Vanessa drew back — her father was on the knife edge of orgasm, trying to hold it off. She could see his whole body tensing, his fighting to retain control. And she was amazed to see that, despite everything, her mother seemed to understand. The thrusting of her hips, the grinding of her thighs slowed; she waited for him, even as (with noises like a hound of hell) she continued to devour Josh’s dick.
She backed away from her father, despite her longing for him, and fell forward onto the bed beside her mother. She wasn’t helping that way; she needed to help her mother cum. Neal needed no help cumming, God knew. It was Sherry who might need nudging over the edge. Vanessa had lost it for a second there, but now, as her own naked curves melted into that of her mother’s, she felt her duty was clear.
As she touched her mother’s nipples for the first time, burying her fingers beneath her splayed, sweaty tits, she watched her mother’s mouth sucking, saw her tongue slurping at Josh’s hard red cock. Her brother looked down at both of them with an unreal expression, a look as bereft of cockiness and egotism and smartass as she’d ever received from him. She kissed between the pale, heavy breasts and licked between them, and laid her head against them to hear her mother’s hammering heartbeat, the gurgling noises she made. She met her father’s eyes, briefly, as he resumed his slow stroking, watched his belly loom closer with every thrust, saw the curls of his pubis merge with her mother’s rhythmically, hypnotically. For a while she suckled one of her mother’s nipples, tugging at it with her teeth, marveling at its hardness, its stalky length. Keeping her face ever close to the pale flesh, she glided downward, across the white expanse of belly to the hips and upper thighs. She encountered the jungle of hair with a small shock — she hadn’t been able to tell just how overgrown her mother was until now (waaay hairy pussy, her brother had said, ages ago). Into this mass of dark curls the long, glistening barrel of her father’s gun kept sluicing, burrowing, pistoning wetly. She could hear the squelching, maddening sound it made as it entered and withdrew, the sound of some soft-working, well-oiled machine. Only by watching the slippery mushroom head could she see, in the shadows, the fat cleft of the lips accepting this hard offering. Keeping her fingers splayed on the soft belly flesh, that she might feel the tension and release of orgasm, and breathing in deeply the musky aroma of her parents’ sex, Vanessa moved closer.
She knelt, like a lapper at a pool, nudging through the thick curly grass of hair to find the sweet, wet opening. The hot folds electrified her tongue, flooded her senses with woman-ness. She hadn’t slept with a woman in quite some time, and never with a woman like this. Her girls had been sleek and shaved, their bodies studded with piercings, their skin exuding the scent of clove cigarettes. This woman, this body was somehow primordial, savage, basic — fleshy, overgrown, fertile and pungent. Natural. She dimly realized that she was at the site of her own being, that her own life had begun right here, with these two slow-working, passionate bodies. The thought, if it could be called a thought, excited her further — she felt an infusion of wetness between her legs, a sudden stabbing ache of emptiness in her pussy, and began lapping at the bowl with greater rapidity.
At first she had rested her chin at the very crest of her mother’s opening, dipping her tongue downward tentatively, fascinated at the sight of this wet, wide pussy accepting the hard steel that was her father’s cock. But after a minute of dancing her tongue-tip across the delicate folds, like a child stealing frosting from a cake, she felt the belly flesh beneath her fingers set up and firm, becoming as rigid as a table. Her mother’s obvious excitement excited her even more, and she snaked her tongue deeper between the plump, oily lips. The fire in her belly, in her breasts only increased when, delving deep into the hot gash, her tongue met the solid, plunging rigidity of her father’s cock. Vanessa felt the coarse pussy curls grinding against her cheek and chin, the slapping of her father’s belly as he stroked. She inhaled the scent of pure sex. She dug her fingers into the firmness beneath her, willing it to give way, to let loose.
There came an animal snarling, snorting sound from behind her; she stopped the wild whipping of her tongue long enough to look behind her. Across the pale landscape of her mother’s undulating curves, her brother, his body twisted, stomach so tight she could see his heart thumping, clawing desperately at his own shoulders, having nothing else to hold onto; his face contorted, the chipped tooth plainly visible in the dim light; her mother, upper torso raised from the bed, resting on her elbows; her lips working, her cheeks hollowed, throat muscles contorting, Adam’s Apple bobbing. This sight, this delicious sight, framed by the splayed, peaked hillocks of her mother’s breasts, for a few seconds only met her gaze, filled her vision — she then dived into the pussy once more, the thought buzzing through her head crazily: Josh is cumming, Mom is swallowing his cum . . . The idea flashed through her mind, stoked all her lustfulness. She wanted to be her mother, fucked by her father, swallowing her brother’s spurting cum — wanted to be Josh, loosing his seed into that gluttonous mouth — wanted to be Neal, relentlessly fucking, driving, working that fat pussy, this fat, hairy pussy. Most of all, she wanted her mother to cum. She wanted to make her mother cum. She wanted to feel it, to know it, to make it happen.
