amelia was
surprised she told him some of this stuff.  But she was happy for his
honesty and for sparing her the details.)





   Naturally, neither of his parents had known these things about his sex
life or the vital measurements of his penis.  Neither did Joey know
anything about his father's puny prick.  So he and his dad were both
shocked and amazed when they hit the showers after their workout and each
noticed the other's equipment.  The facts were on display and unavoidable.





   As you can imagine, their conversation went from chatty, to awkward, to
silent.  To make matters worse, as they tried to ignore the whole thing,
the other men in the locker room and shower noticed, too, and a few made
jokes that were meant to be friendly, if thoughtless.  "Wow, Joe, is that
your boy or a stallion?" or "Well, Joe Junior, if you have too many girls
calling you, toss one of them my way, will you?  Although it looks like you
could handle three or four at a time."





   Young Joe had seen his father almost wilt in the ten minutes it took to
shower and change.  Old Joe had gone into the locker room proud of himself
and of his son and eager to work out with him, teaching him everything he
knew.  He came out of the locker room still proud of his son, sort of, but
humiliated in a way he couldn't have explained to anyone, not that he
tried. This is when Young Joe stepped up and promised not to say anything
about it.  His dad said nothing, just gave a slight nod.





   But Young Joe also had felt a glimmer -- of virility, of power, almost
of dominance -- that he didn't comprehend but that added a perceptible
swagger to his step.  He understood, suddenly, that the older girls at
school hadn't been wholly teasing him back when they singled him out among
the 8th grade boys for flirtation and sex talk; maybe they'd heard about
his cock and were burning with curiosity, maybe even with desire.  Lately,
he'd noticed that even Mrs.  Cohn, his math teacher, acted more girlish and
flirtsy with him than with anyone else in his class, but not until that
moment in the gym had he thought about why that might be.  Maybe even she
had gotten the word, God knows how.  He had no idea how to make use of this
power, but he knew he had it.





   Within the health club, apparently the word traveled fast.  After their
showers, Old Joe went to the club office to sign the paperwork adding his
son to the family membership.  While he was in there, Betsy B, a personal
trainer, offered Young Joe some free sessions to "get him started." Betsy B
was fitter than fit -- all the personal trainers were -- way over six feet
tall, short blonde hair, and the muscles of a lioness.  Her breasts were
not huge, but her powerful pecs thrust them into Joey's face as if she were
Miss January.  Joe's head was spinning from the difficult truths he'd
learned in the shower room, but he didn't hesitate to set up an appointment
with her for the very next afternoon; today, it would be.  She was hot for
his bod.  He just knew it.





   He didn't mention Betsy B to his dad.





   Joe told his mother all of this except his own private thoughts about
sex and power.  He'd already told her about Betsy B.  Amelia had the same
guess about her intentions as her son did.  If anything, Amelia was more
sure that Betsy B was on the make than Joey was.  She wondered if she
should intervene, but she was too confused to make up her mind, and
suddenly it was time for Joey to leave for school.





   In fact, Amelia didn't say much; not even to thank him or to say that
now she understood Old Joe's problem.  She just listened, wondering how to
deal with both Young Joe and Old Joe.  She knew how sensitve Old Joe could
be, how little dickie undermined his self-confidence, but she also knew how
women young and old had spoiled her brother.  The philosophers were right.
All things in moderation.  Now what?





   And then there was her problem.  In a heartbeat, Young Joe had changed
from Her Baby to Her Convenient Household Lust Object.  Lost in these
thoughts, she walked her son to the front door and chastely kissed his
cheek good-bye.  She didn't sing "Bette Davis Eyes" to him, but she thought
about it.





   Amelia watched her son through the soft focus of her tears as he walked
to the bus stop, alternately enjoying her memories and chastening herself
for them.  Her mind refused to be disciplined.  It wandered back to that
birthday party, late June, almost 28 years ago. . .









   "It's my party and I'll cry if I want to," sobbed Amelia to Julie, her
new best friend.  Julie had just been promoted from second-best friend to
best friend about an hour before.  Just like in the song, updated for the
libertine '70s.  One by one, people at the party had noticed the absence of
Amelia's then-best friend, Linda, and Amelia's then-boyfriend, Bradley, and
a kind of nervous anticipation brought the mood way down.  Sweet Amelia,
flushed with all the attention and wine coolers, was the last to catch on.
She had no clue until in walked the guilty pair, a pathetic ten seconds
apart, as if that would fool anyone.  Linda, henceforth named
Thatwhorelinda, was wearing a smug, triumphant smile.  She was also wearing
her tube top inside out.  She and Thatassholebradley seemed to be the only
two in the room who didn't notice.  Or maybe they did.





   She never knew, not that she cared.  She made it to her room before she
started crying her eyes out.  The party, obviously, was over.  Her brother
Owen, younger but so charming he made himself welcome at this high-school
party, helped Julie downplay the incident and get everybody out the door,
but it was obvious that they all knew.  Tonight, the whole gang was rigidly
polite to the new couple, and as soon as they were gone, there was a bedlam
of excited buzzing.  Linda and Bradley would be ostracized for a week or so
in solidarity with Amelia, and then social lives would adjust and they'd
move on.  Amelia never found out if Thatwhorelinda and Thatassholebradley
even understood they were being ostracized.  [I can tell you.  They
didn't.]





   When everyone was gone, Julie and Owen came to Amelia's room and tried
to comfort her.  Julie, at least, had the good sense to keep quiet.  Owen
was all action: "You want me to punch him out for you, sis?  Better still,
why don't you run him over with the car?  At least, if you can talk Mom
into letting you borrow it. . .  " It took him a while to catch on to
Julie's frantic signals to shut up, but he did, eventually.  Julie got up
to use the bathroom, Owen wordlessly reached to stroke his sister's back,
and Amelia turned over to see where Julie was going all in the same
instant.





   The result of all this was that Owen got a pleasant handful of
sixteen-year old tit.  Then he did, or didn't do, something that changed
their lives forever; he didn't let go, and he didn't abandon his stroking
motion.  Gently he massaged her left breast, just as if he'd done it a
hundred times before.





   Amelia was too surprised to react and too cried out to be indignant. 
She found herself relaxing and enjoying the sensation, the petting and the
yummy illicitness of it.  Ironically, just moments before she'd been
telling herself that she was totally through with all boys, but here she
was with this boy, wiggling into a more comfortable position and almost
purring.  Neither spoke.





   When they heard Julie returning, they quickly became respectable.  Owen
leaned over and kissed Amelia's cheek, murmuring, "Don't forget, dear
sister-mine.  I'm right down the hall for you, day or night." Somehow, he
forgot to leer.  Then he stood up turned away from the girls, and left. 
But he didn't turn as quickly as he'd intended.





   "Did you see his jeans?" whispered Julie, wide-eyed, checking to make
sure that the door had closed behind him.  He must have shoved a lacrosse
stick down there while I was in the bathroom." She paused, looking her new
best friend in the eye.  "What happened?"





   "Oh, nothing.  He rubbed my back a little.  Teenage boy, anything'll get
him hard."





   "Yeah, but didn't you see the size of his . . .  thing?"





   Amelia giggled for the first time since the awful events of the evening.
"Calm down, girl.  He's my little brother.  There are rules, you know."





   Julie knew that one.  "Jimmy Stewart, The Philadelphia Story, 1939!"





   "Good!" Amelia said, still giggling.  "And don't you forget it.  Hands
off children and drunks, no matter what size their equipment."





   After a moment she continued.  "Besides, I saw him first."





   Julie didn't giggle on cue.  Instead, she gazed at her new best friend
for a long moment, pondering.  For bestest friends, they sure didn't know
each other very well.  Best to fix that right away, in case Amy was
disgusted and ran away screaming.  But Julie was confident; Amy was a
kindred spirit.  She was sure.  She spoke, overemphasizing every syllable
in a singsongy way.  "I think I'd better stay over tonight, on guard. 
You're awfully horny and confused and you just might try something I'll
regret forever."





   Amelia giggled again.  Not all her girlfriends had the chutzpah to
invite themselves to spend the night.  "Hey Julie, I have a great idea. 
Would you like to sleep over?  I can lend you some pajamas.  But you'll
have to help clean up after the party in the morning."





   "Why, what a wonderful idea!  I'd love to!  But I'd better check with my
folks."





   As Julie picked up the phone, Amelia changed out of her party dress and
laid out pajamas and other necessary items for her friend.  Julie soon hung
up, bouncing up and down like a fourth-grader at a slumber party.  Amelia
said, "I take it you can stay.  You're in luck.  I found a brand-new,
still-in-the-package toothbrush.  Now you don't have to use mine, or even
Ow-ow-en's," she winked, drawing out her brother's name into three
syllables.





   "Oh, I'll just use yours.  What the heck.  Keep the new one for your
ne-e-ext boy friend." Julie bit her lip, then sprang up to start pulling
off her party dress.  "Ames, can you unzip me in the back?" she said, then
after Amelia complied, shrugged the dress off into a pile of chiffon on the
floor.  Still standing, with her back to Amelia, she stood on one foot,
then the other, pulling off her pantyhose and panties.





   She didn't look around, but she knew Amelia was watching.  When she was
down to only her bra, she nonchalantly reached around to unclasp it, then
stopped for a long moment, frozen in place but tense, like a cat about to
strike.  Amelia watched as if mesmerized as Julie, hands still on her bra
strap, looked at her friend over her shoulder, winking a slow wink, then
turned around slowly to face the bed.  Julie undid the strap, hook by hook,
and gave Amelia a flirtatious, pouty smile, clutching the cups to her boobs
with her forearms.  She half-turned as if to turn her back again, but
stopped, winked again, and pulled the bra completely off, reaching out to
dangle the cups in front of Amelia's fascinated nose.  Then she
deliberately placed her hands on her hips, the bra still dangling from her
hand, and cocked one hip at Amelia.  She simply stood there, waiting to see
how Amelia would respond.





   Julie was fairly short, but very well-proportioned.  Top-heavy, in fact.
She was the only well-endowed girl in the whole school that Amelia liked;
the rest were cheerleaders or whores.  Amelia had seen Julie's tits,
changing for gym class and such.  She knew they were big but she'd never
really looked at them.  Tonight she did.  They didn't stick out like
artillery, the way some girls' did.  Instead, they molded themselves to
Julie's slight frame.  As topped by Julie's big aureolae, they reminded her
of fried eggs in a skillet.  Ordinarily, that thought would have made her
giggle, but not tonight.  She simply gazed, agape, at Julie's face and
boobs as though Julie were a goddess.





   Julie's bush, trimmed and waxed to the bikini line, was thick and black
like the hair on her head.  After an infinite minute, Amelia's friend
crossed her arms under the supple orbs, hiking them up a little, and smiled
like the cat who just ate the canary.  "Thanks for the pajamas, but I don't
think I'll need them," she purred.





   Holding Amy's eyes in hers, Julie stooped to lean face to face over
Amelia, who was still lying on her back in her Flintstones pajamas. 
Julie's right hand slowly came forth and entwined the hair on the side of
Amelia's head.  With her lips only an inch from her friend's, Julie
breathed, "I think we should both be naked tonight.  After all, we're brand
new best friends."





   Half-consciously, Amelia obeyed, letting her hand creep to the buttons
of her pajama top, undoing them one by one from her throat.  When she had
done them all, Julie's other hand pulled the two halves apart, exposing but
not touching Amelia's pretty-good tits.  Julie left her hand on Amelia's
torso, motionless, as her mouth approached Amelia's.  Their lips touched;
Amelia felt something like a spark between them.  Then Julie commanded,
"Kiss me, Amelia.  Now!"





   Amelia obeyed as if she were Julie's sock puppet.  She jerked her mouth
up the final millimeter to Julie's and kissed, lips only, for a very long
moment.  Sighing, she wrapped one arm around Julie's neck and collapsed
onto her back, never breaking contact.  Soon they were necking for keeps,
tongues wrestling, nibbles and little bites here and there, neck-nuzzling,
light petting of throats and cheeks and hair.  For the first time in her
life, Amelia completely abandoned herself not only to her partner, but to
the act itself.  She was kissing Julie.  Julie was kissing her.  And that
was all they were doing, and they were holding nothing back.  The kiss was
everything.  Amelia could feel the tingling all the way down in her toes.
One thing for sure, it was far more satisfying than fucking in the back
seat of Thatassholebradley's car had ever been.





   After what felt like several hours, Julie broke the kiss and worked her
way down, with tiny kisses and tongue caresses, to Amelia's left breast. 
Amelia almost gasped, and all her muscles tensed hard as mahogany at the
sensation.  It went right through her, like lightning seeking a ground.  It
felt like electricity must feel too, she thought -- tingly all over,
especially at her clitoris.





   Amelia tried to relax.  Julie's intentions were easy to guess, now,
although five minutes ago, Amy had had no clue.  She wasted no energy
pondering the grand questions of what they were doing.  Her mind was
focused entirely on Julie.





   As expected, Julie continued to kiss and nuzzle her way down to Amelia's
navel, then sat up and tugged at the elastic of Amelia's pants.  Amelia
automatically, almost dreamily, levered her butt off the bed and helped
Julie pull her pajamas, and her panties, down to her thighs.  Julie whisked
them completely off, and Amelia lay naked on the bed with Julie reared
back, on her knees between Amelia's legs, appraising Amelia's body.





   "Y'know, Ames," murmured Julie.  "Every woman's body is beautiful.  But
yours is more beautiful than most." Amelia, who had had difficulty tearing
her eyes from Julie's tits, almost started crying again.  She wanted to
reply in kind, but couldn't think of anything to say that didn't sound
dorky.  Julie understood; she put her finger on Amelia's lips and smiled.
Then she scooted farther down the bed, lifted Amelia's foot to her lips,
kiss her smaller toes gently, one by one, then without warning bit her
friend's big toe, hard.





   Amelia had a small orgasm right then and there, although she didn't
realize it.  As of today she'd fucked two boys twice each and one maybe six
or seven times, and although about half those times had been sort of
pleasant, she'd never had a real womanly orgasm until Julie bit her toe.





   Julie jumped from langourous to fiery.  She dived forward and buried her
nose and tongue in Amelia's cunt.  She wasn't licking, and she wasn't being
gentle and feathery like a lot of men think girls always do each other; she
was bathing her whole face in Amelia's juices the way a cat takes to
catnip. It felt to Amelia almost as if Julie were trying to crawl through
her pussy into her womb.  And Amelia felt the first rumblings of a real
orgasm, 6.2 on the Richter scale, stirring deep within her loins.  When the
tremors really got going, Julie switched to gently flicking Amelia's clit
with her tongue, and the tremors got more intense.  Amelia knew she tasted
pretty good; she'd tested herself plenty of times, so she felt no anxiety
about displeasing Julie "down there." Actually, she felt no anxiety about
anything, except maybe that the tremors gathering in her body would become
powerful enough to knock her out of bed or set her to screaming so loud her
parents came running.





   She needn't have worried.  As Julie skilfully brought Amelia all the way
to her powerful climax, Amelia was well beyond caring about falling or
screaming or anything else, but Julie was in total command.  All of Amy's
attention was focused on the exquisite sensations pouring out of her pussy,
up through the rest of her body; a zillion rapid sensations or one long
earthquake, she didn't bother to decide.  She started to moan.





   Once again, Julie's experience showed; she quickly stopped tonguing
Amelia's cunt and returned to her face, burying her tongue in Amelia's
mouth.  Her hips circled slowly, pressing her mons veneris into Amelia's.
All Amelia could manage in that position was a low, indecipherable
"nnnnggg-gghhhhh!" but, repeated as needed, it was plenty.





   The tremors calmed down, and eventually so did Amelia's pulse.  She
opened her eyes and looked into Julie's, patiently smiling down at her. 
She felt weak.  She wanted to thank this girl who awoke those overpowering
feelings; no, she wanted to skip the thanks and pledge herself to love,
honor and obey Julie until death did them part.  But when she opened her
mouth, all she could manage was a hoarse, "Wow." Not even an exclamation
point.





   Julie braced herself on the bed and pulled her knees up so she was
straddling Julie's belly.  "Shhh," she said.  "We can talk in the morning."





   "But I want to do you like you did me."





   Julie giggled, transforming herself back from sex goddess to high-school
girl.  "You will, sweetheart, you will.  But not tonight.  This was your
night.  It's your birthday, remember?"





   Amelia sighed and closed her eyes.  In fact, she was struggling to stay
awake.  "Can't I -- can't I at least kiss your tits?"





   Julie giggled again, and leaned forward so her left boob dangled in
Amelia's face.  Amelia pulled her head up and wrapped her lips around the
nipple, pressing in to her aureola, then tickled Julie's nipple with her
tongue.  Then she lapsed back down onto the bed.  "That's not enough," she
said, "but I'm so sleepy."





   Her new best friend and newer lover had an idea.  "We'll lie down and
make a spoon," she whispered, "and you can wrap your arm around me and cup
my tit in your hand.  But you have to promise to keep me from screaming
when I hit my climax."







   Amelia was too charged with endorphins to know she was being teased. 
"OK," she mumbled.  And that's how they nestled together to spend the
night.









   Joe left the house, wondering what had possessed him to expose his prick
to his mother.  All he'd needed was a wisp of an excuse, and thwack!  his
pants hit the floor.  And he marveled at the smell wafting up from his mom;
he'd never smelled excited pussy, so he didn't know what it was, but that's
what he guessed.  Then he chided himself for the egotism of it -- What am I
thinking!  She's my mother!  One look at my penis and she's creaming her
jeans?  Yeah, right.  I gotta get a hold of myself!





   He snickered to himself at the old joke -- he usually "got hold of
himself" about twice a day -- but continued walking as if in a trance. 
Could she be. . .  ?  -- Nah.  She's his mom.  That kind of thing happens
only in porno stories.  But he'd seen his dad's microscopic penis; she must
be desperate.  I bet she's got some killer dildoes, he thought.  I wonder
if she's getting some on the side?





   As he struggled with all his new thoughts, his own prick was painfully
trying to stand up straight.  Painfully because it was tangled in his pubic
hairs, pulling them as it grew.  Ordinarily he had a little bit of will
power over his erection.  If he ever got fully hard at school or someplace
it would extend, or try to, beyond his belt by two or three inches.  But
usually he could will his willie [ha ha!] to soften a little, so he could
adjust his pants and divert it sideways, so it didn't leap out of his
pants. It was uncomfortable, but not painful.





   Today, naturally, he didn't have the power, because all his thoughts
tended to make his dick harder, not softer.  As he walked to school, he
could keep it concealed under his spring-weather jacket, but he wasn't sure
how he'd handle himself at school.  "I won't think about this morning.  I
won't think about this morning.  I won't think about this morning," he
repeated to himself, thereby guaranteeing that he'd continue to think about
this morning, the smell, the light of lust in his mother's eye, matching
the surge of lust in his own imagination.





   His worries were for nothing, at least so far.  He ran into some of his
friends, also walking to school, and when he remembered to check, his
member had folded itself back into place.  He was able to control himself
until Connie, who was fairly good-looking, had the biggest tits in the
school (not counting the really obese fat girls), and was also the biggest
cock-tease, leaned over him in the cafeteria, rubbing her boobs on his back
and over his shoulders, wheedling him to share the answers to his math
homework.  Today, of all days.  He was so primed and ready that he almost
shot off a load right then and there; he thought the muzzle velocity might
have been plenty to break Connie's glasses.  Fortunately, he had the
presence of mind to "accidentally" knock over his ice-cold Pepsi, which
"somehow" spilled into his lap, and his cock shriveled.  He was a mess, but
at least he wasn't going to be expelled from school.  This also gave him an
excuse to dash off to his locker, where he had some clean gym clothes he
could wear.  (In all the commotion Connie forgot to vamp him out of his
homework.)





   This all made him a couple of minutes late for math class.  He reached
the classroom without being caught by the hall pass storm troopers, but as
he eased through the doorway, Mrs.  Cohn stopped talking and gave him such
a big smile that everyone knew she had to be faking.  Wasn't she?  "Well,
class, now that Mr.  Dunlap has made his grand entrance, and shown off his
shapely legs, we can begin.  May I have a volunteer to do number four of
the homework on the board?" Silence.  "Oh, come now, you can't all be
breathless at the sight of Mr.  Dunlap."





   Her first jibe had been more or less ignored by the class, for which Joe
was grateful, but now there were a few laughs.  Joe turned beet red and
hurried to a vacant seat.  He didn't notice that he'd sat next to Connie
until it was too late.  She winked at him and silently mouthed the words,
"nice legs," then inhaled in her practiced way, drawing several pairs of
eyes to her deep cleavage.  Joe willed his gaze away, only to find himself
looking right into the eyes of Mrs.  Cohn, who was waiting for his
classmate to finish problem four on the board.  Her eyes were half-smiling,
half-smouldering.  Joe blushed again and looked down at his math book.





   Time crept by, but the bell did ring.  At the words, "Class dismissed,"
the half the class who had quietly packed up already were out of their
seats and out the door; Joe was the last to get up because he, distracted
and a little nervous, dropped his notebook and had to gather up all his
papers.  Mrs.  Cohn intercepted him at the doorway.  He didn't know how old
she was, but he knew her youngest son, slightly, a senior at this same high
school, and her brunette hair hadn't gone gray, but it looked worn out. 
Other than that, though, she had a great body, tall, leggy, physically fit,
and with good-sized boobs sticking straight out under her soft,
close-fitting sweater.  She must have pretty hot in her day.  She was still
very MILFish.





   She put her hand on his arm, high, fingers under the arm of his t-shirt.
"I need to apologize," she said.  "I shouldn't have picked on you twice. 
Once would have been enough." She caught him in her gaze again and this
time held it for several seconds.  Joe thought she was almost begging to be
fucked, by his magnificent cock, but then thought, "What's got into me?" He
smiled at his teacher, mumbling something about how it was okay, don't
worry about it, sorry I was late, etc.  etc.  She let him talk until he
caught himself, then said, "OK then.  You'd better get to your next class."






   As he turned and pulled away, she ran her nails down his arm, shoulder
to elbow, and halfway back up, before turning back to her desk.  Joey's
dick leapt to attention, pulling his pubic hair again and straining the
seams of his shorts.  Over his shoulder he stuttered, "see you tomorrow"
and lurched out into the hallway.





   After school, Young Joe sat in Starbuck's for a while, trying to do his
homework but really contemplating the day's encounters with his mother,
Connie, and then Mrs.  Cohn., and also about his appointment with Betsy B.
He reached the Club in plenty of time to be dressed for exercise by 4:30 on
the dot, which was easy because he'd changed into gym clothes at lunch
time.





   He reported in at the front desk and the receptionist handed him his
file (two pieces of paper, so far) and paged Betsy B.  The latter was
unnecessary, as Betsy B walked up to the desk.  "Hello, Joey," she smiled.
"Ready to start?"





   Joe gulped, and nodded.  Really, he was tongue-tied.  Betsy B had
swapped her usual prim, crew-neck Danskin for a model that emphasized her
dramatic cleavage.  She had perfect posture, which emphasized her boobs
even more.  Joey had pretty good posture, for an American, but Betsy B's
was purely Prussian.  Her tits weren't that huge, but her pectoral muscles
and her posture shoved them into Joe's face.  If they had collided, Joe's
nose would have been buried between her tits, even though in true feet and
inches he and Betsy B were about the same height.





   Betsy B gently grabbed his elbow, saying, "This way." She guided him
back to the staff's lair, explaining that she could give him four free
sessions, but after that all she could do was keep an eye on him while he
followed her program.  She was booked up solid; she couldn't take him as a
paying client even if that's what he wanted.





   They arrived at a small office, smaller than a lot of people's closets.
She threw his file down onto the desk.  The outer wall was glass, but as
she said, "sit down, please" she slowly pulled the drapes closed.  As she
eased her body into the desk chair and took her time about leaning to pull
a pen out of the jar, Joey's prick was showing some definite interest.  She
gave a private chuckle, then sat up.





   "OK, sir, first things first.  What do you like to be called?  Joe,
Joey, Young Joe, your highness, what?"





   Sitting down, she was less intimidating, and Joey thought he was going
to like her, aside from his aching desire to fuck her brains out.  He would
have laughed when she offered, "your highness," but his rod was straining
to escape, again, just from the way she had closed the drapes and showed
off her breasts.  "Joe or Joey, please.  I'm trying to get my family to
stop saying Young Joe."





   "Besides, you're a Club member now," she chuckled.  "You have
authority." In her low voice, those words teased him about wanting to "be a
man" without putting him down for it.  Pause.  "Anyway, from what I hear
about your, uh, 'endowment,' maybe we should call you Big Joe." Joe blushed
a deep red and simply stared.





   "I had an interesting conversation with your mother this morning," she
went on.  She drew a deep breath, but crossed her arms over her boobs
first. "She called, explaining that she'd heard about your visit here
yesterday -- she was probably the last Club member to find out -- and she's
afraid that you're going to be passed from bitch to bitch, sampled and
tossed aside.  Those are my words; she was nicer, but that's what she
meant. She thinks I'm the first bitch in line.  And, I confess, she's more
than half right.  I would like to find out what it's like to be fucked all
the way up to the cervix.  But I'm a professional, after all, and I have a
job to do.  It's also against the law."





   "Not in this state."





   "Shut up.  Don't tempt me!  I need this job." She let that sink in, then
continued.  "So, here's the pitch.  If I can get over my inhibitions about
being blacklisted by health clubs from here to Alaska, and paying the rent,
maybe we can fuck some day, but only if we've earned it.  Probably not, but
maybe.  I say 'we' because I'm as eager as you are.  Cocks that can satisfy
a big girl like me just aren't all that common.  Certainly not attached to
any recent boy friend of mine.  Oh, and meantime you don't have to be
faithful.  I'd prefer it if you weren't.  You'll need the experience,
believe me.  I won't be faithful, for sure."





   She unwrapped her arms and took another deep breath, but Joe's senses
were already overloaded.  "Sorry, I shouldn't tease you like that.  Here's
the truth.  I'm a lot stronger than I look." She grinned, more like baring
her teeth; she and Wonder Woman would have fought at even odds.  "With the
right man, my orgasms can be long and violent.  I broke a man's back once,
and he wasn't even all that great in bed.  I got off with community
service, but the judge said no more fucking anyone who couldn't handle the
gee forces.  And that means, Mister Young Big Joey Dunlap, that you and I
might some day have some great sex, but not until you're in a lot better
shape than you are today.  No major improvement, no Viking maiden.  Major
improvement, no promises, but it's possible."





   This speech was full of so many astounding items that all Joe could do
was protest her assertion that he was not fit enough for her.  "Major
improvement?  Better shape?" he said.  "I swim at least a mile four or five
times a week; twice a day during the swim season."





   She slapped his folder.  "Yeah, but last season you never placed better
than third, and that was only once," Betsy B shot back.  "When I'm through
with you, you might not win every time, but you'll be in the top three more
often than not." She reached for his bicep, raising her eyebrows when she
spied his souvenir scratches from Mrs.  Cohn.  Then she squeezed.  It felt
to Joe like her she could rip the whole thing right off his arm.





   "Aaaaaggggghhh!" he screamed.  Pulling on her wrist had no effect at all
on her grip or her demeanor.  It wasn't until Joe thought to lunge back
from the desk that she let go and the pain subsided.  "What was that
about!?" Joe yelled.  "Are you crazy?"





   "Shut up.  Now!  A lot of people think I am crazy, at that," she said.
"But I think I made my point about your crummy muscle tone, at least in
your bicep.  Should we test your other muscles?"





   "Nooo!" cried Joey, but even as he did he was recovering his dignity. 
"I mean, no, you've made your point.  Should we get started?" Out loud, he
didn't complete the sentence formed in his mind:'And out where there are
witnesses!'





   "I have to get your height," she barked.  "Stand up by that measuring
tape there, on the wall."





   As Joey complied, Betsy B's gaze and smirk told him that his gym shorts
stood out like a pup tent.  He hadn't known.  He was still flushed red from
the pain in his arm, so he couldn't blush.  Thank goodness for small
favors. "I see that your friend there likes Amazons.  I wonder if you knew
that." Joey said nothing, but as he stood against the wall, she seemed to
soften, from drill sergeant to girl on a second date.





   She seemed shy and embarrassed.  "Joey, I've just got to get a look at
that instrument of blissful torture I've heard so much about.  May I?"





   It worked like the bad cop - good cop ploy.  He wasn't about to deny
anything to the nice version of Betsy B.  He nodded.





   "You dear boy.  I'm sorry, but I really want to hear you say it.  May I
make a personal inspection of your penis?"





   Said penis was confused.  He got hard for Betsy B, minor sadist with the
Gestapo, but even harder for Betsy B, pride of her Sunday school.  Joey
gulped.  "Yes, I think I'd like that," he stammered.  "Should I take my
shorts off?"





   "No, I'll do it." Which she did, pulling shorts and jock over his hips
and leaning in close as the garments fell to his ankles.  As she leaned,
she wrapped her hand around his naked prick.  It was harder than it had
ever ever been, although Joey was not forgetting what that same hand had
just done to his arm.  "Hmmm.  Length, seventeen point three.  Girth, eight
point six on the Fleischer scale.  Color-- Color and hue, eight points out
of ten." She pulled the wooden pole away toward her, then left, then right,
pretending to test its hardness.  "Wow.  Rigidity, ninety-two, no, make
that ninety-four percent."





   She looked up at him, still playing scientist.  "Y'know, Mr.  Dunlap,
I've seen, oh, thirty, forty, fifty specimens before, but this one is the
best I've ever seen.  I really do think that once you're strong enough that
it's safe, you and I should run some more tests.  Or do you refer to your
di-- excuse me, your penis as a 'him'?"





   This was all far more than Joey's inexperienced body could control. 
"Betsy, you'd better get a towel or something," he gasped.  "I'm about to
explode."





   Fortunately, Betsy B was trained to keep her head in emergencies.  She'd
never been trained to give head in emergencies, but, hey, this was an
emergency.  She didn't let go of his cock, or run for a towel; she wrapped
her mouth around the top two or three inches.  Just in time, too, because
as she did, Joe moaned, "nngghh-shiittt" and his cum gushed out, hard and
fast.  If she hadn't been so quick-thinking, the room would have been one
big mess, wall to wall.





   Those thirty or forty or fifty guys were lucky men, though, because she
was a really good cocksucker (certainly compared to the one inexperienced
girl who'd serviced Joe before).  She never moved her hands, still firmly
clasping the shaft; all she did was vary the pressure of her fingers, like
she was playing the clarinet, and suck gently, coaxing out every drop of
semen and swallowing the whole load.





   When he was spent, Joe softened a little, and got weak in the knees, as
if he were about to collapse onto the ground.  Instantly, sweet Betsy B let
go of his prick and hardass Betsy B stood up, almost lifting him by his
shorts and jock strap as she pulled them up to his butt.  "Oh, no, you
don't, mister!" she snapped.  "Stand up straight!  Now!"





   Startled, Joe complied, even though both of his heads were still
spinning.  Betsy B stood up to her full height and glared down into his
eyes.  "Training starts now, buster.  We've had a taste of our reward.  Now
we earn it."





   Quickly, she finished the paperwork, clipped it to a clipboard, grabbed
an old-fashioned stop watch like the one on "60 Minutes" and led Joe to the
floor of the gym.  "First.  This little running track is one-eighth of a
mile.  Give me two miles.  Fifteen laps, two slow, one fast, two slow, one
fast, like that, then one all-out sprint at the end.  Got it?"





   He nodded, still a little disoriented from the events in the office. 
"Yeah, I've got it, Betsy.  Two slow, one fast."





   "When I say 'got it?' you reply 'Got it!' Two words, no more.  And don't
you dare call me 'Betsy' ever again!  You've done it twice.  Three strikes
and you'll be out, cold.  It's 'Betsy B,' pal, and don't you forget it. 
Got it?"





   Joe was no dummy.  "Got it!"





   "OK, go!" she barked, clicking the stop watch.  The whole session went
the same way, Nautilus machines, more running, free weights, medicine ball,
more running, more stomach crunches than he could count, until Joe felt
like the best he could do would be to crawl to the bus stop.  "I thought
you said you were in shape," she taunted.  "You want me to call your mamma
to come pick you up?" He said nothing, but squared his shoulders with
determination.  "Same time, Wednesday?" she asked.  Joe nodded, and she was
gone.  Joe wanted to melt into the floor and rest, but he was afraid she'd
come back and catch him.  He staggered to the same shower where all this
had started, twenty-six hours ago, and then dragged himself home.





   Everything seemed normal when he got home.  He was too late to help get
supper on the table, so he'd have to do the dishes instead, but that was
okay.  The three of them -- Debbie was home for once -- chatted about the
usual stuff.  Debbie had, of course, heard about his encounter with Connie
and teased him about it, but nobody mentioned how spilling his Pepsi might
have been smart, not clumsy.  He thought his mom gave him a look to tell
him that she knew anyway, but he shook it off.  How could he have gone from
thinking his mom was a near-virgin to thinking she thought about sex -- and
her son -- all the time?  He told her and his sister about Betsy B,
honorary Nazi, but naturally left out the good part.







   Later, as Young Joe was washing the dishes, his mother came back to the
kitchen.  "I know we should talk more about you and your father, and what
to do about it, but I'm not up to it tonight.  I'm all confused.  You
should be, too.  But right now I have to think about what to tell your
father when he calls."





   Joe, Senior, called like clockwork at 9:00 every night when he was out
of town for the week.  He didn't really need to call that often.  The
custom began when he was a young lawyer who needed a way to get out of
being seen and not heard at those dreary dinners with the clients and
senior partners (the lawyers always picked up the check, then billed the
expense back to the client's corporation).  He and Amelia had hatched the
plot when Amelia was pregnant with Debbie; Joe went to work one day to tell
them that Amelia had "put her foot down" and was "nearly hysterical" at
being "abandoned" all week in her "delicate condition." She'd said if Joe
wanted to keep the job and travel all the time, he would have to choose
between calling her every evening or coming home to an empty house. 
Actually, Joe wanted to get away from the dinners and go to a gym, even the
hotel gym if that was the best he could do.  The ploy worked great.  He
gained respect within the firm for standing up for his marriage, but not
too much, and the clients were always told that Mr.  Dunlap had wanted to
come to dinner, but the firm was being thrifty with the client's company
cash.  And, like any eccentric behavior, in time nobody noticed any more.





   Tonight, though, the phone custom looked perilous.  What should she say?
Joey's idea was simple, the classic lie: "Tell him the truth, but leave the
sticky parts out.  Remember, I didn't tell you anything this morning, I
showed you.  You knew most of the story right away, before I said a word;
so you can truthfully tell him that I didn't tell you anything about it. 
If he asks.  Which he won't."





   He stopped to breathe.  "Tell him about how dead I was when I came back
from the Club.  He'll get a laugh out of that, and you can change the
subject."





   Amelia didn't know whether to laugh or cry.  "Are you a lawyer's son or
what?" she said.  "Tell me, young man, have you ever used your devious mind
on me that way?"





   "No, ma'am, I'd never do that.  Never." Joey put on his most innocent
face, so his mother knew he was guilty as sin.  "Well, once.  You remember
when I was eleven, the time the living room window got broken?  My buddy
Glenn and I were horsing around indoors and broke it, but we ran outside
and picked up all the glass, and scattered it around the room.  Then Glenn
threw a baseball against the wall so it left a mark, and we got the hell
out of there before you came home.  Boy, you sure were mad at some
neighborhood kid.  We tricked you so bad you never even asked me if I did
it.  But that was the only time."





   That was years ago.  Amelia could laugh about it now.  She gave him the
"boys will be boys" look, saying, "I still don't believe that that was the
only time," she said.  Rising up on her tiptoes, she gave him a fond kiss
on his cheek.  "I guess I'll have to forgive you.  The statute of
limitations has run out." She winked.  "Now, young man, get the kitchen
cleaned up and try to do your homework.  I know it'll be hard.  I'd give
you a hand if I dared."





   She left Joe gaping at her back as she left the room.  He wondered if
she could really have meant the double entendre.  So did she.









   Joe finished up and went to his room, belly full of so much food for
thought that he was almost nauseous.  He sat down at his computer, but it
was futile.  He was lucky he had no exams any time soon.  He needed
somebody to talk to, and his mom and dad were both out of the question. . .






   Heart in throat, he knocked on Debbie's door.  She, as usual, had some
chick band turned up loud in her ear buds, and since he didn't want his
mother to know what he was up to, he opened the door a notch, slipped his
hand into the room and waved.  It was an old routine between them, because
they both played their headphones or ear buds way too loud.  She hopped off
her bed, flinging some massive work of literature onto the spot where she'd
been sitting, and opened the door.





   "Whaddya want, little bro?  No, you can't borrow my iPod.  You'd better
find your own.  It's probably in that messy room of yours.  Or maybe you
want to arm wrestle?  C'mon, tough guy, let's go to it, and chirp, chirp,
chirp. . .  " He couldn't get a word in.  But it meant she was in a good
mood, and once she'd calmed down she'd be glad to talk to him.  They were
fond of each other, and helped each other out when they could, without
admitting that they were doing it for love.  Besides, they liked the
squabbling routine.  It brought out the clever in them both.  They'd been
doing it since Joey could talk.





   "What are you so chipper about, Deb?  Have you been invited to
Wimbledon?"





   "Very funny, little bro." She grabbed his arm and pulled him into the
room, shutting the door theatrically.  "Better than that, actually.  I got
my period!"





   "What's so great about that?  You get all sick and cranky when you're on
the rag."





   "No, Pal Joey, you're not thinking.  I.  Got.  My.  Period."





   It took him a moment, but he caught on.  "And you were afraid you might
be. . .  "





   She put one index finger to his lips, and the other to her own.  "Shhh!
To say the word is to invite the calamity."





   "You want me to explain to the asshole about condoms?  Maybe make him
eat a box of 'em?  Who is it, anyway?  I thought you and Dan broke up."





   "Our minds and hearts broke up, but our bodies didn't.  This is a
secret" -- they knew they could trust each other absolutely -- "Dan's my
new fuck buddy!"





   "Oh, come on.  Who's the secret from?  Mom's gotta know you're fucking
Dan.  She's clairvoyant."





   "Maybe so, but Dan's new girlfriend doesn't know.  And she's not gonna
find out from me.  Or you."





   "Who is it?"





   "Some girl named Anna from over at Lincoln High.  Dan hasn't exactly
introduced us.  Now, whaddya want?"





   "Can I sit down?"





   "Sure.  We can both sit on the bed.  I have extra pillows.  See ya,
Tolstoy!" The book hit the floor.  "I'm on the rag, so I won't attack you."
[Which was doubly false; she'd never wanted to attack him, but if she had,
being on the rag would not have stopped her.]





   After they got settled, she looked at him quizzically, waiting for him
to start.  It was obviously something awkward, but all she could do was
wait.  "Should I try to guess?  Like twenty questions?  Or Jeopardy?  I'll
take 'problems with girls' for sixty, Alec.  Hey, it's the Daily Double!!"





   Joe held up his hand, and she stopped.  "It is about girls, sort of. 
Sex, really.  I dunno, maybe I shouldn't have bothered you. . .  maybe I'd
better go."





   She grabbed his arm.  "Fat chance, buddy!  You've got me curious.  I
know you can be dumb, but you have to know that your dear sister will let
you know no rest until she knows.  Everything.  "





   He inhaled deeply, then blew it out.  "OK, sis, here it is, plain
English.  Are the girls at school talking about my cock?"





   If Debbie had been a cartoon character, her jaw would have dropped to
her knees.  Her first impulse was to start laughing.  "Wow, you get right
to the point, don't you?" Pause.  He was serious.  "No, they don't," she
said soberly.  "At least, I haven't heard anything, and I don't think it's
because bitches like Connie are sparing my sisterly feelings.  What should
we be saying about your cock, little brother?  I can probably figure out
how to start some rumors, if you think it would help you get laid.  What's
going on?"





   He astounded her again.  "Do you know about dad's dick?"





   She grimaced.  "Brother Joseph, you'd better explain what you're getting
at.  If you're after a little incest action, you've come to the wrong
chickadee."





   "No, sis, far from it.  If anything, a little incest action might be
looking for me." He told her about his and their dad's discovery in the gym
shower yesterday, and how badly dad was reacting.  He said as little as he
could about their mother's flirtatious comments, except as was essential to
the story.





   "I can't be hearing you right.  You dropped your pants in front of Mom?
In the kitchen?  This morning?  To show her this uh, penis, you think is so
huge?  Have you gone totally pervo?  Or are you just out of your mind?"





