He held one hand, the other she ran through her hair, then, absently, let roam across the front of her robe, over her breasts, to her stomach. How fantastic it had felt. Neal filling her up, making her gasp with every stroke, so hard and so big inside her she could feel him in her throat. Her son, at least as big as his daddy, crying out while she sucked him — his burning skin against her lips, the broad head at the back of her throat, the powerful spurts of his cum. Her daughter, kissing and nuzzling her tits, sucking her nipples raw. Her tongue dancing over her clit, expertly, like she ate pussy every day. That girl, Sherry thought, shaking her head, has got a lot of explaining to do, some time.
It was all so unreal, dirty pictures glimpsed through the haze, an obscene, guilty dream. That haze, she thought again, that ugly haze had made it possible. Under the influence of the three D’s — drugs, drink and despair — she had accidentally done something beautiful. Consciously she would have rejected it, as wrong, immoral, unthinkable, gross. In that patently irrational condition, though . . .
Maybe that was the answer. She and Neal had always been fairly rational people — they could not have enjoyed many of their common interests otherwise. But sex, especially crazy, kinky, “improper” sex, was not rational: it was basic, instinctive, raw. It did not fit into the rational world, but it could not be suppressed either. Suppress it and shit happens. Suppress it, and you get desperate, depressed, self-destructive, as she had been for the past week. Suppress it, and you fall prey to infidelity and deceit, as Neal had done. Maybe the answer was to allow it, but contain it. Maybe sanctioning irrationality once in a while was completely rational. Everybody needed a chance to blow the lid off, to loose all that madness. It made sense to do that . . . as long as it was confined to the space of a few days.
Or even, she wondered, to the space of one’s own family?
Her eyes fell on the Christmas decorations at the kitchen window: the arcing garland, the electric candles. A Santa Claus decal, clinging to the frosty pane.
“Neal,” she said, “what was it you told me Christmas used to be?”
“Um,” he grunted, clearly surprised by the question, “well, there were no trees and stuff. Prince Albert brought a lot of that to England when –”
“No, no — not what did it used to be like. What was it, before it was Christmas? You said something about it once . . .”
“Oh. You mean the Saturnalia.”
“Yeah.” She squeezed his hand — her man, the bookworm. “How did that go again?”
“Well, in the old Roman calendar all the months were the same length. Like thirty days or something. And there was no leap year. So every year there were a few days at the end just sort of ‘left over.'”
“And those were party days?” Sherry said.
“Right — very rowdy party days. Slaves got to be masters, masters were slaves. Sex, drunkenness, gluttony. That sort of thing.”
“So what happened,” Sherry asked, rubbing around her right breast in a lazy circle, “if you did something that had . . . I dunno . . . consequences? I mean, you couldn’t just shoot someone, could you?”
“Well, you couldn’t shoot anyone anyhow.”
“You know what I mean. You couldn’t, like, chop somebody’s head off, or get somebody pregnant, or something like that.”
“Chop their head, probably not. Get ’em pregnant, yeah probably. I don’t really know. Far as I remember, unless it was really bad, you just did what you did and that was that. Sorta like a ‘Whatever happens in Vegas’ kinda thing.”
She nodded thoughtfully, taking a sip of her wine . . . wine, that would certainly have been part of it. Bacchus or whatever his name was. There was something intrinsically sexy about wine; she decided that long ago. Just lately, during all her depressed days, she’d been drinking to escape, to forget, or to pretend things weren’t happening. Now in her younger days, she remembered, she used to drink to have sex. Drink was a wonderful lubricant, so to speak. And wine had always been her favorite.
As she sat, feeling the tannins tugging at the back of her throat — that place where her son’s big cockhead had been — her mind conjured up the ancient days, the ancient people lost in the joys of their Saturnalia. Strong, fit husbands tugging up their togas to reveal their cocks, the kitchenmaids falling to service them (did they have kitchenmaids?). The mother of the house, allowed for a little while to fuck the brains out of that one slave she’d always fancied. The children, free to run naked, the older people chasing their warm young bodies. Surely in times like that, in cultures like that, brothers had sisters, fathers had daughters, sons had mothers . . .?
Damn those ancient fuckers. It made a lot of sense. It really made a lot of sense.
