Place. Hold. Set.
Soft. Closed. Tight.
Push. Clutch. Pushing.
Dry. Big. Give.
Then deep then drag.
Then deep then drag again.
“Is this what you want?” her brother, from behind her, stroking.
“mm-mhuh…; more – ” like you did them, she said, his sister, naming names.
They sat across from George in a row from left to right, Maggie and their three girls – teenaged and too-true, triplets – his bevy of beauties, his life’s share of ladies; his twin sister and their daughters, their bare legs all, crossed right-over-left, his females grinning at him, especially Maggie, and he was fervently grateful to God to be the felled prey in this catfight among his women. Maggie, forty-one and green bikini-ed, still supple and smolderingly mature – he otherwise liked better her broader behind – and The Coup: Eleanor, Bridget, and Gretchen, identical and identically almost dressed in red – strings & a few swatches of fabric, as if wearing only samples of complete bikinis – three sets of blue eyes and dark brown hair, all ivory white softness and ready heat, they could brood and conform like George, laugh and swear like Maggie, had neither of their parents’ innate talent but were intelligent even more so, buying into none of the illusions of culture: sex was what it is, and morality was how you defined it.
George wrote music where he was. He’d listen to the jukebox at the bar, or, at home, to the radio randomly for melodies he wished he had written: jotting down words, phrases, changing whole hooks, verses, and themes to suit his tastes and mood, then incorporate them into guitar or piano – and still more changes – until he’d arranged another’s work into something completely different and that he could call his own, as far as copyright laws and awards ceremonies were concerned. Maggie edited his drafts for signs of life and marketability. They then together sang and harmonized and further arranged the sound until someone’d buy it. They’d always done it this way.
At the house, scribbling, and plinking or strumming through some confusion he’d created, the girls, home from their senior year at prep school – behavioral science & psychology – would take turns gleefully teasing their father with their newfound adult bodies and wiles, boldly wandering by in underwear that hardly qualified – waiting on the laundry, or for their hair to dry – and have a seat sideways in his lap, swinging an arm around his neck, setting their breasts under his nose and giving his lap a little grind – ‘hi daddy, whatchya doin`, how’s it goin`?’ Maggie could see this, and was as much amused by her own small jealousy as she was by her Georgie’s helplessness – what could he say? ‘I’m hard-up for my daughters – make `em stop’?
While developing their undergraduate dissertation, it’s thesis was still unclear; any one of the girls alone wouldn’t dare their father for exploratory sex, but as a group – The Coup, each alternately boss or baby-doll in their secret, fluid hierarchy – the three of them could brave their ambitions and gang-up on daddy, objectively reasoning through and rationalizing, even justifying, their ambush as scholarly and clinical, however sexually charged: ‘He wants to fuck us: what’s it like to let him…to want to let him? Bad? – it’s our idea…why? – we’re entitled to him… and he’s got no real problem with it – Oedipus wanted to screw his mother, but did his mother half mind the attention?’ They’d write the paper collaboratively, purportedly as pure theory, interviewing only each other and limiting their research to just the one sex act – his fetish – that daddy’d not refuse and would preserve their virginity in the traditionally strictest sense. They’ll have changed the names and would deny everything, having since destroyed their notes.
At least that’s how they’d sell it to mom; Maggie’d know better, but would appreciate the lie.
George was downstairs in the studio, where he’d be for the evening, so when Maggie came in on them in the den, it was now just the four females sitting around loopy and b.s.ing in that honest way the cold-sober cannot – the girls passing the joint and a drink to her as usual, Maggie having had to hang up her ‘mommy hat’ a year or so ago; the girls had killed the video though, in mid-scene, when they had heard her at the door, and so it appeared they had been just hanging out in the quiet.
Talk of anything else, as always, became talk of sex – revealing, and, among themselves, comfortable and funny: they agreed masturbation was never awkward – we don’t make mistakes with ourselves – and their mother confirmed for her young daughters that a good fuck was always great, the virgins weren’t wrong to dream of it.
“We’ve got porn” they offered, and their mother thought this would be good: what did her daughters think hot?
The flick resumed where it had been stopped, the two young people thrown in action. Maggie recognized her Georgie first, then a moment later the room – this room – and though she hadn’t watched the home movie in years, when the blondie he was sodomizing looked up, it would be her.
And then there she was, in all her glory: her face red, splotchy, and her eyes unseeing, wildly looking inward at all her brother was doing behind her and her voice loud and inarticulate, out of control and a string of drool swinging from her lower lip – a pure performance and no act, this was huge and she was into it.
The Coup watched their mother watch; for a sure minute, Maggie observing her early self and making it plain she wouldn’t shy from this surprise. She paused the video, finally, rather than quit it – all quiet and she and her twin brother a still blur as if caught in mid-air: boyish George forward into his tight sister and grimacing with the effort, all strain & tensility; young Maggie’s expression hard and as clean as a new dime, steely and exact; cheap awe and sweet misery, their hair everywhere – a poster of the girls’ parents at their best worst.
Maggie turned to her daughters; she didn’t often blush.
“So. What’s this about?” She really couldn’t say, but was not that surprised when they told her – she suspected more to their flirting than mere tease; as were their parents, the girls always meant what they said and did what they meant.
Some discussion, then all understanding and belief, after a time, and so the girls put on the movie again, their parent’s private archive; drinking beer, getting high, and Maggie and her daughters watched uncle dad despoil aunt mom in the ass – seventeen years ago as now, illegal in all of Western Civilization, and, in the privacy of their domicile, the law not allowed to prove it.
“I’ll supervise” she consented, and Maggie confided in them things that even the video didn’t reveal, and her daughters confessed some of their darker needs and curiosities, and they lowered the volume so they wouldn’t have to speak over the shrieks of the young woman onscreen.