   "Hey, it seemed like a good idea at the time.  Besides, what difference
does it make whether I told her about the gym shower or showed her?  It's
not like she's never seen a cock before!"





   "Yeah, but from what you say it's been decades since she's seen one
without her glasses on.  Poor woman!  You know, for the past couple weeks,
for obvious reasons, I've been thinking a lot about what motherhood means,
the responsibility.  She's suffering through a life without orgasms for our
sake.  What can we do for her?





   This was an angle Joey had never considered.  It wasn't just about his
dad; his mom was paying the price, too.  For all their sakes.  Then it
dawned on him that talking to him about women on the make could be a way of
vicariously spicing up her sex life, maybe her solo sex life.  It still
made him queasy to think of his mother masturbating, and since yesterday,
even queasier to think of her screwing his dad.  But if that's what she
wanted, he should give it to her in technicolor.





   "Hey, I'd never thought about it that way," he replied.  "That's why I
came to you.  You're soooo smart.  So, what should I do?  Is it all over
the school?  What if some girl comes up and says, he simpered, 'I've heard
about your cock.  Wanna fuck?' I'm only a kid, you know.  I'm still a
virgin, a 'technical' virgin, I guess.  If I was twenty-one, maybe I
wouldn't care; I'd just fuck her silly and move on.  But I do care.  Now I
sort of understand why girls get mad when boys look at their boobs instead
of their face."





   "Wow, Joey, your, ahem, 'problem' seems to be turning you into an honest
man.  Are you sure you want to go there?"





   "Har-de-har-har.  I really want to know what you think.  I- I like you;
if you were my age, I'd want someone like you for a girlfriend.  What do I
do?" He heard what he was saying a little to late to word it better.  He
forced a laugh.  "Hey babe, you got a sister?"





   He was embarrassed; Debbie let it go.  Too easy.  "OK, Joe, here's what
I think.  Straight.  I'm glad you told me about this -- to think of all the
lurid dreams I've wasted on Dad, when he's Mr.  Shrimpy!  -- but I think
your questions are ridiculous, and I won't even try to answer them.  But
you're just a kid, so that's okay.  Whenever you need it, I will give you
the perspective and advice of a typical gorgeous, athletic, smart, popular,
witty, talented high school senior with tits, that you look at too often,
by the way, that will never expand to fill the bright promise of the name
De-bra.  I like you too, brother.  I love you, of course, you're my
brother. But I like you.  I'm totally, one-hundred percent, on your side.
We both could have done a lot worse in the sibling department.





   "But there's one thing you've gotta do for me," Debbie finished.





   "What's that?" asked Joe, but he knew.





   "Whip it out.  I wanna see the steel bar that's causing all this
heartache."





   Joe shook his head slowly, then rolled off the bed, saying, "Sorry, I
don't know any good strip tease moves," he said, "and sorry, no steel bar
right now.  Toothpaste tube is more like it." And he spoke he undid belt
buckle, buttons and zipper to pull his johnson out and show her.  It did
have some heft, half-heartedly trying to stick straight out, but drooping
in the attempt.  It was longer that way than totally deflated, but it was a
whole lot bigger at full erection.





   "Wow, that really is the Daily Double.  Or Triple." Debbie's eyes were
focused on his penis, but she was inspecting, not staring in rapture. 
Without thinking, and with no sexy intent, she reached out and let the
weight of it rest in her palm.  She couldn't imagine that cock buried in
her birth canal -- it was her brother's, after all!  -- but she could and
did compare it to the eight or ten cocks she'd known.





   Even at half mast, Joe's fuck organ was over twice the handful of any of
the others.





   She scooted around so she was lying prone on the bed, still hefting
Joe's member in her hand.  Joe was speechless, watching.  Her face was so
close to his member that it responded to the warmth of her breath.  The
magic dick began to harden, angling upward.  Debbie didn't move her hand
with it, she just watched it grow.  And grow.  And grow.  She pulled her
eyes away to look up at her brother.  He just shrugged, silently telling
her that he had no control over the situation or over his mighty penis,
which had a dirty mind of its own.





   "Wow, maybe I should start calling you Big Brother." She gave a nervous
giggle, then reached out to wrap her hands around the engorged pole,
telling herself she was still in scientific mode, gauging its
circumference. Her left hand, first; clutching him at the base, her hand
looked small and diminished, in comparison to the obscene mass it was
gripping.  So she reached out with her right hand, placing it above her
left.  Joe had the lewd thought that Debbie might find Betsy B's
fingerprints, but no, he'd had a shower since.  Debbie gazed at the
uncovered part of his dick.  She'd known boys whose whole endowment wasn't
much bigger.





   "Is this as big as it gets?  Can I measure it?" she asked, fighting off
the impulse to pull Joe onto the bed and impale her pussy on his rod,
menstrual blood be damned.





   "No!" Joey snapped, then he said, "Sorry, D-bra, but I don't want to
know.  I really don't.  If I measure it once, I'll be measuring every day,
keeping a daily record.  I do not want to go down that road."





   "That's probably wise," she mused, still focused on her own pangs of
lust.  She was thinking, 'Maybe I could suck it.  Compared to incest,
that's not so bad.' For a brief moment, the idea of only sucking, not
fucking, her own brother made her feel chaste and virtuous.  Then she
realized how idiotic it was, thinking that blowing Joey would be okay
somehow.





   She pondered how a hand job -- it would have to be a two-handed "hands
job" -- would rate on the sin meter.  Her hands were already in place, and
as she pondered she half-dreamily gave him one long two-handed stroke, up
and down the whole length.  She'd sometimes played tennis two-handed, but
she'd never done a two-handed hand job.  She'd never had room.  She loved
the feeling of the solid flesh, and its veins and other bumps and lumps,
all under the cover of loose skin.  She was glad he was cut.  She'd seen
both, cut and uncut, and had a strong dislike for foreskin.  Debbie knew
that if she gave him even one more stroke, she'd be committed to a complete
hand job, and who could know how much cum would shoot out of such a big
tank?  But even so, her lust and curiosity were in control, damping her
inhibitions.  Once more, her hands slowly slid upwards.





   Joe, who had been standing as stiff and rigid as his mahogany woody,
grabbed her wrist and stopped her.  "Sorry, Big Bad Sister, but no.  Not
now, anyway.  I'm still too scared to break the big taboos." That woke her
up.  Not because she cared about big taboos, but because the way he said
it, made her sure that he was tempted by both her and their Mom, and he
knew they were both tempted by him, or It, and he was scared, just as he
said.  She needed to think about all that.  Still, before she let him go
she pulled him closer and gave the smaller of his two heads a little kiss.





   There's no rule saying you can't have more than one fuck buddy.  Or
maybe there is.  Who cares?





   Tuesday





   When Amelia rose the next morning, marveled at how normal the morning
had been.  Her husband's phone call last night had been innocuous; she'd
hadn't anticipated that he'd want to stay a mile off the subject.  Joey was
long gone, to morning swim practice.  Deb was more scatterbrained than
usual, but not so much as to alarm her mother.  Both Joey and Debbie had
acted like it was just any other day.  What were they up to?  As the
obvious possibility popped into her mind, she caught her breath.  Young Joe
and Debbie. . .  She had to solve this problem before it really got out of
hand.  It was all up to her; there was nobody else.





   Amelia's actions all day were the usual, some COBOL work, appointment at
the hair salon, a hard workout at the gym, but in her thoughts, it was
anything but an ordinary day.  It seemed as if she was seeing thick, hard
phallic symbols everywhere.  Telephone poles, pencils, the bananas at the
Club's snack bar. . .  She wasn't exactly mad with desire, but she couldn't
stop thinking about all the possibilities of a thick, meaty cock.  She
couldn't deny to herself that all those phallic symbols, were really
symbols of one particular thick, meaty phallus, or maybe two.





   Joey's mom found a moment to talk to Betsy B, who told her all about her
son's training session but nothing about its prologue.  Amy, who'd been
thinking about hard, thick penises all day, was suddenly confused; her
concern about Betsy B seducing Joey led her to imagining her face buried in
Betsy B's pussy, just as Julie had taught her.  And doing anything else she
was told to do.  What a hard, stern, sexy woman!  Achtung, Baby, indeed! 
Amelia was revolted by the idea of leather and whips and chains, but short
of that she knew she'd be willing to do anything Betsy B told her to do,
groveled for the privilege of serving her more, if only she could have one
more taste of that natural-blonde pussy!  Please?  At last, Amy got away
without embarrassing herself.  Even so, she was sure Betsy B had seen and
understood her need.  Probably better than Amy did herself.





   In the sauna after her workout, at last she admitted to herself that
she'd been through all this confused anticipation before.  With Julie, with
Owen, and once, the last night she saw Julie, all three together.  Now, she
really didn't know if she wanted history to repeat itself.









   The morning after her birthday party, she and Julie had enjoyed each
other for as long they dared, and flirted outrageously as they cleaned up
the party mess.  Amelia's mother was obviously clueless, although back they
she would have said "oblivious." When they had finished she gave Julie a
proper girl friend-to-girl friend girl kiss at the door, then walked Julie
to her bus stop.  As soon as she was out of her mother's sight, though, she
gave Julie a highly improper kiss, forgetting or not caring who else might
be watching.  She felt sad and empty as Julie got on the bus, but they had
the telephone, and she knew she'd see Julie at school on Monday.





   A little later that same day (it was a Saturday), Amelia and Owen were
killing time, sitting on Owen's bed playing a board game.  [So-called
because you don't play them unless you're bored.] Owen didn't want to hurt
her feelings by mentioning the party, but he did comment that his sister
didn't look like she'd been up all night crying her eyes out.  "No," she
replied.  "Julie stayed over, and I slept like a rock."





   "Some of the guys say Julie's a lezzie," said Owen.  "Did she try to
kiss you?"





   "Owen, it is really mean to go around badmouthing people.  Julie's my
new best friend, and you should keep your dirty thoughts to yourself.  And
I'd better not catch you spreading rumors about me and Julie around
school."





   "OK, OK," Owen said.  "I won't spread rumors.  I won't even spread the
truth.  So, what happened after I left last night?"





   "Julie and I got undressed for bed, she gave me a kiss for good luck,
and I went right to sleep.  I assume Julie did, too."





   "That must have been some kiss, to knock you out like that.  Which pair
of your lips was she kissing?"





   "Dammit, Owen, stop it." She slammed her fist on the table, causing some
of the game pieces to topple or bounce.  "Leave the subject alone."





   "Amy, it's a good thing for you we're not playing poker," Owen crowed,
"because you are very awful at bluffing."





   Just then, their father's voice came booming down the hall.  "Hey, kids,
your mother and I are going to play tennis; we'll bring Chinese home for
dinner.  About 6:30." Three and a half hours.





   Owen went to the door and yelled down the hall, "OK.  We'll be here. 
Get some governor chicken, please." He left the door open, and stood by the
bed.  "Well, dear sister, I'd better tell you what I heard last night."





   "When?"





   "Last night, after you and Julie sent your little brother off to bed."





   Amy's face gave her away, and then the tears came.  She cried, "You
spied on us?  How could you?"





   Owen, still standing, didn't retreat.  He held her gaze.  "Oh, c'mon,
sis, when have I not spied on you and your friends?  Especially like last
night?  When I heard Julie invite herself to stay overnight, I almost
creamed my jeans.  I wanted an eyeful of those tits!  I was sorry I'd never
drilled a hole in your wall.  But I listened, and heard plenty."





   Amelia snapped, "I suppose you have a tape recording and a--, a--, a
transcript, too!"





   Ludicrous and hypocritical as it was to feel this way, Owen recoiled in
genuine hurt.  "Amelia, you might think I'm bad, but don't ever think I'm
evil.  I don't have a tape.  The thought never entered my head."





   "Well, if you heard everything, what do you want?  There's nothing left
to tell."





   "There's plenty left to tell," Brad corrected.  "Did you like it?  Was
it better than regular sex?  Are Julie's tits as hot in person as they are
under a t-shirt?  Are you going to be a lesbian now?  That would sure show
Brad."





   As his eager questions poured out, Amelia glumly accepted the fact that
her brother knew the whole story.  "Yes, brother, you're right.  You heard
what you heard.  I don't know if I'm a lesbian, or even bi.  I just don't
know!!" she sobbed.  "Julie gave me the best orgasm I ever had.  I don't
think thatassholebradley ever game me a single one.  It was like some drug
trip.  My whole body shook, then I felt like I was flying, and suddenly I
could hardly stay awake." Reliving her orgasm stopped her sobbing, anyway.
She meant what she said.





   "But this morning I noticed something missing.  Deep in my, uh, uh,
vagina, there's this need, kinda like an itch that hadn't been scratched. I
guess that's why lesbians use strap-on dildoes.  Even so, though, I hope to
see a lot more of Julie."





   Owen knelt by the side of the bed and took his sister's hand.  "I heard
you and Julie talking about my, uh, uh, penis." Neither of them noticed the
way he echoed the way Amy stumbled before naming her own genitals.  "It's
too big, I know.  Some of the guys on the team call me a 'freak of nature.'
I try to think they're jealous, but sometimes I wish I could get some kind
of, I dunno, d-- dick reduction surgery." He stopped talking; his voice was
threatening to break.





   He took a half-minute to recover.  "Sorry, sister-mine, I'm not asking
what I want to know.  Uh, uh, when you said, to Julie, last night, 'I saw
him first,' what exactly did you mean?"





   "Whoa!" she exclaimed.  "What are you getting at, little brother?  You
had just been feeling my boobs.  Remember?  What was that about?"





   Owen was red with embarrassment and near tears.  "It's just -- It's just
that twice, now, I've been with easy girls, pushovers, real sluts, who've
said the same, that I'm a freak.  I thought they'd fuck anything with
pants, but they were both afraid to fuck me." He snatched a tissue from the
box and blew his nose.  "I don't get it.  I thought girls were supposed to
like a big dick."





   Deep in her loins, Amelia felt the twitch.  It really hadn't stopped
since this morning.  She was trying to ignore it, and failing.  A desperate
desire to at least see behind that bulge in his pants was welling up from
deep inside.  She looked at the corner of the ceiling, away from her
brother, so she could concentrate on what she wanted to say, so she didn't
notice her brother's fidgeting.  But when he stood up, the sight of him
drove all those trivial thoughts away.





   Owen had undone his pants as he knelt next to the bed.  When he stood,
his pants and underwear clung to his ankles, revealing his enormous penis
standing tall, proud, and very, very hard.  In this condition it seemed to
reach his ribcage.  Its color ranged from the dark of his pubic hair,
through the beige that people call "white" skin, to pink, to a dull brick
red, the color of dried blood.  Its head, the size of a golf ball, was
perfectly in proportion to the massive shaft.  His meat was so erect, and
so hard, that there was no room anywhere for his veins and other vessels;
they were molded just under the loose skin, which strained to hold them. 
Owen's cock was, in a word, magnificent.





   "Wha-- what do you want?" stammered Amelia, the shaky tone in her voice
saying, 'Whatever it is, you shall have it!' "Incest is a crime, you know.
I think it's a f-- f-- felony."





   "I need your help, Amy.  I need it bad.  Not fucking or sucking, I can
jack off whenever I need to.  But I need -- I really, really, need, to find
out if this monster prick will actually fit into a girl's-- vagina, and if
it will hurt her, or whether it's just a big useless piece of meat."





   Amelia tried to focus on her ears, not her eyes.  If this was Owen's
line, it was at least original.  But what did he want, if not fucking or
sucking?





   "What are you asking for?" she repeated.  "You just want to see if your
cock will fit in a typical teenage pussy, and you figured, hey, I've got
one around the house somewhere?  Is that it?  Brother-mine, you have a lot
to learn about women!"





   Owen looked miserable, but didn't back down as he replied, "I know I
have a lot to learn about women.  That's the point.  But, yes, that's
exactly what I want.  Besides," he said through the ghost of a grin,
"you've helped me before.  Remember that hand job you gave me when I was
seven?"





   That broke the tension, at least some.  "Don't remind me," his sister
grimaced.  "Every time I think about it, my butt hurts from the spanking I
got."





   "Mine, too," agreed Owen.  He didn't repeat his plea, but stood there
looking forlorn, thumb and index finger loosely circling the base of his
member.





   Amelia never answered, but she lay back on her brother's bed and lifted
her butt to remove her jeans.  "Lucky for you, I'm plenty wet," she
scowled. "Otherwise you'd have to eat my pussy first.  And I wouldn't let
you, so that would be that."





   "Oh, I'll do anything for your help, dear sister.  I'd even eat your
pussy."





   "Sorry, you're like the plumber.  If he's not needed, he's not invited."
Pause.  "But don't just stand there, take your pants all the way off, then
do mine.  Then lie down on top of me.  But don't put it in, even a little
bit, until I say it's okay.  And do it slowly, and stop whenever I say. 
And whatever you do, don't stroke!" She grinned.  "And if I happen to
change my mind and say you can stroke, don't pay any attention.  Maybe I
should put wax in your ears, like Odysseus."





   Owen listened dumbly, staring at her bush, showing no sign that he
comprehended, or even heard, a word of what she had said.  He slowly pulled
his sister's jeans and panties off her legs, stroking her thighs a lot in
the process.  Then he climbed onto the bed and knelt between her feet. 
Leaning into a crouch, he slid his head and shoulders forward until his
face was about level with hers.  The tip of Owen's cock lay less than inch
from his big sister's cunt lips.





   Neither spoke, but Amelia nodded, and Owen's cock crept forward until it
touched her vulva.  Amy reached down to guide him, and pulled a little to
tell him he could enter, gently.  She stopped him when the head was about
halfway in.  It didn't hurt her; so far, so good.  She pulled him in
another half-inch.  The walls of her vagina resisted, at first, but relaxed
to admit the intrusion.  Her clit was sending off sensations like an orgasm
fountain.





   Amelia soon discovered that her cunt could easily handle the thickness
of her brother's organ, as long as he took it slow.  In fact, she felt her
body craving the thick cock, gushing more and more juices to lubricate its
entry deeper into the warm darkness.  Owen, who was a virgin, remember, was
propped up on his elbows, classic missionary position, and doing his best
to obey Amelia's commands about starting and stopping.  But when he was
about four inches in, his elbow slipped on a fold in the bedsheets and
without any warning he sprawled over Amy's body as his cock slid in all the
way, to its hilt.





   Amy was instantly breathless, but not from any of Owen's weight crashing
down on her chest.  As Owen's cock slid in, it deflowered her in deep
recesses of her body she didn't even know she had.  Absolutely nothing,
animal, vegetable or mineral, had ever been up that far.  She felt organs
actually shifting to accommodate him.  It hurt like hell, but at the same
time she felt the dizzying, weightless pleasure Julie had brought her, just
a few hours before, layered with another, deeper ecstasy from deep within,
as she imagined this relentless, rigid massive invader rearranging her
internal organs to suit his own desires.  She opened her mouth to scream
her pleasure and pain and confusion, but only a weak "aaah" came out.





   She forgot all about her plans for one stroke, in and then out.  She
forgot about Odysseus.  She wanted to be ffffuu-uucckked, hard.  Owen could
tell she wanted him to start stroking, to thrust in and out until the force
of his cum propelled her off the bed and across the room.  It was what he
wanted too, of course, but he wasn't yet out of his mind with lust and he
did remember his promise.  Somehow, he found the will power to pull out. 
But as he eased his dick back, she grabbed his butt cheeks with the nails
of both hands and pulled him back in.  He didn't want to break his promise,
but he didn't want the skin torn off his butt, either.  Undecided, he
stopped still.  But Amelia took care of that.  If he wasn't going to thrust
with his fuck machine, she'd do the work for him, writhing herself every
which way, directing the cock to explore the inner regions of her body, and
as a bonus, massaging her clit as it did.  Once she'd broken the ice that
way, Owen did the same, instinctively matching her rhythm.





   He never did hear that scream, or moan, or whatever was trying to escape
from her throat.  Every time she almost gave it voice, another spasm would
shake her from the inside out, forcing her to inhale and try to push
another, higher, moan out over the first.  She felt her body tension
ratcheting higher than she would have ever thought possible.  All her
muscles throbbed from the strain, and in her right foot they cramped
painfully, but she didn't care.





   By now Owen, too, recognized the early signs of his own orgasm, as his
semen began its rush to do its duty, for the first time, in what a waiting
womb.  "Oh, Amy, I'm cumming!  Can you feel it?  I'm -- " As his cum neared
the end of its tube, flooding past the pleasure centers in his cock, or
brain, or wherever they were, he, too, was unable to speak except in
grunts. Then came that odd little pain as his cum hit the exit.  As it did,
Amelia finally got out one shriek of pleasure, followed by cooing sounds:
"oooh, aaah, oooh" are the best way to write them, but they aren't really
right.  Owen found himself repeating the same syllables right back at her
as he continued to stroke slowly, gently, and his cock gushed, and gushed,
and gushed, longer than it ever had before.





   Several minutes of silence, as they listened to each other's heartbeats
and breathing to return to normal.  Neither one of them could think, yet,
far less comprehend just how profoundly the past ten minutes had changed
their lives.  Then Owen felt cold, and for the first time he noticed that
he, and his sister, were drenched in sweat.  He didn't know the rules.  He
didn't want to be the first to speak, or move, because he wasn't sure if he
should.  But he could tell that Amelia was getting cold, too, so he reached
around with one hand, trying to yank the blanket over to cover them both.





   Amelia noticed what he was doing and gave him a little smile, to his
relief, as she lifted herself as much as she could, to help.  Owen was
tongue-tied.  Now that the blanket was draped over them both, he started to
roll off her, even though his softening dick was still buried deeply in her
pussy.





   But as he moved, she grabbed his hips and stopped him, pulling his
semi-soft cock in as deep as it would go.  As she looked into his eyes with
a far-off glazed expression he'd never seen before, she gave him a wide,
happy smile.  "Hey, guy," she said.  "Don't run off yet.  You really ought
to kiss a girl after a performance like that."





   Owen didn't process her words; at the mere sound of her voice he burst
into tears and collapsed his full weight onto her torso.  "Oh, Ames, I'm so
sorry.  I promised.  Then I raped you.  I didn't mean to.  Really.  I
slipped.  It just-- happened." His big sister readjusted the blanket with
one hand and then hugged him to her chest with both, kissing his head and
ear wherever she could reach.





   "Oh, Owen, Owen, stop it.  I'm the older one, and the girl, and could
have stopped you at any time.  I know it.  I also would have ripped your
ass to ribbons, and then your ribs, and anything else I could reach, if
you'd tried to escape.  I'm just glad I didn't have to hurt you.  How would
I explain the dead body to Mom?  Anyway, I'm still waiting for that kiss."





   Still in the saddle, Owen levered himself up to his sister's face and
kissed her, lips extended the way you'd kiss a spinster aunt you didn't
like.  Amy had a different notion.  Her jaws opened, and her tongue
attacked his closed teeth.  Then his jaws opened, too.  Owen had done
plenty of French kissing, but unlike other times there was no tongue
wrestling.  It was as if they simply wanted to explore as deeply into each
other's mouths as they had done in each other's loins.





   Owen rolled off of Amy, his cock leaving her warmth with a protesting
"pop!" They lay still together, dozing and trying to think.  They never
knew where the time went, but luckily Owen looked at the clock.  "Ames, get
moving!  Mom and Dad will be home soon and we've got to get cleaned up."
Their post-coital lassitude was no match for their panic.  They were up in
a flash, changing the sheets, showering.  They put the board game away and
recovered their clothes.  If anything, Owen's room looked suspiciously
neat, but their Mom wouldn't notice.  Owen wanted to smoke a joint to cover
up any smells, but Amy talked him out of it.  "Why get yourself into
trouble?" she said.  "If they smell anything, they'll just figure you were
beating your meat.  They'll never think I was helping."









   She and Owen kissed, sucked, fucked, and wore out their imaginations
thinking of other things to do for the next 11 years, until, as we have
seen, the night before Amelia's wedding.  After that, their relations were
at least as chaste as those between you and your siblings, if you don't
count the smutty reminiscences they exchanged on the telephone.











   Just after lunch, Amy's cell phone rang.  The caller ID made her catch
her breath.  Owen!  She raised the phone to her face.





   "Owen!  I was just thinking about you!" . . .  "No, not like that, you
lecher," she lied.  That was exactly how she'd been thinking.  "You wish!"
. . .  "No, he's in Fort Worth all week.  You want his number?" . . . 
"Tonight?  Sure, the kids'll be glad to see you.  You'll hardly recognize
Debbie." Yeah but he'd recognize Joey, if he'd just look in a full-length
mirror, naked. . .  "Are you sure you can't stay longer?  Joe'd be glad to
see you, and you can hang out with the kids.  There's no school Friday." .
. .  "One of those 'in-service' days.". . .  "I suppose they're getting
some kind of training.  I never bothered to ask.". . .  "That's an awkward
time to drive to the airport.  Sorry, you'd better take a cab." . . . 
"Okay, 7:00 or so.  It'll be good to see you."





   Her brother owned an import-export business in Long Beach.  Not
glamorous, but he made pretty good money and he had plenty of time to rack
up teenage nookie at Huntington and Santa Monica.  He had to come back to
his old home town on business, just for the day, and he'd suddenly thought
to drop in on Amy's family this evening instead of taking the early early
flight tomorrow morning.  It was uncanny, Amelia thought, how he'd call at
this particular time.  Transcontinental ESP.  She was confident she could
keep her hands off him.  Or was she?





   She finished up a programming project, e-mailed the code, and an
invoice, to the client, and yawned.  "It's take a nap or do the laundry,"
she said to herself.  Her kids were supposed to toss all their own dirty
clothes down the chute, but they weren't reliable.  As she picked up her
own wash, she almost lay down for a nap, but trudged on to Debbie's, and
then Joe's, room.





   She'd been thinking about Joe's bed so often lately that seeing it gave
her a jolt.  She did need a nap, and here was a bed handy.  She was half
asleep almost before she hit the bed.  The dirty clothes fell every which
way as her body relaxed.





   Under the circumstances, an erotic dream was inevitable.  As she drifted
off, she had fuzzy thoughts about fucking her well-endowed son.  How would
she approach?  "Hi, Joey, wanna fuck?" or on her knees: "Please, sir, favor
me with the honor of servicing your fuck-meat." Maybe she could dig up the
old baby monitor (long ago given away) and wait 'til he was jacking off:
"Hi, Joey, I see you started without me." Walk around the house naked until
he noticed?  She had a great body, for her age.  In fact, a lot of girls
half her age would be proud to inhabit her body.  Yes, that would be the
way to go, just walk around naked. . .



   * * *







   In her dream, she got up from her nap, got the laundry sorted and
started, when she noticed a red stain on her sweatpants.  'Dammit!' she
thought.  Debbie had used up all her tampons.  'Oh, well, I guess I'd
better wash these clothes, too.' She took off her pants, then her panties,
then shirt, bra, everything, throwing them all into the machine one by one.
Then she went upstairs to make some coffee.  As she sat in the kitchen in
her usual chair, drinking her coffee, Young Joe appeared and poured himself
a cup.  He didn't notice she was naked.  He was crossing back to sit at the
table when she snapped, "Joseph Dunlap Junior, put that coffee down and
look at me." He looked, but still didn't notice.  She said, "Young Joe, I'm
totally naked.  My naked cunt is as wet as Lake Huron.  Is that enough of a
hint for you?" As Joe gazed at her nakedness, his pants fell down, just as
they had on Monday, and disappeared.  "See, Mom, I'm naked too." She looked
between his legs for his dangling member, but it wasn't there.  Then she
saw it -- as big and hard as a baseball bat, standing straight up from his
groin almost to his chin.  She screamed, but Joey leaned over and kissed
her.  "It's okay, Mom, let's go to my room." "Good idea, son," she replied,
and suddenly she was kneeling on Joey's floor as he sat on his bed, begging
him to fuck her.  "Please, Young Joey, I'll do anything for you.  We can go
out for ice cream afterward.  Or to the zoo.  Would you like that?  In her
mind's eye, Joey was both ten-year-old with Young Joe's teenage cock, or
Joey the teenager shrunk back to his ten-year old size.  His feet dangled
in the air in front of her face.  She gave another awestruck peek at his
crotch.  To her relief, his prick had shrunk with him; in fact, it looked
exactly like Owen's.  As she whimpered for Joey's cock, Joey kept saying,
"We can't, Mom.  That's incest.  We have to have Dad's permission, and he
has to be here to watch." But Old Joe would be gone for months; what could
she do?  She bowed her head, her hands pressed together as they taught
children to pray, in the old days.  "Can I at least suck you off?  Please?
I know how, better than any of the girls at school." "Of course you can,
sister mine," a voice replied.  "You don't have to beg.  You don't even
have to ask.  Just yank down the ol' zipper and have at it." She looked up,
beyond the Louisville Slugger, to see her brother,

   looking exactly as he did that first time.  Owen took her hands and
tugged.  She rose.  "C'mon, sister mine.  When did I ever turn you down. 
I'm the one who's always begging you!" Then he pushed her back to her knees
and pressed the head of his dick into her lips.  He wound his fingers in
her hair, as he'd always done when he wasn't going to take 'no' for an
answer.  "You can take it all, Amy.  I know you can." Amy opened her mouth
to accept the monster dick.  She took it in, and in, and in.  She could
feel it sliding down toward her stomach.  Not too far!  The acids in her
stomach would burn him.  The muscles in her alimentary canal squeezed the
cock, as long as a broom handle and twice as thick, as if it were a banana.
She couldn't breathe, but she didn't care.  "Wow, Amy, you beat your
personal best!  No one sucks dick like you!  I've had six hundred and
nineteen babes, and you're the best of them all!  My own sister!  It's time
for your reward." Suddenly she and Owen were fucking, missionary position.
They were taking it slow, until Owen's elbow slipped; he came, instantly,
ejaculating gallons and gallons of cum.  It filled her whole body, rising
until she could feel its silky texture and sweet taste in the back of her
mouth.  She pulled his head down to kiss him, and as she did she shot a
mouthful of his cum back into his mouth.  He looked annoyed, and began to
pull his prick out of her desperate cunt.  "Owen, I'm so sorry!" she cried.
"I want to keep all your sweet cum for myself!  Let me suck it back out of
your mouth." But Owen had disappeared, slamming the door behind him. . .



   * * *





   The sound of the door slam was real.  It was the front door, though,
slammed by Debbie, with no tennis dates for a change.  "Mom?  Mom?"





   "Right here, dear," she called.  She'd staggered into the hallway, still
woozy from sleeping so hard.  "Just a little catnap, Debbie, that's all it
was.  Just a catnap." What a dream?  As she rubbed her eyes she could smell
her own pussy juices on her fingers, and assumed that Debbie could, too. 
"Hey, what are you doing home so early?"





   Debbie patiently said to her, "It's almost four o'clock, Mom.  What time
did you lie down?"





   "Four o'clock?  It can't be.  Don't you mean 2:30?"







   Debbie smiled sweetly, put her arm around her mother's shoulders and
guided her to the right bedroom.  "Mom, you just take it easy and wake up.
I guess I did slam the door kinda hard.  It must have woken you up from the
deepest part of sleeping." Amy sat on her own bed, disoriented.  Debbie
brought coffee, still with that sweet smile, and left without disturbing
her mom any more.  Gradually Amelia returned to the world.





   What she didn't know was that Debbie had actually come home about twenty
minutes before, had not slammed the door, and had found her mother in a
restless sleep on Joey's bed.  'Hmmm,' she thought, 'the plot thickens.'
Amy started muttering in her sleep; Debbie, nosy about everything, tiptoed
closer.  Judging by her mother's flushed face, and her hand in her
sweatpants fingering her pussy, she thought (hoped, really) that she was
dreaming about Joey, not that Debbie knew what she'd do with that
information.





   So Debbie was shocked beyond measure when she heard her mother
whispering the name not of Debbie's brother, but of her own brother,
Debbie's Uncle Owen.  "Fuck me, brother-mine, fuck me with that big
sausage. . .  fuck me again. . .  let me suck it. . .  personal best. . . I
can't fuck any more, I'm getting married tomorrow!. . .Eleven years of
fucking will have to be enough, little brother. . .  Surely you've got six
hundred and nineteen other girls to fuck. . .  Not in the ass, I have to be
virgin for my new husband!. . .  Yes he has a micro dick, but I have to be
faithful. . ." And much, much more.





   Eventually Amy stopped muttering.  Debbie crept out of the room.  She
put her jacket back on, opened the front door and slammed it, calling
"Mo-om!  Mo-om. . .," like usual.  Not like usual was the way Debbie's cunt
was gushing her own juices, or the way she was trembling, from her solar
plexus outward.  'Mom and Owen!  That's so hot!  Eleven years!  That's
where Joey gets the big dick genes." After helping Amy to her own room and
getting her coffee, Debbie rushed to room, yanked off her pants and started
fingering herself madly.  She cuppped three fingers around into her pussy
with her palm on her mons; not squeezing, but massaging both places at the
same time.  Hard.  That was her magic spot, although after the visions of
her mother fucking her uncle, fingering herself was almost redundant. 
Debbie had had her first orgasm before her mother even woke up.





   By and by Debbie was sated and Amelia was awake.  Debbie found her
mother in the kitchen.  They both were freshly showered and changed, Amy
into tight jeans and an old white oxford shirt of her husband's.  She loved
these 100% cotton shirts, and they lasted forever even after they were Not
Suitable For Work.  "Hello, sweetie, thanks for taking care of me back
there.  I don't know what got into me."







   'I do,' Debbie sniggered to herself.  'Could Mom still be under her own
spell?  She's not wearing a bra!' She couldn't be certain from this angle,
but she was close to certain.  Aloud she said, "Don't worry about it, Mom.
I have some time this evening, can I help you get caught up?"





   If Amelia had been thinking better, she'd have wondered at Debbie's
kindness.  Ordinarily, she'd have had to threaten Debbie, at least
implicitly, before the girl would do any more than the minimum.  "Why, how
sweet!  Thank you, Debbie.  Will you do one small thing for me?  Check the
guest room and get out a set of towels for your Uncle Owen.  He'll be here
in a couple of hours."





   "Uncle Owen!" Debbie gasped.  She'd been thinking about him for an hour
or more, and now he was about to materialize, like on Star Trek.  This was
magic.





   Debbie's mom explained about Owen's quick business trip.  "It's been
what, three, four years since you've seen him?  He'll be amazed at the way
you've grown."





   'If I play my cards right, I'll be amazed at the way he's grown, too,'
she chortled, again silently.  Debbie gave her mother an affectionate hug
and dashed to check the guest room before she inadvertently gave her secret
away.  Then she sat on her bed to think, 'Wow, Uncle Owen, coming here,
tonight!  The two biggest dicks in the whole city, right here in our house!
What fun!' That brought her up short.  What, exactly, was she thinking? 
Fucking Owen?  Fucking Joey?  Maybe taking them both at once?  'Pull
yourself together, Deb, and don't think with your gonads.  Indulge your
snatch, girl, but don't let it do your thinking.'









   Joey sat through math class, distracted in one direction by the teacher
and in another by Connie, who did her breathing routine whenever she
thought he might be watching.  He was focusing what he hoped was seductive
body language on Mrs.  Cohn, though, so he was trying not to pay any
attention to Connie.  He was sure that young Rachel Cohn had just despised
cheerleading cock teasers like Connie, back in her day, and he tried to
project the same disdain.  So far so good, he thought; whenever the teacher
looked his way, she looked into his eyes and immediately glanced away, as
if flustered and shy.  Mrs.  Cohn was hooked, he thought, now she had to be
reeled in and landed.  'Who is this egotist in my body?' he despaired. 
Then he thought, 'Maybe I can fuck Connie, too.'





   Connie was getting to him, flaunting her big tits.  He had the silly
thought that maybe the biggest cock in the school ought to hook up with the
biggest tits in the school, sort of like Homecoming King and Queen. 
Yesterday three beautiful girls had admired his naked prick, two others
come on to him, and he'd gotten his first competent blow job.  This week
was turning his brain to oatmeal. . .





   Young Joe, hell, no, Big Joe, wondered for the hundredth time what had
come over him this week.  He had the same cock he had last week, and it was
the same size relative to the guys on the swim team.  But this week, all
this action, or prelude to action.  He was certain that two hot MILFs were
working up to nerve to seduce him, risking their lifestyles and
reputations. All because, he realized, that his Dad's little secret was
out. Little Joe had sensed his life would be turned upside down when he saw
his Dad's boy's cock.  He was right.





   The bell rang.  Joe winked at Mrs.  Cohn, a "Killer" wink [surely you've
played the drinking game Killer] that only she could see, then joined the
crowd at the door.  Connie slipped in right behind him, using the occasion
to tease him with the tried-and-true boobs to the back maneuver.  She
whispered in his ear, "Hey, Joe, whatcha gonna do now?  No Pepsi handy to
put out the fire in your balls?  Waddle down the hall pretending no one
notices?"





   Joe was on such a power trip that he wondered why Connie wasn't under
his spell.  How could she dare tease his cock?  If she had any idea about
the mightiness of his dick, she'd be begging, not teasing.  She was way out
of line, playing her usual game as if he were just like the other boys.  It
was time to put her in her place.





   In the hallway, as soon as the crowd thinned out, he whirled to face
her, smiling.  "Do you know what you're teasing?"





   Connie didn't expect this.  She was no bimbo, though; she thought fast,
and raised the stakes.  "Sure, I know.  Your peeeee-nisssss.  Why do you
think I'm teasing?  I hear it's big."





   "You obviously don't comprehend just how big it is.  I'm sure that you
have never seen anything like it, except maybe in porno movies.  Well, I've
heard that maybe your humongous tits aren're really so humongous.  They
can't be.  They have to be mostly falsies.  Water bra, probably, until your
mother'll let you get a boob job." Connie looked amused, until outrage took
over.  "See how it feels?" Joe pressed on.  "The idea that someone would
think you're faking and lying makes you sad and angry.  Me, too.  So, let's
have it out.  You're thinking that I can't comprehend your tits and I'm
thinking you can't comprehend my cock.  Lay 'em on the table.  Put up or
shut up."





   Connie grinned a predatory grin.  This was her turf.  "'Have it out?'"
she smirked.  "You mean put out or shut up, don't you?"





   Joe chuckled in spite of himself.  "Only if you play your cards right.
You heard my challenge.  What do you say?  Show me yours and I'll show you
mine." Now he was having fun.  Let her sweat it.





   "You're serious!" she exclaimed.  She was not used to losing control of
any conversation with a high school boy.  "I don't know.  I do have a boy
friend."





   "I know you have a boy friend.  Where did you think I learned about your
tits?"





   "Now I know you're lying.  Brian would never talk about me like that,
even if it were true.  Especially if it were true."





   "Right.  And he'd never mention that cute four-leaf clover birthmark on
your thigh, about an inch from your pussy." He had heard about that, but so
had everyone.  She'd broken up with Brian over it, but apparently they were
back together.  Joe didn't care.  "I gotta go.  Have your second answer my
challenge by this time tomorrow." He turned and walked away, well
satisfied. Whatever she did tomorrow, she wouldn't be teasing him any time
soon.  He wouldn't have to deal with his cock pulling his pubic hairs or
the Pepsi stunt.











   Somehow, Joey came down from his testerone haze to realize that he
hadn't talked to his buddies since Sunday.  Women were crowding his brain;
he needed a break.  On his way home from school he stopped at the usual
hangout -- a stretch of street near the college packed with burger joints
and pizza palaces.  Years before, the high school boys and the fast-food
owners had reached a sort of truce; as long as the boys would switch
hangouts every few days, the owners wouldn't squawk when it was their turn.
He found some of the usual gang eating pizza and playing arcade games.





   "Hey, Happy Birthday, Joe!" one sang out.  The others, the ones not
playing games, jostled around to slap his back and say inane things about
cars and chicks and dicks and do the usual guy routine.  A couple guys even
started to sing "Happy Birthday," but it fizzled out after two lines.





   Nick had seen him talking to Connie in the hall.  "Hey, what's between
you and 'Connie Cantaloupes'?" He made air quotes.  Nick quickly told the
others what he'd witnessed, and they all chimed in: "C'mon, Joe, tell us!
Are you planning to fuck her any time soon?" "Careful, her boy friend's a
linebacker.  At Reagan High." All the high schools in town were named for
presidents; theirs was Jackson.  Jackson High's football team was awful. 
Reagan was the city champion, third in the state.  "Yeah, Joe, did you cop
a feel?  Right there in the hall?"





   Joe knew that the best way to lie is to tell the truth, but in a way
that won't be believed.  "I told her I thought she wore falsies," he
grinned.





