Scrambled Holiday

bysr71plt©

* * * *

Merri woke smiling and humming as she stretched, pulling back only slightly on her expressions of "well done" as she realized she was alone in the bed. She felt thoroughly satisfied. She realized how tense she'd been of late. The variety had loosened her up—and, in Clifford's case, stretched her out quite nicely. The other poor young man didn't have much of a cock, but, boy, the pleasure he could give with his tongue, lips, and teeth. Her hands went to her nipples, which were sore from his sucking and teething—but gloriously so. Her fingers felt the same level of post-attention sensitivity between her thighs. But she left her fingers in both places, circling the sensitive nubs lightly with her fingers. After a short while, she moved the hand playing with her nipples to the bedside stand and took out her "John Holmes," slathered it up, nudged it in, and touched the switch. "Ahh . . .hh . . .aahhh." Somewhere in her pleasure hour she began to make comparisons and to wonder if a Clifford mold could be made. And what about a combination of a Clifford and a Paul. Yum. Except no, she already had that in her John Holmes. She also let her mind drift back to when her mother had given her the John Holmes.

She had thought it would be preliminary foreplay, with her father watching from across the room and stroking himself, preparing himself for them. She was on her back on the bed, within Muriel's embrace. Her face was buried in her mother's cleavage. Muriel liked the breast play. She liked it too, except that it inhibited her a bit, the embarrassment of the comparison between her endowments and those of her mother. One of Muriel's arms was around her back, raising her a bit from the surface of the bed, and the fingers of the hand of that arm were stroking one of Merri's nipples. Muriel's other hand was busy teasing Merri's clit in the folds of her V. Clifford was off on a cycling trip with his gang members and Merri hadn't been fucked for days. She was ripe for it. Having only discovered sex when she hit twenty and then having gotten it from a prize A cock, she couldn't get enough of it now.

Paul moved over to the bed, above Merri's head. Merri expected him to pull her up, bend her over, and mount her then. This was before Merri had read those magazine articles on incest down at the clinic and was still letting her father pump her cunt. But it was Muriel who was working her way down Merri's body with her lips and tongue. Merri was writhing with her mother's face buried in her cunt, snacking on her clit. Paul came down with his knees on either side of Merri's head and reached down and took her hands in his, interlacing the fingers, holding her hands captive. Muriel lifted her head and raised a hand so that Merri could see it—black rubber, long and thick. Muriel called it a John Holmes and told Merri it would be hers to keep after Mother had taught her how to use it to best advantage. Paul raised Merri's torso with his hold on her hands, bringing her mouth to the tip of his cock. Merri felt her mother's lips on a nipple and then the bulb of the John Holmes on her clit. When it began to vibrate, Merri writhed under her parents' embrace and moaned and groaned and gagged on Paul's cock. Muriel moved the dildo head down, to Merri's cunt. Still vibrating, it began to move inside her . . .

Boxing Day, she thought as she rummaged around in her closet for a shift that would match her disposition this morning. Not black today; this wasn't a black day, although she would be the last to admit it to the others. The others. When she thought of her father, in the master bedroom with her mother all night, her mood darkened. Boxing Day, the day after Christmas. The day to box everything away again. What use had her father made of Muriel's box last night?

Little did she know that the day would have a different meaning for "boxing."

She found a red dress—"Take that, Muriel," she thought—but look as she might, she couldn't find her lip ring.

She could smell the bacon and coffee as she descended to the first floor. Another sign that Steve was home—not that she needed a sign. He was so organized and competent. Quite domesticated, the lad was. The household had gone downhill in the year since he'd gotten the lead male dancer's job in the Seattle Dance Ensemble and left home. She didn't know who had been more forlorn about that, her or her dad. And it wasn't just because Steve had been just a good housekeeper. She'd never forget the night her father told her, as gently as he could and with a heavy sigh, that she needn't try pleasuring his cock with her mouth too much anymore—that she just didn't do it well enough.

She had left well enough alone in pursuing that matter, but she wasn't born tomorrow. She knew what he meant. Her father and Steve weren't the only ones living in the house at the time. She'd watched Steve suck her father off—and had stayed there looking through the crack in the door through the whole performance and on into the ass fucking. Several times. Not that she was into voyeurism, or anything, of course.