The girls crouched listening at their parents’ door that next evening, so far only the mist of light from a dim lamp inside – wordlessly joking and speculating, eavesdropping for telltale talk and sounds: lengthy, low-spoken debate from within the bedroom, and then no talk and some small motions for awhile; then more agreeable speak and a moment of broader movement about: one of the stout straight-back chairs, missing from the dining room, dragged to the center of the floor, then nothing.
George and Maggie, the girls knew, would never really get over themselves. Distrustful of their own intent, they were sometimes afraid of what they were and what each really wanted of the other – he, sure he was only an incestuous shit keeping his pretty sister hostage, and she, just a brother-luvin` slut using his weaknesses to her advantage; he’d poke her too hard so she would bite him, she’d scratch him so he would make her swallow too much; he’d spank her, she’d hit him – he’d force her so she would fight him and she’d fight him so he would force her, and rough sex was just their own lovesick way with each other.
Though more was expected, the girls still started at the first sharp cracks – no voices yet, just the irregular flat smacks of big flesh; the girls knew of the paddle and the handcuffs – and then the spanks coming steadily, faster, and finally their mother’s calls for more, demanding, as aggressive as was their father’s swing of the wood.
But not always.
Some evenings, their parents would retire early and not be seen or heard from again until the late news, reemerging after a couple of hours all sheepish smiles and unspoken satisfaction and affections – happily and not a mark on either of them, tranquil and pleased with their simple lovemaking, if a little embarrassed with their easy joy. The girls’d remark ‘good?’, smirking, and George’d just say, “yes. very good, thank you” period, and he meant it, and the discussion was over, and he meant that too.
No sounds, suddenly, from behind their parent’s door, and in the brief quiet the girls caught themselves gasping in the still of the dark hallway. They heard whispers, their daddy’s, telling, to mommy, then, no less shattering than the spanking, their mother’s voice in the grave groan of penetration where it always hurt, if even a little; the girls were new, it would be a lot.
They then began overhearing themselves referred to, breathlessly, by their mother, each in succession:
“ – …you gonna deep-ass Ellie…?”
“ – and jam-fanny Gretchen…?”
“ – and fuck-butt Bridgie… this faa-asst & haar-arrd…?”
the sounds of their daddy’s sodomy of mom more vigorous with each mention of his daughters’ names; he was thinking of them.
The girls slipped back across the hall and watched their parents’ bedroom from their own, staring at the closed door as though seeing through it: varying noises, randomly urgent and relaxed, only the girls’ names and vulgar associations were intelligible, but all as understood as if living it.
The nightly news was flickering in the corner when Maggie stepped robed into their bedroom without knocking and handed her daughters a quart jar of what looked like spoiled egg whites; globules hovered throughout and it was still hot and gross with life.
“It took three times to fill it; now drink up” a pearl of which caught in their mother’s hair, another drop glistening from her face.
Bridget passed the jar to Gretchen who unscrewed the lid and took a sniff; it smelled like nothing they’d experienced and exactly like fresh sperm.
Gretchen communicated some courage to her sisters, then took the first foul swallow: her father’s produce slid liquid like a slug down her throat and made her eyes water; Bridget and Eleanor followed suit, sewer-warm mouthfuls of the starch apiece, then George’s potent virility swimming fertile in all his daughters’ stomachs. Maggie hurried the girls to choke back the jarful without pause.
“Did you fake?” asking their mother, regarding the home movie, the orgasms.
“It was real.”
“So we’ll cum.” A question.
“Dirty-talk helps; I’ll give him the go-ahead.”
“He’s so cute, all shy and shit” a safe, familiar tool: he loved his girls, and they knew it, and he was bothered with himself, and they knew that as well, gleefully so; Maggie warned them of what to expect from their father, detailing the moment they’d be at his lust’s mercy, when she’d just let them bear its brunt, as she had – their first week back in class, if they weren’t careful, sporting a stitch and a hemorrhoid pillow – and they were less cavalier with their folly.
“Oh, were going to do this, ladies” Maggie ruled. She tossed them a towel. “Have this with you,” and nodding toward the empty jar, “you’ll need it afterwards – the first of you, especially.”
“You know you’ll like it, so lighten up” Maggie said, while the girls laughed in peals at their father’s fake if-requisite hesitance. He was glad for the glass in his hand; he’d need to be liquored-up. It was three evenings later, allowing chaste time for the girls to get anxious and for their daddy to replenish, a day for each daughter. George still appeared the worse for wear after the other night: fingernail scratches striped his throat and shoulders, and he wore a lump over one eye where Maggie had at one point clocked him – when he was pinning her to the mattress, he thinks. George wore her marks as an announcement, a display of his worst character; but though the girls hadn’t forgotten their mother’s wails, his points scored on her however stayed secret, her warmed-over tushie and torn hole a matter between only them. Maggie knew no such guilt; she would not be ashamed of what she let George do to her – it’s private, but not shameful.
“It’s not always about you, daddy” the middle one, Eleanor, added. “C`mon daddy, do us” to the left of her, Gretchen, and “ – yeah, we’ve been bad girls” from the right, Bridget, and then more amusement.
Maggie had dropped by the porn store earlier in the day. One of three bottles of designer sex oil she had bought for tonight lay to her right in the folds of the clean towel – left to themselves, her daughters would have just dug up some Vaseline or Crisco. Maggie told the girls to choose which flavor they’d prefer, and they had asked what difference did it make, tonight was about anal sex. Their mother told them that they would also be doing some oral and that it wouldn’t be foreplay – they’d have other tastes to contend with. They decided on banana, liking the innuendo. Bridget asked if there had been cucumber.
“ – and what, no oak?”
“ – or steel?” Ellie and Gretchen chiming in.