   "Gimme a break, Joe!" "C'mon Joe, you wouldn't have the nerve." "You
know you're her number one tease, why spoil it?"





   Joe didn't like deceiving his friends, but his priority this week was
sex, not hangin' with the guys.  After a while, when he was no longer the
center of attention, he was sitting back, just shootin' the shit with Nick,
who told Joe the rest of his story about Joe and Connie.  "I know this
sounds crazy, Joe, but I think Mrs.  Cohn's got a thing for you.  She
passed you and Connie in the hall, then stopped and turned around.  I was
right behind her, I turned around, too.  She was glaring at Connie.  If
looks could kill . . .  I don't think Connie saw her, though." Pause.  "You
know, I just can't see you and Connie.  She's a bitch and you aren't."





   Lucky for Joe, and for Mrs.  Cohn, that sharp-eyed Nick wasn't in his
math class.  "Thanks, Nick.  I thought I was getting some signals from Mrs.
Cohn, too, but I figured it was just my ego talking.  I can't believe she'd
do it with me, though.  It could cost her her job." He grinned.  "Besides,
her husband is six-foot-six.





   "As for Connie, much as we'd all like to fuck her, I don't think she'd
be a good girl friend for any of us.  She's a whore for football players,
probably because she gets more attention that way.  Who, besides us and our
parents, pays any attention to swim meets and tennis matches?  By the way,
I really did tell her I thought she was wearing falsies."





   "Nnnoooooohh!" laughed Nick.





   "Yeah, after that bit with the Pepsi yesterday, I decided I'd had enough
of her prick-teasing.  So I hit back."





   "Do you think it's true?"





   "No idea.  But now that I've told you guys, I'm sure that the rumor will
be all over school by lunchtime tomorrow.  I'm counting on it." Nick was a
good friend, he took that statement as Joe intended.  They were no more
gossipy than anyone else.  But they could be relied upon to spread any word
that Joe, or any other of their friends, wanted spread.





   Joe looked at his watch.  "I gotta get home, Nick," he said, "you wanna
come over for foosball Saturday?  Maybe you can nail Debbie before she
thinks she's in love again." Nick was on the tennis team with Debbie, where
they enjoyed a light, if obscene, flirtation.  As Joe got up to leave, they
were both laughing.







   First thing when Joey got home Debbie told him about Uncle Owen, but not
about their mom's wet dream or what she'd heard about their uncle's
package. A bit later, Amelia found him at his desk, in his room.  She had
mixed motives for this visit, but told herself that she wanted to ask Joe
not to talk to Owen about the oversized cock problem they had in common. 
But how to start?





   As she entered, he looked up and smiled.  From the doorway she said,
"Deb said she told you about Owen.  It'll be nice to see him." She crossed
to stand behind him.  "I bet that today you're really sore from yesterday,"
she said.  "How did you ever manage to swim this morning?" You know it'll
get worse before it gets better." Young Joe threw his head back to look up
into her face, like a golden retriever might do, smiling silently.  He knew
his mom thought this pose was cute.  He was overacting, but he couldn't
help it.





   His mother continued: "Just so you know, I asked around at the Club
about Betsy B today.  Nobody knows about any boy friends.  A lot of people
think she's gay, but no one really knows anything.  Some think she's a
lesbian, or bi, but that's only because she looks and acts like a Nazi.  I
talked to her, briefly.  I don't think we have anything to worry about. 
She'll keep her hands off you."





   Joey's first thought was, 'Whaddya mean we, paleface?' He was a little
anxious, but also curious.  "Oh, yeah?  She said to meet her tomorrow, same
time.  She is a Nazi, told'ya so."





   Panicky change of subject.  "Mom, can you rub my shoulders?  I'm sore
all over from yesterday.  I don't see how I ever managed to swim this
morning." Repeating her words was a very old routine, going back as long as
Joe could remember.  He sure loved his mom.  Did he want to risk it all by
fucking her?





   Sure that Betsy B had not told her the whole story, Amelia decided to
tease it out of her son.  She grabbed his shoulders and let her braless
boobs straddle his neck, much as Connie had done, only yesterday.  Her
voice dropped an octave.  "If you're sore all over, baby, why should I only
rub your shoulders?  Can't I be a full service masseuse?" she cooed. 
"Maybe you'd like to rephrase the question."





   As his mom had predicted and wanted, Joe's prick twitched.  'I guess
that answers my question about fucking,' he thought, then gave an
exaggerated whine.  "Jeez, Mom, how can I keep my mind out of the gutter if
you keep pulling it back in?"





   "Don't move." Smiling, she left for a moment, returning with a bottle of
lotion.  When she was gone she unbuttoned another button.  Joey was a smart
kid; he'd notice her this time.  'This time?  What does that mean?' she
thought; her dream was buried in the back of her subconscious mind.  No
matter.  She'd make it as easy as she could for her son to see her tits on
display.  Joey and Owen, between them, had in two short days turned her
clock back more than twenty years, from faithful, prim wife back to randy
teenager.  She had to learn just how far she was willing to go.





   She poured some lotion into her palm, saying, "Hey, meet me halfway. 
Take your shirt off." She gave a silly wolf whistle.  "Nice bod," she said,
and got to work.  After she'd found a good rhythm, she got serious.





   "I called Betsy B yesterday morning," she said.  "I told her to keep her
pants on, at least until the thirty-third date.  And then I saw her today,
at the Club.  She caught me asking someone about her.  We had a nice chat,
though.  I don't think she has any designs on you."





   Joey answered the unstated question.  "She told me about your call.  We
flirted a little.  Talked about sex, some.  She didn't seduce me, or even
try.  She did say that I'd have to be in a lot better shape before she'd
dare, you know, do it with me.  She told me her orgasms killed a man once;
tore him limb from limb.  She doesn't want me to be the second.  It's just
teasing." All Joey's experience at deceiving his mom failed him, he could
tell.  He knew she raised an eyebrow even though she was behind him.  She
just rubbed his shoulders, saying nothing, waiting for the other shoe to
drop.  "Mom, you've gotta promise not to call the cops, or the Club
management, or anything."





   "No deals." she snapped, then softened.  "Whatever happened, it's my
fault, too, in a way.  I should have told you not to go.  But you'd better
tell me the whole story."





   "Everything I said was true," he began.  "Then she gave me a f- f-
fellatio, sort of." The stutter and the Italian word told him he wasn't as
brave as he'd thought.





   "Sort of?" This boy was always saying, 'sort of.' "How do you get a
'sort of' blow job!?" Joe was no longer startled by his mother's earthy
language, but he hemmed and hawed a lot at the beginning.  It was
unbelieveably weird, telling his mother about Betsy B inhaling a half a
gallon of his cum.  But as he told the tale, and she rubbed his shoulders
and upper back, his enthusiasm grew -- he told his mom every detail he
could think of, and made up a few as well.  Amelia hadn't heard him yak
like this since he was four.





   "I take it this was your first 'sort of' blow job?" she asked.





   "Welllll-- a girl tried to give me one last summer, at swim camp at
Cornell.  But only the head part would fit in her mouth.  I told you about
her yesterday."





   "Tell me again." Joe still couldn't believe he was being to
matter-of-fact.  To his mother!  It was the last night of camp.  The two
had met at this place in the woods where they'd been hiding out and necking
since the first week, but it was the first time she'd seen his cock.  She
wouldn't fuck.  She said she was afraid of getting pregnant, but Joe
thought she was afraid that taking his penis -- Joe had said "prickus
maximus" -- would hurt too much.  She even said it was too big for her to
suck him off.  But Joe had already done her pussy, and it was her turn. 
She did some licking and kissing as she pumped him with her hands, and
after he came she licked most of the cum off his dick and balls.  The rest
was sprayed all over the ground and bushes.





   For all the X-rated content of this tale, he was still her baby when he
twisted around to face her.  "Does that count as a blow job?" He really
wanted to know!





   When his mother didn't answer, he blurted out, "Mom, I can't believe I'm
talking to you like this.  Suck and fuck and dick.  What is happening?" His
mom still didn't answer.  This time, she didn't know the answer herself. 
She wanted to know how old the girl was.





   "I dunno, my age, give or take a year.  We were in the same group at
camp.  Nice bod, small boobs, though.  That was the last night of camp, I
haven't talked to her since.  She lives somewhere near Denver."





   "Your age."





   "Yes, mother.  And don't ask me her name, I won't tell you."





   She was proud of him for that, at least.  But the sexy talk was having
its effect.  As he spoke, Amelia didn't exactly burst into flame, but she
could feel herself getting warm and thinking about her dildo collection. 
She realized that she didn't care how many teenage girls he fucked, but she
did care about the adult women, especially Viking queens like Betsy B. 
'Could I really be lusting after my own son?' she thought for the
seventy-seventh time.  It was her job to protect him, not corrupt him.  But
that one sight of his cock, and a hundred memories of Owen, had knocked her
judgment off kilter.  She'd been thinking about nothing else for almost two
days.  And Owen would be here soon.  Maybe he was the reason.  'Oh, I just
can't figure it out!' she wailed, in her mind.





   She had made her big decision almost before she realized she was
deciding something.  "Listen, this is a bigger deal than you can realize.
The girl at camp, I don't exactly approve, but at least it was
age-appropriate.  You're a teenager, with not much experience of sex and
girls and that stuff and, I'm sure, none at all with women twice your age
or more.  On the other hand, I know that sex is a powerful urge, and if I
tell you to ignore these harpies tearing at your zipper, you'll just start
ignoring me instead, and fucking your brains out, and lying to me about
it."





   'Harpies, plural?' thought Joe.  'What's that about?  She can't possibly
know about Mrs.  Cohn!'





   She paused, collecting her thoughts.  "We've also got your father to
deal with.  He wasn't a virgin when I met him, but he certainly didn't have
girls in heat breaking down doors to get to him.  He's always been
gorgeous, but the news got around.  I'd heard of the big jock with the
micro dickie even before I met him.  If the stories get around that you're
fucking all the hot babes at the gym, he might get so depressed he can't
work.  He might even kill himself.  And you and I would never forgive
ourselves.





   "Promise me that you'll resist these women as long as you can; for one
thing, it'll prevent them from treating you like some sex toy.  Don't give
it away too easily.  When girls do that, they're called 'whores' or
'sluts.' It's no better when the slut is a male."





   It was time to 'put up or shut up,' she thought, having no idea that
Joey had said those same words to Connie a few hours before.  Heaving a
huge sigh as she went, one that lifted her breasts a good two inches and
then let them fall, jiggling, she let go of his shoulders and moved around
him to sit on the edge of his bed, leaning forward, facing him.  "Most
important, promise me that when sexy stuff happens, like yesterday, you'll
check in with me that evening and we'll talk about it.  If there's a risk
of your father hearing, we'll go get coffee or figure some other time.  But
you have to let me help guide you through the next year or so, anyway. 
Otherwise you could end up hating yourself, hating me, hating your father,
hating women -- and there's no need.  So, promise?"





   Halfway through this soliloquy, Joey discovered her unbuttoned buttons,
and without really meaning to, he was trying to see the forbidden flesh
behind them.  Amy saw, of course.  During the long pause as Joey tried to
think and tried to scope her tits, Amelia had another,
thinking-outside-the-box idea.  Immoral and illegal, but at least a
rationale she could tell her conscience.  She'd happened to think of
Pasteur, who learned how to protect people from smallpox by inoculating
them with a mild case of cowpox, a less harmful disease.  Maybe the Pasteur
principle would work for her.  To protect Young Joey from all those harpies
and witches, maybe she should provide him with a known, safe, experienced
sex partner, like for instance. . .





   Joey could see the edges of his mom's aureolae, and of course the plump
curves of the mammaries themselves, and was trying to take it all in.  All
too weird.  But the bottom line he understood.  His mother sincerely wanted
to help him, and she thought the best way to do that would be if he and she
sat down in his room every night to talk about sex.  Just the thought made
his pecker start to twitch a little.  'Do I really want to fuck my own
mother?' he thought for the seventy-seventh time.





   He was ready to agree to her plan, but he was still a lawyer's son. 
"You're talking about adult women, right?  I don't have to tell you about
girls at school?" She scowled at him, but nodded slowly.  "The girls," she
frowned.  "Just the women older than, . . .than. . .  than your sister."
Amy immediately regretted bringing Debbie into it, too late.





   Young Joe immediately replied, "Yes, mom, I promise.  Every time an
adult woman gets sexy with me, I'll tell you about it that night, or as
soon as I can, and I'll listen to what you think.  But Mom, I can't promise
that I'll always take your advice.  This is all too new to me."





   Even though it was serious business, he couldn't resist joking.  "And I
won't promise that I'll certainly turn her down.  What if it's Miss
January? Or Catherine Zeta-Jones?" Amelia's resemblance to CZJ, especially
from certain angles, was a staple of family lore.  As I believe I've told
you, there was a vague resemblance, but Amelia would have had to live at
the gym to be movie-star svelte and what was the point?  She was plenty hot
for her husband, and, apparently, younger men as well.





   His mom had stood up to leave the room.  Now she blushed, and smiled, at
the mention of Ms.  Zeta-Jones, although her eyes were misting with tears.
Right there with Joey watching, she nervously fussed with the shirt buttons
still buttoned.  The topmost one slipped open.  Joey unabashedly stood up
for a better look.  Standing, he could see her boobs all the way to the
nipple.  His cock leapt to attention, extending upward for a better look,
too.  She left the lower buttons buttoned.







   "Good, Joey.  Excellent.  Honest and practical.  As for me, I promise to
do my best not to be judgmental, and without fail to keep all your secrets
from everyone.  Who knows?  I might wind up telling you about my sex life,
such as it is." She crossed her forearms over her abdomen.  Then she raised
them up to her chest, hefting her boobs in Joe's direction, as if he needed
the hint.  "I think I should start calling you 'Big Joe'," she grinned. 
Nervousness ebbing, she gave him the mother of all come-hither looks, and
her index finger flicked just enough to point to his dick, which was
straining against his waistband and pulling his pubic hairs again.  "Tits
for tats," she winked.





   Against the smooth cotton of her oxford shirt, her braless nipples
strained for attention, and they got Joe's.  He figured they had to be as
hard as his erection.  He gave them a long, unmistakable look, then smiled
into Amelia's eyes.  "Maybe by then you'll have a sex life to talk about.
It's been what, twenty years for you?" He reached under her folded arms and
pushed aside her shirttails to place his hand flat on her belly.  His
fingers pointed down, right at her waistband.  If her pants hadn't been so
tight, in a heartbeat he could have shoved his hand into her pants, then
curled his fingers up, spearing deep into her recesses.  She trembled with
anticipation, hoping he'd try.  Once he did, she'd tear at her pants
buttons herself.  She couldn't deny it.  And at that moment, she
desperately wished he would make a move, or gesture, that would break the
ice and permit her to ravish him right here, on his bed, right now.  Even
if all she could get was his fingers in her cunt, they would do the job at
least as well as his father's little dickie.  Alas, Joey opted to move up,
not down.  He unbuttoned her last shirt button, and let his hand inch
upward to the next one.





   Her cunt was soaked, of course, with enough left over to soak the crotch
of her panties, if she'd been wearing any.  'This boy is sure getting
bold!' Amy thought.  'He knows I'm near the end of my resistance.  He's
getting cocky.  I guess that's natural, given his equipment.'





   Amy got hold of herself.  'I can't do this.  I stood there in church and
promised.' Later she realized that at the critical moment, she'd forgotten
that in addition to being adultery, incest was also a crime.





   She slapped his hand for his impertinence, and redid the button, all
while grinning the happy grin of a horny woman with high hopes for the
future.





   "If my name ought to be 'Big Joe'," her son went on, "then Dad's should
be 'Little Joe.' Or even Minuscule Joe.  Pathetic, Puny Joe."





   'Uh-oh!  Not the Oedipal power trip.  Not yet.' "Not to your father's
face, ever.  We really do have to be careful about humiliating him." Then
all those years of sexual frustration and her aroused hormones, together,
ganged up on Amelia's better sense, and knocked it senseless.  "But when
it's just you and me, sure.  Big Joe and Little Joe." She giggled, boobs
dancing merrily.  "Or Humungous Joe and Puny Joe.  Or Massive Joe and
Microscopic Joe.  Why not?"





   She leaned over with her hands on his knees, breasts on display through
the open top buttons of her shirt, ostentatiously letting her gaze linger
on his crotch.  She resisted the urge to blow on it, and let her gaze rise,
following the bulge in his pants that was growing even as she was looking,
and then slowly up his bare abs and chest to his face.  He was cute, no
mistake.  "Big, Big Joe.  My son.  You've always been a good boy, and very,
very soon you're going to be a man, a good man, a man we can all be proud
of." She stood, and leaned over to his face, and kissed him, lightly, on
the lips.  Neither was yet ready to admit how hot their lips were.  They
were on fire.





   She stood up and sashayed to the door like Lauren Bacall.  In the
doorway she turned.  "A.  Very.  Good.  Man." As she shut the door behind
her, Joe's dick exploded.  Luckily, the sticky mess was all confined to his
pants.







   Dinner conversation was uneasy.  Amy and Joe wondering if they'd gone
too far, or not far enough, and not wanting to talk about it, especially
not in front of Debbie.  Debbie, for her part, was fantasizing about her
uncle or her brother, or both together.  Everybody's face was flushed.  Oh,
well.  Silence falls on all families' dinners, sometimes, although rarely
for these reasons.





   Just as they finished, they heard a car door slam, and, a few seconds
later, the doorbell ring.  Amy hurried to open it.  "Owen!  How are you! 
Come in!" Brother and sister were sharing a chaste hug when Debbie and Joe
reached the door.  "Owen, surely you remember Debbie and Joe."





   "Hello!  Happy Birthday, Young Joe!" their uncle said.  He looked them
over, Debbie very slowly.  "What I remember was a little stick drawing of a
girl and a very loud and annoying little boy," he laughed.  "And here you
are, woman and man.  And athletes!  Wow, who'd-a'-thunk-it?" He turned to
Amelia.  "Nice work, sister-mine," he kissed her cheek.  "You've made silk
purses out of sow's ears."





   Owen had talked to Amy at least every other month ever since he'd moved
to California after Amy's wedding.  He knew all the news about sister,
husband, and kids, and sometimes had exchanged the awkward "hello" that
usually follows when your mom says, "Hey, [your name here], come say hello
to your Uncle [your uncle's name here]." This was the first time he'd
visited, though, since he'd become self-employed, for reasons anyone who's
ever been self-employed will easily understand.





   Their uncle was a good-looking man, in pretty good shape, for someone
having black hair flecked with gray.  In fact, he and Amy resembled each
other closely.  Owen had never married, for reasons Debbie could now guess
at, and had no kids of his own.  His only experience relating to teenagers
was, if they were female, getting into their pants faster than a
safecracker, and if they were male, none at all.





   Still, he was a glib talker, and funny, very good at the kind of verbal
gymnastics Debbie and Joe used on each other.  As the conversation took on
the shape of a shootout between those three, Amy surprised her kids by
wading in and holding her own.  Her conversation had always been warm and
wise, but rarely witty.  Owen scored his first point just by breaking the
ice.





   After a while the party broke up.  Everybody, including Owen, had work
to do.  Debbie showed him to the guest room, even though this was the same
house he and Amelia had grown up in.  (Their parents had died in a car
accident about a year before Amy's wedding, and Amy took the house as her
share of the estate.  Debbie and Joe had never known their grandparents nor
lived anywhere else.)









   The younger pair of siblings were in their rooms, trying to focus on
their homework.  Owen stayed in the kitchen with Amelia.  "OK, Ames, what's
going on.  You can cut the tension in this house with a knife.  Everybody
has something they're not saying.  I think it's about sex."





   "Oh, Owen, you think everything's about sex."





   "Not good enough, sister-mine.  Does this family problem involve me?"





   "No, Owen, of course not."





   "Ha!  Then you admit there is a problem!" Owen crowed.  "You're way out
of practice, to fall for that one."





   Amy turned to scowl at her brother.  "I should know better than let you
start talking.  Okay, then, I've gotta tell somebody, it may as well be
you." She gave her brother a big smile, that changed into a frowning pout
as the collected her thoughts.  "You've been to our health club, I
remember. Best in town.  Well, Sunday, we gave Young Joe a membership, for
his birthday.  He and his dad went there and had a real nice father-son day
of it.  Until they hit the showers, and they and all the other men in there
got to compare their uh, penises." She looked miserable, tears in her eyes.
"You know about Joe Senior's pathetic little dickie.  Well, guess whose
monster cock Young Joe inherited."





   Owen wanted to grin, but he suppressed it.  "So what?"





   "That's easy for you to say, you're the one who's well hung.  How'd you
like to be the dad with the micro dick of the boy with the nightstick? 
There with all the other guys, maybe your law partners, and the difference
on display?  I think Joe, senior, just shriveled up," she gave a mirthless
snicker, "as if he wished his body would match his little dickie.  When he
came home he looked like he was about to cry.  That was Sunday.  He did
disappear the next morning; he left as early as he could for Fort Worth. 
He hasn't said anything about cocks on the phone, but he sounds awful."





   "Dare I ask, Amelia dear, how you know so much about Junior's
equipment?"





   She glared at him.  "I oughta slap you silly for that," she hissed. 
After a few seconds she calmed down.  "Sorry, but this is embarrassing, if
you can believe that.  Young Joe had promised his dad not to talk about it,
but when I saw that he had a serious secret I ordered him to tell me." She
gave a small smile at the memory.  "That kid's a lawyer's son, for sure. 
He absolutely wouldn't tell me, because he promised.  But he found the
loophole.  He showed me."





   Owen burst out laughing.  "That kid just whipped his dick out to show
his mom how big it is?  I'm gonna like this kid.  How'd you manage not to
spread 'em right then and there?"





   Her brother's irresponsible good humor never failed to cheer Amy up. 
Her tone lightened an octave.  "Well, I didn't," she said, in her primmest
Mary Poppins voice.  "Since then, less than two days, he's turned the house
upside down.  He's cracking jokes about how we should call him 'Big Joe'
and his father 'Pathetic Joe,' he's been propositioned and sucked off by a
Viking maiden personal trainer at the Club, and he's worked his way into
the fantasies of his own mother, who was walking around this afternoon with
her tits almost hanging out." She told him about her "inoculation" theory.
"How perverse is that?"





   Owen took all this in, quietly.  After a while he spoke, in a low, calm
voice.  "So tell me this, sister-mine.  We spent all those years committing
incest.  Do you think you were harmed by it, all things considered?"





   'What was her brother driving at?' she wondered.  "No-oo," she murmured.
"All things considered, one in particular, I'd do it all over again.  I've
thought about this often; I suppose you have, too.  I wouldn't have been so
fussy about what other boys I fucked if I didn't have your fuck rod handy.
God knows who I'd have screwed if I was really horny.  Agh!  Listen to me.
Fuck rod?  I do miss your fuck rod, Owen, and I'm terribly grateful for all
the times I put it to use.  If you'd lived around here, being a constant
temptation, it would have been a problem.  I've often thought you moved
away for my sake, but I know you'd never admit it.  I'm grateful anyway,
although I do miss your-- smiling face."





   Owen kissed her cheek.  "Go ahead and say it, then it's my turn."





   Amy grabbed his cheeks with both hands and gently shook his face.  With
her face in his, nose to nose, she laughed, "Damn you!  All right, then, I
meant to say, 'although I miss your smiling face and your massive, hot,
thick, steel fuck-pole!' Satisfied?  That whole statement was good for me.
Was it good for you?"





   By now, they were both laughing.  "And I miss your sweet, lubricated
cunt, most of all, dear sister.  I miss the way you could wrap your muscles
around the shaft and play it like a saxophone.  I haven't met anybody else
who can do that.  I miss all the control you had, how every time it was
your decision whether to let me come and there was nothing I could do about
it.  And your trick of sucking out that deep orgasm, the oil after the
gusher.  I miss the absolute trust I had in you.  And the blow jobs!  I'd
trade anal sex with six Santa Monica teenyboppers for one of your blow
jobs. If I'd stayed around here I'd have been pestering you for sex all the
time.  Of course I knew how noble it was to go away and not interfere with
your marriage.  I asked the Chief of Police if he wanted to come with me to
join the French Foreign Legion, but he didn't want to go.  So, I moved to
California.  Hell, California girls are just as eager for a big dick as any
others.  I've never been looking for a wife, at least not mine.  So, except
for missing the ol' homestead, and the sexy woman who lives there, it was a
win-win.  I did it partly for you, but for me, too."





   "Only six teenybopper asses for a blow job?  I'd like to think my blow
jobs are better than that.  Or did you find somebody who could take the
whole thing?"





   "Now that you ask, I did see somebody who could suck me all the way down
to my balls, but I haven't actually had that experience."





   "Why not?  Is she married to Shaq or somebody?"





   Owen's eyes danced.  "Gotcha.  She's a python at the zoo." His sister
rolled her eyes.  Owen continued, "Oh, yeah, and thanks for all the help
with my homework."





   "Pish.  You're lucky you graduated, trying to do your homework with your
cock down my throat." Wrist to forehead, she pretended to swoon.  "Those
were the days!" Pause.  "But tell me brother-mine, why did you ask, anyway?
Why after all these years do you wonder if our affair was a good idea?"





   "How often do I get you alone?" Owen leaned forward and kissed Amy on
her full lips.  "I was thinking about your inoculation theory.  You didn't
say that you'd be doing the inoculation, but you didn't need to.  I don't
know if it's a good idea or not.  It never crossed my mind to fuck our mom,
ever.  I was too afraid she'd catch us.  So, I have no way to answer, none.
But, just between you and me, you're gonna seduce that boy, or vice versa,
and you're gonna fuck his brains out, soon, and I know it and you know it."
He poured himself some more decaf.





   "What about Debbie?" Owen asked, abruptly.  "Do you think she and Joey
are following. . .  "





   Amy's jaw dropped all the way, which was pretty far, considering all the
training she'd given it.  "G-- I started to say, God, I hope not.  But I
guess that sounds silly after telling you how great our experience was.  I
don't think she knows about Joey's uh, endowment, yet, she'd have mentioned
it somehow.  But she will know soon, either around school or around the
Club.  And I don't know what she'll do."





   "The real question is what you'll do.  You don't think she's a virgin?"





   "Oh, hell, no, Owen.  My daughter?  Besides, I never taught her to save
herself for marriage.  My line wasn't 'just say no,' it was 'don't do it
unless you're in control and always use a condom on the first date.'"





   "C'mon, you didn't say all that about the first date."





   "Well, okay, you're right.  But I got a rise out of you."





   "Ames, you get a rise out of me just by being in the same room.  Or even
on the phone, half the time." He hesitated.  "How mad would you be if I
took on the duty of inoculating Debbie?"





   Amelia raised one eyebrow.  "Owen, are you really asking my permission
to fuck my daughter?  Your own niece?" You really are a piece of work."





   "And, excuse my French, she really is a piece of ass.  Look at it this
way.  Sooner or later she's gonna find out about Joey's dick.  Then she'll
want to see it, and do you really think Joey will turn her down?  If it's
the first time she's seen such a cut of meat, she's likely to demand to try
it.  If she likes the first time, no parents earth could keep those two
apart.  You know that from experience.  On the other hand, if she happens
to have seen one before, hint, hint, she might be able to resist the
temptation.  And if she can't, then what difference does it make which
monster cock was her first time?"





   "What about Joey?  You think he wants sloppy seconds after his own
uncle?"





   "She might keep it to herself, you never know.  I'm going back to the
coast tomorrow, I won't be a temptation.  And if she tells Joey, tell him
to call me.  In fact, he and I should have a good long talk anyway.  If it
happens, I might tell him myself.  Maybe tomorrow evening, before I leave?
I can take Joey for burgers and then catch the red-eye flight."





   "I can't believe we're having this conversation.  My mind's all whirling
around, and I have to talk to my husband in a few minutes." She looked into
her brother's eyes.  "I wish you wouldn't.  Maybe I can't tell right from
wrong any more, but I just don't think it's a good idea.  I can't believe
I'm not pushing you out the door and throwing the bolt just for making the
suggestion."





   "OK, sister-mine.  I promise to stay out of little Debbie's cute little
pink panties.  And her cute little pink bedroom.  In fact, I think I'll go
to the guest room now, get my papers together for tomorrow, and won't come
out until morning.  I assume that half-bath is still working?"





   "Ha!  She hates pink.  Yes, the bathroom works, and thanks, Owen.  You
may be right, but it's really unfair to Debbie for you to walk in her room
with your schlong hanging out.  I told you, I don't want her having sex
unless she's in control.  She couldn't be in control once she sees the
Eighter from Decatur."





   "Niner in Vaginer," was her brother's retort.  His face was lit up with
glee and laughter, but he still kept his voice down.  "Like mother, like
daughter." He reached out to give Amy a hug and a kiss.  As he did, she
looked down and pointed to the pup tent in his pants.  "That boy hasn't
aged a bit, has he?" she asked.





   "Nah.  I keep him young by fucking teenagers.  You want a look?  Or even
a taste?  For old times' sake?" Without waiting for her response, he worked
his zipper and pulled it out.  She knew it was painful, the way he had to
bend and twist his erection just to get it out from under his belt.  Then
it was simply there, erect as a rocket to the moon, and almost as imposing.
"Good as new, sis.  Whaddya think?"





   "I wish I was half as well-preserved as your penis," Amy replied.  She
leaned over and kissed the end of the rod, sliding her lips open to cover
the top part of the helmet, teasing the big hole with her tongue, as she
hummed "mmmm-mmmmm-mmmmmmm." The cavity between her thighs, the one
custom-remodeled for exactly that cock, was wet enough for sex, but oddly,
nowhere near as wet as she'd been almost constantly for the past two days.
She and Owen were a closed chapter.





   Just the same, her will power only narrowly defeated her lust..  Amelia
stood up.  "Now, you can just put that big boy away, brother-mine.  And
don't pester Debbie.  I mean it." She took her brother's arm and propelled
him out of the kitchen, and down the hall to his room.  "The bathroom works
fine in there.  Get in there, and don't come out until breakfast.  Promise
me."





   "I promise," he said.







   Unsuspected by either her mother or her uncle, Debbie had other plans.
She knew that tonight there were two majestic towers of erectile tissue
almost with reach; one, her uncle's, was right across the hall.  She
reckoned she'd be a fool not to at least try.  Nothing ventured, nothing
gained.  How often does a girl get this kind of opportunity?





   She sat on her bed, "Anna Karenina" heavy in her lap, working out her
strategy.  Her best ideas were variations on two themes.  One was sultry
and sexy -- deck herself out in nothing but her gauzy negligee, open the
door slowly and drape her body against the door frame, silhouetted by the
dim light of the hallway, saying nothing, like you'd see in some movie from
the 1940s.  The other was to play Gidget, the perky and wholesome teenager,
in her cute flannel pajamas, flouncing in to chat, tell him about her day,
kiss him goodnight, and fuck his brains out.





   Neither one would fool Owen for a second.  She knew that.  But it just
wouldn't do to knock on the door and, when he got up to open it -- dressed
how?  she wondered.  Boxer shorts and a Grateful Dead t-shirt?  Linen
pajamas he was given by his latest conquest?  Completely naked?  -- saying,
"Hey, Uncle Owen, wanna fuck?"





   She decided that her best odds were with the flannel jammies, which she
happened to be wearing already, anyway.  If she'd had big boobs like her
mother, the negligee might have done it, but her B+ cups looked a little
anemic next to Mom's and probably next to those of the thousand other
women, over the years, who'd begged him for his service.  He'd probably had
some cute teenagers in flannel pajamas, too, she thought, but none of them
had been his niece.  The final decider was in the unthinkable.  If, for
some ridiculous reason, he wasn't interested, they could smooth over the
embarrassment by pretending she'd just dropped in to say good night.  Which
she had, in a way.  Body language.





   Her hand was down her pajama pants, fingers marinating in her cunt
juices so she could check the juices for taste, when she heard her mother
escorting her uncle down the hall.  'Oh, no!' she wailed, in her mind.  'If
mom's in there with him, giving him a good night blow job, I'll never get
my chance!' She figured there was no way her mother would cooperate in a
threesome, so that was out.  She thought about setting her alarm for 4 AM,
and attacking her uncle then, but she didn't think much of that idea.  Too
mechanical.





   Through the door Debbie heard her mother say something about the
bathroom and then "Get in there, and don't come out until breakfast. 
Promise me." She heard Owen mumble something, then his door shut softly and
she heard her mother returning up the hall.  'Phew!' she thought.  'She's
not going to spend the night.' A thought struck her.  'Maybe they already
did it in the kitchen!  Or even in Mom's room!' Well, whatever.  If he
couldn't get it up for Debbie, she'd just ask, sweetly, "why not?" or, even
better, "how come?" He couldn't just say, "Well, your mother just sucked me
dry in the kitchen." Or could he?  How would she respond?  "I see.  It must
be your unlucky day, then, because I am going to suck you even dryer, in
the bedroom." Her hand gripped her mons, fingers plunging into her pussy,
just at the excitement of the thought of it.  'God,' she thought, 'I'm
really going to do it!'





   The phone rang; a glance at the clock told Deb it was her father
calling. A few minutes later, with no sound and no warning, her mother came
back to Debbie's door, knocking once, softly, and entering.  Debbie pulled
her hand out of her twat, but nowhere near fast enough.





   Amelia saw, and she wasn't surprised.  In fact, it ratcheted up her
horniness to the next level.  Somehow, as she had talked to her husband,
her last inhibitions about cuckolding him and flouting all social
convention hung by a thin thread.  She snickered at the way Debbie was
flustered as she walked towards the bed.  Smiling her motherly
"tut-tut-tut" smile, she grabbed Debbie's hand, and pulled it to her nose,
inhaling deeply.





   Deb was too surprised to resist, not that she would have.  Then she got
her biggest jolt of the week (so far); Amy pulled Debbie's damp fingers
into her mouth and sucked on them, laving them with her tongue until all
the flavor of her daughter's cunt was gone.  Still smiling, she gently
tugged Deb's fingers out of her (Amy's) mouth, rasping her teeth along
them, a little, as they passed, wiped them with a tissue and guided the
hand back to Deb's loins, where it had been.  "Not bad," she said.  "Little
salty."





   Now Deb was not only gushing, she was trembling with excitement.  Her
imagination ran wild: maybe her mom would do a threesome after all!  She'd
never had any kind of lesbian experience in her life, but suddenly in her
thoughts she was screaming, 'Mom!  Kiss me!  Please!  I want to suck on
your boobs!  I want to bury my face in your pussy and then shove my tongue
up your ass!  I want you!  I never knew it before!' and so forth and so on.





   Amy stood there quietly, smiling that serene smile, giving no clue as to
what she was thinking.  Debbie was so stoked up on hormones by this time,
what with fantasizing about her uncle and then her mother, that she
listened to those inner voices.  Once again dropping Tolstoy to the floor,
she lunged up to kneeling on the bed, grabbed her mother's face and kissed
her, deeply.  Kissed her for keeps.





   Her mother kissed her back.





   And then the two of them were necking, passionately, running their hands
over each other's bodies, feeling their heat through the clothing.  Amelia
rolled onto Debbie, pushing Deb's legs apart, and planted her mons against
her daughter's.  That was all it took; on contact, both cunts exploded,
overloading every synapse in their bodies with the message: "orgasm! 
orgasm!  orgasm!  I'm cummmmming!"





   Their muscles were all so tense it's a wonder they could move at all. 
But as the orgasm washed over her, Debbie pulled her mouth away from the
kiss to scream her ecstasy.  Her mother moved faster, plugging Debbie's
mouth with her tongue, stabbing it in as deep as she could, to hold the
sounds in.





   Debbie sucked on that tongue like it was one of the cocks she'd been
dreaming about, even as her hands explored the seat of Amy's jeans,
kneading the supple ass within, then slipping under the shirt and massaging
the skin of her mother's back.  As her hands groped higher, hiking Amy's
shirt up and over her breasts, Debbie discovered that there was no bra in
the way.  Then, as their orgasms floated away, Debbie's strong,
tennis-playin' muscles went to mush.  Her hands fell away from her mother's
body, she broke the kiss so her head could fall back onto the pillow.  She
never did get to suck, or even see, Amelia's boobs.





   Amy's orgasm had been totally as intense as her daughter's, but her
greater experience showed.  She gave herself totally to Debbie's pleasure,
just as Julie had done for her, all those years ago.  And the whole time,
in the back of her mind was the incessant question, 'Amelia, what in the
hell do you think you're doing?'





   She didn't know, except that flirting with Owen, and then talking to him
about Debbie, and then kissing his cockhead, called up all the memories of
that first weekend.  Not just Owen, but Julie too.  And then Old Joe, Puny
Joe, had interrupted her fantasies just as she was about to cum, and cum,
and cum.  It wasn't his fault, of course, but her hormones were on fire and
didn't like being doused with cold water; as soon as the phone call was
over, they flared back up, hotter than ever.





   And here was her brother, the best fuck she'd ever had or could even
imagine, right across the hall.  Much as she wanted to, she couldn't cross
that line to fuck Owen, it wouldn't be right.  Bewildered, in a fog, she
came to her daughter, a girl a lot like Amy herself had been.  Without
thinking twice Amy appointed herself to be Debbie's Julie, and initiated
her into the pleasures of Sappho.  Not because she thought either one of
them, or Julie either, would ever be a full-time lesbian, but because the
sheer joy of pleasuring another girl, one you loved and trusted, was
totally unlike sex with men or any other sensation she'd ever had.  Not
exactly better, the two feelings were beyond comparison.  But great.  Well
worth experiencing.





   They lay together, quietly, on the bed.  After a while, when their
bodies had returned from the ether, Debbie looked at her mother.  "I know
about you and Owen.  And about his cock.  You were talking in your sleep
this afternoon." She kissed her mother lightly on the lips, then fell back.
"It must have been a great dream!  I'm sorry for tricking you.  I know
about Joey's cock, and Dad's, too.  Joey showed his to me last night.  He
wanted advice on how to handle the girls at school and I agreed to help
him. My price was a chance to fondle his tool."





   As you can imagine, Debbie's confessions didn't come out in one
premeditated stream.  She said it all dreamily, one sentence at a time,
staring at the ceiling, mostly, but really not seeing anything at all.  Her
mother simply lay on her side, head propped up on a bunched-up pillow,
using one hand to caress Debbie's belly, and listened.





   "You were planning to go visit your uncle later tonight." It was a
statement, not a question.  Amelia knew.  Debbie squeezed her eyes shut,
and while they were shut, she nodded.  Amelia went on, "He's expecting you.
Go ahead."





   Debbie turned to her mother's face, to the look in her mother's eyes. 
She meant it.  She understood.  Suddenly Debbie had an image of young Amy
and Owen, fucking like bunnies.  "What about you, Mom?" she said.  "You
have first dibs on him.  Or, are you going to take Joey tonight, too?"





   "No, sweetheart, let's leave Joey alone, at least for now.  He needs a
break, things are happening too fast." Looking away, she continued,
speaking to the wall.  "I wanted to fuck Owen, right there in the kitchen,
an hour ago, but I couldn't.  I still have those wedding vows, you know. 
And I still love your father."





   Amy slid off the bed, and stood, looking down at Debbie.  "I know it's
driving you crazy, having the two biggest cocks you'll ever see or know
about both right here in the same house, and you think you can't have
either one.  Well, you can." She pointed.  "Right over there."





   By now, Debbie was beyond surprise.  She'd had a brief, but satisfying,
girl-on-girl session with her mother, and now she was condoning --
inviting! -- her to go fuck her own uncle, who'd been her mother's lover
for years.  But instead of all that, what concerned her was Owen's
integrity.  "Didn't he promise?  I heard him promise you."





   "He promised to stay in his room all night.  He didn't promise to kick
you out if you came to him.  I left him a loophole.  I guess. . .  we're
all turning into lawyers around here."





   Debbie stood up and hugged her mother, giving her a full kiss, then, as
she broke the clinch, stroking Amy's breast through her shirt.  "This is
all too bizarre, but it feels so normal."





   "Tell me about it." Amelia slapped her daughter's flannel-clad butt. 
"Now, get your cute little butt over there before I change my mind and take
your place." They left the room together.  As Debbie shyly lifted her hand
to knock on the guest room door, Amelia went back to her room, alone, and
got out her vibrator.









   Owen must have been standing right by the door; he pulled it open, wide,
before Deb could knock twice.  His body was framed in the doorway, backlit
by the bedside lamp.