Her face sideways in the cleft, jammed, sucking plump, slick lips into her mouth. The hips shaking beneath her, the gurgling, grunting sounds. Her brother’s groans lengthening and softening. The exact moment when he broke free of his mother’s tireless suction, the popping sound, the intake of breath, Sherry’s long sobbing moan. Hands on her head while she sucked — her father’s. He smoothed the hair behind her ears as he had since she was a girl, before grabbing a handful of it. A hand on her ass, questing fingers dipping into her crack — her mother’s? her brother’s? it didn’t matter. She sucked and thrashed, whipping her tongue against the brave clit button, poking out into her mouth. She focused her all upon it, bathed it with violent affection, as she did every dick she had sucked, every throbbing cock she’d ever tasted, when she wanted them to explode.
A sudden quake, a tremor — and the bridge collapsed beneath her, the belly jerked, the hips thumped, her mother cried. Her nose, her mouth suddenly awash with hot, thick girl honey, pouring out, washing the still pounding cock. Her father, muttering long and fast, religious and obscene words mingled. The hand in her hair becoming a fist, pulling her away, a long rope of spit and juice linking her to the scene — just as suddenly, just as roughly, thrusting her face back into the mess, while stomachs spasmed, bodies groaned and cursed around her. Her mouth wrapped around the shaft of her father’s pulsing cock like she was eating corn on the cob, her lips feeling the cum coursing through it, into her mother. Slurping, vacuuming the juice from its length, from its sticky base, to the place where it lay lost between the tight gripping lips. The cries lengthening and dying, the shuddering flesh subsiding.
Mashed between the two bellies, sobbing, her face soaked, she extracted one hand, extended one aching arm, and found her own orgasm at her fingertips, the very instant they touched her own quivering pussy.
***
They sat silent. Dazed. Puzzled.
There were no words to account for it, no way to explain it. Only the shaking of heads, grumbled curses. Wide eyes. Disbelief.
It wasn’t simply that the boundaries between them had been crossed; no, they had been rudely, irrevocably smashed.
The Father had seen the Mother sucking the Son.
The Son had watched the Father fucking his Mother.
The Daughter had lapped from the Mother’s cunt.
There was, quite simply, nothing left between them. No walls, no rituals. Nothing sacred.
And yet, Who They Were to each other, fundamentally, had not changed: husband, wife, father, mother, daughter, son, sister, brother. (Master, mistress, son and daughter, as the song went.) What had happened between them was either far above, or far below, the meaning of such relationships. It was either fine and wonderful, imminently understandable, blameless . . . or base and instinctual, inexcusable, guilt-ridden. But it had happened, and there were no words to explain it.
No one I think is in my tree, remembered Neal, bemusedly. I mean it must be high or low.
He was sunk into his chair in the den, smoking his first cigarette in eight years. (A Virginia Slims, and a menthol — he didn’t care.) Across the room, his bruised son sat huddled into a corner of the couch; snuggled close to him, his poor pregnant daughter. She and Neal wore bathrobes over their nakedness, the boy wore only a pair of cotton briefs. Vanessa had sat with him, Neal gathered, because she intuitively sensed he needed her more. The kid had been a smug and headstrong smartass ever since he hit puberty, and he could get on your nerves awful damn quick, but seeing him deflated, dumb, and senseless was somehow worse. Vanessa lay her head on his shoulder, stroked his arm. She was there to soothe, though she must have been as shocked as he was at what had happened . . .
They’re lovers, Neal thought, watching them, weighing the horrid incongruity. They are lovers, they fuck each other.
Too late, much too late to worry about that. They were more than that now, or less.
Good God, what had he done? What had he been thinking? He took a deep drag and exhaled, tracing the perversely complicated thought patterns in the air.
He had been a fair logician at school, a dab hand at critical thinking. The problem — or one problem anyway — lay in his own internal words. Good God, he had thought, what had he been thinking? Neal believed in no god. As for thinking, he hadn’t been. He had only acted, on the purest instinct. He had been angry and desperate, jealous and confused, lonely and in pain. The anger, the angst, had turned to lust, as it so often does.
So once more, he thought, it was all down to him and his stupid dick.
There was nothing so unbalanced, so basically illogical as lust. Look at sex talk, for instance: the crap that passed for speech when the throes of orgasm were upon you.
Oh Jesus, I’m gonna cum.
Now there were two disparate ideas — two words that definitely did not belong in the same sentence.
Likewise: Oh fuck, oh my God.
Then there were formulations like God, I love you, you bitch and its variations. Had he really entrusted them all, his own family, to thought patterns like this? Things had been bad enough, surely, without handing all the decisions over to his endlessly selfish dong.
“Should I . . . go up and check again?” asked Vanessa, her voice tiny and fearful, stabbing.
He looked at the clock. It had only been ten minutes.
“No. Give her a little while longer.”
The silence returned, a pall, a dank cloak that hung over them all.