George sat slouched on the sofa, his robe open and his prick reaching almost to his chest. The girls walked over to him and stood shoulder to shoulder with their hands behind them, as if each bringing him a small present, eyeing his big dick all giant for them.
“No hard feelings…” she said, and Ellie handed him another drink, scotch & ice. “For before.”
Bridget handed him a cigarette – pot – and said, “For after; save some, we may both need it” and she winked.
Preemptive peace offerings, George thought. He felt better. Maggie wasn’t let in on this stunt, and then realized they’d all be alright; especially the girls, but even she.
Gretchen waited; Maggie could see she held nothing. The girls looked at each other, then back at daddy. She then put out her hands, palms-up, empty: “No condoms; for during” and George chuckled, thinking this clever of his girls – and honest – and expecting them to be as pleased with their smart wit; but they just smiled warmly at him and went back to their mother for further direction, turning from him and sashaying away the mere few steps for all they were worth.
It seemed a shame: three small red triangles, at eye-level and accentuating more so than concealing perfect orbs of soft fat – the kind of ideal derrieres a few lucky women keep naturally, not a day of sun or exercise to their credit – his daughters’ lazy round fannies; but no doubt other men would one day have these very beauties, and he might as well be first.
“Line up, girls.”
George disrobed; now the only one of them wholly exposed, he finished his initial drink, then began downing the second. Maggie stepped up close, handing him the sex jell and touching his erection.
“I know what you like,” an aside, off the record, “ – go easy on them”, and a reminding smile, gentle and warning; she and her brother were long friends with a surgeon down the block sympathetic to their ‘arrangement’; he’d treated Maggie in the past, but had made George watch.
The girls flipped coins, and three dimes spun in the air alike until coming to rest to single out one: two heads and a tails – establishing who would go later, and who was to get done now. “Strip, Bridgie, and bend over” and she was naked and knelt over on the couch before she was sure being first meant she had won.
George pulled at himself behind her, oiling and polishing his cock, splashing lubricant between them, then began on Bridget abruptly enough – plunging and corkscrewing his fingers to the knuckles less gently than he could of, jamming the flavored Go-Glide up her butt and then his thumb hooked into her and tugging all around. After enough of this, Bridget thought her father’d put his fist between her buns, until she felt him affix his hands – both hands – to her hips while the force in question remained in place.
“ow” as if maybe that’s all it would amount to. Then “*ow*” again, not caring who knew and this being only the beginning. George closed in on his daughter’s ass: “ow-ow-OOOWAAAH” ever more pushing to a point, then constant pressure and holding. “Breathe, Bridgie” Gretchen & Eleanor cooed to their sister, coaching, and Bridget continuing to yell; as she was sure he couldn’t be fit in, that they’d have to try something else, her father’s lap then smacked flush to her seat – the big stretch and a sudden pound less of available space within her – and her buttfuck was fast underway, already a good number of full strokes in front of her grasp of it happening.
A last clipped shout from her, and a brief, trembling silence – Bridget plainly doggy-style and her father square behind her, George well ploughing as he had her mom in the home video – then crazed hollers & squalls, Bridget baying to her sisters for help, that she couldn’t take it though he’d delivered to her by then already another dozen in as many seconds, the first fast moments of 20 more minutes the whole of which she’d remember as individual strokes: pack-slap, pack-slap – her buns shaken in short, jarring waves and as hard a ride as she would ever know, Gretchen and Eleanor witnessing this power-sodomy of their sister as as well their own fate.
This was their daughters’ show: romancing & affectionate, the free girls worked-up the one getting railed with improvised fuck-speak, two sisters buoying the burdened third with lusty reminders of their purpose to bask in this banging, her hole getting cored, and to prove it with an orgasm – wallowing in the very twistedness of it all as a spotlight on the sheer sex of each thrust felt: dragging back & forth at her rectum, every inbound a ballooning rush inflated high inside, every outbound as forgiving as a good shit – until their slight frames shook and pussies would cream as no masturbation could effect. Maggie stayed an audience of one, an uninvolved authority, and her brother, George, the father of these girls of hers, a trustworthy prop of which to make crude pits of his daughters’ novice bottoms.
George blew a soak of protein up Bridget’s ass, then withdrew, and turning his daughter around he eased into her mouth and encouraged her to spend a minute longer doing what she hadn’t counted on and was of no empirical merit; a resigned minute of cleaning up the spermy, bowel-juice mess of own insides off her father’s prick for her sister next in line – he’d have to re-lube for Gretchen, Bridget having left her father’s prick sterile of all but her saliva; and finished off, her backend limp & spent as a used condom, an understated ‘…wow’ was all she could say, mopping her buttcrack of trace bleeding and gouts of purged sperm.
Gretchen had made a bed of the sofa cushions and was curled tight on all-fours, looking straight at the floor, her hair spilling around her head and hiding her face; pulling one cheek wide aside while gouged & poked, having seen Bridget so prepared without fanfare, Gretchen knew of her father’s fingers first probing, then his thumb pulling, and at last his hands placed and not his fist pushing; she’d soon feel he was elbow-deep into her, and she put her hand back beneath her to hold fast to the floor. George looked down his daughter’s back, seeing her spine a ridged arch, her body a hard curvature of young muscle doubled-over & stone-solid, though her flourishing hips swelling round from her waist betrayed a burgeoning maturity – his girls not-so ahead of themselves, their bodies not yet all-woman but their greed not at all a child’s; he pitched hard into her – a wet creak and a brunt pat at her seat, like fucking a rock of flesh – her rectum swallowing whole his complete meat in one vast gulp.
