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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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One In Three
by Brian Francis Ferguson (bfrncs63@aol.com)
***
Now the girls wanted what their mother has for so long
enjoyed... (FFM, inc, oral, anal, orgy)
***
Place. Hold. Set.
Soft. Closed. Tight.
Length. Breadth.
Depth.
Push. Clutch. Pushing.
Tighter. Harder.
Dry. Big. Give.
In. Warm.
Deep. Drag.
Then deep then drag.
Then deep then drag again.
And again.
"Is this what you want?" her brother, from behind her,
stroking. "Mmm-mhuh... m-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 and 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 and 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 and 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
and 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 and 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.
Then proceeded.
"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 and 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 and
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 and
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 and 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 and 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 and
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 and 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 and 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 and 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 and
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 and 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
and 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 and tickle,
feeling each other up and comparably remarking on their
body parts – their breasts and nipples, their legs and
butts, the girls admiring of Maggie's big tits and
sumptuous ass, and Maggie nostalgic for a time when she
was as youth-lean and 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 and 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 and 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 and 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 and gurgles ceased, and then
there were squeaks and 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 and creaks were soon the slap-slap pace
of pressed flesh, near-foot long leaps and 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.
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 and 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 and Eleanor
lying at odds, over and 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 and Eleanor were soon locked together in
climax and crying out muffled into each's muff and
Bridget shook and twitched at what remained of her
orgasm, her last stabs at herself slow and 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
and 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 and
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 and 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,s" 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.
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 and 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 and 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 and 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
and 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 and 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 and 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.
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 and
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 and 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 and 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 and 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..."
"Neither."
"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... m-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 and 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.
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 and 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 and 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 and
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 a hold 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.
***
Deep. Smooth.
Then deep then smooth.
Then deep then smooth again.
And again.
Slick. Good. Great. Wet.
Fast. Thick.
Driving.
Hard. Wide.
Driving.
Close. Almost. There. Almost.
There.
Slop. Hot. Fill.
And there.
Soak. Slop. Full.
The End
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Kristen's collection - Directory 56