Apples & Oranges

Author's note: This vacuous stroker is total fiction except for places. All fictional sexual players are humans aged 18+ who avoid condoms. Tags: bisexual, multiracial, step-family, clusterfuck, Russian River, real estate, not incest, SUMMER LOVIN CONTEST 2018. If you object to any such, stop reading. Views expressed may not be the author's. Details may be incorrect. Enjoy this contest entry!

I landed in bed with my voraciously sexy new step-sisters because of Osama bin Laden. I guess I can thank him for that.

It was a bit more complicated, of course. Old O-B-L did not FORCE us to have wild new-family sex. It just worked out that way. Not that I can complain.

"Jeezus fuck, Mikey, just tell the goddam story," Briana breathed harshly into my left ear, then licked around it.

"Yeah, don't make up anything," her almost-identical twin Belva stereo'd on the other side, "or leave out anything. Except your dick and tongue. You can leave those out for us." She bit my earlobe.

Any story HAS to leave something out. Too many details are tedious.

Belva nicely squeezed my tender testicles while Briana slyly stroked my slippery shaft. At least, I think that was who doing what. I was a little distracted. I did not scan their ankles.

"The story can wait for now," I said. I pulled Briana's face to mine and aimed my tongue at her tonsils. One hand stroking her exquisite neck, the other fondling a delightful breast. I felt Belva's mouth kiss and then engulf my cock. Damn! Her lips bumped against my black curly pubes. Damn!

Life was good.

Okay, the story. It did not start with the 9/11 terror attacks but that disaster triggered many unexpected events, including this wonderful session.

Oh hey, the story can wait some more! Briana just now scooted around, straddled my head, and lowered her sweet blonde pussy to my well-trained and talented mouth, while her lusty twin gave my hard-on a final definite slurp and guided me through wet labia into her molten core, warning me to "get ready". Ahh...

My tongue eagerly found Briana's inflamed labia and clit. I think Belva rocked and bounced on my electrified flagpole while Briana wriggled her pale muff on my thrusting tongue. I felt them lean together and kiss. My hands moved up. I stroked their melon breasts, gently tweaked their pencil-eraser nipples, and felt their own hands directing mine. Right HERE, they insisted, and like THIS.

I pounded up into Belva's tight tunnel while she slammed herself up and down on my stiff staff and my tongue assaulted Briana's swollen love-button. Briana wiggled; I nibbled; she came, holy fuck! A flow of hot nectar washed my lively lips. I grunted and spewed a steady steaming stream of thick late-teenage protein directly Belva. I felt her stiffen and spasm. The twins yelled into each other's mouths. We puddled, gasping.

Belva (or was it Briana?) toweled me, and herself, and her twin. Our groins were somewhat sanitized. Briana (or was it Belva?) cuddled into me. Her twin scrunched to kiss my mouth, my chin, my nipples, my navel, my fucked-out cock, my thighs, my knees, my ankles, my toes. She sucked one big toe, then the other. My cock twitched.

"Hey, let's do that again, but this way now," the toe-sucking twin said. "Hey sis, spread-em! Get up on your knees, boy, and crawl up there. Get to work -- that pussy needs a tongue. On your knees! Butt up! Knees apart! Yeah, like that. Let me scooch under there so you can fuck my face."

Yes, life was indeed good.

=====

Umm, the story. Where was I? Okay, so it started some time before 9/11/2001, when the twins' mom, DiDi Manson, came to work at my dad Dylan Todd's realty brokerage.

DiDi was the Russian River Valley's latest hot realtor, what Brits call an estate agent. She marketed aggressively and personably. Her creamy heart-shaped face framed by an asymmetrical honey bob graced billboards, banners, signposts, and grocery carts throughout the Russian River valley.

This is picturesque country an hour or so north of San Francisco (longer during rush hour) where the Russian River winds past pricey vineyards and cuts a sharp canyon through giant-redwood-laden coastal California mountains to its sea-lion-infested lagoon at the Pacific Ocean. Home properties here range from fungus-covered river-rat shacks to sumptuous estates best approached by helicopter. DiDi could and did sell any of these.

DiDi and my dad Dylan found they worked well together as a broker-realtor team. They worked well as a bed-bouncing team, too. They chose to marry.

"Dear Kids: We are getting married. Get ready to move. Love, Dylan & DiDi" was the email we received, all our names in the address line. Simple. Easy.

Both adults had been single for a couple years; both families were rudderless, drifting.