Force-adjusted, it was Gretchen now loud for her sisters – for more kisses and caresses, reinforcements of any sort – and George spread his daughter’s pretty buns as far as they’d part to watch her soft hole clutching and smoothly hooping in & out with every stroke of his prick and the brown-pink froth foaming at the edges of her anus, the same broth of which he’d made Bridget suck him clean. Gretchen squatting froggy, low and her knees drawn up under and wide aside her, her buns boldy pointed at her father’s crotch and leading with her rectum, like her mom in the island layout and living the photo’s design, bare-assed and being butt-pumped, the contrast between her daddy’s great gnarled sausage dividing her raw muffins and all-opening her as he had mom when she was her age, cannon-firing his cock solid up her butt – explosion, recoil, and explosion again, spit bubbles and cooze, wet at both ends and her ass blasted for half-again longer as had her sister endured – and Gretchen then felt lumps of hot paste adhere to her insides, her daddy’s spillage flushing through her, an organic slick that’d take all night to drain off.
And then Eleanor, on the floor as well, but lying face-down over one of the sofa’s large throw pillows, more restful and in for the better part of an hour, her father’s knees planted to either side of her hips and his ankles hooked over her legs, behind her knees and holding her immobilized and pinned in place; no prolonged push until he was let inside, as he had been with Bridget & Gretchen, his weight carried him into her just as she was readying to be entered and before her yell reached her throat, no more unbearable but less gradual the discomfort: a rigid pause, waiting for air, George already stroking through his daughter, and then a howl from her she thought stopped long before it did, nailing Eleanor to the floor through her fanny, sodomizing heavier the third of his daughters, drilling and feeling her squirm under him, she as if in search of an easier way to get fucked up her soft ass: ten whole inches of play along the length of her father’s cock and none of it free of its girth – 3 inches wide and all too thick, whether shallow or shockingly deep.
Eleanor was then knelt upright by her father, his hands clamped atop her shoulders: she could be seated no further down than her ass squashed flat, was let no more up than within an inch of out, then forced at the shoulders for the wide ride back into place; he’d manage only a smear of semen inside the last of his daughters and he’d make the most it, driving hard, leveraging her whole body onto him. Bridget & Gretchen knelt in front of Eleanor as she was bounced pogo-motion from behind, and Gretchen ventured too-affectionate smooches of her face and neck – for both their sakes, Ellie’s titties jumping and jiggling – and Bridget reached under Eleanor to finger her pie.
Gretchen looked over at her, and Bridgie blushed, uncertainly smiling back at her sister, though her fingers softly remaining inside Ellie and getting results; Gretchen kissed Bridget on the lips – nicely lingering, entwining tongues, both discovering this would do until the boys their age grew up – now grinning easily again at each other, and then at Eleanor: goodwill & consent all around, and Bridget as sweetly smooched Eleanor in the same manner, their father still absorbed with reaming-running-roughshod up Ellie’s ass, and Gretchen put her fingers between Bridget’s legs. The girls they then all three looked over at Maggie; she’d at some point poured herself a large tumbler of wine and had been quietly seated off to the side, having a smoke, observing the action. She suddenly got their message and rolled her eyes and laughed, deeply blushing herself, and just said ‘…ok’, and then as cheerfully nervous as her daughters, “ – tomorrow night.”
All got their remarkable mention – Bridget, taking the first, biggest load, an entire pint-like enema; then Eleanor getting the last, longest ride, 40 minutes; and Gretchen, a good portion of both and set to her choice of music – throbbing, bass-heavy rhythm and a free-form vague poetry, the drive of the tempo rather than the songs’ simple messages: electro/techno-botic mechanical & dispassionate music you could attach your own meaning to because all it did was feel good.
Sofa cushions and an oversized pillow were arranged on the floor in a make-shift bed, and the four women stood around it nervously milling among each other naked and giggling, drinking wine and playing slap & tickle, feeling each other up and comparably remarking on their body parts – their breasts & nipples, their legs & butts, the girls admiring of Maggie’s big tits and sumptuous ass, and Maggie nostalgic for a time when she was as youth-lean & limber as they and without stretch-marks – and trying to figure who should go first and how to go about it.
George sat present almost as naked as the women, wearing only a bathrobe, though he was not expected to be needed. “Gretchen; then Ellie, then Bridgie” he finally said, deciding for them, and so they agreed.
Gretchen lay back onto the cushions, one knee up and the other less-so & askew, her body propped as if she were at rest with a good book; Maggie lay flat on her tummy, her face nestled close between her daughter’s spread legs and they arranged their hair behind their ears and said things between them only they could hear and giggled some more and generally did nothing – Maggie’s head up close and her hand firm on Gretchen’s thigh, high and inside, either holding her open or holding her off – neither of them sure of when to begin.
Straight women eat pussy with a sweet uncertainty: if reciprocated, they’ll do it with little persuasion – it’s ok and ok to like it, they all secretly know – but they’re afraid they shouldn’t: women don’t feel less feminine when they play gay, but straight men just don’t want to be girls.
They hesitated to quit chatting, both keeping Maggie’s mouth busy with talk, but after a minute they were quiet, Maggie looking up her young daughter’s belly at her and Gretchen looking down her front at her mom, and they knew it was time. Maggie gave an exploratory kiss of the girl’s downy muff.
“…please – maggie?” Gretchen grinned at her mother, and they both felt less weird –
two women now, rather than, more specifically, parent and child.
Maggie lowered her mouth onto her daughter’s vagina, and then began lapping at her girl’s soft pussy – tentatively at first, not having ever before eaten pie, then more hungrily, as if starving, and being a woman herself knowing to emphasize the girl’s hard clitoris – and after a few both short & infinite minutes Gretchen so-newbie-soon cumming an orgasm that arched her spine from the floor, her body bridged between her feet and shoulders and leaving her hung suspended in one lengthy spasm of locked muscles anchored at her mother’s mouth, then Maggie fed considerable swallows of girl-syrup of which her own she’d before had only tastes.