   Debbie's uncle was stark naked.  He had a great bod, muscles that said
'strength' without being huge and only a little of those inevitable
middle-age love handles.  The hair on his chest was bristly, like a
doormat. His tan lines showed his good taste not to wear Speedos to the
beach, but he'd obviously done some sunbathing in the nude, as well,
because the pale part wasn't livid white, it was a healthy, early-summer
tan.





   Of course, she noticed these details only much later.  Her attention was
riveted on his cock.  Even though it was relaxed and hanging straight down,
she thought that if he ever tried to shove it through a toilet paper roll,
it would be a tight squeeze and even then, she guessed, its head would be
sticking out.  Erect-- well, she'd know that soon enough.





   "Uncle Owen!" she said, somewhat taken aback.  "Am I interrupting
something?" She heard the innuendo and tried to stop her mouth.  Too late!





   "Come in, Niece Debra," he mimicked.  He reached out and lifted her
chin. "C'mon, didn't your mother teach you to look a man in the eye when
you talk to him?" He was laughing at her, she could tell, but she didn't
care.  She was committed.





   "Sorry, Uncle, but I was-- distracted." She pulled his hand from her
face and put her hands on his shoulders.  "I'm sure I'm not the first.  Mom
said you were expecting me, so I hurried right over.  She didn't say what
you wanted, though.  What can I do for you?"





   'Amelia said that?' he thought.  'Wow, that's one smart woman.  How
could she be my sister?' Aloud, he said, "What can you do for me?  How
'bout a strip tease?  Sorry, no music, though.  We gotta be quiet."





   Just about every word this man said doubled Debbie's sense of
anticipation and arousal.  "Strip tease" gave her the first tremors of an
orgasm.  Luckily, strip teasing was something she knew about, because as
fifth and sixth graders, she and her friends had worked out routines at
slumber parties.  Oh, no sex, just silliness.  Still, she had some moves.





   Debra winked and pushed on her uncle's chest.  "Uncle Owen, you just sit
in that chair and get comfortable." The chair was a straight-back chair for
sitting at a desk, but he knew where she was heading.  He pulled it away
from the desk to the side of the room, played the two lamps in the room in
Debbie's direction, and sat down, ready to enjoy her performance.





   His niece didn't need music.  She retreated into the dim light off stage
left, then stepped into the light, wrists on hips, like a runway model. 
She walked up to her uncle, made a half turn, and looked over her shoulder
at her audience of one.  Her head made a disdainful gesture, as if to say,
'you're not good enough for me.' A quarter turn, and she sashayed off to
the edge of the light, stage right.  With her back to Uncle Owen, she
raised her left hand to her pajama top and made exaggerated motions of
undoing buttons, then whirled around.  She was teasing!  Only one button
was undone.  Owen, who had seen plenty of strippers, nodded his praise. 
'The girl might have a knack for this,' he thought.





   Then Debra clutched her hands together and raised them to near her
throat, at the same time using her upper arms to emphasize her boobs, and
pouted.  As she turned her back to him again, slowly this time, her hands
went to the lower hem of her pajama top.  In one looonnnggg casual motion,
her hands inched up, pulling the garment up and over her head.





   She was naked from the waist up, but still had her back to her uncle. 
She showed him how her supple ass could move, with a little belly-dance
action.  She cut this part short, however.  She wanted to get down to
business.





   Then Debbie made a full turn to face him, now clutching the flannel to
her tits, miming that she was cold.  Doing the runway slink again, she
stood knee-to-knee with her uncle, ostentatiously giving him the once over.
She saw that his prick was getting to be very interested.  Good.  'He's the
one I have to please, not Uncle Owen.' She leaned over as if to kiss her
uncle, only to spread her pajama top on his torso, in position as if he
were wearing it.  He got one quick eyeful of her tits as she made the same
half turn and flirtatious pout as before.





   Now, standing in the fullest light in the room, she faced her audience
again, hands on her hips, this time like Supergirl, not like a fashion
model.  Her boobs jutted out, bold as brass.  (One advantage of small tits
is that gravity has less to get hold of and drag down.) With her smooth,
strong musculature, all she needed to look like a superheroine was a flag
fluttering in the background.





   Her hands crept forward, to the string on her pajama pants.  I mean
crept.  It must have taken a full minute for her hands to go from hip to
navel.  One hand pulled the string out, with tantalizing slowness, directly
toward Owen, as she gave him the haughty look of a woman in total control
of everything.  The thumb of the other hand was hooked in her waistband, as
if to hold up her pants when the string was loosened.





   In fact, she did the opposite.  At the moment the knot popped open, she
pushed her pants down, and in a well-rehearsed lightning fast movement had
the pants completely off, dangling in her outstretched hand.  She was
totally naked, except for her cute, little-girl socks.  They were white,
though, not pink.  She hated pink.





   Once again she approached her uncle, now letting the pants dangle with
her hands on the waistband, and once again draping the garment over him as
if he was wearing it.  Her hands brushed his stiffening member, as if by
accident, then she backed away, and resumed her Supergirl pose.  She glared
at him as if he was some evildoer she'd apprehended.





   Owen had way too much experience to be overwhelmed, but he was
impressed. The girl was sexy!  Her muscles and grace and the sultry way she
carried her body more than made up for her lack of tit-flesh, which anybody
could buy for a few thousand dollars anyway.





   His eyes danced all over her body.  Her pubes were trimmed but not
shaven.  He approved.  Shaven pussy made him feel like a child molester,
which he most certainly was not.  He'd actually spurned girls and women,
desperate for his cock, because their bush was all shaved away.  She had
great legs, naturally, from competitive tennis.  Same for her arms, torso,
everything.  The muscles running just beneath her tawny skin made him think
of a lioness.





   Debbie was pleased with her performance; she'd been worried that she'd
mess up the quick-removal of pants routine.  More important, at least for
now, was that the most important member of the audience was immensely
appreciative, as well as simply immense.  She got a standing ovation; her
uncle was clapping softly, and his dick was standing up tall and thick,
with that little banana curve most cocks have.





   Maintaining her stern demeanor and dominant pose, she caught her uncle's
eyes and held them.  "Lap dance, one hundred dollars," she said.





   He took the cue.  "Miss, as you can see, I have no wallet.  Can you
extend me some credit?"





   From the back of her throat came a feline growl, that startled his
member into standing up even taller and thicker.  "I'll extend you as far
as you can go.  And then a little more.  And more.  And . . .  more." As
she spoke, she approached him, as if ready to pounce.





   Debbie had only a vague idea of what a lap dance was supposed to be
like; she was improvising.  She gyrated amateurishly mere inches from Owen,
but never touching.  She did know to stay in character, no matter what;
with a couple more growls and glares, she'd done the best she could.  Owen,
of course, could see that she didn't know lap dancing, but didn't care. 
After all, she'd kept her promise; his prick had grown yet again.





   Just as she returned to her Supergirl pose her uncle stood up, dropping
her pajamas to the carpet.  Still in character, she took two long strides
to him and, with one hand flat on his chest, pushed him back down into the
chair, then used both hands to pry his knees apart.





   Abruptly she dropped to her knees with a thunk that would have hurt if
she hadn't been Supergirl.  She commanded, "Uncle Owen, sit back and
relax," emphasizing "Uncle," as she clamped her hands around the gigantic
cudgel, a prick a prize stallion would have been proud of, and pulled it
toward her a little, as her mouth plummeted onto the cockhead.







   She'd never sucked a cock so thick.  In fact, she'd never had anything
so thick in her mouth before.  'Golf ball, maybe racquet ball.  Not a
tennis ball.' Her face registered distaste at the fleeting image of sucking
cock with tennis-ball fuzz all over.  Golf ball in dark pink, with a slit
at the top.





   Using her lips to protect his flesh from her teeth, after two or three
bobs she had taken two or three inches of his cock.  Even with her two
hands wrapped around the base, one above the other, there was still an inch
or so of exposed flesh.  She tried, but she couldn't cover it.  The thought
popped into her head, unbidden: 'I'll have to practice on Joey until I can
take it all, down to my hands, anyway,' she knew she'd never be able to
take it all, 'and then call Uncle Owen for a return match.' She hadn't
realized that she took it for granted that she'd be blowing her own
brother. Soon.





   'But hey, like mother, like daughter.'





   She licked and sucked, sucked and licked, as she slowly stroked the
shaft with both hands.  Her tongue penetrated the slit at the tip.  Even
the cock slit was huge!  She thought that maybe her Dad could fuck the slit
of Owen's cock.  Or Joey's.  Gross!  Distracted from her primary task by
that little blasphemy, she let her lip slip, and her tooth scraped the
cockflesh, just below the helmet.  Oops!  I hope I didn't hurt him!  Debbie
started to lift her head away from its task, to apologize, but Uncle Owen
rapped his finger on her head to say, "keep going." That was the first time
he'd moved, and he hadn't yet spoken.  'The man has class,' she thought. 
If he'd done the "Oh, baby, oh baby, suck it baby, suck my monster cock
baby, take it all, baby, you know you want to, baby. . .  " routine, she'd
have been disappointed.  (She had no way of knowing that her mother's
attitude was exactly the same.  How did that happen, anyway?)





   By and by she could feel her uncle's cum start its climb out into
futility, expecting a warm, fertile womb but landing in a hot mouth and
throat.  She didn't feel sorry for the little sperms, though.  'Screw 'em.'
Uncle Owen's muscles began to tense up, and he made tiny moans, that you
couldn't have heard across the room.  She had another lewd thought,
'Probably he learned to keep quiet getting blow jobs on airliners.'





   When his load blew into her mouth, it caught her at the wrong stage of
breathing, and she almost gagged.  'Oh, no!  Uncle Owen will think I'm just
a kid!  Or a beginner!' But, she stifled the reflex, because this cock
served up only a mouthful or so of cum.  She'd been prepared for thick,
hot, streaming jets that she had to swallow rapidly or spew it all over the
place.  That had been her experience with teenage boys.  Apparently in
middle age, she discovered, even if a man's cock was as big and hard as
ever, there just wasn't as much jism in there, and it came out as small
spurts, not hot jets.  'Why not?' she thought.  'His balls are the size of
tennis balls.' For testicles, fuzzy is appropriate.





   She didn't know whether to be disappointed in the small payoff for all
that sucking or not, but she brightened when she thought of how it had been
so easy to suck up all the cum, without a drop escaping from her mouth. 
Maybe he'd be impressed.





   Only when the dick-and-a-half got a little soft did she pull her mouth
away, keeping her hands in place, and look up to give Uncle Owen a huge
smile.  Still silent, he reached under her armpits and lifted, signalling
her to stand up.  As she did, he let the skin of her ribcage slide along
his open hands until his thumbs were just under her tits.  He pulled her to
him, actually pulling this time, and because she wouldn't let go of his
dick, he was supporting her body with his arms as he leaned her forward,
guiding her tits to his mouth.  He kissed each nipple in turn, back and
forth, by swinging her body back and forth; his head never moved.  Debbie
knew he was showing off.  Her smile told Owen that she knew.  His eyes told
her that she was right.





   After a little more of that, he swung her around, so she had to let go
of his dick, and sat her on his lap.  She wasn't small, 5'8" and solid, so
it wasn't like some old lecher with a little girl, but even so she felt
warm and protected and cuddled.  His arm was around her waist, hand on her
thigh.  She jumped, a little, when he finally spoke.  "Are you sure you
haven't been practicing on your brother?" he asked.  "Nobody does it that
well on the first try."





   Before she could answer, he kissed her, and she gave his tongue a sort
of encore blow job, the way she always liked to do.  Eventually she came up
for air.  "Why, no, I haven't sucked Joey.  Why, is he as well-equipped as
you are?  Maybe I should practice on him, then try you again.  What do you
think?"





   "Darling niece, I can see right through you.  You haven't sucked Joey
off, but you're thinking about it.  You know all about his cock.  You've
seen it, up close and personal.  You know how I know?" She shook her head,
suppressing giggles.  Grown men don't like teenagers who giggle.  "Because
when you first saw my bad boy, you didn't gasp or catch your breath or
anything like that.  You've seen a big one before."





   Then she did giggle.  "I confess.  But I only found out yesterday."
'Geez, was it only yesterday?  So much is happening so fast!'





   "But he was at full attention?"





   "Not at first, but as I fondled him, yes indeed, I think so.  Maybe he
could get even bigger!  I wanted to take it up every hole I've got, and
then do it all again, but Joey wouldn't.  Can you imagine, my own brother!
He wouldn't even let me do a hand job."





   "Just bide your time, girl, just bide your time.  You and your Young Mr.
Joey will be pleasuring each other before the end of the month, if not the
end of the week." He nudged her to stand up, stood up beside her, pulled
the blankets to the foot of the bed and, lifting her in his arms, carefully
laid her down on the sheets.  "Meanwhile, here we are, naked, with a nice,
pleasant room, a good strong bedstead and your mother's blessing.  So, how
do we pass the time?  Do you want to save your deepest cherry for Joey? 
It's up to you."





   "I'm on the rag, but there isn't much discharge this time."





   "So what?"





   His niece's answer was to cup her hand around his cockhead and pull him
down on top of her.  They used the missionary position, the first time,
Owen pressing himself into her cunt with infinite slowness, giving the
tunnel a chance to expand.  He had plenty of experience at this.  After
every girl or woman he'd ever fucked had had to be broken in like this. 
Again, he didn't cum much, but that didn't diminish his orgasm.  He liked
to joke about how the second coming was so much better than the first. 
(You won't be surprised to learn that Owen wasn't much of a religious man.
A girlfriend had talked him into going to church one Easter.  That
afternoon, he persuaded the minister's wife to join them in a
menage-a-trois.)





   Owen's prick was unusual for an old guy in another way; it would get
plenty hard enough to do its duty even if his hormones told him not to
bother.  He didn't fake orgasms, but even when they didn't happen, most
women were so busy with their own they never noticed.  He was happy to
please them.  It helped his reputation, and his self-esteem.





   Debbie was focused on the night stick that her cunt had swallowed up,
and gave no more thought to her uncle's age.  She was lost in the moment,
moaning "oh, uncle, I'm fucking my own uncle," and didn't wonder that he
still had an erection.  In due course she hit a spectacular orgasm,
thrashing this way and that, still impaled on her lover's awesome rod.  In
her spasms, she threaded her fingers through Owen's chest hairs and pulled,
without realizing it, until she brought tears of pain to his eyes, and she
came back down.  "Oh, Uncle Owen, I'm so sorry!" she said, but he brushed
it off.





   Naturally, Debbie noticed when he didn't cum.  Her birth canal had been
pulverized, but she still had her manners.  Her uncle hadn't cum, not even
a trickle; he didn't say anything but she could tell by the way his meat
was still so hard as he gently withdrew it from her body.  As hostess, she
insisted on an encore performance.  She didn't tell him how battered she
felt, partly because her body's natural opiates were covering up the pain,
only that he'd done her such a wonderful service that she just had to
return the favor.





   In such situations, she preferred dog-style, and after she recovered
from her missionary climax she insisted that they try it that way.  But
he'd also learned from many experiences to be careful entering a cunt from
behind; a woman needed several gentle fucks from his shaft before she was
flexible enough to take it that way without a lot of pain.  They always got
impatient with him until he gave them a couple of hard and fast strokes
that brought tears to their eyes.  Alas, Debbie was no wiser than the
others.





   After he'd penetrated his niece's pussy from behind, he took it slow and
gentle.  This was pleasant, but Debbie was a high roller; she wanted him to
cum, and cum as hard as a virile old man could, into her inner chambers. 
She wanted it hard and fast, and pleaded with him to turn up the power a
few notches.  He told her it would hurt, it always did, but she said she
wasn't worried.  He stalled as long as he could.  He did give in, saying,
"You ready?" Without waiting for a response, he gave it to her hard and
deep, like a pile driver.  She gasped the kind of gasp a man would make
when he was kicked in the balls.  But give her credit, she hung on the next
two minutes as their symphony rose to its crescendo.  Tears were rolling
down her face and her cervix felt like it was being pounded to damp sand,
but she wouldn't say "uncle," at all, not even meaning, "keep fucking me,
uncle," lest he hear it as meaning "I surrender."





   Owen groaned, "Here it comes," and injected twice as much cum as he'd
managed with other any other woman in several years.  Even his jaded brain
was paralyzed, it was all he could not to swoon.  She knew it; she could
feel the difference, even through all the pleasure and pain.  She was damn
proud of herself.





   Wordlessly, Uncle Owen nudged her over onto her back and applied his
tongue to her pussy, setting her off on another round of multiple orgasms.
Afterwards, they remembered that they both had to work in the morning and
needed to sleep, and that meant Debbie had better sleep in her own bed. 
Three final kisses and they parted, the three kisses being, in order,
Owen's lips to Debbie's cunt, Owen's lips to Debbie's lips, and Debbie's
lips in a long farewell to her uncle's incredible penis.





   "Good night, Uncle Owen."





   "Good night, Debra." And good-bye; you'll be long gone for tennis before
I get up tomorrow."





   "Yeah, but I'll see you again.  Sooner than you think."





   "I'll be delighted.  You're a damn good girl, Debbie, and in all ways,"
a slight gesture toward the bed, "a credit to your mother.  Please tell her
I said so."





   She smiled through wet eyes, turned and left.





   Wednesday





   When Amy and Owen met for breakfast, the kids were long gone.  Amy had
wanted to check in with Debbie, but when the time came she decided to let
it alone.  Owen was "bright-eyed and bushy-tailed," as the saying goes. 
He'd woken up early, but left his room only after he'd heard Debbie and Joe
leave the house.  By the time Amy came down to the kitchen, he'd made
coffee.





   As she entered the room, she gave him a long, blank look.  He spoke
first.  "Yes, we did.  You want details?"





   Still the blank look.  "You're not the sort to fuck and tell.  At least,
you didn't used to be."





   "Yeah, but this is a unique situation, at least for me.  Should I tell
you because you're her mother?  Or because you were the go-between?" In
fact, over the years Owen had had three women whose daughters he would
service when mom wasn't looking.  But in those affairs, the mother had not
been aware of his services to her daughter.  She probably found out,
eventually, but not until Owen was long gone.  And, oh, yeah, way back when
he was just twenty-one, that weekend of the unending threesome of himself,
a Canadian girl he picked up in a motel bar, and her mother, an experience
even he had been unable to repeat.









   Owen had been driving all day that Friday, from Southern California to
Seattle, but there was a bad ice storm in the Oregon mountains and he'd had
to pull into the first motel he came to.  The motel was full of stranded
travelers like himself.  He'd met them at the registration desk.  Mother
and Daughter were both petite, slender, well-proportioned, and brunette. 
They were both attractive enough, not gorgeous, although the Mom was
handsome in a mannish way, with her brown hair cut short.  While waiting in
the line they chatted the usual chatter, which led to Daughter meeting Owen
in the hotel bar & grill later, and from there to Owen's room.  She was
twenty-four years old, horny as hell, and Owen was a lot cuter than her
fiance back in Winnipeg, eh?  Despite being half Owen's weight, she soon
had him down on one of the beds, necking and nibbling something fierce and
fumbling with any buttons or zippers she could reach, his or hers alike. 
Owen was just going with the flow, letting her have her way, not thinking.





   If he'd been thinking, he would have warned her about his dick, because
he knew that although average-sized girls were delighted that he was so
big, many petite girls were just plain afraid to have such a gargantuan
cylinder stuffed into their cunts.  What had worked the best for him was to
drop hints about his massive endowment, so that when they saw the
instrument in the flesh, if you will, it was smaller than what they'd been
led to expect.  They could deal with that.  (His natural charm neutralized
the risk that a girl would view him as one of those pencil-dicked weasels
who hang around bars boasting (lying) about the length of their hoses.)





   But, like I said, he wasn't on his game, and when petite Daughter tore
his shirt over his head she saw an inch or so of his dick, hard and thick
and a menacing shade of red, protruding out of his pants above his belt. 
After all, it is an unusual sight.





   Owen had the prudence not to mention that the Eighter wasn't yet fully
extended, but the damage was done.  She gasped at the sight and all her
groping and fondling ceased.  "Jeee-susss," she gasped.  "I don't think my
pussy can handle that monster."





   "Oh, come on," he replied.  "Some day a baby's gonna come out of that
same opening, and johnson here is nowhere near the size of a baby."





   In the context, talking about babies was unwise, but it probably
wouldn't have made much difference if he's chosen his words better.  She
was nervously pulling on pants and buttoning her blouse a decent amount;
she seemed to think that anybody with a dick like that must be a sex maniac
and a rapist.  Then she bolted, leaving behind her panties and bra, her
shoes, and her purse.





   Owen shrugged, you win some you lose some, really for him, you win most,
lose a few, and implemented Plan B.  He finished undressing and stepped
into the bathtub.  He'd found that jacking off in the shower was a simple
way to deal with the unpredictable amounts of jism and the force of the
spurts that shot from his balls.  So, he did what he could to ease the
worst of the ache in his cock, cleaned off the walls, then took an ordinary
shower.  Just as he stepped out, there was a knock on the door.  He pulled
on his jeans and answered it.







   It was the Mom.  Would he kindly hand over her daughters purse and other
possessions, eh?  Was it true, eh, that he'd tried to fuck her daughter
with an instrument of torture?  Owen was still young; he was tongue-tied by
this attack.  As she spoke, he pulled the door open wider, wordlessly
inviting her in, because that's what you do when someone comes to the door.
The Mom walked into the room, stopping at the foot of the first bed.





   (These motel rooms are the same everywhere.  Door, short corridor,
bathroom to one side, coat hangers to the other, the room just big enough
for two beds and two or three feet of walkway around them.  Under the
window with its heavy drape was a malfunctioning heater/air conditioner, an
uncomfortable armchair, and a little wooden table and chair.  TV. 
Telephone.  Room service menu.  Cheesy pictures of sailing ships on the
wall.)





   As he stepped from the dim corridor into the light, she caught her
breath.  Owen was tall, and naked from the waist up, revealing his strong
torso and arms.  And from the waist down, she could see a bulge the size of
a softball comfortably resting in his jeans, which had long since stretched
to accommodate him.





   Her train of thought was thoroughly derailed.  She opened her mouth to
continue to scold him, but said nothing, as she stared disbelieving at the
evidence of the penis she'd been told about.  Her cunt was wet and her
clitoris was hard.  She caught her breath.





   These symptoms were familiar.  Owen was immediately back on his game. 
One stride, and he thrust his hands into the Mom's armpits, half-lifting
her, half-leaning down to kiss her before she could speak.  She was primed
and ready, he could tell, and her body was betraying her brain.  After two
seconds of resistance, she kissed him back, as he hiked up the back of her
shirt as far as it would go and worked the clasps of her bra.  She started,
but voiced no objection.  Her mouth was full of Owen's tongue.  He whirled
her around and lifted and pushed her gently onto the second bed, the one
he'd already turned down for her daughter.  (Never fuck on a hotel
bedspread.  It probably hasn't been cleaned from the last six couples to
fuck there.) Owen ran his hands along the Mom's ribcage, under her bra, to
knead her small tits for a moment before pulling his hands away.  He wanted
to get his jeans off before his rod was at its full rodness; otherwise
unbuttoning his jeans would be painful and awkward.





   The Mom had her sweatshirt off, bra wrapped in it.  Owen pushed his
jeans to mid-thigh, then sat on the other bed to pull them off.  As he did
so, the Mom stopped her fumblings and simply stared.  The Daughter had told
the absolute truth.  This boy's member was indeed magnificent, and it was
still rising and thickening.







   He caught her staring and grinned.  The motion caught her attention and
she looked up into his face.  To the Mom, his expression embodied male
qualities she'd always despised: the triumph of a predator, the smug and
self-satisfied look of a man who simply expects as gifts favors that other
men have to beg for, and his confidence that she would do anything he told
her to.  The damnedest this was, she thought, that it was all true.  'I
know what's going to happen, I know I'm going to love it and hate it all at
once, but I also know I can't stop it and don't want it to stop.'





   She broke off eye contact and refocused on his cock, which she preferred
to look at anyway.  She was almost drooling from both mouth and cunt.  Owen
unlaced her boots and pulled them off, then her socks, slowly, one by one.
She undid her own pants, and pushed them to her knees so Owen could pull
them off.  Owen broke the silence.  "What about your panties?" he smirked.
"Madam, please remove your panties."





   Glaring at him, she did as she was told.  Lying there naked, she was
cold, and moved to tuck her feet under the covers and pull the covers up.
"Don't," commanded Owen.  He and his penis were still standing over her,
filling her line of sight.  "You'll be warm enough in a minute." He grabbed
her ankles and abruptly pulled her legs apart, dropping one foot onto the
carpet and the other on the middle of the bed.  He could see the drops of
her wetness glistening in the uncertain hotel light.  He stopped to
appreciate the beauty of the sight, then almost fell with his hands on the
bed by her sides, and his thick cock head poised at her dripping labia.





   "Listen, I've done this a hundred times," he said, partly to reassure
her and partly to humble her, both of which she knew.  She didn't doubt it
was true.  "But never with a woman so small.  We'll take it nice and slow,
to give the muscles of your cunt a chance to expand to take such a monster.
If it hurts, say so."





   His fuck-meat had penetrated about an inch when she said, "Wait.  Stop
here."





   Still wearing that masterful grin, he said, "While we wait, tell me
about your husband's cock.  I can tell you've never had anything like
mine."





   The Mom's mouth opened, and she whispered, "I'd rather not talk about my
husband."





   "I'm sure you wouldn't, but I'm curious about his cock.  It is long? 
Thick?  How many times can he cum in one night?  Is he really the father of
that pretty daughter of yours?" He nudged his own cock forward a little,
bringing her tears of pain.  "I'd really like to know." Another nudge.





   "Y- yes, she's his daughter," the Mom wailed.  "I've never been
unfaithful.  Never.  When he was your age, he could ejaculate all night. 
Like other young boys, it's nothing special." She stopped there.





   Owen let the moment linger.  "If you're worried about being unfaithful,
just say the word.  After all, you're not some slut who'll fuck a total
stranger in a motel, especially not a man her daughter had first dibs on.
If you want, I'll pull out, gently.  I don't get off on hurting people, I
really don't.  I don't want you to think I'm forcing myself on you.  So,
just say the word." He stopped talking and simply waited.





   "No, don't pull out," she whimpered.





   "I'm sorry, I can't quite hear you."





   "Don't pull out!" she snapped.





   Owen mocked her motherness.  "P- p- p-."





   "Damn you!" she said, "Please.  Please don't pull it out."





   "Don't pull what out?"







   "Your, uh, penis."





   "Sorry, ma'am, I don't know that word."





   She saw where this was heading, and decided to get it over with.  "Your
cock.  Your dick.  The huge mass of fuck-meat that hangs right above your
overloaded, arrogant balls.  The cock that's already a couple of inches
deep in my pussy and I wish you'd push it in deeper.  Please don't pull
your massive cock out of my dripping, flooded cunt."





   "You should watch your mouth, ma'am.  With your daughter right down the
hall!" Daughter was three years older than Owen himself, and he knew it. 
"I'm still curious about your husband.  I'll give you another inch to help
refresh your memory." As he did, she gasped, but she had less pain.  Her
vagina was learning to cope.





   "My husband's dick is average, compared to the other boys I had before I
met him.  Longer than most.  Not as thick.  But he's a really good lover
just the same, eh?" The Canadian "eh" meant maybe she was relaxing,
accepting his dominance, letting it happen.





   Owen repeated his wolfish grin.  "If he's such a good lover, maybe I
should help you get up and get home to him.  You're obviously horny for
someone." He slid in another half-inch.  "Okay?"





   She got the hint.  "Compared with other men, he's about average.  But
compared with you, he's puny.  You're probably twice as long, four times as
thick, and twice as hard as he's ever been.  I'm lucky to have met your
powerful penis.  Please give me a little more.  And please, please be
gentle." As she was speaking, her tone of voice moderated, from bitten off
syllables of "I'm saying this because I have to." to forthright,
matter-of-fact honesty.  Owen's patented mixture of domineering thug and
nice teenager was working again.





   But he still didn't move, even as her voice changed, except to raise his
eyebrows in a quizzical expression.  Warming to the nasty fun of it, the
Mom added, "You're plowing new places my husband's pathetic little prick
could have never reached.  You're taking my virginity in places I didn't
even know I had, eh?" She sighed.  "What am I going to do after this? 
Nothing will ever compare.  I'll be so stretched out that my husband will
be trying to fuck me and I won't even know he's in there.  You'd better
give me some really great orgasms, Mr.  Stud Boy, because I may never have
another one as long as I live.  What's your phone number, eh?"





   Now, Owen let himself down to rest on his elbows, and kissed her long
and slowly.  When he came up for air, he laughed, "Okay, okay, don't lay it
on too thick, eh?" He told her a fake phone number.  Much as he loved to
bed desperate married women (the term MILF had not yet been invented), he
hated to be involved with them.  Nothin' but trouble.





   He laughed again, then pressed another segment of cock into her virgin
depths, then another,. . .





   These successive invasions of her birth canal hurt the Mom, sometimes a
lot, but nothing like the pain when his cockhead collided with her cervix.
She caught her breath and went nearly as white as the sheets she was lying
on, her eyes proclaiming her shock and agony.  Owen instantly pulled his
cock back a little, murmuring, "I think I've hit your cervix.  I'm sorry, I
misjudged the distance.  I'm going to pull out a little more, then make
tiny strokes to help you get past the pain.  This works, I know it." She
couldn't reply just then, but a half-minute later, as his version of
therapy took hold, she grabbed his biceps and smiled, indicating that she
was about ready to resume.





   Now came the patient, serious fucking.  Owen pulled his rod back slowly,
about halfway out, then thrust in to exactly the same depth he'd been, not
violently but fast and smooth.  His piston reared back for another cycle,
and another.  Sometimes he envied the average guys because they could just
slam it in up to the hilt, where he had to remember how much this
particular pussy could handle with every stroke.  He'd gotten better at it
with experience, but he didn't dare, for instance, do any fucking if he was
drunk.  He avoided doggie-style and more exotic positions for the same
reason; he didn't want to hurt anybody.





   The Mom flexed her hips like a metronome, timed to his thrusts.  After
their rhythm was well-established, she gave a quick peck to his lips.  "I'm
not on the pill," she said.  "You'll have to pull out before you cum."





   Without breaking stride, Owen replied, "Are you sure that's what you
want?  If you have a son, maybe in a few years he can do this for you
himself.  Now's your big chance." He noticed that his attitude didn't make
her as nervous as he'd expected.  Maybe she really wanted a baby.  Maybe he
was calling her bluff.





   After a few more strokes she spoke, in quick gasps as her orgasm
gathered steam: "I guess I'm -- trapped -- under your -- beautiful -- body
and impaled -- on your -- incredible -- cock.  -- Please -- please -- have
mercy.  -- Please."





   "Tell me more about your husband," Owen laughed, without breaking
stride. "Maybe I'll think about it."





   Her eyes were glazing with endorphins and adoration and girlish glee as
she gasped out (dashes omitted), "My husband is a wimp.  He's an
accountant, for Christ's sake.  He looks like one, except no pocket
protector.  Until now his little prick was good enough for my little cunt,
but from now on I'll be all stretched out and he'll get lost in there.  I
never knew what it was to be fucked by a real man until tonight.  And your
body!  Your cock is worth three of what's-his-name's, my husband's, and you
body is worth two.  He's puny and pathetic through and through. . . .  "
She was cumming, hard.





   Even at twenty-one, Owen had plenty of experience.  He'd timed his
strokes so he had two or three left to go when she hit the first of her
rapid-fire multiple orgasms.  He stopped stroking when she first lit up; he
liked to feel the muscles of a woman's cunt as they wrapped around and
squeeze his dick in their ecstatic convulsions.  He was about to cum.





   He quickly yanked his cock from her pussy and, without moving his body,
lay it on her bush with a northern exposure, toward her tits and face.  Two
quick strokes against the fur of her unshaven bush touched it off, spewing
his jism from her belly to her forehead.  Quite a bit sailed all the way to
the headboard.  "Yagggh-tee-aggh," he groaned.  As he finished, he rolled
off of her, sprawled on the bed, sweating.





   The Mom was still enjoying mutiple orgasms, but as her head realized
that he was cumming on her, not in her, she came down off that trip.  Too
fast!  One reason she'd had such wonderful orgasms is that she really had
thought of herself as at his mercy; that he would cruelly pump his seed
into her womb, not caring about whether she got pregnant.  When she
realized that he'd kindly creamed all over her body instead, she was oddly
disappointed.  But there was no denying the extra power of those orgasms;
she knew that if he'd assured her that he wouldn't risk pregnancy she
wouldn't have cum half as hard.  Nobody with equipment like that should be
a nice guy.  It didn't fit.  It was like eating cottage cheese with
ketchup.





   Besides, if the slick feel of his semen on her face and body wasn't
orgasmic, it was sensuous.  It was drying quickly, but she used her finger
to squeegie some from her cheeks into her mouth, then some more.  It tasted
good.  After she'd sluiced her face, she sat up, picking here and there at
her chest and tits to recover more.  As she did, she looked at him with
those same adoring eyes, now with a glint of silliness, free hand playing
with his chest hair.  "My young stud, my god," she smiled.  "Please don't
be angry with me, eh?  I lied.  I am on the pill."





   Owen's expression didn't change, until he started laughing, loud and
long, and she laughed with him.  He was a good boy.  And fun.  And he was
the best fuck she'd had since months before her wedding, possibly ever.





   Still laughing, Owen gasped, "Ha!  You think the joke's on me, don't
you? Well, now you're just gonna have to coax Mr.  Cock to one more
hard-on, and then take that monster up your lovely hot little cunt again,
so he can deliver his load where it belongs."





   She leaned to kiss him.  "Twist my arm, eh?" she purred.





   A knock at the door.  They both knew who it was.  "I'll get it," they
said together, but as the Mom was closer to the door, she got the honor.





   She checked the peephole.  It was, of course, Daughter knocking,
wondering what had become of her mother.  She found out as her mother
pulled the door open wide, revealing her naked, glazed body to anyone in
the hallway.  The smells erased any doubt about what that stuff was on her
skin.  "Mom!" she shrieked.  "What happened to you?!"





   Mom grabbed her wrist.  "Come in here and calm down and stop acting like
a twit," her mother hissed.  "What in the hell do you think happened, eh?
What does it look like?  What does it smell like, eh?" The younger woman
crept in, past her mother, wary.  She saw Owen, who still lay naked on the
farther bed, watching her enter, curious what she would do.





   As she took it all in she turned to the Mom, right behind her, intending
to say, "Mom, how could you?!" But Mom cut her off.  "You saw him first,
remember?  Then you turned him down.  Finders keepers.  But I'll give you a
turn, if he's willing.  Hurry up, eh?  I want another turn." Over
Daughter's shoulder she saw Owen shrug and nod, eyes still laughing.  "But
you've gotta let your old Mamma watch."





   Daughter leaned toward the door, as if to flee, screaming, from this
bordello, but she took another look at her mother's serenity and at all
that cum still tacky on her tits, and elsewhere, and stopped still.  After
all, she had picked this guy up in a bar.  She would have looked much as
her mother did then, maybe with that same indescribable look of a sexually
sated woman, if she hadn't turned chicken.  She pretended to think it over.






   Her decision was obvious when she wiped her finger in the fold between
her mother's boob and her body, then licked it clean, taking a big taste of
cum like a little girl licking the cookie-dough beaters.  Wordlessly,
Daughter yanked at the buttons of her blouse, tearing two of them off. 
Turning toward Owen, she dropped her shirt and unbuckled her bra, revealing
tits almost identical to her mother's.  Her pants and panties followed, and
she took two slow, dreamlike steps toward Owen.





   Her mother winked at Owen, over Daughter's shoulder, and prodded the
girl.  "Didn't I teach you any manners?  You can't just climb into
somebody's bed.  At least you have to ask for an invitation."





   Although focused on Owen's cock, Daughter caught the tone.  "Will you be
so kind," she said, word by halting word, like Oliver Twist asking for a
second helping.  "Sir, will you be so kind as to serve me the way you
served my mother?" When Owen didn't reply, she added, "Please?  Sir? 
Please?"





   Owen smiled, but with a neutral expression.  "Served?  I don't know what
you mean.  I didn't serve your mother anything." The Mom was delighted; he
was going to put Daughter through the same catechism she'd been through. 
"You have to be explicit," she whispered to her daughter's back.





   "Oh." Daughter cut loose, savagely listing her ravenous desires.  "I
want you to fuck me with that hockey stick you've got there, eh?  I want to
take it in my mouth, in my cunt and up my ass.  I want to clamp it between
my tits so you can cum all over my face and tits.  I've never seen a cock
even half as big and I bet my Mom hasn't, either." She wondered what to say
next.  Her meek "Please?" was intentionally comical, an antidote to the
carnal fire she'd been spewing.





   Owen rose from the bed and stepped toward her, hands on her naked
shoulders and his massive member pressed against her belly.  "I thought you
were afraid of my prick.  It belongs to some guy who's ten feet tall."





   "I was afraid.  I am.  But if my mom can do it, I can do it, eh?"





   "And your mom can watch.  She can even participate if she wants to."





   "What do you mean?"





   "You know what I mean.  Threesome.  Your French Canadians would say,
menage a trois.  And I'm in charge.  Yes or no?" They both glanced at the
Mom, who nodded.  Daughter, unsure what to do, tore herself out of Owen's
hands and went toward her mother, undecided about a hug from Mom or to bolt
from the room.  She got neither.  With firm, steady hands on Daughter's
shoulders, much as Owen had done, the Mom drew her daughter in and kissed
her on the mouth, jaws open, tongue probing.  The girl stiffened, then
surrendered and kissed her mother back.  They all three knew that they all
three had assented.





   As the two naked women continued necking, opening the sheets of the
empty bed, Owen sat back to watch.  Two girls necking, naked or not, never
failed to arouse him.  As he watched, his penis filled itself up with blood
and muscle for the next round, as his body hastily recharged his testicles.









   "No, no details," Amelia said.  "I take it you were both pleased by the
evening's events?"





   "I'd have liked it better if you'd been there with us," Owen winked.





   "I bet you would have," his sister shot back.  "But what about poor
Joey? When's his turn?  He's the one who started all this."





   Owen grinned.  "Both of you would drop your pants and spread your legs,
no questions asked, at Joey's command.  You know it.  Debbie knows it. 
When Joey figures it out, he's got a lifetime of the best piece of ass in
the U.S.A.," Amy was blushing, but she gave a regal nod of acknowledgement,
"and of the girl with the potential to be the second-best, both whenever he
wants.  And that doesn't even count the girls at school, or the dentist, or
the mail-woman, or any other female he runs into.  Don't ask me to weep for
poor Joey."





   Quick scenarios of Young Joe commanding her to drop her pants and spread
her legs flashed through Amy's mind.  Joe gentle: "Mom, I've got this boner
growing.  I've just got to go.  Could you stop the car somewhere soon and,
you know?" Joe harsh: "Drop your pants, woman!  Right here!  Now!  You've
got serious work to do on my cock.  And try not to screw it up like you did
last time!" Joe matter of fact: "You can lie down right there, Mother. 
Please remove all your clothes except the stockings I told you to wear. 
I'll be over to fuck you as soon as I finish this math problem.  While
you're waiting, put some K-Y jelly on your asshole." She liked the
scenarios she saw.  A lot.





   She scowled at Owen.  "You're right, damn you, you're right, right,
right.  The only thing I can do to save my marriage is to castrate the
boy."





   Owen's jaw dropped in mock dismay.  "That would be like smashing up the
Pieta with a hammer!  Or dynamiting the Washington Monument!" The aptness
of his second metaphor got them both to laughing.  "Ames, dear sister-mine,
you've got a problem to solve, and it's going to be heartbreaking no matter
what.  I'm there for you, whenever, wherever.  But I gotta tell you now, I
don't see an answer."





   "Oh, there is one, don't ever doubt it," she said, but her long,
thoughtful face said otherwise.  "Anyway, you have work to do, I have work
to do.  It's been lovely having you here, brother-mine.  I mean it."





   They bantered like the good friends they'd always been through
breakfast, then Amelia saw her brother into the cab and gave him a chaste
kiss good-bye.  Then she texted Joey's cell phone: "Owen will meet you at
Club after Betsy B -- dinner and man-to-man talk.  Don't let him take you
to McDonald's."