When she put her foot down on the living room floor, she looked around and saw that Clifford was back, sprawled in the La-Z-Boy, his head in Fifty Shades of Grey, a beer in his hand, and mouthing the words silently as he read. Steve was standing near the Christmas tree and looking perplexed. He was a handsome young man, probably the best-looking family member—prettiest even—no matter how much Muriel would try to push into that position. Tall and willowy, despite being nearly twenty-three now, and moving with the grace and "walking-on-air" bounce of a young, flexible boy that reflected his career as a premier male dancer. His auburn hair—the probable color of Muriel and Merri's real hair—was wavy and had a sheen to it that their over-dyed and teased hair never would. His smile was genuine and easily triggered. He had told her in the night that he had a lover—an older man. When he described him, he made him sound a lot like Paul—except rich. But probably in the need for a housekeeper, she couldn't help but adding to her thoughts. Merri had felt too mellow to point this out to him—that he had moved from having his father to having a lover pretty much just like his father. That's what Paul always praised Steve for—his ability to prepare a meal and have all of the pots and pans washed before they sat down at the meal. He was a woman gay male story writer's vision of perfection, he was.

As Merri hit the ground floor, Steve pivoted gracefully, his hand gesturing toward the tree. "Is this some sort of fashion statement? All of the ornaments on one branch?"

"Dad got a bit distracted," Merri answered. "We can adjust later—the ornaments have to come off anyway before we put the lights on. But, what the hell. Christmas is over. We might as well just put it back in the box."

"But I just got here."

"You came last night," Merri said.

"I sure did," Steve answered with that big smile of his. Merri blushed and almost said something, but he was looking so charmingly "oh gosh" decked out in his perfectly tailored and creased khaki trousers, Brooks Brother's shirt, and tasseled penny loafers that she didn't feel like sparring with—or embarrassing—him today. She knew what an effort it was for him to cover her. She also knew how difficult it was for him produce that small dab of cum when he was with a woman. She would have told him that the tongue work was fully enough, but he was so self-conscious about giving her more than that without much to give that she would play to his sensitivities. She knew that it was just a relationship issue between the two of them—that he was desirable enough to men who wanted his ass rather than his cock that he was able to have an active and fulfilling sex life.

It was all wrong, oh so wrong, though, that they were all back together under one roof again. She had been able to manage—to keep everything looking normal even if it wasn't—when she had one of them at a time. For more than a year now, it was just her father. And that now seemed to be what normal was. What was happening now, over this Christmas, was a scrambled family. She didn't know how many more days of this she could take—how many more memories would pop up that she had managed to crush down.

"Read this one, Merri," Clifford spoke up cheerily. "I'd like to see if this can even be done. Let's go upstairs and fuck. Let's hear how good you are at barking like a dog."

"Not now, Clifford. Is that coffee—and bacon—I smell?"

"Yes," Steve spoke up. "I'm featuring Eggs Louie today too. One or two? Louie is Benedict with crab meat, you know. A specialty in Seattle. Kenneth always likes that the morning after—"

"Muriel sometimes gets the crabs and then she's hell on wheels," Clifford said.

"Shut up, Clifford," Merri snarled.

"Then I've got to go out to the bars to find someone else to spike."

"Shut up, Clifford," Merri and Steve snarled in harmony.

"Where'd we get the food, Steve?" Merri asked. "The only egg I saw in the frig last night was cracked and flecked with green."

"I've been out shopping already this morning. Alles ist im Ordnung."

"Whatever." She regretted the sarcasm almost immediately. He was a gem, really, for having done that. His German just reminded her that she had failed Spanish twice. His use of it also reminded her that she always knew when he'd just had sex in the house. He'd always break out in German after that. "Where are Mother and Dad?"

"Muriel's still upstairs. Dad left after breakfast. He said something about the office and escape."

"The escape I believe. His office is right over there through that door, though. He retired last year."

"We could hump on the desk in there. I think I left some beer cans on it that would need to come off first, though."

"Shut up, Clifford. And you're drooling on my book. Stop that. OK, Eggs Louie it is. Lead on, MacDerf."

Their progress to the kitchen was arrested, though, by the sound of Muriel on the stairs. As she came into view, Merri dropped her jaw, stunned. Steve just looked slightly bemused.