Maggie had been hearing mouth sounds not her own and looked over her shoulder from Gretchen’s crotch to see Eleanor & Bridget taking turns deep-throating their father about as well as could be expected of beginners: gagging at 7 inches, then retreating back to the top 3 and sucking hard, then descending again, choking, and then letting the other have another go at it. Eleanor took the moment to trade places with her sister at their mother’s mouth, Bridget now taking throat-fulls of her father’s meat way-past her tonsils.
The other girls’ slurps & gurgles ceased, and then there were squeaks & shrieks, Eleanor squirming at her mother’s mouth, and glancing back again, Maggie now saw Gretchen in her father’s lap straddling him, her face hidden at his neck and his hands at her slip-of-a-waist, her ass perched high atop his cock and wriggling her hips ever forcibly lower onto him – then cramming her cunt full-all of George that she couldn’t get down her throat, and then feeling Bridget waiting behind her until she was through her hymen, and start pushing, noisily straight-arming the vibrator up her sister’s ass while she tried to work her way down, giving her as too-much too-soon as her was all her strength, venting her lusts until it was her turn for something.
Irregular pules & creaks were soon the slap-slap pace of pressed flesh, near-foot long leaps & plummets of hard-wide travel, Gretchen’s buns mashing George’s balls, the girl in a heat and in pursuit of the first orgasm that she’d come by honestly, the last of her virginities a smear of pink painted at her father’s groin; Eleanor made her mother’s face a shiny frosting of her own writhing lesbian-esque lusts, then crawled out from under Maggie’s mouth for her turn to climb aboard George and begin the same labored descent as had Gretchen.
Bridget hastily aligned herself under her mother’s face, her thighs bracketing her mother’s blond head, and Maggie saw little of the timidity in her that was of either of her other two daughters’ – she’d spent the last hour in the midst of her sisters’ sexing, and was by now wild to be sexed as well: some breath and a touch of tongue, and Bridget immediately began a slow writhe and groaning loudly, exhibiting none of the shy preface of her sisters. Maggie drank and lapped deeply from her daughter’s crotch, her grown-girl’s vulva fat and enflamed, her vagina an already hot and bothered bowl brimming with girl-soup, and Maggie caught up with her daughter’s ready impatience 20 seconds after beginning and in time for her too-soon dam-break, and she spent another half-hour and 2 climaxes more with Bridget to allow for her to settle and for Eleanor to finish with her business with George.
Eleanor lay back again, beckoning Gretchen, and she climbed atop her sister, slowly swinging a leg over Ellie’s head and squatting onto her face, and she in turn bringing a knee behind Gretchen’s neck, urging her head between her legs, each as firmly securing the other.
The camera was still watching, seeing all at once: on the sofa, now Bridget sitting astride her father, leaned into him and hugging his neck, her face pressed to his shoulder, jumping her haunches down & up and grunting and pumping vigorously in pursuit of her own piece, her pink rectum puckered and straining out as if for a kiss; and on the floor, Gretchen & Eleanor lying at odds, over & under, and their faces curtained behind their hair and hidden between the other’s thighs, their bodies rubbing and rocking at opposites and their heads bobbing at crotch.
And Maggie, observing her family, now resting laid back in the lounger with her knees over the armrests, feeling her girls’ fluids a thin transparent mask drying on her face, and half-wearing one of the robes draped off her shoulders and her legs wide divided, leisurely petting herself until it would be her turn, her daughters’ flavors a still fishy presence.
Gretchen & Eleanor were soon locked together in climax and crying out muffled into each’s muff and Bridget shook & twitched at what remained of her orgasm, her last stabs at herself slow & savoring, her smell wafting up her front between her and her daddy as if any further evidence was necessary.
Bridget unimpaled herself and the sisters scrambled into place, the three girls gathered kneeling between their father’s open legs, his daughters fondling his large balls and coaxing his erection with the wet warmth of their mouths in a kind of musical chairs – or Russian Roulette, each chancing his ejaculate last or first.
Gretchen and Bridget and Eleanor shared their father’s cock among themselves, servicing him a minute apiece for ten minutes more, and it was Eleanor then, leaning in again for yet another mouthful who took the first facial: a hot spew sharp as it was startling – then from right to left, Eleanor, Bridget and Gretchen, George distributed his load evenly over his daughters’ awaiting faces, their eyes closed tight and their father spunking into their open mouths and across their bright delight, bullets of sperm and their startled laughter a giggly amusement and his opaque half-pint dripping thick from their chins – their daddy’s ejaculate sweeping across their cheeks and brows and lips, a spray of semen spewing onto their looks, grey-white sludge hosing down his daughters’ fresh complexions with his cloudy broth and splashing his girls’ bright faces awash in their father’s glaze – sticky strings and strands strung in their hair and between them and striping their faces and foreheads in gooey crosshatches and interconnecting the trio in a wet web of their daddy’s byproduct, the girls unselfconsciously laughing at the common mess that bound them.
The girls affectionately licked clean each other’s faces of the gluey-white with the same care and fun absurdity as they’d as children once given themselves makeovers and applied makeup. Gretchen then lay over Bridget and they made short work of munching each other’s muffs – Eleanor now servicing her mother seated wide-open in the lounger, and after she’d made Maggie, Gretchen stepped into place for her share, and before Bridget could sit up Eleanor as well took a seat over Bridget’s mouth. Within an hour, the three girls, The Coup, would end up all converging on their mother at once as hyenas do easy prey – Maggie welcoming her daughters’ tongues & touches, their devouring of her as a blasphemous worship as is perfect all prayer.
The five of them would repeat this circus another night – soon and less formally, just for fun and their research moot – and then the girls’d be at ease enough with what was happening to cum unassisted; no one makes friends their first day at school, and it’d take another session before they’d be that chummy with being buttfucked. The three would spend the rest of the evening sitting sore and mushy from the waist back and saying into a voice-recorder everything they could think of regarding their ideal ordeal.