Our mother Lydia Todd signed on for a five-year stay in an artificial habitat beta-testing for a Mars colony. Right. She was probably more interested in her oh-so-buff team mates than in Mars. Go figure. Anyway, she divorced Dad and went to exist in that desert bubble.

DiDi's ex-husband Chaz was more direct; he ran off with a hot-to-trot Qantas stewardess and express-mailed the signed divorce papers from Canberra. I hope he is happy as a kangaroo in quicksand.

"Lynda is a bitch and Chaz is a dickhead," Briana (or was it Belva?) observed.

"No loss," her twin said. I had to agree. Especially when she resumed slowly blowing me.

Thus the Todd and Manson families would amalgamate like tin and copper. Or mix in a bowl like apples and oranges. One problem: offspring. As in, Dylan's three kids, including me, and DiDi's four brats, including Briana and Belva, currently leaking tasty body fluids with me -- all young adults. As in, where would the whole conjoined nine-of-us family be housed?

I know what you are thinking. "Hey, they're in the fucking Realtor business! They rake in fat fees. They can afford a fucking mini-mansion, right?"

Not quite. Local Realtor business provided good livings but not great wealth. Those McMansions tended to be located away from Dylan and DiDi's office and would not really be suitable for our merged mob. We 'kids' were in our late teens or early twenties, with our own schedules, friends, distractions, and needs. An apartment house would almost be more suitable. Almost.

Then came O-B-L and 9/11/2001.

One sharp aftermath of the Al Qaeda attacks was a national economic crunch that reverberated strongly in the Russian River valley. People mostly stopped buying houses for a few months. Which means fat commissions for realtors and brokers, a.k.a. the Thieves' Guild, vanished for a few months. Bummer.

Some homeowners HAD to sell their houses during the down-cycle. Some could not afford to move into a different home until the old one sold. Prices necessarily dropped. And what was once out-of-range became affordable.

Ron and Moira Carson were an older couple with a unique house on a hilltop compound near the east end of the Russian River's steep canyon. Vineyards started downhill. Their big square solid two-story Territorial-style house was built a few decades prior by a big-time Bay Area commercial developer as his weekend playhouse. It was obviously a party space accommodating many guests with many rooms, lots of parking, and privacy.

That guy must have been pretty playful! Upstairs was a glassy and classy three-bedroom home ringed by a wide veranda open to all bedrooms and the two baths. The living room had space for padded playtime furniture. The bedrooms were mirrored. A generous kitchen oversaw the lush back yard.

Down the front or back outside stairs were three well-insulated studio apartments and a tacked-on playroom beside a covered patio with hot-tub. In back, past the tidy lap pool, was a garden-fringed grassy yard. One side of the property overlooked a vertical slope above a dense redwood grove. Paved parking out front held over a dozen cars, and more could park on the twisty road, or behind a side gate for security. The compound was well fenced.

Ron and Moira lived upstairs and rented the private apartments below to friends to pay the mortgage. But the couple retired and would move closer to family -- IF they could sell the house. They listed it with DiDi at a half-million; very reasonable for the pre-9/11 market. But after the attacks? They were in a hurry so they accepted rather less and moved on.

And who bought it? Dylan and DiDi. Sneaky devils, yes?

And who was going to live there? Most of our newly-merged family. Throw the apples and oranges together and see what results.

"It could have been worse," said the twin whose tits I was not then sucking. "Dylan and DiDi considered a warehouse in town, thought they could cut it up into loft spaces for us," she said,, stroking my cock. "No greenery like here. And noisy traffic. Fuck that." Then she blew me again.

"Not so hard," said my lips' target. "They're not chew toys."

"Sorry, my cock distracted me." I suckled more gently.

Okay, back to the story.

We luckily did not need to fit everybody in here at once -- usually. My smart older sister Olivia and DiDi's oldest kid Tank attended remote universities; they only returned on breaks. So here were mostly only me and my younger sister Shayla, and my sluts Briana and Belva, and their younger brother Taz, and whomever we had visiting for the night but they do not count. We 'kids' all went to the junior college in the county seat a half-hour away.

The arrangement:

Dylan and DiDi lived upstairs. They used one extra bedroom as a home office, the other as a guest room. A big kitchen: nice! Smaller rooms had minor uses. We did not hear much thumping or shouting through the floor.