   Joe had woken up and gotten dressed, dreading the day.  Not school, but
his session with Betsy B.  To him, she was gorgeous, superhuman, and scary,
like Daryl Hannah in Blade Runner.  And so matter-of-fact about sex! 
"We'll fuck when we've earned it," she'd said.  And with that defining
their relationship, she was going to run him ragged today, no doubt
laughing at him behind her professional face.





   He'd bumped into his sister in the kitchen.  Debbie was dragging herself
through the morning routine, but she looked happy, like he imagined a girl
would look if she'd had her brains fucked out.  He'd heard a few sounds in
the night, too, that could have been the sounds of a girl getting her
brains fucked out.  'Hmmm.' But he couldn't think of a way to broach the
subject, and in any event they both had to hustle to get to their team
workouts.





   He was getting so used to miraculous good things happening that when at
school Wednesday morning was totally ordinary, he was bored.  During lunch,
he thought of an experiment to try on Mrs.  Cohn.  After lunch he went to
the classroom early, just as the previous class was leaving.  Even before
everyone was gone, he walked up to where she stood, hear the chalkboard,
and deliberately invaded her space.  "Mrs.  Cohn?" He and Woody were both
excited, and tense.  What would she do?





   His teacher backed away a step, by reflex.  He delivered his line: "Mrs.
Cohn, I apologize for being late the other day.  I'd spilled pop all over
my clothes and had to change into the only other clothes I had."





   She bit her lip and looked up at him.  She was a tiny woman, he suddenly
noticed.  Everybody knew she was short, but she wasn't much taller than
five feet.  Not that that kept her from being a MILF; lots of Playboy tit
models are 5'3" or so.  I suppose it's because their tits look even bigger
against a small frame.  So did Mrs.  Cohn's.  They went well with her black
hair and her excellent skin.





   "Don't worry about it, Joey," she said.  "But next time, I'll have to
send down to the office for a tardy slip.  And you know the detention
policy."





   The moment of truth.  Joey stepped forward, invading the older woman's
space once again.  His rigid dick was not touching her, but it was only a
couple of inches below her ample breasts, and even though shielded by his
loose cargo pants, it was pointing right between them, aimed at her face.
Joe caught her stealing a glance downward; when Rachel looked up again, she
could see that he'd caught her looking.  They both blushed.  He grinned
what he hoped was a lecherous grin.  "Thanks, Mrs.  Cohn," he said. 
"Although maybe I should do it again.  Then I could come and serve
detention with you some afternoon.  It'd be fun."





   "Oh-- oh, Joey, you don't want detention, especially not with me.  I run
the strictest detention hall in the school."





   "Strict discipline?  I guess you're right, ma'am.  Spending the
afternoon in detention with you wouldn't be much fun at that." He'd
stressed the words "discipline" and "detention," hoping to convey the
message, "not detention, but maybe something else."





   Joey's classmates were arriving; Mrs.  Cohn sent Joey to find a seat. 
Just the same, she got the message.  She was annoyed, mostly, a little bit
amused, and a tiny bit aroused.  Joey was obviously new at this, surprising
for a boy with his equipment.  And he was clumsy and unsubtle, but in a
cute way.  A painful memory broke out of storage at the thought of fucking
Joey.  There was that other kid, the little shit, anything but clumsy and
unsubtle, nineteen years ago. . .  The details were still bright and clear
in her mind.  They distracted her for the rest of the day.  She was
half-dazed all afternoon, and her students could tell.  At long last, the
final bell rang and she could go home to her vibrator.  For the thousandth
time she thought bitterly about her husband's accident.  She made sure to
buy batteries on the way home.









   It had been a Thursday, the end of the last class meeting of the day,
early in the second semester, not long after last semester's grades had
been mailed out.  The complaining would start any time now.  She'd been
married for a little over a year and a half, and she and her husband,
Sandy, were working hard trying to make a baby.  If you don't think fucking
can be hard work, think again.  You and your partner have to fuck like
bunnies, repeatedly, during one week of the month, whether you feel like it
or not, whether you're tired, angry, working overtime, whatever.  Then you
rest for three weeks, crossing your fingers that she won't get her period.
If she does, the whole cycle starts over.





   According to all the tests, Rachel Cohn's most fertile times would be
this weekend.  She looked forward to it, more or less.  At least it would
be on a weekend, so they wouldn't be so exhausted.





   She'd met Sandy when she was a sophomore and he was a lecturer in an
advanced math class.  Her crush on him lasted long after the end of that
term, and finally she asked him out.  Her friends wondered what she saw in
him; he was short and skinny and pale, and he'd obviously be balding in a
couple of years.  And he was a nerdy math grad student.  Nevertheless, she
said, "I do."





   When Sandy had finished his course work and started to work on his Ph.D.
dissertation, he took a job at the small liberal arts college in this town,
a hundred miles from the university where they'd met.  She'd obtained an
emergency teaching credential -- the schools are always desperate for math
teachers -- and was now beginning her fourth semester of teaching math. 
She liked to teach, and although she'd always thought she wanted to go to
graduate school herself, watching her husband struggle with his
dissertation warned her that maybe she didn't.





   As her class pressed to the door, one teenager was working his way in.
She knew him.  His name was Tony Forsythe; he'd been in her class in AP
calculus the semester before.  He'd gotten an A, and he'd deserved it. 
He'd never been lower than third on any of the exams.  What did he want? 
Maybe he'd heard from M.I.T.  She'd been glad to write him a reference
letter.





   Tony was six feet tall and gorgeous.  And ambitious.  He had brown hair
and skin that was neither dark nor fair.  He had muscles on his muscles,
and was the most graceful teenager she ever seen.  Curious, she'd asked
around a little.  He didn't play on any school teams, and he didn't have
much of a reputation regarding girls.  Probably he had a girl friend at
some other school and didn't mingle much.  Too bad, she thought.  He could
inspire two or three orgasms just walking down the hall between classes.





   All Tony had ever said about his off-campus life was that he wanted to
be an engineer, and go to M.I.T.  or Cal Tech or one of the other
top-ranked engineering schools.  She didn't know anything about his
parents, but she knew that his aunt, his father's sister, was Susan
Forsythe, the architect, a designer of bold and striking buildings for
middle-sized institutions, like hospitals and schools, and some homes for
the super-rich.  Tony had once said he spent most afternoons in her shop,
doing some drafting and asking a million questions about stress, load, and
other items of importance to engineers.  He said he liked to work with
electronic stuff, too.  He'd built a computer, and was designing another.
She remembered thinking that he'd definitely be the only heartthrob hanging
around at Radio Shack.  She had no idea where he got all those muscles, but
for a pretty, petite, untenured woman it was wiser not to ask around the
faculty lounge.





   One day, a Thursday, Tony approached her, shyly, asking for math help.
He showed her a complicated system of partial differential equations, far
more difficult than anything he would have been assigned at this school,
and not a subject she understood, either.  But she was pleased and proud
and flattered that he'd continue tackling difficult problems, and would
come to her for help.





   She asked him, "Tony, what class is this for?"





   "Oh, no class, ma'am," he replied.  "My buddy told me about a book that
would help me figure out how to cool the computer I'm building.  I was
looking for it in the library over at the college when I picked up this EE
journal, and I, kinda got distracted."





   'Wonderful!' Rachel thought to herself.  "A boy after my own heart. 
God, he's just what I want my son or daughter to be like." She pondered a
moment.  "Y'know, Tony, my husband is a math professor at that very same
college.  Maybe we could go over there right now and see if he can help
you. At least, he'd know someone who could help."





   "Thanks, but no, ma'am.  In fact, I have leave soon to be on time for my
lesson."





   This was an opportunity ask, 'lesson in what?' but something about him
suggested that he wished she wouldn't.  So she didn't ask.  But she wanted
to help, and it did her ego good to have this hunky kid pleading for help.
She thought, 'I guess this is okay, he's not in my class any more,' and
said, "Well, how about this evening, after dinner?" she pressed.  "Sandy'd
be happy to help you, I know." Ideally, Sandy would get a little jealous,
too, and start hitting the gym.







   "Are you sure it'd be okay?" Tony asked.  "It's hard for me to get to
his campus except at night, or I'd ask to meet him there.  But I don't want
to intrude."





   "Nonsense, Tony.  I don't recall you fishing around for an invitation.
It was all my idea.  Sure, come on over for coffee and maybe cookies, if I
have time, about eight o'clock." As she spoke, a voice told her she
shouldn't.  She assumed it was her conscience, and ignored it.





   "I bet you make great cookies, Mrs.  Cohn."





   "Now, don't overdo it, Tony.  You've got me interested, and that means
I'm excited.  But I'm not much of a housewife.  I'll just stop at the
store."





   "Oh, I can do that, ma'am," said Tony.  "Do you like those fancy
Pepperidge Farm cookies?"





   "Calm down, dear.  It's not like a first date.  You come over to consult
with Sandy, and I'll be in charge of the coffee and cookies."





   'Dear?  First date?  What was she thinking?' she wondered.





   Just as she wrote down her address and phone number he eyed his watch.
He snatched the paper from her hand, and turned to hurry away, saying,
"Sorry, gotta run.  I'll be late!  Thanks!  See you tonight.  Eight
o'clock."





   It was only as she was leaving the grocery store, with the Pepperidge
Farm cookies, that the little nagging thought in her mind leapt out into
clarity.  It hadn't been her conscience, it had been her secretary!  This
was the night Sandy had to take that big donor out to dinner.  The donor
was planning to endow a new science building.  Even though Sandy's
department was math, not lab science, he was on the committee that would
meet with the Mr.  Westbrook and the architect all afternoon, looking at
the building site, plans, decor, and then to dinner.  Not something she
could interrupt on behalf of some high-school student.  He wouldn't be home
before eleven, probably later.





   Later, as she wondered if her absent-mindedness had been somehow
deliberate [c'mon, this is porn, you know where we're headed], she also
wondered why she had failed to get Tony's phone number.  She had no way to
call him and cancel.  'Oh, well,' she thought, 'I guess Tony and I'll have
coffee and cookies.  It'll be nice to have such a good-looking boy in the
apartment, after all these months with flabby, sunken-chested Sandy.' Sad
but true.  She'd loved him a lot, back when he was the lecturer and she was
the student, but as his wife, she was in daily contact with his
inadequacies.





   As eight o'clock approached, she was all fluttery, like some girl in one
of her classes.  It took all her will power to stop her impulse to dash
around, moving the throw pillows here, then there, looking for the right
effect.  It would be hopeless to try to grade homework assignments, so she
turned on the TV.





   The buzzer buzzed at two minutes after eight.  She pressed the answering
buzz, and a minute or so later, Tony was knocking at the door of the condo.
He looked great.  She'd showered and changed clothes in anticipation of
this evening, and she when she saw that he'd showered and changed, too, she
felt one of those ominous spasms that often preceded the soaking of her
panties.  Then she remembered that he'd been to his practice, so of course
he'd changed, and she calmed down again.  All this happened in a couple of
seconds.





   "Hello, Tony!" she exclaimed.  "Please come in." As he entered the
living room and was about to speak, she cut him off.  "Before you say a
word, Tony, I have to tell you that my husband isn't here, so you're
wasting your time," and she gave the short version of how she'd forgotten
Sandy's prior commitment.  "So, if you want to say good-night and try again
sometime next week, I would totally understand."





   She'd known he was charming, but not that he had more aplomb than a
high-school student ought to have.  He grinned and pointed to the cookies
on the coffee table.  "You bought Pepperidge Farm cookies?" he laughed. 
"You're not getting rid of me so you can eat them all yourself, are you?"





   Rachel giggled, gave him a Scarlett O'Hara, "Well, I never!" look and
batted him lightly on his chest.  In a bad southern accent,
"Fiddle-dee-dee. This young scay-amp has figured me in-sahde and out.  What
ever shall ah do?"





   "Well, you could let me in the rest of the way, and maybe offer me a
cookie.  My math problem can wait 'til later tonight, if your husband comes
home.  Heck, it can wait until the cows come home." He countered her bad
Scarlett with a bad Groucho.  "I could dance with you 'til the cows come
home.  But I'd rather dance with the cows 'til you came home." He couldn't
do Groucho's patented leer, but he could tell she got the joke.  And the
message.





   Mrs.  Cohn turned away to hide her blush and retreated to the small
kitchen.  "Decaf okay?  I'm an old woman and can't handle the hard stuff
after lunch time."





   Tony was gallant; too gallant.  "Oh, Mrs.  Cohn, you're not an old
woman. What are you, twenty-five?"





   Rachel, who was thirty-one, hid behind Scarlett again.  "Flattery,
flattery will get you nowhere, Mr.  Butler, but ah'll take the compliment
just the same.  No, young man, I can hahdly remember my twenty-fifth
birthday." [One reason is that she'd been stoned out of her mind.] "But you
just stop guessing, so I won't have to tell you any lies."





   "Wow.  Over twenty-five?" He looked genuinely surprised.  "You look
great!  In your class I used to think sometimes that hiring sexy teachers
isn't fair to the girls at school.  It's very confusing to us
hormone-crazed young boys." That brought her up short, appraising him as a
genuine sex object for the first time.  This boy just took a step beyond
light flirtation to heavy flirtation.  Should she play along?





   Saved by the beep.  "Excuse me," she said, poured coffee and took it to
the coffee table.  They sat on the couch, with a chaste interval between
them, and made the usual boring small talk people make when the real
conversation is passed eye-to-eye.  No, he hadn't heard from M.I.T.  Yes,
he was glad to be in his last semester.  No, she and Sandy had no plans to
buy a house.  Sorry, she had no use for the services of an architect.  A
voice in her head finished the sentence: 'but I do have a definite use for
the services of an architect's apprentice.'





   "It's a sort of coincidence, you being here while Sandy, that is, Mr. 
Cohn, is meeting with an architect himself, tonight.  The old moneybags
donor is going over the plans for the new science building."





   "Oh, yeah, I remember that," Tony grimaced.  "My aunt bid on that
project.  I worked on it some.  Oh, well."





   "All that work for nothing?" Rachel exclaimed.  Tony shrugged, and gave
her a rueful smile.  "Do people ever call your aunt a 'designing woman?'"
she asked, smiling sweetly and leaning back on the couch, thrusting her
boobs out as she adjusted the pillows behind her.





   Tony chuckled at that.  "If they do, they do it only once," he laughed.
"She's pretty tough.  It's been hard for her, breaking into a man's
business.  But she's doing really well.  She'll even be hiring one or two
more drafts-persons and maybe even another architect, soon." He mirrored
her langourous posture, thrusting his groin center stage as he moved. 
After a long moment he made as if to stand up.  "You know, I think my aunt
may be working late and may need help.  Besides, maybe I shouldn't be here
anyway.  I'd hate to ruin your reputation or get beat up or shot by your
husband."





   Rachel gave a silent chortle at the prospect of her husband beating up
anyone, let alone young, virile Tony.  She bent forward to put her coffee
cup down, show off her cleavage, and step in front of Tony all in one
graceful motion.  "Are you sure it isn't your reputation you're worried
about, young man?  Sitting here eating cookies with an old lady?"





   "Oh, I don't have much of a reputation.  Or if I do, I don't know about
it.  Whatever they say, it's all false.  When I'm not at the studio, I'm at
my aunt's shop.  That's it."





   She sat down, perched on the edge of the couch, her knee to his. 
"Studio?  Are you an artist?  I bet you're a sculptor." 'God, I sound
idiotic,' she said to herself.







   "I never tell anyone, but I'll tell you.  I dance.  Ballet."





   "Ballet!  How wonderful!" 'So that's it.' she thought.  "Tony, I've been
wondering where you got all those mus-- er, how you got to be so physically
fit.  Of course!  Ballet!"





   She was overdoing it now, but he rescued her, gushing.  "I've been
dancing since before the first grade.  I've danced in college productions
since I was thirteen and danced and sometimes even acted in plays around
town since I was sixteen.  It takes up a lot of time, but I really like it.
I suppose you think I must be gay, but that's a myth.  I don't know any
gays in ballet.  At least, no one has ever hit on me.  I was in the Seattle
just last week auditioning for the dance company there.  I didn't make it,
but the choreographer told me some things to work on and to come back next
year.  And I'm coming along really well as an actor."





   As Tony spoke, he stood up, putting his hand on Rachel's knee as if to
brace himself, but he deftly caressed her as he pulled his hand away.





   "Here, I'll show you." And he did, dancing around the room with all the
grace of a swan lake.  He wasn't doing ballet, it was simply free-form
self-expression, finding uses for objects he found here and there, doing
moves that showed off his amazing flexibility and strength.





   He danced for only a couple of minutes, and when he stopped, his hostess
broke into applause.  "Bravo!  Bravo!  If I had any roses, Tony, I'd throw
them."





   He smiled, clearly happy that he'd made such an impression.  "I could
show you more, but these jeans are not the best thing for dancing."





   "No," Rachel said, looking him over.  "You can't perform well in tight
jeans, although you do look great in them, and you were wonderful."





   Tony grabbed Rachel by the hands.  "Mrs.  Cohn, do you waltz?" Without
waiting for her answer, he pulled her off the couch by the wrists, and
waltzed her all over the living room and down the hall, everywhere they
could go without actually entering a room, humming bits of Strauss and
other classics.  Rachel did know how to waltz, but even if she didn't, it
wouldn't have mattered.  Tony almost carried her around as her toes barely
touched the carpet.  She was waltzing, but for all it mattered she could
have been doing the Tennessee Two-Step.





   They returned to the living room.  Tony bowed, formally, saying, "Why,
thank you, madame.  The pleasure was all mine." Ever since that night,
she'd believed that from that moment, through the rest of the evening, she
was enchanted, like some fairy-tale character.  She must have been, to say
what she said now.  Drawing drapes across the glass balcony doors, she
fluttered an imaginary fan.  "Why, thank you, kind sir.  I believe there
are some empty lines on my dance card, should you care to . . .  " She let
it linger.





   Then, the point of no return: "Tony, if your jeans constrict your
dancing, maybe you should take them off.  It's just us here."





   "Well, Mrs.  Cohn, I really can't. . .  "





   "Nonsense.  If you're worried about my husband, it's not even nine
o'clock.  We have two or more hours yet." Before he could speak, she
continued, laughing, "Besides, I'm sure you could escape over the balcony
and climb down.  It's only two floors.  And he doesn't have a gun." Her
eyes rolled inwardly at the pun.  'Sad but true.  No gun.'





   Tony laughed, but looked embarrassed.  "Yes, ma'am, but that's not the
reason.  You see, I'm not-- I don't have-- There's nothing under these
jeans, ma'am.  I'd be dancing around naked."





   If she'd been drinking, you'd have said she was tipsy.  Call it
reckless. She replied, recklessly: "Ooh, what a treat for me!  Go right
ahead." He didn't move, so she crossed to where he stood and yanked open
his belt.  "Who does the rest of it?  Me or you?" Tony might have answered,
but he got no chance.  She unbuttoned his jeans, Levi's 501's, button by
button, fully aware of the hard tube of muscle right behind them.  But
before she set him free, so to speak, she knelt in front of him and
silently pulled off his boots.





   That done, still on her knees, she unbuttoned the last button of his
Levi's, with her other hand pulling the jeans down off his butt.







   His cock sprang out right in front of her face, tapping her nose, almost
gratefully.  Objectively speaking, it wasn't huge, maybe an inch above
average, but compared to what she'd been seeing for almost three years, it
was the Seven-Inch Wonder of the World.  She gazed, rapt, for a moment,
then returned to her task.  Rachel wouldn't let Tony sit, but she made him
lift his feet one by one until his jeans lay in a heap on the floor.  She
kicked them into the kitchen, out of the way.





   Then she stood up, calling up her memories of other six-foot tall men
she'd pleasured with her five-foot-two body.  The two bodies were separated
by about an inch, except where Tony's prick pressed into her ribs.  Tony
stood there, apparently speechless, until a thought struck him; he began to
dance.  As he did, he threw off his shirt and socks, so his dancing was
totally unrestricted.  Even without his encore performance, it was a show
Rachel would remember all her life.  The boy was a very talented dancer.





   She was swallowed up by one of her oldest fantasies, that could maybe
come true, here and now.  She was near climax just at the thought.  As Tony
danced, Rachel reached up the skirt of her dress and pulled off her
panties, exposing her cunt to the open air.  She didn't try to hide what
she was doing; Tony saw everything.  On his next circuit, she held up her
arms and intercepted him.  Tony took the cue and began to dance her all
over the room, once again.  They were laughing and dancing and didn't stop
when she beckoned him to lean over so she could whisper her request in her
ear.  Tony was so excited, she thought that all he could do was to grin and
agree.  'Here I am, taking advantage of a boy only a little older than half
my age.'





   Tony let go of Rachel with a gesture commanding her to stay right where
she was.  Slowing down to a graceful ballet, he glided a couple of naked
laps around the room, setting a course to pass right in front of her.





   As he did, he placed his powerful hands on her ribcage, lifting her
straight up like a ballerina.  But she didn't then rotate to horizontal,
like they do in the ballet; she didn't know how, and in any event she
didn't want to.  Instead she waited, floating in his hands, as he teased
her, drawing out the moment.  Then he guided her down, so fast as to feel
like falling, until her cunt was impaled on his shaft.





   Tony, bless him, never broke step, so Rachel enjoyed the
one-chance-in-a-lifetime fulfillment of a sexual fantasy.  She was riding
the cock of a muscular faun, pleasuring herself like never before as he
danced for her.  She was sure he was taking his pleasure too, but
concentrated on her own needs.  She lifted her legs to horizontal, so as
not to interfere with Tony's dancing, and between them they didn't do the
usual pistoning motion of conventional fucking.  Their coupling took the
little twists and turns as they came, almost at random.





   Tony's meaty pole was not bearing her weight, mind, although maybe it
could have done.  He still had her firmly by the ribs, even lifting her up
and down an inch or two as he danced.





   Rachel was the first to blow.  The orgasm welled up from her toes; she
clamped her jaws, tight, to stifle her scream into a high-pitched
"eeeeee..." Then again, and again, continuously rising rapture.  She was
oblivious to everything else, except the whirling room and the unending
shock waves of ecstasy flowing from her cunt.





   Without warning, Tony threw her down onto the couch, never breaking
contact, with his pole firmly planted in fertile soil and his sweaty, naked
body on top.  She was startled, then she didn't care.  There on the couch
Tony pumped his last two or three pumps and gave a hugh sighing groan. 
Several cups of teenage cum flooded into her pussy, and deeper and deeper
inside her, and eventually when those areas were full, out onto the couch.
It was comical, the way they both wanted to scream out their rapture but
didn't dare, for fear of alerting the neighbors.





   By the time they had finished, Rachel's pulse had rocketed to a rate as
fast and hard as Tony's, and she was gushing out her own sweat, too.  Tony
rolled off her and tumbled onto the floor, the first ungraceful thing she
had ever seen him do.  He showed a sheepish smile, then lay back. 
Simultaneously, they both said, "That was wonderful," although not in the
same words, that would have been too weird.





   Then Rachel murmured, "Tony, you dear, dear boy.  That was one of my
oldest fantasies come true, and you performed as if I'd scripted you
myself. I'll never, ever forget any moment of this evening." She leaned
down and gave him a sloppy French kiss.  "But, Mr.  Butler," Scarlett said,
"you have got to get yo'self dressed and out of he-yah before mah husband
comes home with his shotgun.  He has no gun, if you catch mah dree-ift, but
he does have a shotgun."





   Tony complied, but slowly.  He was too prudent to say that she'd just
satisfied one or two of his fantasies, too: fucking a married woman in her
husband's own home, carrying her around perched on his prick until his
knees got so weak from his own orgasm that he had to put her down, and then
hearing that adoring, submissive murmur telling him without words that he
was the best lover she could even imagine.  Yes, Tony had done okay
tonight, and didn't really mind being thrown out.  He dressed quickly,
kissed Mrs.  Cohn at the door, whispering "You're fantastic.  Maybe another
time?" She shut the door without replying.





   It wasn't easy, but as soon as Tony was gone, Rachel pulled herself
together and cleaned up all traces of the evening's festivities.  Twenty
minutes' soak in a hot tub, with a little self-stimulation thrown in, and
she was more than ready to collapse in sleep, enveloped in a cloud of
bliss. Tearfully, though, she knew she had to wait up for her husband.  She
dressed for bed and sat up with a magazine unread, body still wrapped in
bliss, eyes fighting off tears.





   When she heard Sandy's key in the lock, she tossed the magazine aside
and gave one long last sigh, steeling her nerve and her powers of
prevarication.  She was about to piss on a Picasso.  She was absolutely
sure that it had to be done.  As her husband entered the bedroom, and
started to say something about his surprise at seeing her awake, she
purred, "It's time, darling.  I need you.  Now." Sandy, who was a little
tipsy and not very shrewd even when sober, lit up.  It was rare for her to
come on to him.  He wasn't so crass as to say "oh, baby, here's my cannon,"
but enjoyed the chance to role-play out one of his own fantasies, of being
such a stud that women threw themselves at him.





   Next morning, Rachel got up first -- Sandy never had to teach a class
before ten -- and got ready for work.  As she sat at the kitchen table, she
saw the glossy folder the architect had prepared for the presentation
yesterday, full of complicated diagrams and artists' renditions of how
beautiful the building would be with some cars in the parking lot, dogs
playing frisbee, and students coming and going.





   When she put it down, she noticed the logo: "Copyright 1991, Susan
Forsythe and Associates, L.L.P." 'How nice,' she thought, 'while I was
fucking Tony's brains out, Sandy was with Tony's aunt.  We were both
covered.' Although she was a math teacher, and should have been able to put
two and two together more quickly than most, she was out the door and in
her car when the significance of the brochure struck her.  She couldn't
see; she had to pull over to the side.  The tears dammed up in her eyes,
then abruptly poured down her cheeks.  "That shit.  That shit.  Damn that
shitty, shitty, kid," and similar sentiments were all she could say, or
even think.  It took five minutes until she was even coherent.





   By the time she parked her car at school, she'd decided what she had to
do.  Risky, but there was no choice.  Instead of heading for her classroom,
she went directly to the principal's office.  Mrs.  Reynolds, the
principal, had things to do, but when she saw Rachel's face she dropped
everything and ushered her only female math teacher into the inner office.





   Rachel shook off the offer of a chair.  "Martha, I need a favor, and
I'll tell you why.  If you have to fire me for it, go ahead.  I deserve
it."





   Martha was about forty-five, and something of a MILF herself.  Nice
shape, great legs.  "Good heavens, Rachel, what's the matter?  Fire you?  I
doubt it's really that bad.  What's the matter?"





   She told the principal the short, relatively clean version of
yesterday's misadventures.  How Tony Forsythe, F-o-r-s-y-t-h-e, had
discovered that his aunt and her husband would be schmoozing the donor last
night, and how he'd faked a preposterous math problem to cadge an
invitation to her home, where he then seduced her.  She left out the
intimate details.  As she spoke, she could picture him wheeling away before
she could get his phone number, which would have given her a chance to
cancel and scotched the whole thing.  She described how he'd told her about
her aunt's bid on the project, and the clever way he made it sound as if
she'd lost.  She left out the part about how it was the best fuck she'd
ever had, and how if she hadn't profaned it with her husband's clumsy
fucking afterward, she'd probably still be glowing.





   Mrs.  Reynolds heard her out.  "He's not in your class now, and just
between us, you can swear that he earned the A you gave him last term?"





   "Oh, yes, Martha.  Tony's really bright and hardworking." She clenched
her teeth.  "Obviously."





   "OK, Rachel, what do you want?  I don't see how we can do much for you,
without the details all coming out."





   "Please.  Just page him down here after classes start and give me two
minutes alone with him.  One minute.  He won't suspect anything; he'll
assume it's about M.I.T."





   Mrs.  Reynolds frowned.  "Rachel, you'll have to promise me that you
won't do anything to interfere with his college plans.  After all, you
weren't exactly an innocent victim, you know."





   "Of course," Rachel said.  "I just want to look him in the eye and let
him know what I think of him.  It'll take a minute, tops."





   Mrs.  Reynolds reluctantly moved toward the corner of the room where the
P.A.  microphone was installed.  "You're making a mistake, Rachel, but
don't worry about your career.  If there's a penalty, it will be in your
heart." She spoke into the microphone, summoning Mr.  Forsythe to her
office.





   A few minutes later, Tony showed up, in the outer office, puzzled.  "You
sent for me, Mrs.  Reynolds?  What for?"





   "Go into my office and wait, young man.  I'll be with you in a moment."





   Tony walked in, but had just barely crossed the threshold when he saw
Rachel.  "Mrs.  Cohn, what are you doing --" He never got the question out.
With all the force and momentum of her 108 pounds and her towering rage
behind it, her open hand hit the side of his face with a slap!  Off
balance, he tried to duck, and he fell hard against the door frame.  He
acted like he'd hit his crazy bone.  Good.  There was a pattern of four
fingers and a thumb and a palm on Tony's face, and with luck, she thought,
he'd get a bruise in the same pattern.  Tony retreated to the corridor, and
got out of there fast.  For good reason, he didn't want to explain anything
to the principal.





   "That's it?" Mrs.  Reynolds asked.





   "That's it," Rachel responded.  "Sometimes us short people have to
remind people that we can be pushed, or pulled, or even carried, only so
far."





   The principal shut her office door.  "Sit down, dear," she said.  Rachel
didn't want to; she wanted to put it all behind her and get back to work.
"Sit down, Rachel.  I have something to tell you." Rachel sat at the edge
of the armchair's seat, leaning forward, jaw still clenched, tense.





   "Rachel, you're the third woman on our faculty to have had their little
encounter with Mr.  Anthony Forsythe.  One two years ago, one last October.
Probably others I haven't heard about.





   "It's infuriating, I know, but there's really nothing we can do about
it. Think about it.  Did he rape you?  Assault?  If anyone broke a law, it
was you.  And, I gather, until you realized you'd been tricked, you were,
shall we say, well-satisfied by his visit.  Yes?"





   "Yes," Rachel mumbled, looking away.





   "The school's lawyer says that if I even warn the other teachers, it's
borderline slander.  And I certainly can't kick him out of school.  For
what?" Mrs.  Reynolds paused.  "My advice to you, Rachel, is to chalk it up
to experience and don't do anything else.  In fact, you may calm down and
decide that you'd like a second helping.  I strongly advise against that,
too."





   Rachel snorted.  "Fat fuckin' chance.  Martha, do you really think that
I should just take it?  Is that what the other two women did?"





   "I don't know what one of them did.  I heard about it secondhand, no
details.  As for the other one, yes, I just let it go.  I felt stupid, and
used, and betrayed." With a knowing and wistful smile, she sighed.  "But it
was the best fuck I ever had."





   Two hundred and eighty-three days later, Rachel gave birth to a lovely
boy.  If Mrs.  Reynolds made the connection, she never said anything.  Her
husband never had a clue that he wasn't the boy's father.  The boy's father
was long gone, studying architecture at Rensselaer.  He never had a clue
that he had a son.  Rachel had made damn sure of both.





   Now, all these years later, the baby had grown to be as good-looking as
his father.  She hoped he wasn't as devious as well.  About a year and a
half after the baby was born, Rachel had had enough of Sandy's ineptitude;
she divorced him.  Sandy never finished his dissertation.  He followed the
mathematical crowd to Wall Street, where he contributed his share to the
miscalculations that bankrupted Orange County, California.  No one who knew
him was surprised.





   Not long afterward, Rachel married her gynecologist, a six-foot-six
part-Samoan god whose huge cock petite Rachel could suck without leaning
over.  His name was an unpronounceable eleven-letter Samoan word;
everybody, Rachel included, called him Dr.  Fixit, and she opted to keep
the surname "Cohn" for convenience.  She had two more children and several
thousand orgasms by Dr.  Fixit [guess what she called him in bed?], until
he lost his testicles in a freak accident.  That was several years ago; she
loves him madly, and they are still happily married.  They see to Rachel's
sexual needs as well as they can, and most of the time it's enough. 
They're both very creative people.





   But every now and then a girl's cunt demands a real, live, dick, not
merely a plastic tube or an electrical appliance.  Ron had often said he'd
understand if that's what she wanted, but couldn't predict how he'd take
it. Rachel had always assured him there was no need, and had never deceived
him.  She never would.







   Mrs.  Cohn watched as Joey left the classroom.  He just happened to be
getting fresh during one her intense hot pants phases.  She didn't blame
him for thinking she'd be awed when he shoved his pole into her ribs.  The
thing was impressive, for a kid.  But she'd spent years making real love to
a real, capital-J Johnson; seeing another one was enticing, but not
awesome. She guessed that the difference between Joey and Dr.  Fixit was
hardly worth measuring.  As she watched her next class take its quiz, she
had an idea, then a plan, to maneuver Joey into bed and then, after she was
completely sated, to serve Joey his comeuppance for thinking that he was
some deity's gift to women.  And, by proxy, getting some long-overdue,
symbolic revenge on Tony.  What fun!





   Her cunt was overflowing with nostalgia for Dr.  Fixit's huge fuck-pole
and in anticipation of Joey's.  After long thought, she decided to talk her
plan over with her husband.



   * * *





   The rest of Joey's school day was actually dull.  Not even Betsy B got
him aroused; today's role was stern nurse, not German jungfrau.  She even
greeted him with passed for praise: "You're here!  You're not as much of a
wuss as I thought."





   He thought she was joking, and he answered in what he thought was the
same spirit: "Hit me with your best shot, Betsy B.  Fire away." She just
glared at him.  His feelings were hurt, but he couldn't say anything, for
fear of losing his "not a wuss" status.  As he learned weeks later [yes,
she fucked him silly, several months later; we'll get to it by and by], it
was simple: she wanted him to work, not waste time flirting and making
dirty jokes, so she took absolute charge of the atmosphere the moment she
saw him.  Goading him to perform better was just part of the package.





   So, he ran, squatted, lifted, ran, boxed, crunched, lifted, ran, curled,
pulluped, and ran again nonstop for another hour.  At the end Betsy B
grabbed his bicep and squeezed it, thoughtfully, then wrote something down
on her clipboard.  "Saturday morning, 6:30." she stated.





   "OK," Young Joe replied.  '6:30?  Was she crazy?' "Yes ma'am, Betsy B.
6:30 sharp."





   "Do about half your normal swimming routine tomorrow, but don't lift
anything bigger than a dic-," she smirked, "-tionary on Friday.  You'll
need to be fresh and well-rested." She grinned, and turned away so fast her
grin seemed to still be hanging in the air.  Not unfriendly, just no small
talk.







   As his mother's perplexing message had promised, Owen was waiting in the
Club juice bar to meet him.  "Hi, there, nephew.  You got the message?"





   "Hi, Uncle Owen.  Yeah, Mom texted it to me.  How'd your meeting go?"





   "Excellent.  I've got the contract.  Smooth as silk.  Turns out old Sam
Hitchcock, founder and sole proprietor of Hitchcock Imports, is about to
retire.  His daughter does all the negotiating now.  Ellen Hitchcock.  My
age, little younger maybe.  Fine looking woman.  Really fine.  Tough
negotiator, sort of.  I met her daughter, too.  They say they know you, by
the way.  Your whole family."









   Owen was a few minutes early to his appointment at Hitchcock Imports. 
Some people thought being a little late gave them the upper hand; Owen saw
no point in being rude.  He stood in the small reception area, knowing from
the receptionist's expression that she was admiring his package.  She
didn't drop to the floor with her legs open, though.  Most women didn't. 
His endowment improved his odds over the guys with less of one; he never
left a party alone unless he wanted to.  But on a typical work day in a
typical work environment, he'd get admiring looks but that was all.  He was
pretty sure that girls with big boobs could say the same.





   Mr.  Sam Hitchcock came out to meet him.  Mr.  Hitchcock was old, Owen
never learned how old, and prematurely frail.  He walked like someone too
proud to use a cane, far less a walking frame.  On the slow walk back to
the main office, the old man explained that he was officially retired, and
came to work only to help coach his daughter, Ellen, who was now in charge.
It couldn't have been clearer that Sam thought his daughter was a damn good
businesswoman.





   As they entered the main office, Ellen Hitchcock stood up to greet him.
The woman was drop-dead gorgeous.  A MILF -- he did not know yet how apt
that title actually was -- about Owen's age, probably a little younger. 
Blonde hair pulled back into a stark pony tail, charcoal suit that showed
off her tits and legs better than if she'd been standing there naked. 
Something about the way she filled the suit made a man sure that everything
it concealed was magnificent.





   Her voice was not her best feature, but pleasant enough.  Oh, and on her
left ring finger were two rings, one a simple circle of plain gold and the
other supporting a large diamond.  Married, to a rich guy.  If she was a
trophy wife, at least the guy had won first place.





   "Mr.  Gwynt," she said.  "Did I get that right?  Is that Welsh?"





   "Yes to both," Owen replied.  "My father was Welsh, my mother English.
They emigrated to America right after they were married." Owen's fair
complexion had been his mother's gift, just as his sister's dark complexion
had been her father's.  "But please, call me Owen.  After all, I was born
here, right in this city, and now I'm a Californian.  Totally laid back
American, that's me."





   "Excellent!  You're a dangerous man, Owen.  Too charming.  Please call
me Ellen, as well." They spent the morning looking over the Hitchcock
inventory, Owen making notes and thinking about which of his lines of goods
would best complement theirs.





   They returned to the office.  The old man was gone; Ellen gave a
dazzling smile, saying, "My dad's a dear old man.  He comes in most
mornings to help, he says, but mostly because getting up and coming here
was what he did all his life.  He thinks I need help, but I really don't.
But I won't have him much longer; I enjoy his company while I still can."





   Owen said appropriate things, then when the time was right he got down
to business.  He pulled out his samples and photographs of his wares,
pitching some, simply stating that the others were available, explaining
why he'd emphasized the ones he had, inviting Ellen to look over everything
he'd brought.  She asked sharp, hard questions about price, delivery,
guarantees, and so on.  They were each impressed with the other.





   As 11:30 passed, Ellen suggested lunch.  "I think we're about finished
here, anyway, Mr.  Gwynt," she smiled.  "You could save yourself a trip
back here if you pack up your briefcase and take it along."





   "Oh, I was thinking about taking up your whole afternoon, as well," Owen
replied.





   "You might do just that," she purred.  "But right now, let's have
lunch."





   She took him to the usual opulent, overpriced, rigorously themed
business lunch place, which by being opulent and rigorously themed looked
like a thousand other places, even though each of them had its own unique
theme.  At lunch Ellen deployed her megawatt charm and sexuality as she
sharply tried to shave the tentative terms they'd agreed to, always in
Hitchcock's favor, of course.  She was a gorgeous woman, and totally
willing to let that asset earn a return in the form of concessions she
could wring from bewitched salesmen.





   They say it takes one to know one, and by the time the busboy collected
their plates she'd discovered that Owen was not only nearly immune to her
strategy, but that he was trying to do the same to her.  When they sat down
he'd held her chair, then paused before sitting himself, standing so as to
lead her eyes down to the commodious bulge in his pants.  Later, excusing
himself to use the washroom, he did it again.  Ellen was on to him, of
course.  She'd noticed his package many times as they toured the Hitchcock
premises, and first noticed his aggressive use of said package when they
were negotiating in her office.  She decided to cut to the chase.





   "Mr.  Gwynt, I think we are wasting our time.  I'm trying to hypnotize
you with my cleavage, and you're trying to do the same to me with your uh,
apparatus.  It's a draw, my friend.  Perhaps we should sign the contract
without any further games, and then I will take you to another place for
dessert."





   Owen tried to act embarrassed, but he couldn't do it.  "OK, Mrs. 
Hitchcock, you've got me, although in my defense let me say that I didn't
think my trusty negotiating partner would impress you much, but I had to
try just the same."





   Laughing companionably, they stood to go; Owen had grabbed the check,
saying "You can pay for dessert," but knowing full well what sort of
dessert she had in mind.  She assented, and drove them across town to what
had been corn fields when Owen lived here, but were decent middle-class
condos now; E-Z access to freeway, plenty of parking.  As she parked and
they climbed out of her BMW, Owen remarked, "Wow, this is all condos; I
don't even see a Dairy Queen."





   Ellen let her smoldering lust show a little, and gave Owen a look that
said, "Stop playing innocent with me, buster.  You know what I meant. 
You've known all along." With a toss of her head, she led the way among the
buildings, into one and up some stairs to a second-floor condo.  After
unlocking the door, she turned to Owen, still in the hall, and kissed him.
"Won't you come in, Mr.  Gwynt?"





   Owen refrained from smirking and followed her in to the small apartment.
It was tastefully furnished, but empty-looking, as if nobody actually lived
here.  "Nice place," he said.  "You live here alone?"