"Va, va vooom! Let's go back up and fuck." That was Clifford (as if everyone didn't know by now).

Merri was staring into a mirror. It wasn't the Muriel of yesterday. Today's Muriel was very much a photocopy of Merri of yesterday. The hair was black and straight. The red was at the tips, though, not the roots. She'd gotten that wrong. But the same straight, black hair. The same heavy black eye shadow and fingernails. The same black boots. The same black shift and lip ring. In fact the exact same black shift and lip ring Merri had been wearing yesterday. The only thing out of line, really, were those purported J-cup jigantics, but she'd even taken a swipe at getting them smashed down, which she had to do, really, to get into the shift. That part was rather unfortunate, however, as they now nippled down close to her waist.

"You are a fucking bitch, Mother," Merri growled. "You tried to pull that 'being Merri' crap before you left too."

"And it worked a charm then. Paul thought it would be a good idea," Muriel answered sweetly.

"I'll just bet he did."

"I'll go with Clifford on this," Steve said, with a laugh. "Va, va, voom."

"You can't be serious," Merri muttered, turning to him.

He answered with his boyish smile, a theatrical pose, and a wink.

Assured he was just throwing gasoline on the fire, Merri chose to ignore him and turned back toward Muriel.

"Take that stuff off right now."

"Let's wait and see what Paul has to say. On my way down I heard he's gone to the office. I'm surprised he could walk straight. I think you haven't been giving him enough attention."

"You're going to rip the top right out of that. And that's my favorite shift."

"I'll admit that was the hard part. Let's get out the sewing machine and fix it so that Pride and Glory can breathe." Upon saying "Pride," she had gestured to the right side of her chest, and "Glory" was highlighted on the left.

"You wouldn't know a sewing machine from a blender, Mother."

"Maybe if it was a martini blender," Steve helpfully interjected.

Merri overrode him. "And I can't believe that Dad—"

"As a matter of fact, your father liked them yesterday and last night just as much as you used to, toots, so let's just not go there. It's not my fault you got your tits from his side of the family. You used to not be able to get enough of these beauties."

Merri snapped her jaw shut and made a full turn toward the kitchen door. "I think we were making crab eggs, Steve."

"Just a minute, please," Muriel said, "I don't think we've discussed how long we are going to make this visit—or this stay."

Merri stopped dead in her tracks and turned, looking warily at Muriel. The woman was full of schemes, and Merri felt one starting to come on. She knew the difference between a visit and a stay. When she and Clifford had gotten married they come back here for a stay. She was still here.

"Are we going to ask her now?" Clifford asked.

"Yes, baby, we're going to ask her now." She turned back to Merri. "We need some venture capital. We need just a little more to get by, and we have extra bedrooms in our house and Clifford knows where to get some presentable women."

"You're going to run a whore house?" Merri asked. Her mother never ceased to surprise her.

"Well, a club of sorts. But we don't have enough bedrooms to make a full go of it without some investment capital—unless we put them all to use. This house is still half mine, so unless—"

"This is a shakedown for some money? That's why you've come for Christmas. OK, I'm game. How much money do you need to go away again?"

"$5,000 should do it. For now."

"$5,000? Exactly $5,000? You heard that I won that much in the lottery a couple of months ago, didn't you?"

Muriel shrugged. "You have it, we need it, and I'm not sure you want me in your father's bed into the New Years. Of course, Paul could sell this house and give me my half."

Merri gave her mother a hard look. Then she sighed. She wasn't up to fighting this battle just now. "Let me think about this. Maybe Dad will have something to say."

"Yes, he might. He seemed to enjoy having me in bed last night. What's this about you only taking it in the ass from Paul? And that it's not incest unless you get pregers. Did you think you were fooling anyone with the incest no-no rules? You saw the keywords on this story. You knew the comment section would be full of crabby people who were dumb enough to think they were reading real life here and who've had bad personal experiences no matter how you had sex with your father on these pages, didn't you?"

Without another word, Merri turned, her nose pointing at the ceiling, and marched into the kitchen with Steve gliding behind her, an expression of slight concern on his lips, Muriel walked over to behind the La-Z-Boy recliner and ran her fingers down Clifford's hairy chest.