The Coup returned to school the following week and their classmates, virgins and vixens alike, sensed the change in them: their calm and confidence and focus – the three girls admitted to nothing one way or the other but found themselves respected nonetheless, if not a little feared.
As it turned out, the paper would take years to write, it’s thesis evolving to include their whole dynamic: all the lesbianism among themselves, and that time with their mother and the ensuing hetero-sex with their father – more than just the one buttfuck. They were home again on break from university, now 19 and sophomores, and nothing had happened, at least as a family, on any of their previous visits since that time two years ago; they’d been regularly doing each other queer in their dorm rooms, but no dick. The girls had seemed really, really glad to see their folks on the drive home from the airport – the five of them crowded into the back of the limousine, there were many more ostensibly accident, lingering touches & squeezes of curves and crotches and a bulge than excited chat and close proximity could excuse – and now two days into their visit Maggie sensed her daughters’ would not wait long: today it was early afternoon, and she had just got back from an errand to the bank, having deposited yet more royalties.
Indeed, before her key was in the door she could hear the knock-knock-knock against a far wall within. Inside, a voice loudly accompanied the pounding and she saw Bridget and Gretchen lounging in the main room with wine-coolers, the sisters dressed in nighties too flimsy to be warm and too sexy to be comfortable – in the middle of the day and in line for their turn – and from her daughters’ bedroom the violent sound of a third young woman shrieking to her daddy to do her harder, faster.
Bridget approached her mother with a drink for her, smiling, closing the front door behind her and bolting it:
“Hi mommy” not as a child, kissing her mother’s lips, gently, and shooting her some tongue, and Maggie as jazzed by her daughters’ strength and assuredness as was George by her own; the sisters were ferocious regarding each other’s welfare, but with the most satisfying appetites they knew often came necessary harm: it was Ellie getting banged and it would soon be another of her girls, and then the other, because this is what they wanted – and too this girl-love also, her daughters aggressing sex on her as well; it blew her away and they could go out to the theater another night.
“We’ve missed you” said Gretchen, as sweetly, honestly licentious; they were older and wanted some alone-time sex, with their mother too while another was alone with their father. “Daddy thought we should wait…” elsewhere her sister’s voice desperate , begging him to spare her nothing, “ – but Ellie was insistent.”
Maggie let herself into her daughters’ bedroom for a peek and saw all she’d been hearing: their backs to her, her brother – her man and his scrawny shanks hauling into a lush, younger spread – their daughter on all-fours in front of him and the girl’s hands pressed to the headboard as they repeatedly beat marks into the wall with the small bed; an empty jar of Vaseline lay discarded aside them. Maggie stepped toward this salt-raw incest and put an arm over George’s shoulder, observing, and he slowed his pace to address her – evenly, deliberate, his prick pistoning in & out of the girl’s rectum like a machine on idle.
“…there’s still the other two…” he told his sister, his lover, the mother of this daughter of his of whom he was sodomizing.
“I know; we’ll be busy ourselves” and leaning down to tell her daughter, “ – save some for your sisters; they’re waiting.” Eleanor had only the breath to grin back at her, but then managed “ – save some of you for me.”
George brought his hand off the naked asscheek of a nineteen-year-old girl he was presently having ass-sex with to place it over the bluejean-ed butt-round of an older woman who would never be this fresh again, and looked up at her as if it were all the same: she knew he hadn’t forgotten her and that first time, that very first time – when they were sixteen, before the video, before they dared touch each other again, and had done this very thing so badly in that motel room so very long ago and far away in their experience, and it was still something sweet between them because they had both cried afterwards – kids folded in each other’s arms and scared at the mess they’d made of their emotions and the only bed they could afford; they’d stayed close the whole night, sleeping together in the middle of the wet spot of their blood & semen and God didn’t hate them.
Maggie bent down and kissed her young lady’s bum, adding a hungry love-bite and a pat of her quim:
“Don’t hurt yourself, baby.”
“uh-huh…” she delighted to her mother, and George began again big squishes of his daughter’s anus with his thrusts and the headboard was again a racket; Maggie closed the door on her way back to Gretchen and Bridget, and overheard Eleanor privately free once more to yell every vile thing she’d ever wanted say about wanting her daddy to fuck her butt while he was fucking her butt and her sisters felt every word of it and started in on their mother in their anxiousness for their moment to say the same.
Maggie let herself be lead over to the couch for a brief sit between her near-naked daughters, and did nothing to assist their quick undress of her – made nude but for her bra & panties, the three of them friendly regarding what was about to happen for the 2nd time in as many years; they removed her bra for whole sucking mouthfuls of their mother’s fruits and got her underwear off for a taste of her true flavor, and Maggie lay a leg over their shoulders each, drawing both her daughters’ faces between her thighs nearer from where they came almost twenty years ago and ever feeling their tongues crazily soft & electric in her increasing wetness. To her right, as yet unmentioned and still colorfully boxed in its cardboard and bright cellophane, lay a ridiculously huge dildo she knew to be no novelty gag: “14 inches long! 4 Inches Wide!” if not for the straps & buckles it should have been only a joke. Next to it, less significantly, lay the girls’ regular aid, just the standard six inches, built for pleasure rather than as a test of one’s mettle, its wear apparent.
Eleanor would step-in for Bridget, limping bow-legged and dripping from their room and falling into place between her mother’s thighs, and it would next be Bridget’s shouts and bed-wrecking for forty more minutes so soon after the door was closed. And then, again finally, Gretchen from the other side of those walls, alternately losing breath and screaming for greater depth and speed as her ass was pushed to swallow meat she could hardly hold for a last squirt of sperm where it didn’t belong.