   He was talking to the empty air; she had disappeared, silently along the
soft carpet.  Owen took that as implying, "wait here," so he wandered into
the living room, contemplating the cars on the freeway through the patio
doors.





   Ellen stopped at the boundary of the living room and startled him. 
"Would you like a drink, Owen?"





   Owen turned, knowing sort of what to expect, but not completely.  He'd
expected sexy and seductive.  This woman looked sexy and seductive in a
business suit.  But he was as near flabbergasted as he ever got at the
female vision in front of him.  She'd changed into a baby-doll style
lingerie, color bordello red, that reached just a half inch below her
labia. Which were on display because she wore no panties.  Or bra, for that
matter.





   "You're not as surprised as I expected, Mr.  Gwynt.  Am I so
transparent?"





   "I confess.  I'm not surprised that you're standing in the living room
with bedroom eyes.  After all, me and my cock have had our own adventures.
I'm not even surprised to see you in that baby doll.  But I am absolutely,
and pleasantly, surprised at the total vision of lovely sexy woman that I
see before me.  I knew you were a gorgeous woman, Ellen, and I was pretty
sure your lovely tits were real.  But the total picture is one that will
live in my dreams," he smirked now, conveying the kind of dreams he meant,
"forever.  You are one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen."





   "Flattery, Mr.-- Owen, flattery will get you nowhere with me.  Because I
already intend to take you everywhere; flattery can add nothing.  But
still, it's pleasant to hear." She paused, eyes drifting over every part of
his body.  "Come with me to the boudoir." In the bedroom, she continued,
"Much as I'd love to return your compliments, sir, I can't see through your
clothes, particularly your pants.  Would you care to undress?  Would you
like a hanger for your suit?"





   Owen had way too much experience simply to throw off his clothes or yank
down his zipper to show her his stuff.  He walk across the room, saying,
"I'm not finished flattering you, yet." Hands upon her upper arms, he
pulled her in to kiss for a long moment, then let his right hand, turned
upside down, nails on her skin, creep down from just under her generous
breasts to rest in the trimmed hairs of her bush.  He didn't invade her
pussy, not yet, at this point, he kneaded her mons with his knuckles, and
that was all.  He leaned a little, to kiss her collarbone and then the top
of each breast, through the sheer cloth.  "Very nice," he breathed.  "Very,
very nice." He knelt and gave a small but lingering kiss to her bush,
inhaling the womanly smell of her cool arousal.  This woman had been around
the block once or twice.  His tongue flicked out to tease the leading edge
of her labia, very near to her clitoris.  Ellen gasped a little, but still
wasn't responding like Owen was used to.





   Ellen grabbed his shoulder and pulled him upward.  "If you won't do it,
I guess I'll have to," she muttered.  She knew her way around good suits,
too; her deft fingers found the buttons and hooks and then took their time
about pulling his zipper down.  It didn't matter, of course; the head of
his erection was poking out of his pants and into his navel.  His pants
were held up by suspenders, so there was no unseemly pile of worsted wool
at his feet.  She reached through the opening in his boxers to wrap her
hand around his erect member.  The first time didn't work; she'd failed to
account for the girth of his cock and hadn't worked her fingers to good
effect.  The second time, she squeezed, hard, and pumped his dick a few
strokes.  She wanted to know if he was so excited he'd explode too early.
'No need to worry about that,' she thought.





   Owen found himself being pushed back to where he was sitting on an
armchair, Ellen kneeling in front of him, unbuttoning the lower buttons of
his shirt.  She reached up and gave an expert pull on the knot of his tie,
undoing the knot; she then pulled the tie through his shirt collar and off.





   "Mr.  Gwynt, I'm afraid I misled you," Ellen murmured.  "When I invited
you for dessert, I meant dessert for me.  I don't have anything to offer
you."





   Owen matched her tone.  "Oh, I think you do," he said, as her lips
closed over his cock head.





   She stroked him once or twice, while laving his upper shaft with her
saliva.  Then Owen got his biggest surprise of the day.  Maneuvering her
body and especially her head into position, her mouth plummeted down the
shaft.  His cock head collided with the back of her mouth or her throat, he
couldn't tell which, and her lips reached more than halfway down the shaft.
Here he was, over forty years old, with a woman about forty years old who
could take more of his shaft than any woman ever had before.  It felt as if
she'd taken an inch more than his sister ever had.  He moaned, "wow. 
wooowww."





   Sucking for real, now, she pumped his dick with one hand and sucked
hard. When she could sense the pressure of his cum rising, she pumped and
sucked even harder, accelerating the rate of the white goo rushing into her
mouth.  Despite Owen's age and the way his niece had depleted his cum the
night before, she hit a gusher.  Cum poured from his big balls.  He was no
teenager, of course, but she got more than she'd expected.  Tasty, too!





   The giant prick finished cumming, so right away Ellen stopped sucking,
looked up at its owner and said, "That was my dessert.  How 'bout you?"





   Owen liked to eat pussy, but it depended on the pussy.  He felt like he
was being played, somehow.  Still, he wanted that Hitchcock contract. 
"Damn straight," was his answer.  She led him to the bedroom, shedding her
gray pinstripes on the way, and lounged on the satin sheets, legs splayed
apart to reveal her cunt.  Owen enjoyed his dessert, although he'd had
better.  He skillfully sent the serving-dish, Ellen's cunt, into tremors of
excitement, followed by fireworks.  Owen knew his stuff.  But by the time
Ellen had returned to earth, Owen was ready to take the initiative.  He
didn't want to be a doormat in their commercial relations.





   "Turn over," he barked.





   Ellen arched an eyebrow, as if to say, "Who the hell do you think you
are?" but she complied.





   He bounded into position behind her and, grasping her hips in both
hands, pulled her up to dog-style position.  Just as he thought, her anus
was pinker than most, and the opening was wider than most.  This woman took
it up the ass, frequently.  He judged he could penetrate clear to her
throat, without lubricant.  With no further ado, no warning to his hostess,
that's what he did.  His dick, not superhumanly large but uncommon even in
Ellen's wide experience, found its way deep into her digestive tract, and
he hadn't had to push very hard at all.





   Ellen yelped at this invasion of her asshole, but acquiesced.  Truth to
tell, if anything she'd fucked twice as many pricks than Owen had cunts,
although neither of them knew it.  Her pussy was so jaded that taking it up
the ass, even as frequently as she did, was the best way to send her into
her little corner of the stratosphere.  On the other hand, he hadn't asked
and hadn't had the courtesy to ask for a little K-Y jelly.  Also, fucking
the client wasn't necessarily bad for business, but letting the client take
control of the fucking was.  Who had the power here, anyway?





   As she thought these thoughts, her body betrayed her.  Her, Ellen, who'd
turned down more sex partners than this man has ever fucked, she thought.
How could she want this guy so badly that she'd let him lead?  Terrible for
business, as well as terrible for sex.





   Timing herself to Owen's lunges, as he was backstroking for his next
thrust, she slid forward.  His massive cock popped out of her anus with a
protesting 'pop?' She whirled around to lay on her back, glaring up at him.





   "Here in the Midwest it's customary to ask a lady before shoving hard
objects up her asshole, Owen," she hissed.  "I don't care how you do it in
California.  And no K-Y jelly!  Even Brando used butter on that poor French
girl.  You're a creep."





   Owen didn't take the bait.  "If you really meant any of that crap you'd
have complained before I got to the second stroke," he leered.  "You were
liking it just fine, 'til you remembered I was in the driver's seat.  Well,
like it or not, if this car is going to go another inch, it'll be me in the
driver's seat.  And I want to fuck your ass or nothing, and you're gonna
have to rely on my gentlemanly instincts, and the madder I get the less I
care about whether it's good for you.  So, roll over, you lazy cunt, roll
over!  Now."





   Ellen blustered.  "Oh, so now you're gonna rape me."





   "Just shut up and roll over, bitch.  No rape.  Here's my threat.  If you
don't obey my orders, I'll put my pants on and leave.  Think it over."





   She saw no way out; the fact was that her ass was on fire and it had
been complaining ever since being deprived of Owen's rigid magnificence. 
It was Owen now, or her barely adequate husband, who didn't like anal sex
anyway, tonight.  Ellen swallowed her pride and rolled over.





   Owen wasn't angry, exactly, but he was impatient.  He hauled her hips up
into position again.  "You want some K-Y jelly, cunt?  You stay right where
you are and I'll go find it.  You move, and I'm outta here."





   "Oh, goddamn it Owen, forget the K-Y jelly!  Just give it to me!  Bury
that hot fuck-pole so deep in my ass it comes out through my throat! 
Please!  I'll give you whatever you want!  Better prices on the contract?
Cash? . . .  "





   Owen cut her off with a slap on her jaw, startling, not painful,
signalling, "Shut up." He said, "Listen.  I don't want your money.  I don't
even care that much about fucking your ass.  So far, at least, it's not
much different from the other three hundred asses I've fucked.  Listen. 
What I'm gonna do is fuck you so hard and so painfully and so orgasmically
that you know I'm in charge.  Next time I see you, you won't presume to
drive me to your little fuck-pad here; you'll beg me to throw you a fuck,
and you'll beg for commands, and if I say in the middle of the street
you'll drop trou in the middle of the street.  Other men you lure in here,
make wimps of them, all you want.  But right now you have a capital-M man."





   Ellen was so turned on by this speech that she was trembling even
without the benefit of Owen's organ.  Her, Ellen, the submissive one! 
Who'd have guessed?  The forbidden words came out: "Please Mr.  Owen,
please put that iron bar back into my asshole and push it in as far as you
can.  I'll throw myself backwards, hard, to meet your strokes.  Or not. 
Whatever you say.  But please, please get started before my hot ass gets
hotter and melts.  I need it!"





   He said nothing, but did stuff his dick up her ass again, this time
swinging his hips back and taking a good running start from several inches
away.  The impact threw Ellen's whole body forward and crash her head into
the headboard so hard she saw stars; she'd have a lump in the morning. 
Owen continued to pound her ass, pulling her toward him by her hips as he
forced his huge prick deeper and deeper into her intestines.





   She was terrified and sick when she could feel the orgasm building, big,
broad, all-encompassing -- it felt like it would be better than any she'd
ever had.  This was the fruit of her submission.  Could it be?  Even as her
panting and strangled sounds of pleasure took over her ability to voice her
thoughts, and the pleasure-chemicals in her brain took over her thinking,
she fought the sensations of the mounting orgasm, because she had no idea
how to cope if she weren't in total control.





   Then Owen injected his hot cum into her asshole, and a few seconds later
her earth-shattering orgasm wiped her mind clean of all thoughts.  Her
moans were rising in pitch; some of the neighbors thought they heard
screaming.  Nobody called the cops.  With a weak sigh of surpassing bliss,
she passed out.







   Owen was stepping out of the shower when he heard the key scrape the
lock.  'Who could that be?' he wondered.  Surely Ellen didn't have a steady
boyfriend.  She wasn't the type.  He advanced to the kitchen and stood in
the gloom, watching the door.  He was so curious, and so tense, that he
forgot he was naked as he watched the doorknob turn.





   The door opened to reveal a girl, twenty maybe, give or take a year,
dressed in a sixth-grader's plaid Catholic-school uniform with her hair in
ponytails.  Despite her fine, firm boobs pressing against her blouse, she
was trying to look like she was about twelve years old.  Why?  Then he
noticed the man behind her; nondescript guy in a suit, 55 years old,
potbellied, balding, watching every move her body made under that school
uniform.  He reminded Owen of his old school vice-principal.  In a flash,
he understood; Ellen and this girl, and maybe others, used this apartment
for turning tricks, including this perv.  They were in for two rude
surprises; naked Owen in the kitchen and naked Ellen on the bed.  He stood
still, and continued to watch.





   "Well, come on, Mr.  Smith!" the girl squealed.  "I'm ever so glad you
could come to visit!  Please don't tell my Mommy what a bad girl I've been.
I'd get in so much trouble!  I'd do anything to stay out of trouble, Mr. 
Smith!  Anything at all!: She squatted at his feed.  "Here, let me take off
your shoes, right here at the door.  Does that feel better, Mr.  Smith?"
She grabbed his hand.  "Come with me to the sofa so I can rub your feet."
This time, instead of squatting or kneeling at his feet facing him, she
straddled his legs and bent over, showing off her butt as she ministered to
Mr.  Smith's bony feet.  Owen suspected that she wasn't wearing panties.





   Mr.  Smith, or whatever his name really was, leaned forward to kiss her
ass, maybe to run his tongue over her asshole or cunt; Owen couldn't see.
The girl squealed again, "Oh, Mr.  Smith!  That was so naughty!  You
shouldn't do things like that to such an innocent young girl like me, Mr.
Smith.  Oh, but if I tell my mom on you, I'll be in sooo much trouble!  And
if you tell my mom on me, I'll be in just as much trouble!  Well, Mr. 
Smith, I guess I'll just have to take it.  You may have your way with me.
Whatever nasty things you want me to do, I guess I have to do them!  You
have all the power here.  But please be gentle, Mr.  Smith.  Please be
gentle."





   The girl's chatter, and her cunt in his nose, were finally getting a
rise out of Mr.  Smith.  She gave off rubbing his feet and turned around to
face him, squatting now, so her butt and labia caressed his sock-clad toes.
"Mr.  Smith!  You really shouldn't put your toes up my-- my-- pussy, Mr. 
Smith!  Oh, did I say the p-word?  That is sooo naughty!  I think maybe I
need a good spanking, Mr.  Smith.  Maybe ten good strokes with your right
hand and ten with your left?  Would that be enough punishment, Mr.  Smith?
I'm sure it would hurt.  I'd probably start to cry!  But if that's what I
deserve, you'd better do it, sir.  Should I assume the position?





   All this time, the girl was caressing Smith's legs, working her way up,
slowly, to his crotch.  The slowness was so excruciating to both Smith and
to Owen that Owen was relieved when the man pre-empted her slow assault and
pulled his fly open himself.  His cock, sprung out at attention, hard and
straight, and Smith wordlessly pulled the girl's face toward it.  From what
Owen could see over her shoulder, the cock was about average.  At least
this guy was no limp-dick Tom Thumb.





   "Oh, Mr.  Smith!  What do you want me to do?  Should I kiss your--
thing, sir?  It's sooo big and thick, Mr.  Smith." She kissed the shaft. 
Smith mumbled something.  "Ooohh, Mr.  Smith, I don't think I could take it
all in my mouth.  Noooo.  It's way too big!  I'm just a little schoolgirl,
remember?  I don't know about things like cocksucking.  Ooops!  Not again
with the nasty words!  I don't even know what this one means.  Cocksucking?
I can't believe that anyone could suck on a thick, meaty pole like that
one, but I'll try, Mr.  Smith, just for you.  Now, please don't thrust in
my mouth.  I'm too small and you're too big for that!  You just relax, Mr.
Smith, and let little Jessica take care of everything."





   Owen remained in the kitchen, enveloped in the dark.  Jessica, whoever
she was, blowing this dork did not arouse Owen, or Jessica, either, from
what he could see.  Owen was merely hoping she'd get rid of the dork soon.
He got his wish about on schedule, after Jessica took about half his cock
and gave him just a few short strokes with her hand.  Judging by the look
on Mr.  Dweeb-Smith's face, that was all she wrote.  But what a crummy
cocksucker!  Especially for an upscale whore!  She could at least give him
some good value for his money.





   Jessica resumed her simpering one-sided conversation: "Oh, Mr.  Smith,
that was fabulous!  And you taste so good!  Mmmmmmm.  Let me try to suck
some more of that stuff out of there.  Mmmmm! . . .Awww, that's all, Mr. 
Smith.  You're such a tease.  You're holding back the good stuff for
someone else, aren't you?  Someone even younger and more innocent than I
am? I think you should give me another try, Mr.  Smith?  I think if I lick
on you here for a little while, your-- thing will grow even bigger than
last time!  And I bet we'd get a lot more cu-- milk out of there!  Of
course, Mr.  Smith, I'd need a hundred and fifty dollars more.  I'd love to
do you for free, Mr.  Smith, sir, but I have rent to pay and, well, you
know -- expenses!  But y'know, seeing as it's you, sir, and I love you so
much, I could do it for, oh, I don't know, a hundred even.  My landlord
will kill me!  And I can't even pay him this way," she wiggled his slowly
recovering cock, "because I've gotta be faithful to you."





   Now that he'd cum, even Mr.  Smith soon had enough of this drivel. 
Mumbling something that sounded like "No thanks, and a confirmation of
'same time, next week?' he pulled his pants up, zipped them, and shambled
out the door.  If anything, he looked more downcast than when he'd come in.





   The girl showed him out, and as soon as he was clear of the jamb, she
shut the door and threw the bolt, click-click.  As she pulled at the ties
of her ponytail, she cursed to herself, "Cheap bastard.  Not even a fucking
tip!  And I go through that whole dopey sixth-grader routine for him!. . .
"





   Owen thought he'd better make his presence known.  "Yeah, but if he
comes every week, it's steady money, right, sweetheart?"





   The girl almost jumped out of her bobby socks.  She didn't scream,
though; as she turned and saw him her right hand flashed to her skirt and
came out with a switchblade, open, held underhand the way the savvy kids
do. Owen raised his hands and still didn't move; he'd been standing in one
spot for over fifteen minutes.





   "Who are you and what are you doing here?" Jessica snapped.  Her body
wasn't cringing; it was poised to attack.





   Owen kept his hands in the air.  "Calm down, please.  My name is Owen,
and as for what am I doing here, until a little while ago I was pleasantly
fucking a woman named Ellen.  She has a key, so I assume you know her. 
She's asleep, I think, on the bed in there." He pointed toward the bedroom
with a small tilt of his head.  "She invited me.  You can check if you
want. I won't go anywhere.  And you can see I'm not carrying any concealed
weapons."





   Jessica's eyes flicked up and down, noting his oversized dick without
comment.  "Do you know someone named Ellen who might use this apartment?"
Owen continued.





   "Yeeessss." Jessica hissed.  "She's my mo-- roommate."





   "May I put my hands down?  This is tiring." She gestured her permission.
"Thanks.  Now, should I go wake up Ellen or do you want to do it?"





   "We both will.  You first." Owen, taking care not to make any false
moves, whatever that means, slowly led the way to the bedroom.





   Ellen was there, thank heaven, and gradually waking up on her own.  As
her eyes cleared, she saw Owen, naked, and Jessica holding the knife on
him. "It's okay, Sam, he's with me," she said, once she comprehended what
was going on.  "You can put your knife away.  He's a selfish bastard, but
hey, what's new about that?  He's with me."





   "He stood there and watched my whole session with Mr.  Smith,"
Jessica-Sam complained.  "He never made a sound."





   Ellen looked at Owen, then back at Jessica-Sam.  "Samantha, I met Mr. 
Gwynt only this morning and he's already surprised me seven or eight times.
You're just getting started."





   Owen, looking back and forth at the two women, ventured a question. 
"Can I assume that Jessica is not your name?  That the name your mother
calls you, Samantha, is the right one?" They looked at each other, then at
him, suspicion all over their faces.  Samantha's hand stayed close to her
knife.  "Oh, come on." Owen said.  "I can't be the first to notice how much
you two look alike.  I bet you make pretty good money for a mother-daughter
threesome, am I right?  A hot blonde sandwich?"





   Samantha looked like she still wanted to knife him, just to teach him
some manners, but Ellen jumped in.  "You're too smart for your own good,
Owen.  You're lucky you're going back to California this evening. 
Otherwise we'd have to kill you to keep our secret."





   "Well, it's been real," Owen winked.  He picked his watch up from the
night table.  "Four o'clock!  I've got another date, with a boy this time,
though.  My nephew.  Would one of you ladies like to drive me to The Health
Club, or else recommend a cab company?"





   "Your nephew is a member of The Health Club?"





   "Yes, why, do you know him?"





   "What's his name?





   "Joe Dunlap.  Young Joe, they call my nephew.  Old Joe is Joseph,
Senior, Joey's father.  My sister and niece are also members; Amy and
Debbie.  Do you know them?"





   Ellen smiled.  "Why, yes, I know them all, slightly.  Samantha, you
remember the other day I told you about Joe and Joey, how Young Joe was
hung like a horse?" She looked at Owen.  "Or, even better, hung like his
uncle here?"





   "Oh, yeah, I remember," Samantha exclaimed.  "And his dad is a
micro-dick." She took a closer look at Owen, lingering over his naked
crotch.  "Are you sure you have to go so soon?" she asked.  She may as well
have been licking her lips.  "I'm sure I could get you uh, ready again."





   "Thanks for the offer, but no, I've really gotta go.  Besides, you were
so convincing as a school girl I don't think I could get it up for you at
all.  I'd feel like a child molester!  I'm a horny bastard, but I'm no
pervo.  Maybe after a couple of days and I see you in lingerie like your
mom was wearing.  Probably not, though.  I bet you shave your pussy."
Samantha nodded, laughing through her nose.  "You let some hair grow on
that jailbait pussy, and any time you come to Long Beach, I'll clear my
calendar to, you know, show you around." He looked over as Ellen stood up
and pulled some sheets out of a drawer.  "Your mom has my address."





   Samantha gave him a friendly grimace of mock disappointment.  "You'd
better be careful, Mr. . . .  "





   "Gwynt.  It's Welsh for Hung-Like-a-Horse."





   ". . .  Mr.  Hung-Like-a-Horse.  I just might show up." Then to her
mother: "Mom, you'd better get dressed and take him.  I'll do the sheets. I
have to get ready anyway, for my five-o'clock.  It takes a while to get
into the outfit."





   Owen was amused.  "What's the outfit this time?"





   Samantha looked as stern and sadistic as she could, then laughed.  "It
involves a lot of black leather."









   "She knows us?" Joe echoed.  "I know only one Ellen your age, but her
last name is Mansfield, not Hitchcock.  At least I think so. . .  What's
the daughter's name?"





   "Ah-- Samantha, she said," his uncle replied.  "You know them?"





   "They're both really hot, blonde, nice ti-- er, nice --"





   Owen interrupted, "Nice tits.  Yes, yes, yes.  That's them."





   "If it's who I think they are, they're the wife and stepdaughter of
Brian Mansfield.  He's the managing partner of my dad's law firm."





   "Oh?"





   "Yeah.  They're scorching hot and he's a rich old lecher.  Most people
think they're a matched set.  Trophy wife and trophy stepdaughter."







   Owen laughed at that, wondering if the old lecherous lawyer knew his
trophies spent their idle hours as expensive prostitutes.





   After an awkward minute, Joey said, "Mom said you wanted to have a
man-to-man talk.  About what?"





   "Let's go find some hamburgers or something, and all that is mysterious
shall be revealed."





   Joey hated it when people talked in that fakey carnival barker way. 
"Mom also told me not to let you take me to McDonald's.  How about Chinese?
Or Thai?  There's a great multi-Asian place not far from here."





   "Sounds good to me."





   As they drove, Owen was wondering why Joey seemed so hostile and how to
get him talking.  Joey was burning to know what happened last night.  The
very fact of this meeting confirmed his hunch about the sounds he'd heard
in the night.  But he didn't know how to ask his uncle, "Hey, did you fuck
my sister last night?  Or was it my mother?"





   By the time they'd been seated by the waitress, they both had the same
plan: short, blunt and to the point.  Owen was a split second quicker on
the draw.  "Nephew, your mom tells me that you and I have the same genetic
affliction.  I thought we'd better talk about it."





   Joey shook his head.  Genetic affliction?  What was he talking about? 
The answer hit him in a flash, but it was so farfetched that he didn't know
what to say.  "Go on," he said warily.





   Owen leaned forward.  "Your mom says your johnson hangs halfway to your
knees, that is, when he's not ready for action.  She says he looks a lot
like mine.  Oh, and I was impressed by the way you just whipped it out to
show her.  My kind of man."





   Too much information!  Joey said nothing, trying to stop his mind from
whirling and process this.  'Mom knew her brother has a big dick.  She told
him about mine.  How did she know about his?  Why were they talking about
this in the first place?  Where does Debbie fit in?  Where does Uncle Owen
fit in?' At least he could answer the last one.  He knew just where his
uncle fit in.





   Just then, the waitress came for their orders.  Luckily, they'd
discussed it, so Uncle Owen handled all the conversation, while Joey
crossed his own Rubicon.  As the waitress left, Joey hissed, "Which one of
them did you fuck last night?  Mom or Debbie?  Or maybe both?  You'd better
tell me what's been going on, or, or. . .  " Joey had no plans for "or."
Fight his uncle?  For what?  Threaten to rush home and twist the
information out of his mother?  Joey knew Owen knew he'd never hurt his
mother.  Joey just gasped his "or, or. . .  " and glared at his uncle.





   Owen replied, "Debbie," in a matter-of-fact tone that made Joey furious.






   "And now you're going to tell me all about it?  What she was wearing? 
How good a cocksucker she is?  Some good ol' man-to-man talk like that?"
For all his virile appearance, Joey was still a kid, right now a shocked,
angry, bewildered kid.





   "Listen, Joe.  Take a minute to calm yourself down and just listen. 
Because you and your endowment are about to cause a lot of pain and
upheaval in the lives of four people I love, and you love, and I think you
need to know all the facts.  After I've finished, you decide whether you
need my advice, as well."





   The waitress brought tea.  Joey figured the part about calming down was
good sense.  When he'd done that, he figured he'd hear what his uncle had
to say.  He wanted to hear how a man could just out and tell his nephew
that he'd fucked his own niece, nephew's sister, as if that was the most
okay thing in the world.  After a while Joey scowled, "Go ahead."





   Owen pulled no punches; before beginning, he forced his nephew to admit
that he had illicit, carnal designs on his mother and his sister.  Owen
pointed out that in this bizarre situation, he held the moral high ground,
because he'd never lusted after nor fucked his own mother (who was pretty
hot in her day, as well).  And, he said, he would have lived happily ever
after with Amelia, but if he'd done so Debbie and Joey would never have
been born.  Only then did he lay out for Joe the whole story, with a
gentlemanly omission of the intimate details.





   First, he took his nephew on a quick tour of his own sex life,
emphasizing the limitations and responsibilities that fall on a man with a
monster cock.  It sounds absurd, but in his mind he was an honorable,
responsible adult even though he spent most of his life fucking teenagers,
and when opportunity offered, other men's wives, because he did so alert
for their comfort and pleasure and safety, usually over his own.  He told
Joey that the important thing, the first time with any girl or woman, was
to take it very slow.  If he was so horny he couldn't stand it, ask her for
a hand job first.  How blow jobs were going to be kind of dull, compared to
what the other guys got, because so little of his cock would fit in a
girl's mouth.  (He used his python joke, but right now, Joey didn't think
anything was funny.) How he had to be so ultra careful about a girl's
cervix.  And so on.





   This was all beside the point, though, because the main topic was Joe's
and Owen's relationships with Amy and Debbie.  He told Joe that he and his
sister (Amy, Joe's mother) had been regular fuck buddies, although the term
hadn't yet been invented, from that fateful birthday party to the eve of
her wedding; that several times since, he had tried to fuck Amy again, or
get her to blow him, but she'd always refused.  Owen was sure that starting
on her wedding day, she'd been absolutely faithful to Joe Senior.  It was
pure coincidence that he'd come to visit just when the household was in
turmoil after the father and son confrontation in the gym shower.  Amy and
Debbie both had told him of their struggles to reconcile their lust for
him, Joe Junior, and the usual rules of the sex game, not to mention the
criminal law.  Owen told Joey how Debbie had come to him in the night
(omitting Amy's role) and how Debbie had good as told him that she was
acting out her lust for Joey by fucking her uncle.  (Debbie had never gone
so far as to say this, it's bad manners to say you're fucking person A
because he reminds you of person B, but Owen was sure that's what she had
been thinking.) Owen was sure that Joey had plans, or at least dreams, of
fucking his mother and his sister and who knows how many others, and if
Joey made a big fuss over what Owen had done, Joey was nothing but a
hypocrite.  And, finally, how he, Owen, was leaving, going back to
California, and wasn't going to involve himself in their affairs any more
except to talk to his sister, Amy, by long-distance telephone if she called
him and brought up the subject.





   Neither one of them ate much, during all this, and Joey didn't say much.
They had the dinner boxed up.  Owen paid the check and asked the cashier to
call him a cab.  Only as they waited for the cab did Joey reply.





   "All right, uncle, I've heard all the facts.  But how am I supposed to
feel?" He went on: I'm angry at you, but I don't know if I'm angry because
you fucked your sister, long ago, and my sister, last night, and I'd
shocked to find out you're such a toad, or because I should have protected
them somehow, or if I'm simply jealous because I want to fuck them and you
did it instead.  And once they've had you, how is my inexperienced dick
going to impress them?  Will they lay there thinking, 'Owen would have done
it this way,' or 'Owen would have done it that way,' or 'Owen would have
done it better.'?  And now it sounds like it's up to me whether I wreck my
parents' marriage.  I'm just a kid!  I want to fuck my math teacher, and
the head cheerleader, and my superwoman personal trainer, and they're all
beginning to take the hint.  That's the kind of cunt my monster dick should
be plowing!  Not my mom and sister!  What am I gonna do?





   Joey had held the floor until they got into the cab.  Owen told the
driver the Dunlap address, then turned to his nephew and snapped, "Joe,
were you listening to the first half of what I said?  About how wishing for
a big dick is like the story of King Midas?  You have to take the bad with
the good and only guys like you and me, the guys who have the big dicks,
can appreciate the bad.  But it's your endowment, boy, and you've gotta
find your own way.  You've been slapped upside the head with a lot of
information real fast, and that's always tough, but you can't erase it from
your memory.  Now that you know, you have to cope.  That's what a good man
does.  And that's what you're going to do, my friend.





   "I know your dad thinks I'm wasting my life chasing the chicks, but
that's my right, it's my life, and it's your right too, although I admit it
might not be the best way to go.  But what I've been talking about for two
hours is your duty, your responsibility to think about the effects of what
you do on the people you love.  I do my thing a thousand miles away, where
it has zero effect on Amy or the rest of you.  I have fun.  Sometimes I get
bored.  You can choose some other route, but you can't ignore your family.
I moved to California because that was the only way to do right by my
sister."





   The cab pulled up to the Dunlap house.  Owen finished up: "One last
thing, kid.  You know those babes were talking about?  Ellen and Samantha?
After Ellen and I were finished sealing our deal, so to speak, and praising
each other's charms, they said how much they'd miss me and my, . . .  Hell,
who am I kidding!  Ellen and I bargained to a very fair contract, then she
enjoyed my dick immensely, and when Samantha came home, she asked for a
ride, too.  They both were sorry I had to put it away and take it home. 
That's when I mentioned you."





   'Uh-oh.' "What did you say, Uncle?"





   "I told them my nephew is a charming young fellow who has a replica of
my cock in his genes, if not bigger and badder, and although he's a little
inexperienced, he's completely equipped to take my place, and Ellen and
Samantha might be just the ones to give him some instruction.  That's when
your name came up."





   Young Joe, memory filled with his lust for the Mansfield-Hitchcock
women, forgot his uneasy pique.  "Thanks, I think.  Did you give them my
phone number, too?"





   "No.  You mean your cell phone?  I don't know the number."





   Joe told him.  "My mom doesn't like cell phones, but Dad and Debbie and
I all have them.  I suppose you know Debbie's." This brought Young Joe back
to the heavy topics of tonight's conversation.  Tears welled up in his
eyes. He stepped out of the cab, hoisted his books and his gym bag onto his
shoulder, the bag of Chinese food in his other hand.  He was coherent,
despite his tears.  He wasn't sobbing.  Standing on the pavement, he leaned
against the door of the cab.  "When I pull myself together, I'll probably
feel different about this.  But right now I think the best thing I can do
for my family is have myself castrated."





   Owen grinned.  "Don't do that!  That would be like dynamiting the
Washington Monument!" The cab driver, who had overheard enough of the
conversation to get the joke, was laughing and laughing as she pulled away
to take Owen to the airport.  Until then, Joey had not even noticed that
the driver was a woman.  He waved to his uncle, wondering if they'd make
time for an unscheduled stop along the way.





   Debbie and his mother were just finishing dinner, so he put the Chinese
leftovers in the fridge and poured himself some fresh decaf.  None of the
three of them said much, or even met each other's eyes.  Even though they
all knew the whole story except about Amy's enjoyment of a little
girl-on-girl relaxation, now and then, and not counting some technical
details, they couldn't talk about it.  The tension finally got to Young
Joe. Muttering "fuck it, just fuck it," he picked up his cup and headed
out, bound for his room and an attempt to do his homework.





   Deb's voice pulled him back, snapping, "Hold it, brother.  Sit back
down." He obeyed.  He wanted to talk all this over with them, but he didn't
know how to start.  Maybe Debbie did.





   She didn't know, either, so she just plowed right in.  "Listen, bro. 
We're all three in deep shit together, here, and unless you're on your way
to pack for your move to a monastery, sit down and be part of this!  And if
you're going to a monastery, don't bother to pack, because monks aren't
allowed to own anything anyway." The joke fell flat.





   After a couple of false starts, she went on.  "OK.  Right.  Well, I'm
assuming that we all know -- we all know the facts.  Owen and Joey have
huge-- penises.  Dad has a tiny one.  Mom and Owen were fuck buddies for
more than ten years.  Night before last, I wanted to beg my little/big
brother to fuck me.  Last night, I had this great make-out session with my
mother,. . ." She hadn't known that Joey didn't know this part; she
shrugged as his jaw dropped and went on, "which happened to be my first
girl-girl experience, and I loved it.  Then I. . .  then I went to my
uncle's bed, all on my own, and he fucked my brains out.  Uncle Owen's
gone, out of the picture." Her expression said, "for now, anyway," but she
didn't go that far.  "Each one of the three of us is going crazy trying to
keep their hands off either of the others.  Giving in to our sexual urges
is immoral, illegal, and idiotic.  It could wreck the family and
everybody's lives.  So what do we do, short of all moving away from each
other as far as we can get?"





   As soon as she finished, Amy added, "And just thinking about it is
making us all about as aroused as we've ever been.  Debbie, I've seen you
checking Big Joe, here, so you know and I know that he's standing up at
full attention, ready for action.  And you, young man, surely know that us
girls' cunts are both soaking through our jeans.  Our bodies vote that even
if we're playing with fire, the experience might be so fantastic that it's
worth the risk."





   The women looked at Joey, as if it was his turn to say something useful.
"Hey, don't look at me!" he burst out.  "I'm the youngest one here.  Hell,
I'm still a virgin.  If it was up to me I'd fuck both of you, right here in
the kitchen, and to hell with the consequences.  And I'll tell you right
now that I don't love my father any less today than I did last week, but
when I think about us having a free-for-all orgy right here and now, I
couldn't care less about how he feels about it.  Is that Oedipal or what?"
He tried to pull himself together.  Into the silence he said, "By the way,
ladies, that wasn't a proposition.  I think we should all keep our pants
on, tonight, if we can."





   Nobody laughed.  They all three looked at the floor, or the clock,
anywhere but at each other.  Joey broke the silence.  "Uncle Owen said that
he and I are living the King Midas story.  Every guy in the world wants a
huge dick, but having one is probably gonna wreck my life.  He good as
admitted that it had wrecked his life." At the look in his mother's eyes,
he raced to continue.  "Not you and him, Mom.  Best I can tell, you're the
steadiest girl friend he ever had, and there's no doubt he loves you better
than anybody.  But he's addicted.  He'll never have a family, or wife, or
even another steady girl friend, because there's always a new girl begging
for a chance to ride his cock.  Jeez, I think he's fucking the woman
driving the cab right now.  For her tip, maybe.





   "And he's too nice, too sensitive, not to care about the lives he
disrupts.  Think of all the wives he's ruined, so fucking their husbands no
longer does it for them.  Sort of like you, Mom.  And all the teenagers
who'll be looking for his dick the rest of their lives, and not finding it.
He had Brian Mansfield's wife, and almost had the stepdaughter, this
afternoon, and as he left recommended me as his replacement.  I don't think
he would have fucked Debbie if I hadn't been here to take over." That last
bit might sound vain, but he meant it.





   The image of Owen and Brian's famous pair of trophy fems, and his casual
way of tossing them aside to his virgin nephew, pushed everyone's lust up,
a few more degrees.  Amelia spoke up.  "Well, I have an idea.  It sounds
crazy, but maybe it'll get us through the next few days, and then we'll
have a better handle on all the pieces." Pause.  "Pun not intended.  We're
all horny.  I don't know about you, but I can hardly keep my hand out of my
pants.  So here's my idea.  We all three go sit on the sofa together and
watch a movie or something.  With our pants off.  Joey in the middle.  Deb,
if your hand, or mine strays to help relieve your brother's frustration,
tonight, that's okay, and Joey can do the same for each of us if he wants.
But no touching except by hands!  It's crazy to think that that's a
wholesome answer, but it's the best I can think of.  At least I'll be
scratching this damned itch."





   Debbie gave a frustrated, bitter laugh.  "Just a nice, sitcom family at
home together.  I'll bring the dildoes!  Should we should watch 'The Sound
of Music' while we do it?  'The hills are alive, with the sound of
moaning,'" she sang.





   Despite the weirdness of it, nobody had a better idea, so they went with
Amelia's plan.  It was awkward, as you can imagine, but it worked.  They
sat on the couch, naked from the waist down, and in Debbie's case, totally,
until she was chilly and borrowed her father's cardigan from the hall
closet.





   They soon found that the movie sex scenes that had always turned them on
before just didn't do it as well as their sexual reality, so Debbie popped
in a DVD of old "Leave It to Beaver" episodes and turned the sound off. 
Amelia, who thought about such things, wondered for the hundredth time why
June Cleaver called her son "Beaver Cleaver." She pictured the Cleavers'
home after the camera crews had left, Ward working late again, June naked
in the middle of the sofa, Wally on her left, Beaver on her right, fondling
each other's genitals while watching DVDs of the Dunlaps' decent, wholesome
daytime life.  And later, Beaver cleaving June's beaver while Wally watched
and waited his turn.  Even in perfect TV sitcom families. . .





   Joe had one hand on each cunt at the same time; licking the juices off
his fingers, he declared that he couldn't tell which tasted better and he'd
have to sample again.  Amy and Debbie gave Big Joe a slow multi-handed hand
job.  They caught the explosion in a damp towel, then passed it back and
forth between them, all three taking a turn licking or chewing it until all
the cum was gone, like other people would pass a bong.  Both women agreed:
they'd tasted better cum, but to be sure they'd need another sample, maybe
more.  Joey had tasted his own cum many times, even eaten tissues full of
the stuff, but he had nothing to compare it to.  That was okay with him.





   I doubt that their neighbors, or you, or anybody else would have called
their evening just clean fun, but it was the justest cleanest fun they
could think of, and it kept them out of worse trouble.  Everyone took a
shower, alone, and went to bed, alone, and slept all night, alone.





   Thursday





   None of Young Joe, Debbie or their mother saw each other Thursday
morning; whether they were avoiding each other so to prevent any discussion
of last night's three-way crotch massaging session I cannot say.







   We join Connie, who arrived at school in the nick of time before the
first bell, as usual, except when she was actually late.  The reason was
flakiness, not so she'd have the maximum audience as she did her slow strut
into the classroom, but the latter perk didn't hurt, either.  She loved the
scrutiny; the boys admiring her breasts and undressing them in their
dreams, the girls despising the boys for their infantile obsessions and
despising Connie for the ease and contempt with which she manipulated the
boys and pitied the girls.





   She was good at this game, no mistake; she could stop traffic without
showing an inch of skin below the knee or below the throat.  She knew
because she'd done it, more than once.  She didn't want to actually cause
an accident, she just loved the squeal of tires that saluted her when she
distracted one driver so badly that another driver had to slam on the
brakes.





   It wasn't just her tits, either, although they were the star attraction.
Every star needs a good supporting cast, and she had it.  She was very
pretty, for one thing, an All-American apple-cheeked blonde, genes imported
from Norway by her grandparents.  Her surname was Knutsen, pronounced with
the "k".  Her legs, long and shapely, complemented the ensemble, as did her
overall posture and grace.  The posture and grace were due to long hard
work at a modeling school; you could find her in a few catalogs, and on the
corresponding Web sites.  She had ambitions.  She got them from her mother.





   In sum, she'd put most of her chips on her persona of wholesome blonde
sexpot; think, for example, young Ann-Margret (ask your dad), but taller.