You blow off the god-damned lid, you blow the hell out of it. Then you get on with it, at least till next year. And if you screwed up, if one of your kids screwed up, or your husband, you dealt with it. You moved on.
You accepted it and you moved on.
Sherry’s wandering finger came to rest on her nipple. It was hard, poking against the yellow terrycloth. The one touch sent a thrill throughout her body.
She glanced at the clock atop the refrigerator. Three forty-five. In a few more hours the sun would be up. But only in a few more hours. Their own “Saturnalia” did not need to be over yet.
She tugged aside the hem of her robe, pulled her plump tit out with its yearning brown nipple. Neal’s eyes widened — she took his hand and put his fingers on the hardened tip. He grasped it, twisted and stroked it automatically. A wave of pleasure doused her, nestling in her hips and stomach. His hand widened, cupping the front of her breast. His eyes were shocked but wakeful. She read desire there.
He crossed to her and knelt on the tile floor, taking her nipple into his mouth while she pulled her other tit free. She petted his hair while he fed and drained the rest of her wine. With nothing in her stomach, as tired as she was, that should give her a little buzz. Not a stupor; just enough to find the balls do this.
“Come on,” she ordered her husband. “Follow me . . .”
Neal stood and followed obediently as she led him down the hall, past the row of family pictures, beneath the mistletoe and streamers, and into the darkened den . . .
. . . her daughter had awakened slowly under her kisses, long kisses around her cheeks and along her neck. She had started awake, eyes full of panic, panic that had subsided, had drifted away, when Sherry touched her lips with her own.
She had been thinking that the only thing wrong, truly wrong, with their sex upstairs had been the beginning: the tears, the cries, the hysteria. She thought that if she started it, deliberately, if she could control it and monitor it, then maybe —
Eventually Vanessa started kissing back. Sherry noticed, as she felt the questing tongue in her mouth, that her daughter closed her eyes. Maybe that was why people closed their eyes during lovemaking, she thought — festivals like Saturnalia. You closed yourself off from distractions, like who you were kissing, who was fucking you, and you focused on the pleasure. She moved her daughter’s hand to her breast thinking that again, it made sense.
A cold draft between her legs. Neal was raising her robe from behind her, his hand was cupping her snatch. She held one breast for her daughter to suck and soon felt hot hardness bump against her ass . . .
. . . her son did not understand, but he did not struggle. She kissed him twice, kisses that painted his face with his sister’s juice. All the while her hips were gyrating uncontrollably. Her knees burned from the rug but she ignored it. She also ignored Josh’s quizzical expression, barely visible in the darkness, choosing instead to hear his quickening breath as she reached down between her legs to find his fat dick — so fat, so long and fat in her hand.
The recliner had proved too awkward a place for lovemaking — they had dragged him onto the floor before it. Now he sat stupidly with his back against the chair, arms still at his sides, while she mounted him. He needed some encouragement, either too sleepy or too confused to participate. With long strokes she coaxed him into it, thinking while she did so that no, that could not be why people closed their eyes, not entirely. Because part of the pleasure, part of the savage joy that could not be contained, that you needed to let out or you would die, was the knowledge of who you were loving. That’s my son . . . my son, she thought, as she guided the tip between her lips.
Someone stumbled by her in the darkness, bumped into her shoulder, just as Josh began thrusting up into her a little. A few seconds more and an ass was in her face: a smooth ass, rounded. Vanessa’s. She cupped the cheeks with her hands, feeling the body lower in front of her. She heard the frantic licking noises before she realized what was happening.
My son is inside me, she thought, savoring the thought. My son is licking my daughter, his sister . . .
. . . on her hands and knees, like an animal, she crawled across the carpet to where the dark forms were writhing. She could hear Neal grunting, cursing, approving — could just see the tip of his cock, peeping out, disappearing, between his daughter’s breasts. Vanessa was sighing, almost sobbing, calling him daddy. She moved down the prostrate form, behind where her husband’s straining back shone from the hall light. For a while she listened to the snuffling, liquid sounds, then reached her hand out to find their source in the shadows, to ruffle her son’s hair. She gritted her teeth and pushed his face further into his sister’s pussy, held him there while he gasped and sucked.
She was angry, she thought. She was vengeful, she was vicious. She was brutal, she was wicked, she was nasty.
She was incredibly horny.