Downstairs, I had a studio with kitchen, bath, and an extra bed for Tank when he was home. Thankfully, he was not here much, even when he WAS around. Belva and Briana infested their own studio and sometimes mine. Shayla had the smallest studio, with a spare bed for her rarely-seen big sister Olivia. Taz took the playroom and shared my bath and kitchen. At least he was not TOO unsanitary or intrusive. Sometimes he pissed on a backyard fig tree.

Why share my space? Because the playroom had no plumbing and the other studios were crunched. Their 'kitchenettes' each featured a microwave, hot-plate, mini-fridge, and sink. Only mine had a full fridge and gas stove. Their baths were minimal.

My studio had the largest kitchen and bath of our three, and by far the largest and most decadent shower, a glazed-in four-by-eight-foot red-tiled space sporting a dizzying maze of rainbow-tinted enamel pipes, handles, and nozzles. The shower's outside wall was of frosted glass bricks providing a constant mystic glow. And my big kitchen table was a handy gathering point.

So those were the official assignments. WHO actually spent a night WHERE was a different matter, rather variable.

We Todds tend to be tall, lean, and darkly intense. The Mansons are a little shorter, rounder, pale and blond, and wild. Thrown together, we all got along fairly well. Whew. We learned to get along well in bed, too. And sometimes we brought friends.

Shayla's current guy Senzo liked the rooming setup but he was a jerk. Briana and Belva's various friends liked the setup. Taz's hot girl Cyndi was okay with the arrangement. My hot girl Midori liked the setup except when Taz and/or Cyndi wandered in from the playroom while we were naked and/or screwing. But she learned to like that, too. Double- and triple-penetration (Cyndi had a strap-on) can do that to a gal, widening her horizons as well as her orifices.

Visualize Midori going airtight with me and Taz and a strapped Cyndi rotating amongst her dripping openings. Keep that image in mind.

And I liked the setup because, besides the other fun, Briana and Belva and I often shared quarters, theirs and/or mine, whether or not we had visitors of various genders. Yes, life was good.

Visualize me again, on my back. Cyndi rides my tongue. Between my spread legs, Taz and Midori are fucking on their sides, her legs and arms spider-wrapped around him, with their tongues entangling on my throbbing cock.

Or maybe Taz is elsewhere, and Cyndi is lazily blowing me while Midori gently tongues her twat and I fondle Cyndi's near boob and smile. Ahhh...

Or maybe Midori wears the strap-on. She is lying back on the bed, her dildo up Cyndi's ass, while I'm atop Cyndi, sucking her tits and fucking her brains out. Cyndi likes that.

You should know that we all played musical instruments -- even Briana and Belva knew guitar chords, Taz got by on bass, and Shayla blew horns -- and had a family band thing going. We played REAL LOUD so our music echoed around the Russian River valley and could be heard for miles downstream.

Note that good guys in this tale are mostly musicians, and bad guys and gals are not. Let that be a lesson to you.

By the way, I did not yet introduce myself. I am Mikhail. I was named after some old Russian dancing guy. You probably know his name. But I digress.

=====

Everything happened in stages.

The first time I wanted to thank Mr bin Laden for facilitating our move here was at the end of our move-in week. We 'kids' were tasked to clean and detail the house after the Carsons moved out, and to schlep and install all of two families' furniture and belongings over our school Spring Break. A lousy vacation, sure, but the folks paid us, so we did not whine too much.

The week was difficult and demanding and too warm. Labor and recovery filled our days and evenings. We mostly had energy to work, clean up, eat drowsily, sleep, and work again.

We finished the hauling, positioning, and stashing late Saturday afternoon. I was beat to shit and as sweaty as an FBI interview subject. I dragged my naked ass into the huge shower and spun various controls. Ahhh...

A dense steam fog enveloped me. I lathered my hair and sang my version of a classic Western song:

I had just inhaled for the next rude verse when I felt a cool draft on my back. Shampoo suds forced me to keep my eyes squeezed shut; I could not see what was happening. I found out.

Soft hands stroked my shoulders, my sides, my hips... my cock. Soft sweet musical voices stroked my ears, one on each side.

Left side: "Hiya there, Mikey."

Right side: "You won't mind if we use your shower, will you?"

Left: "Ours is so small and something's wrong with the pipes."

Right: "Mama says she'll get her plumber in next week to fix things."

Left: "But we can't wait that long."

Right: "So you'll let us use yours, right?"

Left: "We'll make it worth your while, won't we, sis?"

Right: "Starting right now."