   Today, though, she could sense something different about the way the
other kids looked at her as she promenaded down the hallway; it wasn't as
if people were laughing at her, the way they would if someone had somehow
fixed a streamer of toilet paper to the back of her sweater.  But the
awesomeness factor was down, way down.  Something was up.  As she crossed
the classroom to a chair, she gave a mental shrug; she'd find out soon
enough, and deal with it then.





   It didn't take long.  At the end of that first-period French class, in
the bustle of changing classrooms, she thought she heard the word,
"falsies." Only seconds later, Jennifer gave her the bad news.  A rumor,
spreading fast, said that someone with reason to know had revealed that her
boobs were not the Grand Tetons they seemed to be; part of their shape and
mass were artificial.





   By lunchtime she'd overheard or been told the extent of the damage. 
Everybody believed her tits were not what they seemed; a few of her closest
friends pretended they didn't.  There was no consensus as to whether she'd
had a boob job, was wearing falsies or some kind of overpadded bra, or had
resorted to black magic in some backstreet gypsy's shop.  Nor was there any
consensus as to just how much was God's doing and how much was artificial.





   "God damn that Joe Dunlap!" she almost yelled to her friends at her
lunch table, and to the tables in the vicinity, although she didn't mean
to. Her friends included some other cheerleaders and some of the mean girls
and the Heathers (although none was afflicted with that name).  But she
avoided belonging to any single clique.  This queen would accept any bee,
as long as she remained Queen.  Underneath her obsession with attracting
attention, she was a nice, friendly kid.  She hid it well.





   "What are you talking about, Connie?" someone asked.  "I haven't heard a
thing about Joe being part of this rumor.  In fact, he's been pretty scarce
for a week or more." Others at her table agreed.





   "Although," chirped Angela, meaning no harm, "I did see you two arguing
in the hallway outside Mrs.  Cohn's room yesterday.  I was wondering what
that was about." Angela hadn't intended to say anything except to Connie
alone some time.  It didn't take much to get a rumor going.





   "Arguing?" someone said.  "I thought all you did with little Joey was
tease him until he showed you his geometry homework." "Yeah, what's going
on, Connie?" asked another voice.  "What about your boy friend?" asked a
third.  "Do you think he started the rumor about your boobs, like he did
before." "Nevaeh, that was no rumor.  She really does have a four-leaf
clover on her thigh." "Well, what about her boy friend anyway?" "Who else
would know?" "Joe might know, the way you shove your tits into all the
time." "Buzz." "Buzz buzz." "Buzz buzz buzz." And so on.







   Connie had to bite her lip to keep herself from explaining why she
thought it was Joe.  'I'll tell 'em how he challenged me to show him if my
tits were real and he'd show me if his dick is real.  Yeah, right.  That'd
sure help fix my reputation.' Even so, she decided it was better to accept
the small defeat than to risk the large one.





   "Yes, I was talking to Joe after geometry yesterday," she announced. 
The volume of the buzzing dropped a couple of notches.  "He's no worm. 
After his Pepsi 'accident' the other day (which had been all over the
school by the end of Tuesday, ancient history), he'd had enough of what he
calls pri-, oops, he calls 'teasing' and I call being friendly.  Give him
credit, though, he's no worm.  He got right in my face and told me to stop
it." Connie paused, letting the information percolate out to other tables.
"And I will.  If he doesn't want my friendship, I'm not going to press it
on him."





   The table erupted in laughter and applause, interpreting the coded
message: "Listen, girls, we all know I've been prick teasing Joey without
mercy, rubbing my tits all over his back and neck and once on his face, in
exchange for homework tips, but we all know I'd do it anyway, just to be
mean.  But if he doesn't want me to press my tits into his virgin, easily
aroused body any more, I won't, at least for a few days." The translation,
too, percolated across the cafeteria.





   Thus Joe's cock, size thereof, did not become a topic of that day's
conversation.  Did Connie know her audience or what?  But she still hadn't
decided what to do about his challenge.  He'd thrown down his gage at her
feet, and she had only an hour or so to pick it up.  Or not.





   Joe and Debbie, meanwhile, sat with their friends at their usual tables.
They'd talked briefly at the beginning of lunch break, comparing notes on
the rumors about Connie.  Joe confessed to making the whole thing up and
having Nick and the boys spread it around.  Debbie already knew that part,
because Nick had told her at tennis practice that morning.  She didn't
bother to tell Joe that she knew.  In her view, there was too much serious
business going on to worry about the high school rumor mill.  Besides, Nick
would tell him everything in a few minutes.





   Several members of Joe and Nick's lunchtime crowd were not regulars in
the after-school pizza crowd, so the table conversation stuck to the
literal rumors, not to anything true.  Nick, who with Joe had set this
wildfire, and two others, who had helped to spread it, spent the lunch hour
laughing up their sleeves.  As they got up to go, however, Joe, Nick and
the other two managed a moment alone, out of traffic.  "Thanks, guys," Joe
grinned.  "You did great.  I mean really great.  I owe you, big time.  Next
week, Tuesday, I'll spring for pizzas."





   One of the foot soldiers spoke up.  "Hey, Joe, next week we'll be at
Constantine's Gyros." General laughter.  "Gyros!" Joey exclaimed.  "In that
case, forget it.  I hate Greeks." Nick, who was as Greek as the Parthenon,
slugged him in the shoulder.  More laughter.  Boys will be dopey boys.





   Lunch was over.  Everyone had touched base with almost everyone he or
she needed to touch base with.  Joe waited for Connie's response to his
challenge, due in one hour.





   As Connie left the cafeteria with her best friend Nicole, she gave Joe
her No.  2 smile, half-dazzle, but didn't stop to chat.  Those two were
having a mobile strategy session.





   "Nic, the trouble is that I've got about a half-inch of padding.  Not
that much, not nearly as much as most people are thinking, but enough to
make the rumors seem true.  What do I do?"





   Nicole thought it was obvious.  "Tell him to go fuck himself." She
hadn't known about Connie's padded bra; in time, she could retail that
information herself and didn't see the advantage of letting Joe do it
first. Besides, Nicole knew, Joe was playing a deeper game.  She couldn't
verify it, but she was sure, and in fact her instinct on the whole thing
was 100% correct.  She figured Joe wouldn't mind seeing Connie's tits,
maybe even hefting their soft mass in his palms a few times, but that
wasn't a big enough thrill to go to all this trouble.  He wanted Connie to
see his endowment, and maybe let the sight of her tits inspire Mr.  Penis
to his maximum extension.  Connie might want to entertain Joe's cock
herself, and whether she did or didn't, she'd certainly verify to the
grapevine that although the rumors about Joe's cock might be exaggerated,
they were basically true.  He wanted all the girls to know about his hidden
talents, and to have Queen Bee Connie be the one to tell them, first hand.
Nicole would have bet twenty dollars that Joe had no further interest in
Connie or her tits.





   She also realized that simply by making the challenge, Joe had verified
the rumors about his dick.  He wouldn't have dared if he didn't have the
goods.  If Connie accepted the challenge, she was going to end up with
cider in her ear, and maybe, if Joe played his cards right, with other
fluids in other orifices.  Nicole was earnestly trying to persuade her
friend to ignore the whole challenge.  But just then, she had a delicious,
treacherous, idea.





   "Y'know, Connie, maybe I should be your second."





   "Whaddya mean?"





   "In the old, dueling days, the guys who wanted to duel would each ask a
friend to make all the arrangements.  The friends who did it were called
the 'seconds'.  Didn't you say that Joe asked for your second to make the
response?"





   "I know he said that, but I didn't know what he meant," confessed
Connie. "But it's the twenty-first century.  Who needs seconds now?"





   "Well, for one thing, in one hour half the school is going to be outside
of Mrs.  Cohn's room, waiting to see what happens.  But if they follow you
one way, I can draw Joe off in the other.  Also, he may snub you, and send
his second, probably Nick, to accept your answer.  You don't want that. 
It's all about status, girl, status!"





   Despite her urgent need for a decision, Connie had an irrelevant
question.  "How do you know so much about it?"





   Nicole's forehead wrinkled and her eyebrows hunched together.  "You see
this skin?" Nicole grabbed her cheek for emphasis.  It was a beautiful dark
shade of mocha.  "Y'know why I'm not black, like an African?  Because of my
white ancestors.  My grandma says her grandfather was Jefferson Davis
himself.  That's how come I'm Nicole Davis and not Nicole E.  Lee or Nicole
Jefferson.  So in freshman history, when we were supposed to research our
ancestors, I read all about those fool Southern gentlemen, talking 'bout
honor and duels all day and raping the slave women all night.  It's in my
blood, girl, the same as my black blood is in you, even if your grandfather
is from Norway or whatever."





   Connie wasn't used to this kind of racial passion from her friend.  It
made her nervous.  She could joke about fucking stallions or pissing or
being gangbanged by the football team, but talking about race with an
African-American, even one who happened to be her best friend, was too
much. Without grace, she pulled the conversation back to the subject at
hand.  "Okay, Nic.  You can be my second.  You're a match for three Joes.
Tell him hell, no, what kind of childish suggestion is that anyway?"





   Nicole grinned.  "Well, we'll find out who's the fool, anyway." They
made a quick plan for Connie to leave math class by the back door while
Nicole waited for Joe, or Joe's second, at the front.  Connie made it to
class with seconds to spare.





   An hour or so later, Nicole confronted Joe in the hall as he left Mrs.
Cohn's room.  They agreed to meet after school at the Starbuck's near
Nicole's house, where they could settle matters without worrying about who
heard what.  Math class had been the same ol' same ol', plus a pop quiz. 
Mrs.  Cohn had banked her fires; as we know, but Joe didn't, she was
hatching her own plot, and wanted to throw him off balance.  She did catch
his eye a couple of times, but seemed to have quenched her lust.  Tomorrow
there was no school because of that "in-service" day; he'd have to wait
until Monday to make his next move on his math teacher.









   At the beginning, Amelia's day was no more exciting than Joe's, and
spiced up at about the same time.  She caught up on some paperwork for her
consulting work and spent some time on the telephone, agreeing to go
on-site at a client's offices on Monday morning.  She kept a long-standing
Thursday lunch date with a couple of her old friends, to whom she intended
not to breathe a word of her week's turmoil, except to mention to Barbara,
who'd been Owen's girl friend for a while, long ago, that he'd been in
town. Back then, of course, Owen would fuck Barbara unmercifully and then
come home to Amy's bed, where they'd laugh about Barbara's (or Stacy's, or
Gwen's, or . . .  ) gullibility or inexperience while they played friendly
games with Owen's rod.  He came to visit Amelia as often as he could, right
after fucking some other girl.  She liked to lick the other girl's juices
off his cock.  He liked to let his sister have that privilege.





   Hannah, Barbara's twin, unexpectedly joined the women for lunch; when
Amy arrived, it was Hannah, Barbara, and Sheila in gleeful animated gossip.
As Amy approached, Barbara kicked her sister's ankle, but Hannah was a tad
too slow on the uptake; Amy caught enough of her spiel to know they'd been
talking about Young Joey's Cock, and that Hannah, the only Club member of
the bunch, was the bearer of the news.





   Amy sat down into the uncomfortable silence, trying to think fast and
lighten things up.  After the waiter had brought her coffee -- no need to
order, they came here every week -- she gave her friends a tired smile. 
"Yes, I've heard about Joey's, er, penis." The other women sat perfectly
still.  "If it was one of your sons, especially, Sheila, your son Patrick,"
who was the only other son any of them had, "I'd be all excited to talk
about it myself.  But as the mother of Subject A, I really can't talk about
it or listen to you talk about it." She sipped her coffee.  "I will tell
you one thing, if you'll promise to keep off the subject afterward." The
other women all nodded.  "If you want to verify the rumor yourself, it's
okay with me.  But not on a school night." The table erupted in laughter;
Barbara even clapped a few times.  As the laughter died away, Amy sighed in
relief as her friends skillfully avoided any more mention of the subject.





   She couldn't picture Joey with any of her three friends, although the
twins were handsome women, no doubt about that.  Maybe if they offered him
two for one. . .









   Amy, Julie and Owen had just gotten together for what they all knew
would be their last weekend, and last threesome, ever.  Julie was leaving
on Monday for Seattle, and the University of Washington; Amy would be going
to the University of [their state] a couple of days later.  They'd all
agreed -- it didn't even require much discussion -- that they'd let their
relationship lie, even if they all three were in town together, like during
vacations.  You can't ever go back, they knew.  What you discover if you
try is that the thing you're going back to doesn't exist any more, and not
only have you gained nothing in the attempt, you've damaged all the good
memories that drew you back in the first place.





   Julie, without happy-go-lucky, well-endowed Owen to distract her,
expected to be a full-time lesbian, unless she happened to meet another
mega-dick charmer like Owen.  Fat chance, she knew.  If Amelia's brother
wasn't one-of-a-kind, he was certainly so rare that she doubted she'd find
another by cruising college bars.  But she liked girls, she knew where to
find them, she knew how to guide and instruct them to where they made her
happy.





   Amy, without the guidance of Julie's serenity and creativity, didn't
foresee a lot of girl-on-girl action.  There'd be some, she knew -- lots of
girls wanted to try, and she had the experience -- but nothing like her
relationship with Julie.  Besides, she'd still have her brother, three
hours away, and like Julie she strongly doubted that she'd ever do better.





   Owen, for whom fucking men was not on the menu, would continue fucking
any girl or woman who crossed his path.  He'd still have Amy, too, who was
destined to be his soul mate for life; he'd never come close to having the
intimacy he'd had with her all his life.  In fact, although he didn't know
it yet, his relationship with Julie was to be the second-longest of his
life.  After Amy and Julie, over the past few incredible months, had reset
his standards into the stratosphere, he was fated to get bored by other
women, often even before he'd dropped his first load of cum into their
stretched elastic cunts.  King Midas indeed.





   So, there they were in Julie's family's cabin along a lake in the wilds
of northern Minnesota.  They'd brought along everything they'd conceivably
need for a weekend of constant sex by wood heat and gas lighting;
everything, apparently, except the exuberant joy that had always marked
their times together.





   Soon after their arrival, Amy persuaded Julie to try a replay of their
first time together; Julie was crying before she finished the striptease
routine, and when she fell on Amy in the bed, neither one of them could see
through their tears.  They hugged each other, tight, and for the first time
in their lives, they were really terrified of the future.  Owen tried to
keep it lighter, but they all could tell that he was clowning by rote and
he gave it up.





   It was still, by the clock, Friday evening when Owen was the first to
say, "Maybe this was a mistake.  All I can think about, Julie, is how much
I love you and how much I'm gonna miss you.  I never thought there'd be a
day when I was too goddamn sad to fuck.  But here it is."





   Julie and Amy were lying on layers of blankets and sleeping pads in
front of the fireplace, naked.  They had their arms around one another and
were doing a little fondling, but mostly still and silent.  Julie spoke
softly and slowly, in two or three word batches, as she stared at the fire.
"I'm willing to admit a mistake, but I don't think coming here was a
mistake.  But we shoulda known that it couldn't be the same, not this time.
Trying to do some big finale just reminds us how it's the last time."





   They all three talked, low and melancholy, about totally banal things;
Julie's drive cross-country, what they'd heard about Seattle, bullshit like
that to fill up their ears as they struggled to keep their tears inside.





   Finally, Amy had had enough.  She'd anticipated this droopy depression,
and brought along something she thought might help, but for the past few
hours she'd been too uncertain to show it to her friends.  She'd thought of
it as she packed for this trip, and dug it out of the closet.  For her and
Owen, it had been the go-to device when feeling sad or bored, before they'd
discovered the wicked pleasures of incest.  She hadn't mentioned it to the
others, because wholesome fun didn't really fit their plans for the
weekend. But now she took charge.





   "Okay, listen.  Everybody get dressed.  Completely.  Like you would if
we expected Julie's folks to be arriving soon."





   "Oh, come on, Amy, what's the point?" Owen whined.





   Amy's eyes narrowed as she snapped, "The point, brother-mine, is that
you are going to go a month without the best pussy you've ever had if you
say one more word.  Now, get dressed." They obeyed, Julie trusting Amy's
judgment and not having any better idea anyway, Owen reluctantly, like a
little kid.  Amy and Julie dragged the kitchen table over to the fire and
set up the gas lantern to the table was relatively well-lit.  Then Amy sat
the others down at the table and groped around in her bag until she found
what she wanted.  Concealing it from them, she held it to her belly and,
crouching, crept backward to her place at the table.  Then, with a
flourish, she turned around and produced -- a thick deck of Uno cards,
remnants of probably ten decks she and Owen had acquired over the years.





   "Ta da!" she said, sitting down.  "This is going to seem pretty lame, at
first, and awkward and glum and depressing.  But we're going to stick with
it until it works its magic on all of us.  It's done that for me and Owen a
hundred times."





   Julie, the philosopher of the trio, and who'd always been on Amy's
wavelength, perked up with enthusiasm.  "I get it!" she exclaimed.  "We've
always had wonderful sex because we were doing adult sex with the innocent
joy of children." (She really talked like that, about half the time.)
"Well, if the sex isn't working right now, or even all weekend, we can at
least try to have the joy."





   Amy was laughing, both at Julie's speech and at her brother's annoyed
face.  "Julie, any more of that analysis and we'll put you out in the snow
for the wolves." It was late August.  "Let's just play the game and see
what happens.  Sit down, brother."





   "I was just going for the coffee pot."





   "Later.  It's now or never, Owen, and I mean it."





   It worked, although the first hour was excruciating.  It was only as
their thoughts melted into the game, and half-perceived childhood memories
floated up from the backs of their brains, that the simple game cast its
unlikely spell.  For Amy and Owen, the memories merged with the present as
they got into a reversing-directions battle, punctuated by extravagant
threats about what Owen was going to do with, or Amy was going to do to,
Owen's meaty, throbbing bratwurst.  While the siblings were bickering,
Julie quietly buried all but one of her cards back into the deck, and when
at last the play reached her, she played her card and said, "I win." The
other two knew damn well she must have cheated, and, with all three yelling
and laughing, they searched Julie head to toe for the missing cards.  Owen
demanded a rematch, if his dear sister would permit him to make coffee; the
second game went on forever, partly because they were all shouting and
laughing like kids would shout and laugh if they'd spent the last eight
months exploring one another's erogenous zones.  They got to where they
were laughing so hard they were crying.





   Owen finally won the second game, dropping his last card onto the stack
and swearing on all the gods that he'd said "uno" when he'd had only one
card.  Amy and Julie attacked him, pushing him down onto the quilts and
blankets on the floor, and tickling him all over his body.  Amy had his
arms pinned, with her thighs pressing inward upon his ribs, and her butt,
in threadbare denim jeans, in his face.  Julie was sitting on his legs.  He
must have liked being so helpless, because they all noticed the rapid
tenting of his Army-surplus fatigue pants.  Owen couldn't see it, but he
knew it best of all.




Owen: "Oh, ladies, have mercy!  It hurts, it hurts."




Julie: "Now what?  Should we let him jack off?"





   Amy: "Hell, no!  If we let him loose he'll probably rape the both of
us."




Julie: "Me first!  Me first!





   Owen: "Oh, ladies, I wouldn't rape you.  I'd be a good little boy and
play with the toy just like you said."





   Amy: "How about if I let go of just one hand?  Which one, brother-mine?
Right or left?"




Owen: "Right."





   Julie: "Hold it!  What exactly are you going to do with your right hand
and that foul p- p- penis?"




Owen: "Why jack it off, like you said."




Amy: "He's got us, Julie.  It is what we said."





   Julie: "Weee-lll, okay, buster, but one false move and you'll be a
gelding."





   Julie freed Owen's cock, opening his belt and unbuttoning his pants,
pulling the loose material well away from his balls.  As Amy let his right
hand go, replacing her thighs so as to straddle him and hold his left arm
down, Julie was squeezing Owen's balls, reminding him that he was helpless.
It had no effect on his hard on, though, because it was already at maximum
extension.




Amy: "Get to it, brother.  We haven't got all night."





   Owen obeyed, wrapping his hand around the shaft and starting to stroke.
"Hold it!  Stop!" Julie ordered.  She pulled his hand off the organ,
saying, "No lubrication!  Are we really that cruel?" She turned Owen's
wrist so his palm was up and spit a couple of times into his hand.  "Ok,
back to work," she said.





   Owen had just regained his rhythm when Julie told him to stop, again. 
"I can still hear the rasping and scraping," she giggled.  "Not enough
lube. Take your hand off that apparatus, mister!" When Owen complied, Julie
leaned over and took as much of Owen's member as she could, from that
awkward angle, hocking up a large load of saliva that she could spread
around to moisten the whole thing.  At least, that's what everybody
thought.





   Then she dug the tip of her tongue into the slit at the end of his
prick, and blowing as hard as she could, tried to force her saliva into the
tubes where his cum usually came out.  Owen was laughing at the odd
sensation, and as he realized Amy might not be able to tell what was going
on, said, "No!  Julie!  No!  It's suck!  Suck!  'Blow' is just a figure of
speech!"





   Amy got it.  "No, keep going, Julie.  He's given us so much stuff out of
there that it's only fair to give him something back."





   Julie, of course, was having no success, and wouldn't have had even if
she hadn't been laughing so hard, through her nose.  So, she spread her
saliva all over the shaft of Owen's cock and sat up, breathless.  "You may
commence again, Owen.  Get on with it this time."





   Owen did, and in a very short time they could all recognize the familiar
symptoms of his cum rushing from his balls, intending to escape out of the
end of his cock.  "I'm cumming!  I'm cumming ladies!  Please assume the cum
position!" He expected a wet mouth or cunt to clamp itself around the
opening; he hadn't actually cum into the atmosphere with either of these
two girls nearby in weeks and weeks.





   But the girls had, with some semaphoric winking, agreed to let him beat
his meat into the air, so his jism would spew all over his bare chest,
because Amy had unbuttoned his shirt, or Amy's bare chest, because she'd
done the same for her own.  She thought maybe she could catch a drop or two
in her mouth.





   The girl had skill and lightning reflexes.  She knew Owen's fucking
noises and habits so well that she could tell by his groan the amount and
muzzle velocity his cum would have.  She hunkered down like a shortstop
ready to take away the single up the middle.  Then he shot, and Amy caught
the first long, stringy blob, square in the middle of her open mouth.  In
fact, some of his cum hit the back of her throat, right where it would have
landed in a blow job.





   Julie was yelling, "Yay!  Yay, Amy!  Amy saved the home run!  But the
runner tagged up and is coming home!  Throw the ball, Ames!  Throw it!" Amy
responded immediately, shooting what was left of the cum she'd caught over
the foot and a half or so from her mouth to Julie's, where Julie
successfully caught it as well.





   "He's out at the plate!" Amy yelled.  "We win!" The girls then flung
themselves against Owen's torso, frantically licking up his cum, as if
competing to see who could get the most.  They'd gotten most of the cum,
leaving Owen's body wet and shiny from their licking, when Julie noticed
more cum on Amy's breasts and belly.  With a lioness's roar she launched
herself at her friend, hands under Amy's armpits to lift her off her
brother's chest with minimal pain to either of them.  Amy was sprawled on
her back, Julie madly licking her boobs, when she figured out what was
going on.  Just then, Owen, who was free to move at last, turned to
participate, but with his pants around his thighs he couldn't move and
Julie was too fast for him.  He got a few licks in, but not much.  Julie
took pity on him, though, and kissed him, injecting gobs of his own cum
back into him.  Their theory was that it would be like fuel, and help him
recover faster.





   By this time they were all weak and in pain from their long, intense
laughter.  They all, without speaking, knew that if they'd just cuddle up
and calm down, they'd either sleep, with two more days for just funnin', or
they'd have some giddy sex, which was okay too.  Ten minutes later, they
were all three cuddled together, warm in front of the fire, and out cold.
Owen sometimes snored.  Tonight no one cared.











   At Starbuck's Joe sat down with a grande coffee and Nicole.  They were
local kids, they'd known each other since first grade.  Teasing her, he'd
poured milk into his coffee trying to match it to Nicole's skin.  Teasing
back, she used the old joke, "What's the matter, can't you take it hot and
black?"





   Their table was as far away from everyone else as they could manage; it
would have to do.  Joe opened the negotiations.  "So what's Connie's
reply?"





   Nicole leaned across the table to murmur in his ear.  She'd rehearsed a
couple of versions; this is what came out.  "Who cares about Connie?" She
gave Joe a few seconds to digest that, then continued.  "You wouldn't've
made that challenge if you didn't have the goods.  I wanna see.  If I like
what I see, I wanna do.  I live three blocks from here and my mamma doesn't
get home 'til six.  Get the picture, or should I draw it on this napkin
here?" She quickly drew the outline of one of their distinctive local
skyscrapers, proud and tall against a diminutive skyline.





   For Joe, this was a no-brainer.  Nicole was a little plump but pretty,
and the way she moved was hot hot hot.  Even inexperienced Joe could tell
that she'd be a holy terror in bed.  "Are you sure?" he hissed.  "I
remember how you felt about Jefferson Davis."





   "Jefferson Davis can go fuck himself," came the reply.





   "What about your best friend Connie?"





   "She can go fuck Jeff Davis."





   Ten minutes later she unlocked her front door and motioned Joey in. 
Nicole lived in a townhouse-style condo that still looked new; she'd told
him on the way over that her mother had insisted on a new house when her
father got a big promotion.  Even a boy could tell why.  The place was
absolutely clean, almost antiseptic.  But when he paused just to gape at
the perfection of it all, Nicole grabbed his hand.  "My mother's
obsessive-compulsive about cleaning.  I'm obsessive-compulsive about
fucking.  Come on!"





   Her room was the bedroom of a good girl, tasteful, tidy, and bland,
which is how Nicole's mother wanted her to be.  He started to look around
again; in truth, he was trying to hide his nervousness.  Nicole had no
patience for this kind of thing.  She wasn't gonna wait for him to get
adjusted to his new surroundings, like some goldfish.  She had a medical
emergency to deal with.  There was this annoying, painful twitch in her
pussy.  She was usually wonderfully considerate and had perfect manners,
but right now, she had no patience for protocol.  She reached under the
Starbuck's cup Joe was still holding and pulled the flap of his belt from
his belt loops.  "Let's get down to it, Mr.  Big Dick.  If you've got the
goods, maybe we can do business.  And if you take one more sip from that
cup before I've had three orgasms I swear I'll pour it all over you."





   Joe hastened to reach over and set the coffee on her desk.  From
somewhere, a voice instructed Joe on coyness.  "Oh, no, Nic.  You don't see
him until he's ready.  Like if you go to a concert.  They don't come out
until they're ready to perform.  Mr.  Big Dick, as you call him, is still
half asleep.  You're gonna have to wake him up.  I can't do it.  It has to
be a female."





   Nicole's eloquent look said, "Don't give me that bullshit.  I'm in
heat." But her traitorous voice said, "Okay.  That's fair."





   Joey, of course, wanted and expected to see her undress, maybe even a
strip tease, or even better, a blow job.  Like every boy his age, he wanted
to see all the tits he could; after all, he'd expected to have seen
Connie's by now.  To his chagrin, though, Nicole chortled a smug chortle
and foxed him good.  She squatted down, face up close to his zipper, and
from her open mouth breathed several long, hot breaths onto the crotch of
Joe's pants until she saw the cloth shift to accommodate his growing shaft.
When the motion of Joe's pants resolved into the outline of a stiffening
prick, she turned her head to the side and clutched the growing bulge in
her teeth, straddling the zipper, all the while continuing to pour hot
breath over and into and all around Joe's hidden member.





   That little technique worked fast.  The unseen wonder grew and grew in
the humidity, outlined against the cloth as it strained to free itself. 
Joe backed away a half step, surprising Nicole into releasing her bite. 
Joe had to pull down his zipper to free his dick before it was too late. 
Momentarily, the helmet was trapped behind his belt buckle and his pants
button, so he pulled it clear with an almost-audible twang.  He opened the
single button and pulled his pants down halfway over his butt, then pulled
down the front of his briefs, hooking the elastic under his oversize balls,
so Nicole could see the whole thing.  Although the sculpture Nicole was
seeking was still a work in progress, not yet at full length, girth or
hardness, it was now proudly, if a little painfully, on display.





   Nicole inspected the exquisite statue as if it were a work of art in a
museum, not touching it, but shifting around to get a good look from all
angles.  It would have been totally in character if she'd pulled out a
sketch pad and started to draw.  Instead, she looked up at Joe, using the
line she'd been saving all afternoon.  In an exaggerated accent that would
have been racist if she'd been white, she said, "Honey, dontcha know that
us black folks is de ones with de big dicks?"





   She stood.  To raise the curtain on this afternoon's matinee, she pulled
her "Jackson High" sweatshirt over her head; as she pulled it inside out,
it ejected her bra.  As the hem rose past her boobs, they tumbled out, into
the light.  At that lovely sight, and in homage to the boldness of the
gesture, the star of the show decided he was ready for his big entrance,
rising to his full height and size.  As Joe admired her tits, Nicole looked
back down at his crotch, noticing how his underwear was pressuring his
balls.  Saying, "Oh, you poor things, let me help you," to the balls, not
to Joe, she pulled his pants and shorts away, and then off.





   Joe moved to cooperate as she pulled off his shoes, socks, pants and
briefs, but mostly he was strangely quiet.  He wanted to knead her boobs,
test their heft and soft sponginess, but didn't want to appear too eager or
to disrupt her spell.  Above all, he was wrapped up in the historic
significance of all these events.  Historic to him, anyway -- he was about
to lose his virginity.  That happens only once, and he wanted to savor the
moment.  He was also scared half to death.  Nicole, standing again, looked
at him closely, expecting him to do something, or say something.





   The look in his eyes tipped her off.





   She smiled an open, genuine smile of friendship, lacking any hint of
condescension.  Joe was getting lucky twice today; getting laid and getting
laid by Nicole.  Right about now, Connie would have been laughing at him,
and hiding it poorly.  Nicole caught his eyes for a long moment before
stating the obvious.  "You've never done this before."





   He wanted to deny it, but he knew that that would be futile, and
foolish. He nodded, slightly, torn between his sexual thirst and his wish
to pack up his embarrassment and flee.





   Nicole to the rescue!  "I guess that makes me the teacher.  I've had sex
with three different men, make that two boys and one man, a total of seven
times.  One of those boys was white.  Not exactly a slut, but compared to
you I'm the Happy Hooker.  Take off your shirt."





   He complied.  She gave him her best smile, the full 200-watt version,
and bit her lip.  "Now, you do my jeans.  I took yours off you, it's your
turn."





   Joe began to kneel, when that ancient affliction of virgin teenage boys
struck.  "I'm about to blow, Nicole.  Sorry." She grabbed the first thing
she saw, her Jackson High shirt, and caught the first blast of cum like an
outfielder, then the rest as it was launched, in spurts of diminishing
force.  She didn't like cum, and wouldn't even consider giving head.  She
liked it simple: missionary position, dog-style, cowgirl.  Call her prudish
and old fashioned, but she knew what she wanted.  She wanted to fuck, not
twist around in bed following some sex-recipe book.  Even so, the sight of
all that cum was exciting.  It promised that he'd be big and hard for as
long as she needed.





   Not until she'd used clean portions of the arms to wipe off his dick,
now at half-staff, was she ready to speak.  "Sorry for the waste, Joe, but
I don't do oral.  But Jeez, Joe, if you were into yoga you could learn to
blow your own horn." Again the 200-watt smile, then a thoughtful frown. 
I've gotta deal with this mess.  Wait right here." She stood up to leave
the room.  "Unless you want to borrow my sweatshirt and keep this stuff. 
Doggy bag?"







   That, at last, broke the ice.  Joe gave a burst of a guffaw: "Arf!  Arf!
Well, I would, but I've already got plenty at home." Laughing, she excused
herself, ran to the bathroom and washed out the worst of it, draping the
wet shirt over the foot of the bed.  "Sorry about that.  I got my white
genes from Jeff Davis by way of my dad, but I don't know where my mother
got our obsessive-compulsive genes."





   Without any further ado she pulled her own pants and panties off, took
his hand and led him to her bed, pushing him into it when he hesitated. 
She pulled a condom out of her dresser drawer.  "I hope this fits," she
said, not kidding.  "It's too late to run back to the corner store for the
extra large size."





   His hard on was still recovering from its eruption.  Joe's silence was
making her nervous, or at least self-conscious; in all the years she'd
known the boy, she'd never heard him be silent for this long.  "Joe, don't
you at least go to the movies?  This is the part where you feed me all your
lines about how beautiful I am with special mention of my eyes, my breasts
and, ahem, my vagina, and how you're mine forever and you'll make an honest
woman of me first thing in the morning."





   He'd been wondering if he was being unfaithful to Amy or Deb; Nicole's
jab jarred him into talking.  But despite the way his confidence had been
swelling this whole amazing week, he'd learned nothing about how to make
sexy small talk with a naked girl, whom he was about to fuck, not merely
flirt with in the hall.





   He shook his head, hard, as if to clear away the cobwebs.  "I guess you
must think I'm a nerd, or something.  I bet you weren't as speechless as I
am on your first time.  You are beautiful, and you know it.  You're one of
the prettiest girls in school, and that's not counting your perfect skin
and its perfect color and, as far as I can see, no pimples.  But, sorry, I
can't make you an honest woman in the morning.  It's a school holiday."
'Lame, lame, lame.' he berated himself.  'At least I didn't compare her
tits to Connie's.'





   Nicole gave him an indulgent look, flavored with pity.  "Joey, that was
lame, lame, lame.  This boy -- she gave his cock a gentle couple of strokes
-- will carry you a long way, but you have got a lot to learn about talking
to girls." As she spoke, she nudged him over and joined him in the bed. 
They lay side by side, just looking at each other, tense.





   "You know," Joe said, "I know how to ease my tension, at least.  We've
gotta wait for Mr.  Stiffy to stiffen anyway, so let's do something I'm
good at while we wait."





   "What's that, play Uno?"





   Joe stuck out his tongue.  "Oh, come on.  Work with me here.  I mean --
" Words failed him again, so he showed her.  He rolled over, halfway
covering her body, and kissed her, hard.  He loved kissing, in all its
forms; nuzzling a cheek, or a breast, French kissing, Irish kissing, Kenyan
kissing, all of it.  He didn't know about sex, that is, fucking, yet. 
Simple, lazy kissy face that lasted all afternoon was the most intimate act
he knew.  In his inexperience, a half hour of necking provided him a week's
worth of serenity, even if he didn't particularly like the girl he was
kissing.  He didn't know if that would work with kissing ugly girls,
though. Even a shy boy has to have his standards.





   Nicole was a pretty good kisser herself, and between them Mr.  Stiffy
got the message and stiffened.  Nicole's roving hand noticed, and wrapped
itself around the loose skin and hard meat.  After one or two small tugs,
she broke the kiss to say, "Hey, Joe, we've got company," pulling his cock
every which way, to fully demonstrate and admire its size and rigidity.





   Joe, whose attention had been focused on fondling her breast, paused and
looked down.  "Oh, ignore him.  He'll go away."





   "Not as long as we're kissing like this," she shot back.  "It's time,
Joe Dunlap Junior.  It's your bar mitzvah." Neither one of them was Jewish,
but he knew what she meant.  She was right.  She continued, "I don't want
to crush your fragile male ego, but I'm gonna take charge, and get this
show on the road.  Otherwise you'll be here when my mamma gets home and if
she sees this boy you'll be here all night."





   "Sounds like fun to me." She smacked the flank of his butt.  "I guess
you're the boss, Nic." But even as he said this, his hand moved to cup her
cunt as he thrust two fingers inside.  He'd had a lot of practice at this,
just last night in fact.  He could do it right-handed and left-handed.  It
was the last sexual maneuver in his skimpy bag of tricks, and even as he
pleasured Nicole with his new skill, he felt a twinge of guilt for his
infidelity to the two lovely girls he had at home.





   Nicole tingled at the suddenness of it, as he'd moved just when she'd
been assuming she have to do absolutely all the work herself.  But she
wanted to fuck, big time.  She let him massage her cunt as she broke open
the condom packet.  As she unrolled the latex envelope over the size of
Joe's rod, she wondered if it would fit.  She hoped so.  It had to.  Soon.
Her own urges were running away with her will power.





   She pushed his hand away from her pussy, rolling so she straddled his
body, facing him.  Her pussy was poised to tease, a half-inch from his tip.
She backed down almost upon him, wiggling her loins a little to tease her
own labia against the spongy helmet.  "Are. . .  you. . .  ready. . .  for.
. .  manhood?" she breathed, giddy with anticipation.  What would such a
huge shaft feel like?  Could she take it all?  Could virgin Joe control it?





   Just as Joe was gasping, "Stop teasing me, Nicole.  Please.  Please!"
the front door slammed.  The almost-lovers froze in alarm.





   From downstairs came the female voice, "Nicole!  Nicole!  Nicole are you
home?  Hurry up, darling, we've got to get moving.  Our appointment's in
twenty minutes."





   Tears of frustration welled up in Nicole's face.  She leaped off Joe and
off the bed, dashing to the door to yell, "Just a minute, Mother!" while
grabbing at her jeans.  To Joe she whispered the obvious, as she zipped her
pants and grabbed a button-up shirt with a collar from the drawer.  "Damn!
I forgot all about that damn hair appointment!" Socks.  Shoes.  Joe stayed
where he was, out of the way, and mimed a telephone with his thumb and
pinky to his ear and mouth.  Nicole, shoving feet into shoes, nodded
assent, then stood and leaned over him.  "Give us five minutes to get away,
then get out of here.  Right?" she murmured.  Joe nodded.  A peck on the
nose for Joe, a quick caress for his dick, and she was out the door.









   For Debbie, Thursday was just another day.  The only thing that happened
pertaining to our story was that she told Dan, her fuck buddy, that she'd
have to take a rain check and break their date tonight.  Dan was
disappointed, but that's in the fuck buddy's job description: Lovers Take
Precedence Over Fuck Buddies.  Who, Dan wondered, was Debbie's new lover?





   When Debbie got home, Joe was already there, sitting in his room with
his homework laid out on his desk.  To Debbie, he seemed to be staking out
an alibi.  'Doing your homework the night before a three-day weekend? 
C'mon, Joe, who do you think you're fooling?' But she saved it.  "Hi,
brother!" she called from his door.  "What's the latest with you and
Connie?"





   Joe looked up, at her, and laughed.  "Last I heard, Connie was fucking
Jefferson Davis."





   Well, that was a new one.  Joe was quick, but this wasn't quite his
style.  Debbie was really smart, and her intuition worked like lightning.
She'd seen, down the hall, Joe talking to Nicole. . .  Davis, sparking in
her memory their family legend that they were all bastards of one
particular traitorous bastard. . . .  "So, how's Nicole?  Smug and
contented?"





   Joe just laughed.  "Damn, you're good!  Tell me the rest."





   Debbie put on a thinker pose.  "Hmmmm.  You and Nicole, Connie's best
friend, at least so far, . . .  "She looked up, looked at her brother right
in the eye.  "When you said, 'Last I heard,' about Connie, was that the
literal truth?"





   "Oh, c'mon, Debbie.  Surely you know Jefferson Davis has been dead for a
hundred years."





   "No, but it was the 'last I heard.' Nicole and her father are the only
people in town who ever talk about Jefferson Davis, so what you heard must
have been 'Connie can go fuck Jefferson Davis.' Now, why would Nicole say
that?  Hmmm.  You were talking to Nic in the hall today, and she's Connie's
best friend, and you told me all about the big grudge match between you and
Connie Canteloupes.  Hmmm. . .  "





   She looked up with "Eureka!" written all over her face.  "Connie asked
Nicole to answer your challenge, but Nicole decided she'd rather see your
railroad spike than hear about it from Connie, maybe even test it out, so
she said to you, 'You can see Connie's tits or you can fuck my hot, juicy
pussy.' And you, dear brother, wisely chose Door Number 2, Nicole's cunt.
How'm I doin'?"





   Joe's bemused look gave him away.  "I pity your children, I really do.
How are they going to get away with anything?"





   "But what I don't get," Debbie continued, "is how you could have been
fucked by Nicole and lost your virginity, two hours ago but be sitting here
doing your homework now.  Shouldn't you be out celebrating?"





   Joe, who hadn't decided whether to tell his mother and sister about
Nicole, confessed everything, including Nicole's unusual take on oral sex
and how he was only a half block from Nicole's house when her father drove
by.  And that he wasn't doing his homework, he was just sitting here,
staring, thinking over the day.





   "Well, tell me the rest." Deb insisted.  "What's Nicole's pussy taste
like?  Is her beautiful cocoa skin the same shade all over?  C'mon,
brother, details!"