The family regrouped in the main room, the girls collected on the couch close to their mother and George seated in the lounger, all of varied post-coital flush and the gargantuan sex toy still lying in wait unexplained. George drank beer, his bald cock fat and exhausted in his lap, and sensed he would be audience again to something among his women; the females spoke only with their eyes and smiles and slight motions and adjustments – to George as well, but becoming increasingly involved and inversely less conscious of his watch.
Bridget began un-packaging the synthetic cock – she could have been only unfolding a newspaper, as naturally obvious as they all were nude, but the moment announced itself; she and Gretchen carefully strapped Eleanor into the dildo and it didn’t matter that it was initially she who would first do their mother – the tool half-again larger than was her brother, this hard-rubber mass would be way-big up Maggie from all her girls regardless of who went at her first. Maggie would not kid herself – this was very suddenly about to be very much not about sex; she had been through this before with her brother.
Bridget and Gretchen took their mother by the hand, and Maggie let herself be lead by her two daughters to be positioned on her knees & elbows for her third, the giant fake-dick unwieldy bobbing between Eleanor’s legs in counter-tempo to the feminine swish of the girl’s hips. Maggie sensed her brother about to come to her rescue – he could be so clueless, but he did love her so, she smiled to herself; all he had, including their daughters, was as a result of her – and she waved him off with a small move of her hand and a nod; so much for him cleaning-up his act, George sat back down and lit a cigarette and took a long swig of more beer.
An act of invasiveness and dominance performed with such slow gentleness – if the girls were any more considerate it wouldn’t be buttfucking at all – despite it all from all-three of her grown-girls, a seemingly endless stretch of love as effort: dispelling all guilts and shames and self-consciousness with this mutual humility, these four women hugging crumpled upon each other and locked in a embrace so as to hold them all together, this sodomy of mother by daughters a loving chore for both; the girls couldn’t have been more tender with their mother had they been shampooing her hair – the softness in their eyes, their expressions, penetrations as if deep caresses, a massage as careful as so monstrous an assfucking could be managed, the struggle to not lose ground as great as that to progress.
It had been years since Maggie was tight enough to be overwhelmed; her brother could still sting her fanny, but hard, regular practice had reduced unbridled trauma to a surprise that always, but only, caught her a little off-guard. George always liked that she’d never quite get used to it.
And so Maggie hid nothing this afternoon as well – curled on all-fours, she lay her head alternately in each of her daughters’ laps and held them tight about their waists as firmly as she herself was held her in place, a second girl comforting & caressing of their mother as the third plowed at her with the forever-giant mock-prick as does a farm machine dig at the earth – and she would shout and carry-on as the damage warranted; but Bridget and Gretchen and Eleanor had each in turn worn that same expression themselves another evening earlier two years ago – that feeling from behind of being gutted without having been actually cut – and the three girls knew that first, tried look: that split-second too late that they’d changed their minds, and then just endlessly enduring until it got better.
As were her daughters still agape, once it was all done – a careful half-hour later, all three girls having done their ten minutes apiece boring-open their mother’s anus as was theirs by their father – air rushed fresh up Maggie’s bowels as does weather through an open window and while semen still dribbled from her daughters’ rectums, and the four women sat in a huddle at the site of their lovely demolition, all four whispering broken-voice and quietly crying to each other as do women when comforting each other & themselves; or not unlike soldiers having survived a battle – we all pretty much work the same way.
George was suddenly very afraid and within seconds of a panic & bolting from this very dangerous alliance of his women, when they all looked at him at once, seeing his fear – smiling at him and half-laughing through their tears, the women beautifully looking back at each other genuinely happy & relived and then looking back again at him, sniffling and wiping their noses and laughing some more – and the females in the room let the lone male know he had nothing to fear, this was not about him.
The family recovered together – remaining naked and casually, lovingly switching out among each other in pairs and threesomes as their desires and energies lead them; they ordered Chinese take-out and made dessert of each other where conventional cream & syrup could be found, listening to the crap that was usual television and drinking wine and getting high and speaking of whatever came to mind and the five of them in no hurry for anything in particular, happily content to simply love and make love as their desires and energies lead them further still.
However much George was ever satisfied again, he would never again be among these four women of his whom he so dearly loved without being somewhat prepared to die.
Maggie had kept just out of reach of her brother’s touch, at first playfully, then insisting.
For days after he’d last done the girls she believed she was just letting him rest, renew his juices; at three weeks she knew better but staved him off with promises that this abstinence would make them all the more hungrier for each other, and then nearing a month George knew too she was afraid: crows feet and birth lines – no grown woman, however hot, can be told she’s preferable to a teenage girl, let alone three.
He’d finally had enough one evening, untucking her shirt and making plain he would not be put off any longer. He just needed a piece and hers would do, she told him, bringing her shirt back down and trying to step away, refusing him outright; he’d not let go.
“I could call the girls and one would manage to meet with me somewhere” pausing; he had more to say but for one more moment let her continue to think what she was thinking.
“ – I was a rite of passage; you they wanted, and so do I” and he tugged her closer.
“Not here” she surrendered, weakly, and leading him toward the bedroom; or rather, out of the den, the light.
As they entered the bedroom, George reached for the low-watt corner lamp they used as backlight.
Maggie gave up. She put her hand atop his, stopping him, not looking at him.
“…please?” she asked quietly, and he let her keep the room dark, the streetlamps outside below their window providing only the dimmest means by which to see. She took the two remaining bottles of Go-Glide from the dresser and held them up for him to choose:
“They’re peach and margarita…”
“Okay…” do me dry then; I’ll take what I can get. She knew they had coconut oil, but didn’t offer it.