The pace and depth of cock-stroking increased. A soap-lubed finger snaked its way into my anus. Thumbs and fingers pinched my sensitive nipples. Holy fuck! The jerking, tweaking, and prostate massage had their inevitable effect: I erupted like Mount Vesuvius but with less smoke. Oh fuck...

Stroking hands milked me thoroughly and then released my cock and ass and gently pushed me under a steady-flowing stream. The hands scrubbed my head, strained my hair, massaged my scalp, and rinsed me thoroughly.

"That was fun. Can I look now?"

I opened my eyes. The stall was still steam-fogged but I clearly saw the two soggy leggy long-blonde blue-eyed wet-dreams standing chin-high to me. These honey-tan twenty-year-old almost-identical twins possessed the afore-mentioned melon breasts, inny navels, just-wide-enough hips, trimmed golden muffs, taut jogger's musculatures, and hands that continued to stroke me, mmmm...

"Am I dead yet? Is this heaven?"

"Welcome to Hell," they chorused.

I pulled them close, one on each side. I kissed Belva like a sexy savior. I turned to Briana; we exchanged tongues of fire. My hands caressed their nubile flesh while their hands pulled my ass close. I leaned forward to nibble Briana's nipples and then Belva's. Water sprayed on us.

That spray cooled. Ooops; we were draining the heater tank.

We twisted enough controls to kill the multiple cascades. We carefully toweled adjacent bodies. There was a bit of taste-testing to ensure our cleanliness. We all passed the tests, eventually.

I was a well-trained boy; I always made my bed. It was quickly destroyed by our calisthenics. We were in the position described at the start of this story, and many transitional positions, too.

I had not known until this hot, wet afternoon that my new step-sisters were sex goddesses. I had only met the Mansons when our folks started 'courting' i.e. hanging out and hooking up. Back then, the Todds and Mansons lived in different high school districts; and we 'kids' barely noticed each other at the junior college, not until we were thrown together by our parents' lust.

Until the wedding and cohabitation, I had seen Briana and Belva as cute girls a year older than me who usually wore baggy gym clothes. They were both in the junior college Public Safety program; i.e. they wanted to be cops. Their brother Taz studied hospitality management. I was a music major working on winds (like my alto sax) and keyboards of course, with percussion on the side. Shayla also majored in music, on brass. We all did not exactly run in the same social circles.

[A percussion joke. Q: What do you call someone who hangs out with musicians? A: A drummer. Ha. I have formally studied rhythmic patterns of many cultures, thank you very much. I am not only a drummer. I am a fucking smart-ass drummer and don't you forget it.]

[Another percussion joke. Q: How can you tell when the drum platform is level? A: When the drummer drools from both sides of his mouth. Ha. Ha. You want to see a drooling fool? Watch the lead guitar.]

[One more joke -- or is it? DiDi was often teased that she married a Manson. "Any relation to Charles Manson?" people would prod and laugh. "Oh, he's just a cousin by marriage," she replied. Really? Maybe so...]

Enough with the funnies.

That move-in week was a revelation. Tank and Olivia were both on hand for some of those unseasonably muggy spring days, but they round-tripped back to their universities before the final weekend. Weather and work conspired to dress us in various wifebeater tanktops, cut-off tees and jeans, whatever. We all sweated like stevedores in Singapore. Everyone's fit physiques were revealed in some detail.

Damn, we all looked fine! And the more we sweated, the hotter we looked. The girls all looked good to me, even my blood sisters. Tank and Olivia, and Taz and Shayla, sure noticed each other. I guess I looked pretty good to Belva and Briana, too. And maybe to Taz.

Briana and Belva. Almost-identical twins. Born of the same womb at the same hour with the same father but from independent zygotes. Very similar. Briana was a little taller, her voice a little huskier, her scent a bit muskier. Belva's boobs were a little rounder and she smelled of jasmine. Their pussy juices also differed, as I was to learn. I could soon identify them by flavor.

Their main distinguishing marks were their ankle tattoos. Briana had black devil wings on the outside of her ankles. Belva's ankles showed white angel wings.

I could not help noticing Briana's wings the first time we fucked.

We three had scrambled from the shower that Saturday and jumped into my king bed. After various transitional positions, I had Briana bent nearly double for maximum penetration, her legs stretched up to my shoulders, her ankles just beside my head. I turned my gaze from her face to her left foot and saw the batwing. I kissed that ankle lightly. I looked to the right and saw its mate; I kissed that, too. And then I concentrated on fucking her senseless.