   All at once Joe realized his big sister was jealous.  He stood up and
went to her, put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her, all without a
word.  This was a major step for their relationship, the first time the
initiative had passed to Joe.  Debbie felt pretty sure that Joe would be
the leader from now on.  'With Mom, too?' she wondered.





   Once again, Debbie's eyes filled and she threw herself, face down, on
Joe's bed.  He went to her at once, sitting on the edge of the bed, one
hand on her back, rubbing gently.  He didn't ask, "what's wrong?" She'd
tell him when she was ready.





   After sobbing a while, Debbie turned over in a twinkling, long before
Joe could react.  Instead of rubbing his sister's back, he was suddenly
fondling her left boob.  Neither of them could have known that precisely
this happenstance was what had kindled their mother's incestuous
relationship with her brother, all those years ago; you and I can see,
though, that it's pretty spooky.





   Joe started to pull his hand away, but Debbie grabbed his wrist and
pressed his hand into her breast, with a tentative half-smile.  Joe smiled
back, and continued to caress her tit.  "Oh, big-little brother Joe, I was
so jealous just now," his sister sighed.  "And when you said you and Nicole
hadn't quite done it I wanted to tear my clothes off and beg you to let me
be your first.  I didn't know how much I want you, right here, right now,
or anytime you want, really.  Please don't waste your cherry on Nicole or
-- bleahh!  -- Connie.  It's okay with me if you fuck them both every day,
but I've been dreaming about being your first, ever since you came to me on
Monday."





   "Debbie, do you realize what you're saying?" Joe prodded.





   "Sure I do," she replied.  "I've been thinking about nothing but, all
week.  I broke a fuck date with Dan, just in case you were ready tonight.
You know I fucked Owen; Mom told me it was okay.  I mean, beforehand.  She
said she could tell that I wanted to go to him and she said 'go ahead.'
Fucking Uncle Owen was fun, but what I've really been thinking about is
what Mom's 'go ahead' can mean for you and me.  Mom and Owen have the
perfect relationship.  Even now, after twenty years, they can hardly keep
their hands off each other, and even so Mom can lend me to Owen, or Owen to
me, just because she knows it's what we want."





   She took a deep breath, punctuated by a couple of sobs.  "I think you
and I could have that kind of permanent, perfect relationship.  Will you
think about it, Joe, please?"





   Joe let go of her breast and hugged her close.  "Debbie, I think about
it all the time.  I love you in ways I didn't even know were possible just
a week ago.  Like last night, when you and I and Mom were stroking each
other on the couch.  Or even today, as Nicole was lowering herself onto my
cock, I was thinking, 'Is this right?  Am I cheating on the women I love?'"
He stopped talking, embracing Debbie, feeling the wetness of her tears
through his shirt.





   "But, Debbie, we have to think about Mom, and probably Dad, too.  Where
do they fit?  Mom wants me and I want her, too, just as much as I want you.
Neither one of us has the nerve to just say it out loud, 'Hey, wanna fuck?'
You're the only one with the balls to say stuff like that, and I envy you.
I want you both equally, I can only fuck one of you first, and I can't
forget that fucking Mom would be a kindness as well as a mindblowing
orgasmic experience, because she's had to go so long without it.  You said
so yourself.  But when I think about doing Mom, it feels like disloyalty to
you.  And vice versa."





   "Oh, Joey, I haven't forgotten Mom, and I know exactly where you're
coming from.  We can't sneak around behind her back, she'd be totally alone
if we did.  But I don't think she'll be coming to tell me 'if you want to
fuck Humongous Joe, go ahead,' any time soon, like she did with Owen.  She
wants you, too."





   Joey and Debbie both brooded for a while.  Joey broke the silence:
"We've all three gotta do it together, at least the first time.  Or at
least, all three have to be invited.  Hey!  What's the idea of playing
kissy face with Mom the other night without inviting me, anyway?  Sneaking
around behind my back?" He leaned down and tickled his sister, who
protected herself by clutching his rigid dick in her free hand.





   "Don't blame me, blame Mom!" she laughed.  "She's the one who came on to
me." She paused, then continued.  She didn't let go of his cock.  "You're
right, though.  It's all three, or none.  'All for one and one for all!' .
. .  But if we just ask her, she'll get all tied up in worrying about Dad,
and we won't get an answer.  And if she says, 'Oh, go ahead you two, but I
have to be faithful to your father,' we'll feel guilty and won't have any
fun.  Right?"





   Joe nodded.  "So we're trapped!  Everybody wants to fuck but nobody can!
Although it's okay with me if you and Mom get together without inviting me.
But I want to watch!"





   Debbie giggled.  "Be careful what you ask for, brother, you just may get
it.  But hey, that's an idea, at that!  What if Mom won't play with us, but
she'll come and watch?  Then we wouldn't be cheating and she wouldn't be
adulterizing."





   "Adulterizing?" Joe winked.





   "Whatever."





   Joe's immediately thought was, "Do you think we could just fuck,
casually, with Mom sitting there?  I don't think I could even jack off."





   "You goof.  She wouldn't be sitting there; she'd be participating,
coaching, maybe lending a hand, so to speak, now and then.  Maybe she'd be
playing with herself over on an armchair.  Or maybe we should ask her for a
strip tease to get us started.  Get the idea?  There's lots of ways she can
play without breaking any of her rules.  We just gotta be creative."







   Her enthusiasm was contagious.  "Okay!" Joe yelped.  "But I'm counting
on you two to do most of the creativity.  At least at first.  I'm a virgin,
and I'm a boy, so I doubt that I'd know anything that would help you two
hot babes."





   Debbie snorted.  "Typical male.  Wants the women to do all the work. 
No, Brother Joe, you are going to toss out ideas and reveal your secret
fetishes the same as me and Mom, and if they won't work, we'll tell you
why, and eventually you'll understand.  Just like learning your ABC's."





   "Hey, aren't you forgetting something?  That cock, there, the one you're
stroking, little by little, there, with your hand?" Joe was laughing so
hard he was gasping.  "The almighty cock makes the rules!"





   "I don't know where you've been living, brother, but here, it's 'United
pussy makes the rules!' We'll see who holds out longer, you playing with
yourself, or me and Mom licking each other's cunts dry."





   Debbie could sense that the image of her and their mother doing lesbian
69 had pushed Joe to maximus maximus.  She reached to open his belt, but he
beat her to it; between them, they soon had his colossus free and alert. 
Debbie was still lying on Joe's bed, hand still clutching said colossus,
face close by and ready for action.  She looked up into her brother's face.
"May I get down to business, here?  Or are you going to chicken out again?"
She squeezed, reminding him of her hard tennis-playin' muscles.





   Joe nodded.  "Go for it, Debbie.  Go for it, my sexy, perfect sister."





   She almost leaped into position to fit her lips around his cockhead,
forcing herself down as far as she could go.  She was pretty sure she had
more of Joe's cock than she'd had of her uncle's identical cock, two nights
ago, but she felt like she had a lot to learn.  Propped on one elbow, she
stroked his member with her other hand, letting it run up the whole length
of the shaft, until her wrist hit her chin, then all the way down to his
balls.  On one downstroke, just to see what would happen, she jostled his
balls a little with a sharp feminine fingernail; what would happen was a
quiver that felt slight to her, but, she was confident, profound to her
brother.





   It took a little while to prime his long pump; he'd already cum twice
this afternoon, once with Nicole and once when he got home, hot and
bothered by his near miss.  Debbie was patient, however, and, when she felt
the cum rushing upwards, she snapped her stroking into high gear to work
the spurts up to maximum power.  Then they were pounding into the back of
her throat; hot, slimy, and tasty.  "Ping, ping, ping," she imagined,
conjuring the picture of a carnival shooting gallery set up in the back of
her mouth.  'This boy is one good shot, I'll tell you that,' she thought.
That thought reminded her that at the other end of this erect pump there
was a boy, her brother in fact.  He was moaning and saying stupid male
things like, "oh yeah, Debbie, oh yeeeeaaaah, big sister, you suck so good.
. ." 'Christ, I hope he's teachable,' she groused, silently, of course,
because she'd been taught not to speak with her mouth full.  She hoped he'd
read that junk in on-line porn and that it wasn't spontaneous.





   She hadn't milked him completely dry when she stopped sucking.  She
stopped because she wanted him to shut up.  After planting some wet kisses
along the shaft of his deflating prick, she rolled over onto her back and
pulled her brother to her, giving him a large, open-mouthed kiss as he
landed on her.  They lay there, entertaining themselves with lazy necking,
when Deb noticed their mother standing in the hallway right outside the
door, watching them.  Mom wasn't angry, or hurt, Deb noticed; it was more
of an indulgent, mommish look, as when she'd catch them as little kids
breaking some rule but having so much fun that she didn't want to stop
them.





   Amy caught Debbie's eye, with its look of panic, and gestured with her
hands, "No, no, don't mind me, I'll go away and leave you to it," which she
did.  For Debbie, though, the spell was broken, and she disengaged from
Joe's kisses.  "Okay, okay, brother.  It's been nice, but all things in
moderation.  I gotta go."





   Joe thought she meant "go to the bathroom," which reminded him that so
did he.  He wanted to hurry, too, while his dick was at half-mast; peeing
through an erect cock is tricky business for any male, let alone one whose
cock-slit was higher than his navel and pointed right at his face.  So,
their little make-out session ended, and they went down to do their
making-supper chores.







   It was Debbie, of course, who popped the question.  The three of them
had finished their supper, and cleared away the dishes; right now they were
lingering over their decaf, laughing about Joe's misadventures with Nicole,
as Amy waited for them to say whatever it was that was obviously on their
minds.  "You should have borrowed that sweatshirt like she said," Amy said.
"Dessert, you know."





   "Hey, Mom, I can whip you up a batch whenever you want one," Joe leered.
"Or, you can have it hot and fresh straight from the source."





   "Oh, Big Joe, massive, Washington Monument Joe, don't I wish.  But I
made these vows. . .  "





   Debbie saw her opportunity.  "Mom, Joey and I were just talking about
just that.  I think you should get Joe's cherry before he wastes it on some
stranger like Nicole.  She's cute and all, but she's not family.  I'm being
noble, here, because I want to be his first.  But it's okay with me if you
do it first."





   Joe interrupted.  "Hey, don't I get a vote?"





   "Not if you know what's good for you," his sister shot back.  "Shut up."
She looked back at their Mom.  "Now, we understand and respect your vows.
But I can't wait forever; I gotta have this boy's cock the way some people
need a crack fix.  So here's what we decided.  If you don't want him first,
then I get him, but we want you to be there."





   Amelia gave them each a long look, thinking.  "What, you want me to
watch?" The way it came out, she sounded like you'd sound if you thought
someone was trying to cheat you: "What, you want a hundred dollars for that
fake Rolex?"





   But Debbie was on a roll.  "If you want to, you can watch.  But we'd
rather have you participate.  Whatever you can do without breaking your
vows."





   Joe piped up.  "You, know, coaching, helping, maybe a nice motherly kiss
here and there.  Coaching especially.  You've got all those years of
experience with Uncle Owen.  Debbie's had one session with a monster cock,
and I'd bet she screwed it all up but Owen was too nice to say so."





   Debbie gave him a backhand slap to the shoulder.  "He couldn't say much,
little brother.  He was moaning."





   "Now, children," Mom warned, as if they were ten years younger and
arguing about something innocent and pure.  "I'm sure Debbie would do just
fine without my help."





   "Of course she would," countered Joe.  "But she'd do it so much better
if you were helping."





   Amy said, "It's sweet of you not to go behind my back, and I appreciate
the offer.  I suppose you want to start now?"





   Debbie beamed at her mother, a look packed with her love and affection.
"Oh, Mom, we want to start yesterday.  But we don't want to rush you,
either.  Even Joe can keep his pants on for a little while longer.  But
don't forget, tomorrow's Friday. . .  "





   "I love you both, and thank you, thank you, for thinking of your old Mom
at a time like this.  Please don't fuck until I've thought it over.  In
fact, Joe, let me put you on the spot, like you two did to me.  I want to
bury my face in your sister's cunt.  Right here, on the kitchen table.  Do
you want to watch?  May I have your permission?"





   Cunning old Amelia had neatly turned the tables, and turned on both of
her kids to boot.  Deb's hand was in her crotch, rubbing her snatch through
her jeans and breathing in the humid smell of her excitement.  Big Joe's
bigness was straining to its biggest.  It hurt, of course.  He stood up to
readjust his pants to ease the pressure and pain.  Deb stood up and leaned
her butt on the table, arms back, legs open the picture of a girl ready to
be taken by all comers.





   Joe's answer was to swiftly clear the coffee cups off the table.  He
even grabbed a cloth from the sink and wiped the table off, clean.  Amy
watched in awe.  Her kids could still surprise her sometimes.  Joe
positioned himself in front of his sister.  "Okay, big sister.  Pull those
legs together so I can de-pants you.  I'm a full service sex attendant
tonight." Debbie complied, and was soon back in position on her elbows,
legs apart, naked from the waist down.





   Joey stepped over to his mother, bowed, and held out his arm.  "Madame,
all is prepared just as you requested.  If you will come with me. . .  "





   By this time Amy was gushing just as much as Debbie.  She let Joe lead
her to where she was standing in front of Debbie.  Flustered and
self-conscious, she simply looked at her daughter, whose vibes were those
of a bitch in heat.  Amy never exactly made the decision; the decision made
her.





   Stepping in close to Debbie's cunt, she leaned over her daughter, hands
on the table, and engaged her in a deep, but motionless, kiss.  Their
tongues didn't wrestle, they danced politely, Amy leading.  Debbie lifted
her legs to embrace her mother's waist, gently crossing her calves over
Amy's ass.  Then she lowered her shoulders to the table.  Her mom didn't
break the kiss; she levered herself up a little and followed Debbie down to
where they were both half-lying on the table.





   Joe stood off to the side, keeping quiet for once.  'Girl-on-girl sex!
The ultimate turn-on, right here in our kitchen!' He quietly freed his iron
cock, taking care not to let even his belt buckle make a sound.  But he
willed himself not to start stroking, or even touching, his fuck-tool.  He
just watched.





   Amy ground her pubis into her daughter's, eliciting from Debbie a gasp
of pleasure.  She worked her loins into a better position, and pushed more
firmly, not harder, stoking the fires in them both.  Debbie hiked her feet
up higher, using her heels to massage her mother's back, and at the same
time forced her hand between their two bodies to fondle Amy's breast.





   With her other hand, and her eyes, she tried to command Joe to reach
under Mom's shirt and unclasp her bra.  This was comical, I wish you could
have seen it.  Joe was slow on the uptake, looking at his sister
quizzically.  Debbie wanted to yell at him for being so obtuse, but didn't
want her mother to know what they were up to.  She was afraid that Amelia
would resist even such a small participation by her son.  So she gestured
with her free hand as well as she could, all the while enjoying the handful
of tit that she did have.





   Joe finally got the message; he figured it out by some sign language by
Debbie's feet, which she'd raised to the level of Amy's bra strap.  As Joe
hiked up Amy's t-shirt, Debbie's feet loosened their grip; Joe worked the
clasps.  Rather than back off like he was supposed to, he ran his hands
around his mother's ribs and forced them both, under Mom's shirt, between
the two women, cupping Amy's boob with one palm, brushing Debbie's boob
with the other, briefly, as he lifted the cups of her bra out of Debbie's
way.  Amy, of course, was aware of all this busy-ness by her children but
opted to stay in the moment and let it happen.  Debbie's two hands, still
unable to touch the skin of her mother's tits, caressed them from outside
the shirt as Joey slowly pulled his hands away.





   Now that he was involved, Joey started to think.  'What else can I do
that might be helpful?' From where he stood, with only one thing preventing
his naked cock from riding the groove of his mom's ass cheeks, the answer
was obvious.  He reached around Amy's waist, and pulled the string of her
favorite Old Navy sweatpants, tugging open the knot.  As he eased off her
pants and panties, Amy pulled her legs together to help.  When the pants
reached her knees, Joe noticed for the first time that she was wearing
running shoes and socks.  As he reached around to work the knots of the
shoes, deja vu from this afternoon strong in his mind, he thought that he
could pull the loose sweatpants off, without removing her shoes.  He gently
nudged Amy's right foot as he pulled the elastic ankle band down to her
heel.  His mom got the message and lifted her foot to help.  Soon Amy, too,
was naked from the waist down.





   Meanwhile, up at table height events were becoming more animated. 
They'd broken the kiss, and Amy slid one hand into Debbie's shirt,
approaching her daughter's boobs but unable to reach them.  Amy, whose
boobs were bigger than Debbie's by over one letter-size, had to rear back
to make enough room for them both to feel each other up at the same time.
When she did, super-sex-attendant Joe was on the job; he pulled his
mother's t-shirt up from the waist and eased it over her head, arm by arm.
The bra stayed behind, hanging from Amy's shoulders almost into Debbie's
face.  Joe moved to take that, too, but Debbie shook her head and he backed
off.





   He did want to get another handful of Mom's tits, though.  Returning to
his position behind her, he reached around her chest and got not one, but
two handsful of aroused, bullet-nippled breast.  Joe hugged his mom too
him, kissing the back of her neck.  They both were acutely aware of Joe's
erection, captured between the cheeks of Amy's butt.  He was nearly in
agony, wanting to stroke himself off and cum all over Amy's back, but he
didn't dare.  Then into the wordless drama Mom spoke: "Go ahead, Joe. 
Gimme what you've got.  Just keep that nightstick out of my ass.  Or cunt."





   Joey didn't speak, but he planted several kisses on the back of his
mother's neck, to thank her.  He stroked slowly, wanting the moment to
last. Debbie tried to help, but her legs had tired and her efforts to
augment Joe's rhythm by pressing her ankles into his ass failed.  She
couldn't hold her feet up any more.  But she could caress her brother's
hands where he braced himself on the table, just to let him know that his
intrusion into their girl-girl act was okay with her.





   After a few more strokes, with a few small moans Joey felt his dick
explode, albeit weakly (remember, he'd already cum at least three times
that day, maybe more that we don't know about), shooting his cum as far as
his mother's shoulder blades, but that was it.  When fully primed, he could
have shot clear over her head.





   As soon as Amy felt the hot cum on her back, cooling rapidly, she
reached around with one hand to collect some on her fingers, then sucked
them.  Debbie released her grip on her mother's boob to do the same.  Just
about then Amy had to stand up straight; her arms were tired from propping
her up over Debbie's body.  Joe was still behind her; when she stood, he
surprised her by licking some of his own cum from her back.  He leaned his
face over her shoulder; understanding, she turned to kiss him, rewarded by
a generous dollop of the cum he'd salvaged.  They both backed away from the
table, still stuck together by Joe's softening cock in his mother's ass
crack, Amy holding Debbie's hands to assist as Debbie stood up, as well.





   Debbie and Joe wrapped their arms around their mom, they being the bread
to this sandwich.  Amy was the first to speak, however.  "Don't forget,
children, that I still haven't buried my face in Debbie's pussy.  D'ya
think maybe we can get on with it?  It's been more than twenty years; I'm
tired of waiting."





   "My room," Debbie ordered.  She broke from the sandwich to race ahead of
them, to turn down the sheets so as to receive her mother properly.  Joe,
ever the gentleman, helped Amy put her t-shirt back on; he knew her back
must be cold.  Again he escorted his mother on his arm, but only to the
door of his sister's room.  This time he wanted to keep out of the way. 
Debbie was waiting, naked, sprawled on her several bed pillows, legs open
wide.  Intoning, "dessert is served," Joe released Amelia's arm and
gestured for her to enter the room.





   Amelia wasted no time on politeness or anything else.  She rushed to
Debbie's bed, pulling her daughter around so her cunt was at the edge of
the bed, feet on the carpet, in much the same position she'd been in in the
kitchen.  Debbie was pulled off her pillows and flat on the bed.  Without a
word, or any other ado, Amy's tongue was deep in Debbie's cunt, as far as
it could reach.  Her sighs of pleasure at the sensations, and the taste,
were soon joined by Debbie's sighs of gradual, sexual pleasure; not
orgasmic, but pleasant in themselves and in their promise of orgasms to
come.





   After drenching her tongue in Debbie's juices and massaging Debbie's
clit, Amy gave her daughter what she and Julie, all those years ago, had
liked to call the "catnip treatment." Just as Julie had done on that first
night, Amy buried her face in Debbie's pussy, rubbing it up and down, left
and right, until it was totally coated in Debbie's juices.  It seemed to
both Debbie and Joe, who had never seen such a thing, that their mother was
wishing she could crawl into Debbie's womb, which would have posed a
paradox, seeing as how Debbie had emerged from Amy's.





   Debbie was learning that rapture can have many, totally unanticipated,
dimensions.  She was coming in a way she'd never experienced or imagined;
without being penetrated by some foreign object, without even having her
clitoris stimulated very much.  It was the ferocious assault on her pussy
itself, the way she felt her mother's all-consuming need for Debbie's
cunt-juices, and only Debbie's cunt-juices, and Debbie had almost
life-or-death power over the woman worshiping her cunt.  All she had to do,
in her delirious fantasy, would be to sit up and close her legs, and her
mother would starve to death right before her eyes.  Of course, Debbie
would have no intention of doing any such thing.  But in our fantasies, at
least, we can enjoy power even without planning to use it.  Debbie was in a
very different sort of heaven.  Without warning to anyone, herself
included, she screamed to the world her ecstasy and triumph, then
collapsed, shivering, onto the bed.





   Amy was the only one of the three who wasn't shocked by Debbie's scream.
She wasn't even startled.  Even before Debbie collapsed, Amy was on her
feet, scooting Debbie's legs around so she was on the bed, then pulled up
the covers.  Then she pulled off her t-shirt and joined her daughter in
that cocoon, holding her close, so they could share each other's warmth.





   She beckoned to Joe, who jumped to help his mother, whatever she needed.
She pulled his face down and kissed him, not like a mother (well, duh) but
a real, hot, man-woman kiss, then whispered, "She's passed out already; I'm
about to join her.  Let us sleep a couple of hours, but then wake us up."
He nodded, still dazed by the spectacle of his sister's orgasm.  "Oh," his
mother continued.  "Don't be jealous.  You'll get your turn one day soon."
She winked.  Joe, who had not had even a little twinge of jealousy, took
his mom's hand in both of hers and kissed her fingers.  He left the room
without a sound, and shut the door gently.





   Friday





   Joe had gone to wake up his mother and sister like his mom had asked him
to, but he couldn't get either one of them to respond.  It would have been
a shame to disturb them; they looked adorable, wrapped together in a spoon
position.  He let them sleep.  Then he took the opportunity to watch two
Schwarznegger movies -- movies Debbie and Amy hated -- and after the
second, dragged himself off to bed.





   He slept late, taking advantage of the school holiday.  When he awoke,
the house was absolutely silent.  In the kitchen, he found a note: "Dear
Big Joe: We'll be back soon.  Get some breakfast and go back to bed.  Love,
Deb." That girl was too bossy, still playing the big sister.  He had to
admit it was good advice; he took it, and was soon fast asleep, enjoying
his cat nap, dreaming lurid dreams about what exotic sex toys Debbie and
Amy might be buying.





   In fact, they had no intention of doing anything of the kind.  They were
going from grocery store to butcher to fruit market to Cost Plus, etc.,
gathering the ingredients for a very special dinner they planned to make
for Debbie's father -- Little Joe, formerly known as Old Joe.  They didn't
have any particular reason, except that when they'd seen him last, Little
Joe was really depressed, and would need some attention.





   While they were at it, they found opportunities to caress each other,
including under the loose skirts they both were wearing, unencumbered by
panties or anything else that might thwart a roving hand.  Debbie wanted to
coat her fingers with cunt juice and spread it all over the tomatoes in the
store; she figured it would help sales.  Her mother gave her a firm, "no."
Apparently Mom was still in charge, at least when they both were vertical.





   Debbie avoided any mention of the Big Joe Dilemma that her mother was
facing; she sensed that Mom's resolve was weakening and didn't want to
interrupt.  Amelia brought it up herself, though.  After a long silence as
Debbie drove them home, with three fingers in her mother's pussy, Amy
announced without preamble, "I'll hold out until Monday, then decide.  One
day at a time.  Please, God, help me protect my husband from knowing what's
going on, at least this weekend." She realized that she was asking God to
help her to lie to her husband, not to mention asking him to aid and abet a
mortal sin, so she felt it necessary to explain, silently this time.  'The
way he's feeling, it would be criminal to make it any worse.  If I can get
this straightened out in a week or two, maybe he'll never have to know.'





   To Debbie, the audible part sounded as if her Mom was planning to behave
today and all weekend, then go for broke on Monday.  If so, that was okay
with Debbie.  She and Joe could hold out, she was sure, maybe with a couple
of innocuous blow jobs to tide her over.  Or maybe she could tag along next
time Joe visited Nicole.









   Joe was awake by the time Amy and Debbie got home.  Good thing, too,
because Debbie almost ran to his room and flopped down on his bed, on top
of him.  Between his pajamas and the bedclothes, though, there were several
layers of cloth blocking any access to the naked pussy she'd artfully
exposed and planted right on her brother's crotch as she landed.





   "Good morning, Little Sister!" he said after breaking her long, smoochy
kiss.  What'd you bring me from the sex shop?"





   "As if.  Why waste good money on sex toys?  We have one all-natural sex
toy right here.  All we need." She could tell by the way his legs were
splayed where his penis must be, so she rubbed the blanket there, but Mr.
Dick wasn't standing up to greet her.  She made a mental note to fix that.
"We went grocery shopping.  Now that 'Little Joe' has been demoted from
household studling to harem eunuch, Mom figured he ought to get some extra
special privileges in the dining room.  He's coming home today, you know."





   "Yeah, I know.  Actually, it'll be good having him here.  I think I need
a chaperon."





   Debbie bounced off the bed and threw all of Joe's covers to the floor,
at the same time leaning over to play a little smoochy-face with his cock.
She was glad to see that all-natural sex toy reveal himself as her face
approached.  "He likes me!  He really likes me!" she squealed, like a
little kid.  "Still not tee-totally awesome erect, though." She opened her
mouth to help him. . .





   "Hey, sis, d'ya think I could have a little breakfast first, before you
have dessert?"





   She looked up at him.  "Good idea!" Debbie knew Joe had something like
Cheerios or pancakes in mind, but she had other ideas.  She dived onto the
bed again, on her back with feet against the headboard, head at the other
end, legs making a long, shapely V leading to her still-pantyless cunt. 
"Breakfast is served!" she squealed.  "Take all you want, but eat all you
take."





   Joey rolled his eyes, then grabbed her nearer foot and kissed it,
through the sock.  Then he pulled his body up into a crawl position and
worked his way up Debbie's leg, returning her wet smoochy kisses with some
of his own as he did, favoring the firm sexy muscle of her calf and thigh.
When he reached his goal, he stopped to take a good look, not sure what to
do.





   "Come on, bro," came Debbie's plea.  "Get on with it."





   "Hey, big sister, gimme a little slack here.  I'm still a beginner at
this."





   It was Debbie's turn to roll her eyes.  "You've never done this before?"





   "Once.  Last summer, at camp.  I told you about that."





   "And it sounded to me like you botched it, although I was too kind to
say so at the time."





   "I did botch it," Joe replied with an embarrassed grin.  "I had no
better idea about licking cunts than she did about sucking cocks.  But we
had fun anyway."





   "Well, this will be more fun, brother.  Besides, you got to watch an
expert at work, just last night.  Did you take good notes?"





   Those memories provoked Joe's erection to hurry itself along.  "You'd
better give me the paint-by-number version," he said.  "I couldn't see the
inside game because Mom's head was in the way."





   "Oh, all-right!  First, pull yourself up so you're face to face, or lips
to lips, with my pussy.  Make sure you can breathe okay, don't vacuum up my
cunt hair with your nose.  You're going to be busy for a good long time."
Joe complied.





   "Now.  You see a wet, pink, slit about an inch long, just in front of
your mouth?"





   "No," Joe mumbled.  "All I can see is your t-shirt and your chin.  And
some foliage here in the foreground."





   "Oh, brother," Debbie said.  "I can see this is going to take a while.
Can you feel that wetness there, in front of your mouth?" Joe nodded. 
"Stick out your tongue as far as-- oooooh!  Yes!  Like that!  -- as far as
it will go.  Savor the taste of your first real woman.  A tad too sweet, I
know, but with an impudent aftertaste of orange marmalade." She paused,
working on her next lines.  Joe thought she tasted pretty good, but he
couldn't detect any orange marmalade.





   "Ooohh, oohhhh, yes!  Remember that spot." She sighed a moment, then
resumed giving instructions.  "Without, ever, removing your mouth and
tongue from my wet cunt, slide your tongue upward until you hit flesh. . .
My flesh, you moron, not yours!  When I tell you to start, gently pull your
tongue toward your teeth.  You're looking for a hard button of flesh. 
It'll probably remind you of a pearl in an oyster."





   Joe looked up at her.  "Especially now that you've told me."





   Debbie grabbed his head and shoved it back into position.  "I believe I
said, 'never remove your tongue from my cunt,' brother.  I meant it! 
Ready? OK, now you may search for my clit." Sure enough, he found the pearl
button; he wanted to make another joke about it but figured he'd better
not. Debbie quivered a little when tongue met clit, but she didn't yelp
this time.  As instructed, he continued to pull the tip of his tongue
backward, out of the tunnel.  She slapped his head.  "No!  No!  Bad Joe!"
By this time, Debbie was laughing so hard it almost hurt.  "You were
supposed to stop at the pearl!  Try again."





   Pretty soon Joe had a good mental map of his sister's pussy, and didn't
need any more instruction.  His poor tongue was getting a workout.  'How do
you train for this?' he wondered.  'Go around all day trying to touch the
tip of your nose?' Every now and then he had to retreat and swallow the
juices, his and hers, that had drained into his mouth.  Debbie, who had
eased herself back down to the bed, didn't seem to mind.  She was sighing
and cooing and making other baby noises.  He liked massaging her clitoris
most.  He didn't know why.  Several days later, after Debbie had had a few
practice sessions on available cunts, she told him she liked the clitoris
best, too.  She thought it was because it was a target; she knew that
tonguing a clit was a reliable way to get a girl's pussy rockin' and
rollin'.





   She was right.  Even inexperienced Joe got her started, although he
didn't know how to keep her going.  'He'll learn,' Debbie thought.  'He
must be pretty smart.  He's my brother, after all.' She'd come down from
her mini-climax, but Joey was still at it, tongue lapping up the new batch
of pussy-juice.  'Why?' she wondered.





   About then she realized that he was teasing her; she hadn't given him
permission to withdraw, so he kept at it.  She petted his hair like she
would a cat, saying, "Hey, don't be a glutton.  Somebody else might want
some."





   That got him.  He looked up.  "You said you and Mom got your share this
morning, when you were shopping.  She had to stop you from wasting it all
over the tomatoes."





   'Hoist by my own petard,' she thought.  That always sounded vaguely
obscene.  What's a petard, anyway?  "OK, Joe," she giggled.  "She didn't
get to eat any, though.  Me neither.  So, stop.  Put your tongue down.  Do
not turn the page."





   "How come?"





   "A big, solid, hard prick usually does the trick.  Having my pussy eaten
works sometimes.  I can do it with my fingers, unless I'm feeling sorry for
myself.  Toys and vibrators don't do it for me, though.  That's how I come.
How 'bout you?"





   He finally got the joke, which he thought was kinda lame.  He tried
again.  "Why do you want me to stop?"





   "Because I'm afraid your jaw will get frozen in that Neanderthal-looking
pose and I don't want to explain it to Dad."





   "Why would you have to explain it?  It's my jaw." He regretted the
obtuse question as soon as it left his mouth.  He knew exactly what his
sister was going to say.





   "Because you can't talk if your jaw is frozen," they said almost in
unison.





   "OK, OK," Joe said, pulling away from her loins as he rose to be
kneeling on his bed.  "I'll give you a break.  But I warn you, don't ever
sleep with your legs apart.  You might find me attached to your labia in
the morning."





   She swung her athletic body off the far side of the bed.  "Promises,
promises.  Now I suppose you want your turn."





   "Fair's fair."





   "I've gotta check with Mom first." She sashayed out of the room, as
merry and light as when she entered.  "Mom!  Mo-o-o-m!"





   By the time Debbie returned, with their mother, Joe had stripped off his
pajamas and thrown them toward the closet.  At the sight of them, even
dressed in respectable, conservative skirts and blouses, his dick made its
last jump from balsa wood to titanium.  Amelia noticed.  "Thanks for the
compliment, Mr.  Dick." Joe didn't know where the name, "Mr.  Dick" had
come from, but he resigned himself to its use.





   "Hi, Mom.  Good morning," said Joe, swinging himself out of bed to kiss
her.  On the lips, of course, with his erection grinding into her loins. 
With her arms around his waist, she pulled him in tighter, as they enjoyed
the long kiss.





   "Debbie just apologized for you two starting without me," Amy said as
she came up for air.  "I said it was okay, this time, but that I'd have
thought she wanted me around to give you pointers."





   "Mom, I-- we both always want pointers from you.  Any time."





   "Like now, when I suck his cock," Debbie chimed in.  She pushed her
brother to where he was sitting on the bed.  "Like this?" She knelt between
his knees, pulled his legs farther apart, and scooted in as far as she
could.  But she found, to her surprise, that she couldn't reach his
cockhead; the best she could do was kiss the sensitive skin just below the
helmet.  She hadn't had this trouble with Uncle Owen.





   Amy intervened.  "Debbie, your problem is that the bed is too high. 
That'll work on an average boy, but not on your brother.  If you want to
blow him, you'll have to stand up and lean over, which is a pain in the
back, or persuade him to stand up, or sit in a chair, or get on the bed
yourself, at right angles to his legs, and take him from the side."





   Debbie stood to look at her Mom.  "Which do you recommend?"





   "Well, it depends on the mood.  I could always take the most cock by
lying in the bed." She snickered.  "From that angle I can take all of your
father's.  I could even take his balls, but I'd hurt his feelings. 
Kneeling as he stands or sits in a chair works okay, but you're kneeling.
If you don't want to feel submissive, like a sex toy, don't do it that way.
But you can some times," she hastened to add.  "Even if your relation isn't
always dom-sub.  Role playing is a fun was to spice up your sex life."
Another pause.  "Even your father likes to role-play.  But don't forget to
play nice and take turns being the dom."





   Debbie flopped onto the bed and began to do stagey, exaggerated
maneuvers that everybody could tell were planned to fail.  After a half
dozen tries, she'd gotten her lips around his cockhead only twice; one
other time she took it in her eye, but that didn't count.  With an
exasperated, and exaggerated, sigh she pushed back so she was kneeling on
the bed.  "Mo-o-m, I can't get it right," she whined.  "What am I doing
wrong?"





   Amy wasn't born yesterday.  She knew just what Debbie had in mind.  In
fact, Amy kind of liked the idea, but she felt the suggestion had to come
from the kids, not from her.  "Debbie, you know practice makes better. 
Keep trying." 'And please ask me to demonstrate.  Either one of you! 
Pleee-ze!'





   Her daughter leaned over, nuzzled Joe's shaft with her wet lips, then
sat up again.  She gave Amy a stage wink.  "It's no use, Mom.  Can you show
me?"





   Joe caught his cue.  "Yeah, Mom, I'm getting frustrated here.  Can you
show Debbie how it's done?  There's plenty of time before you have to fix
dinner."





   If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.  Amy gave a theatrical sigh, saying, "A
mother's work is never done." She gave Debbie a wink that was even more
fakey than Debbie's had been.  "Off the bed, girl.  You're sitting right
where I need to be."





   "Okay, Mom.  And thanks, Mom, you're the best." They all left unstated
what Amy was the "best" at.





   As Amy slid into position the correct position is obvious, Debbie was a
fraud through and through her son reached out to stroke her hair.  She
slapped his hand away.  "This is purely instructional, not lovemaking," she
grinned.  "No intimate touches.  Keep your hands and your lips to
yourself."





   "Oh, Mom!"





   "I mean it, son.  I have to draw the line somewhere.  Now let me get to
work."





   "Can I finger-fuck Debbie while we watch?" Joe asked, his face the
picture of innocence.  But Amy didn't answer, because right at that moment
she had attached her lips to her son's magnificent member and letting her
mouth open wider and wider as she inhaled as much as she could, inch by
inch.  The cock head plowed into the back of her throat, but although it
had been years since anything had invaded back there, it was a familiar
sensation and she didn't panic.  She controlled her gag reflex, breathed
through her nose a few times, and got busy.  She'd suck as hard as she
could, drawing all the loose skin deep into her mouth, then decompress. 
After a few preliminary sucks, she caught a rhythm.  Joe was in ecstasy. 
His mother's strokes weren't very long nothing compared to his strokes when
jacking off but the sucking sensation reminded him of the approaching
orgasm, gripping his dick tighter and tighter, but without the pain from
the tight grip.  Amy's mouth grasped the skin, but not the meat.





   Meantime, Debbie had moved to stand next to the bed right by Joe's hip,
where she could get a good vantage point to learn her mother's tricks.  But
she'd also taken Joe's hint and grabbed his hand, yanking it up to her
pussy and clamping his thumb on her mons with his fingers deep in her cunt.
Then with her skilful fingers over his, she silently gave him another
lesson on the inner architecture of a girl's wet pussy.  (Not that she
expected Joe to be paying that much attention, under the circumstances.  No
matter.  She'd repeat the lesson as often as she had to.)





   After a few minutes of these endearments, Joe felt the first small
tremor, heralding a large orgasmic explosion.  So, with all her years of
experience, did Amy.  To her kids' amazement, she abruptly pulled herself
off of Joe's pulsing rod, leaving it glistening with her saliva.  Before
they could speak, she said to Debbie, "Okay, you take over.  You've been
watching, right?  And hurry up, he's about to blow." As she spoke she
pulled Debbie's free wrist to guide her daughter back onto the bed.  Amy
saw Joe withdraw his hand from Debbie's snatch, but didn't say anything
about it.





   Debbie had miraculously become deft and efficient about placing herself
so as to get the best angle on her sibling's huge member, and with one
lunge she took three and three-quarters inches until the dick head crashed
into where her tonsils had been until she was seven (she'd once stuck a
ruler in her mouth, that's how she knew the exact inches).  But, even with
Amy and Joe's coaching, she couldn't get the perfect suction rhythm her
mother had used.  Amy chuckled, "You've gotta do something before he goes
mad.  I guess it's okay to cheat.  Go ahead and stroke his shaft with your
free hand.  Here, I'll help."





   Suiting action to words, both women wrapped their fingers around the
exposed portion of Joe's massive schlong, using long, languorous strokes.
Debbie even let her mouth retreat until all she had was the helmet, so as
to let the strokes be as long and languorous as possible.





   Joe was in seventh heaven.  "Oh, suck it, sister...  fuck me...  ohhh...
stroke it Mom...  aggghh..." The women could actually see Joe's heart
pounding in his chest.  "Ohhh...  al...  most...  time...  Deb...  bie...,"
Joe gasped.  "I'm...  gonna...  explode!" The muscles in his legs were so
tense that he was drumming his heels on the bed he couldn't help it.  At
least that didn't hurt.  Then he flexed his toes so far that some of the
muscles deep in his feet cramped up, all at the same instant.  "Agggghhh!"
he howled, this time in agony.  The women ignored him, Debbie because she
didn't realize he was in pain and Amy because she knew that the best way to
help him was to get him to cum.





   At last, Joe felt that hot pain telling him that his semen had reached
his cock head and was about to go critical.  "Aaaahhhh!" he cried.  "I'm
cum... ... ...  ming!"





   As if Debbie needed to be told.  Just before Joe's last frenzied cries,
the first jet of cum had shot from his cock and hit the back of her throat.
She coughed, allowing the next two jets to spill out of her mouth and onto
her face.  Oh, well.  She thought to aim the cannon a little to the side,
where she could catch and control her brother's bottomless well of jism,
swallowing it all on her terms, not Big Dick's.





   Suddenly, just like that, it was all over.  Really, all over.  Joe's cum
was still flowing in a steady trickle, but Joe wasn't around to enjoy it.
His eyes literally rolled up into his eyelids, and he passed out.





   His mother and sister watched him faint, then caught each other's eyes.
They started to giggle, harder and harder.  Eventually Amy recovered enough
to gasp, "It's a good thing he's such an athlete.  We damn near killed
him."





   Still giggling, Amy leaned over to lap up the little pool of cum on her
son's belly.  Then the two women covered Joe with a spare blanket and
tiptoed out of the room.














   
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