Maggie quickly stripped out of her sweatshirt and jeans; she might as well have been alone and in a hurry for a bath. She went over to the bed to peal off her panties, threw her bra aside as if it were dead, and lay face-down on the bed looking out the window at the night – her chest pressed to the mattress and her haunches high in the air, the white moonlight reflecting off her own moons, as if to demonstrate how very cherry she was not. He squared-up to her and quickly did her several times raw in the ass, but she made no noise.
“Is this what you want?” her brother, from behind her, stroking.
“mm-mhuh…; more – ” like you did them, she said, his sister, naming names.
He’d not listen to this. George stopped and sat out of her light, next to her and holding her as wide open and kissing and tonguing the gape he’d made. She was beginning to feel worshipped again. He brought the cocoanut oil out of the bedside drawer and pulled Maggie over onto her back. She was meeting his eyes again, watching him trickling streams from her nipples to her knees and drawing circles over her abdomen, her brother anointing his sister with their tradition: coconut was their scent for sex, having always reminded them of sweet nakedness, and it went well with sweat.
He massaged the slicks into her pores, in turn lifting her arms to lick & suck her armpits and then her breasts, all the while slowly smoothing his palm over her body and the whole length of her flesh now shiny in the twilight. “This is our thing…” George said, not so much speaking to her, and Maggie not so much able anymore to suppress a smile. They both knew he had won her over and she was now kinda milking it – it was he who was the moody one, but he promised himself he would from now on baby her regularly; his sister had her base lusts, but sex shouldn’t always be play-for-play’s-sake: it should on occasion be as dead-serious as something so life-affirming warranted – and they weren’t exactly alike: she needed to be cherished and he swore he would remember this. Stupid, he thought himself: he was always cherished by her, in all ways, especially giving herself over to him, for anything – no wonder rough fucks were enough.
George rolled her onto her front and similarly buttered all the length of her other side, particularly relaxing her neck and shoulders, down her back to her waist, curiously skipping over her buns to smooth the backs of her legs; her face turned toward him, she watched him rub her down and thought cute this obvious de-emphasis of his favorite part of her figure; she let him be good to her for a while longer, then pulled a cheek aside inviting him to pour an ounce down her hole – he was being so nice, it’s time again; have some cake.
Her brother got behind her again and she drew up onto her hands & knees, this time agreeably and enthused, participatory, and Maggie held ready for the good ramming she knew he at heart wanted to give her.
George instead entered her slowly – gently? this wasn’t like him regarding sodomy; by contrast he had been all-downtown with the girls – and pulled her upright so as seating her heavily onto his pole to the hilt and embracing her: no huge strokes and ass-slaps, her brother just had her wholly settle onto his prick to the root lovingly, caressing her breasts and abdomen and softly kissing & whispering to Maggie to not speak, don’t move, sweet nothings of how just this was good – just this with her, his so very beautiful sister, was so very good.
And it was all so very lovely for the time; but gradually George was silent also, and it was soon a challenge for them to both be so simply still and quiet.
It was another game, this intercourse left to only squeezes and busses, touching noses over her shoulder and looking closely into each other’s eyes – each waiting out the other: ‘you go first’, wordlessly, addressing the mute motionlessness with fun stubbornness and both thinking this the other’s struggle: ‘you go first’, planted, rather than shoveling at her ditch, neither holding the other in place and left to resist their own tendencies themselves without aid of force or restraint: then ( …), their smiles waning and their expressions deepening, each recognizing their own lusts in the other’s look and discovering it was themselves they were trying to outlast, together –
(they shouldn’t be doing this at all, ever, not any of the incest they’d indulged in all their lives and with which made a family – an admission of guilt that made it all the better; Maggie liked treating herself to these thoughts: dirty girl – good heart.)
(and his daughters had been ripe and delicate and tight and George had enjoyed them and felt bad for not having felt bad at all; the girls were good with it, so he could afford this. But Maggie was substantive – she brought her whole being into the bedroom; she got him.)
– holding back a power of nature as does a dam.
A dirty, increasing tickle – breaking sweat and their minds racing with the building effort to do nothing – then a maddening need to screw and ponies straining at the reins; she began to whimper though didn’t speak, and he moaned though didn’t move, and their looks beseeching and groping the other for words or means they could run with while their lusts suffocated for fuck – his erection twitching and her sphincter throbbing of their own, neither brother nor sister sure whose pulse was which and their flesh stabbing & gripping for more direct action than their wills would allow.
To fall forward would be to invite thrusts, to surrender; Maggie leaned back without rest against her brother and felt him nearer his relief – locked upright, his chest muscles and thighs and abdomen as relentlessly hard as was his cock stiff in her ass; his body hair, even, seemed erect – and in the slow pre-count of his dry spasms, she made damp his balls with her first fluids, then shuddered and let go her own warm orgasm as he quietly dumped a flow of liquid heat into her, a sunshine flood of semen up her butt as easy-going as a summer Sunday afternoon.
Even soft, there was enough of him for a flaccid six inches to sleep snug inside her; they addressed each other now, finally, with words, the two of them still holding close and still still in tandem embrace and whispering each to the one they were so dearly in love with things that needed to be said. After a time, neither having moved from their place at the other, Maggie felt her brother hardening broad again and grow slowly the four remaining inches of his full length back up her bowels, George gently creeping deep back up his sister’s bottom again as if being secret.
She leaned forward onto her elbows, her fingers closing over the bed sheets, her white-knuckle grasp a grip of the mattress as if to hold onto the surface of their world no less than her grip of her brother, smiling; he took ahold of her hips as if this fistful of his sister’s flesh meant his very life, hearing her smile, smiling as well and glad because of her himself.
Then deep then smooth.
Then deep then smooth again.
Slick. Good. Great. Wet.
Close. Almost. There. Almost.
Slop. Hot. Fill.
Soak. Slop. Full.
This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than Lushstories.com
with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.
<a href="http://www.lushstories.com/stories/incest/one-in-three.aspx">One In Three</a>