Clifford gave a beer belch, his eyes still trained on the pages of Fifty Shades. "Look at the description of this one, Muriel. Let's go upstairs and see if it can be done."

"Pabulum, sweetie," Muriel said. "I can do better than that. I could do that hanging from a chandelier. Hell, I can write better than that. Shit, I think you could write better than that."

"OK, so, let's—"

"Not now, Cliff. Momma's busy now. I've been waiting a long time for this opportunity. And, I'm sorry, you're way down my list at the moment. I already have you. Have another beer. Go fuck Merri. Hell, go fuck Stevie."

"Muriel." It was sort of a warning growl.

"Don't think I don't know where your porn mag stash is, Cliff, and the great variety you like to look at. I use it sometimes myself. I think you should go ahead and give Stevie a ride. I've done it, and I think he'd like it better from you. Just stay away from Paul. That's my business. And, no, we're not going upstairs right now. You give me too good a workout. I've got to have some left over to serve my plans."

This admission was enough for Clifford, He happily went back to lip reading the novel. "I fuck you good, don't I, Muriel?" he muttered.

"Yes, baby, you fuck me very, very good. But I hate to admit that Merri is right about the look. It isn't me."

Merri caught this admission, having come back to the kitchen door while Steve was working the eggs. She walked over to the recliner and replenished Clifford's beer. "It wasn't even you twenty-five years ago," she said with a hiss.

"Honey, I was such a beauty that your daddy fucked me and then was all antsy to marry me when I was an eighteen-year-old coed in one of his classes. You didn't have anyone poke you until after you were twenty—and then it was Clifford, who would happily fuck a fireplug if the valve was open."

Muriel gave Merri a dirty look for a icing on the cupcake effect and haughtily turned and headed for the stairs. It was the last thing she wanted to admit, but, in fact, she had realized that she wasn't pulling the look off well. She suddenly had the fear that Paul would see it as a more garish—and inferior—comparison with Merri. And the plan was to take Paul back, if only long enough to stick it to Merri, not to come up second place in his eyes. Besides, her tits hurt.

She was half way up the stairs when the egg timer dinged and Merri turned to go back into the kitchen.

"Come look at this position she's talking about," Clifford said, gesturing at the pages of the book. "Let's go upstairs and try it out."

"Go back to the motel and take a nap or take care of your own self, Clifford. There's just too much going on here now," Merri answered in a tired tone.

"But you want me to fuck you, don't you? I could feel it yesterday. You want me again."

"Yes, Clifford, I want you again." Merri's confessional sigh was audible throughout the room. "Just not this minute. I have some crabby eggs calling me."

Steve still had the concerned look on his face when they sat down to eat the eggs—and Merri could hardly avoid noticing it.

"What is it, Steve? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Don't worry about it."

"Of course I'll worry about it until you tell me what it is. What's wrong? And don't make me pull it out of you like you did when we were kids."

"Well, it's just about the money Mother asked about."

"Yes, what about it?"

"Well. I'm in a bit of a spot . . . with gambling debts . . . and . . ."

"How much of a spot?"

"A $5,000 spot."

"Fuck. That's not a spot; that's a puddle. You heard about the lottery win too, didn't you? That's what has brought you home from Seattle, isn't it?"

"I was thinking of coming anyway," Steve answered defensively. "One of these Christmases."

"Let's eat the eggs before they're cold," she said with a hard tone. "We'll discuss this later."

Clifford was gone—and so was her book—when she came out of the kitchen. She went into the hall and saw that the powder room door was shut. That explained Clifford's absence, she thought—and probably the absence of the book as well—and maybe where the edge of his beer tolerance was.

Steve was glued to the kitchen. He said he had work to do to prepare the evening meal, and Merri suddenly felt all alone. One moment there were too many of these mixed-up-relationship people pressing at her and the next she was all alone. She didn't know what was worse.

As long as she was in the front hall, she decided to leave the house for a bit. She went to the closet, took her coat out, and quietly exited through the front door. Maybe a drive around—looking at the Christmas decorations—was what would help her calm down. She'd done that, though, two years previously on this day and come home to find her husband fucking her mother—and her mother throwing in her face that she damn well could do that because she'd caught Merri fucking her father on Christmas morning—without Muriel having been invited.

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