tagIncest/TabooBonking at the Bluff

Bonking at the Bluff

bysr71plt©

"Oh, Randy, you're so big, honey. Shit, it's big!"

Charlene, trembling, lay on her back at the foot of the bed in Randy's bedroom in his mom's house in Wilmington. Randy was between her legs, holding one of her slender, well-tanned legs up and out and holding her other thigh down on the edge of the bed with his other hand, her well-turned calf dangling down toward the floor. He was only half inside her and already she was arching her back and telling him he was big, big, big—the biggest on the football team, she whimpered.

Well, he was big. She was getting thick now. Giving her the length of it would take her breath away. Charlene would know the comparison stats of the U. of Delaware football team's cocks, he thought, with pride of size. He become obsessed with being big and being hard, bonking the girls, and hearing them moan he was the biggest. It would be years before he realized the girls would say that to every guy screwing them.

He was still learning, but working his way through the cheerleaders at U. of Delaware was teaching him quick. Charlene was his third cheerleader this season, and practice for this season wouldn't even start for another three weeks.

He was learning fast. Like now. He'd only recently found the clit on a girl and figured out what to do with it. He must have learned OK, because Charlene had grabbed his free hand to hold him there, in her folds, as he rubbed the nub. It had made her wild for it, bouncing up and down on the bed, make the springs squeak, as he worked the clit. She'd practically pulled him inside her, murmuring, "Fuck me, fuck me."

And now that he was, she was moaning about it being too big. He gave her another inch and a half.

"Oh, honey. Oh, honey. Slow."

Big, he thought. I'll show her big. He'd also figured out how to get good depth. He turned her over, putting her feet on the floor at the foot of the bed; moved in between her thighs; palmed her quivering belly; latched on to a perky tit; and gave her, as they say, the whole nine yards, which, of course was exaggerating, but he had no reason not to be proud of how long and thick—and hard—it was.

"Oh, fuck, you big stud. Oh fuck! You're killin' me. Ooooo."

He started to pump her.

"Randy. Randy, you up there? Roger's here. Your cousin, Roger."

Like Randy didn't know that Roger was his cousin. Like he'd ever be able to forget that—no matter how hard he tried. And what the fuck was Roger doing here?

"He's got an idea to share with you," Joyce continued. "Football practice doesn't start for another month, does it? Come on down here if you're up there."

"Oh, shit, it's my mom. Home already. Oh, shit. Here, get off the bed and into the closet. I'll see what she wants and be back."

He didn't give Charlene time to object, although he thought he could feel that she'd been close. He certainly had been. Hadn't even gotten to his specialty yet. He quickly gathered up her clothes and pushed them into her belly, while marching her to his closet. He only took the time to pull on his jeans, over the hard, sheathed cock, stuffing it painfully down one side of his pant legs, before going out to the hall.

They were at the bottom of the stairs, looking up. His mom, Joyce, and behind her, tall, hulky Roger. His cousin through his mom's sister, Janice. Randy went down on his haunches at the top of the stairs and looked down at them. He didn't want them to see he had a raging, unsatisfied, nuts aching hard on.

He also wasn't wild about what he thought he saw as he hit the top of the stairs. He thought he saw Roger move a hand away from his mother's hip. He'd been wary of Roger for some time. His cousin was just a year older than he was, but they'd always been rivals, and, from the starting gate, Roger seemed always to be three steps ahead of Randy in terms of figuring out women and snaking into their panties. A real competition for strapping, big-cocked guys like them. Randy had bulked up and gotten on the U. of Delaware football team just because Roger was a hunk and a half and, although only a junior, already led the squad at Colgate. The University of Delaware and Colgate were rival football teams, naturally.

"Roger has to go out to his mother's house in the Hamptons for a couple of weeks to work on her house and bring the yard back into shape for the summer," his mother was saying. She was all aglow.

Somehow Randy didn't think it was that news that had made her all aglow. What had she and Roger been doing, Randy wondered. Roger was a randy letch, ready to fill any available cunt. He'd gone through a whole gaggle of women already and bragged about it—always asking Randy how he was doing. Always making Randy lie about it. Liked the cougars, he said. Of course that had meant that Randy had to start a trip through the U. of D. cheerleading squad himself. He was scared about the cougars until he'd gotten some experience, but his goal was to move up.

"So, Roger said he could use help out at the Bluff," Randy's mother called up the stairs to him. "You two could pal around and get in better shape for the start of football practice—not that you're both not already in great shape," she added, with a giggle.

His mother was a bit of a ding-a-ling. Always had been, which might have had something to do with his father now living another life in New York City. But Randy had to admit she was still a hot ding-a-ling. Which brought him back to Roger and that hand Randy thought he'd seen on his mother's hip.

"Yeah, good, Mom. I was only going to fuck around here for the two weeks, anyway."

Which reminded him.

"Gotta get back to this essay I have to write going into second year English before the summer's over. Good to see you, Roger." He said that almost like he meant it. "We'll talk on going up the Hamptons together."

Charlene opened the closet door, and was starting to come out, when he entered his bedroom and was stripping off his jeans.

"Naw, they're in the house now. We can finish this in the closet," he said, as he pushed Charlene back into the closet, tits against the side closet wall.

"Oh fuck, Randy, lower, honey. Wrong hole."

"You came for the Randy special, I know you did," he muttered as he kept the bulb right where it was and fingered her ass opening. Another thing he'd learned to make him stand out in the minds and gossip of the cheerleaders.

He clamped one hand over her mouth and nose to keep her from screaming the roof down, put a hand on her belly and jutted her buttock back into his groin, and lodged the bulb of his cock in her asshole entrance, waiting for the hole to take it. She was squirming and huffing under the masking of his hand on her mouth and nose, but she'd known. He had done finger play in her ass already with lubed fingers. The cheerleaders gossiped. She'd come out of curiosity—and for bragging rights. She knew he'd fuck her in the ass. He knew she'd want to shock friends by saying—truthfully—that she'd taken it in the ass.

Two of the cheerleaders who already had taken it in the ass could have told her how big he was too.

She groaned and trembled and moaned deeply as he worked his cock into her ass and started a slow pump.

"God, you're tight. Whooee." Good, a sign he'd been in there first.

Later, in the night, his wondering about Roger and his mom was put to rest. He was up to take a piss and get a drink of water and heard the muffled sounds coming from the master bedroom. It wasn't hard to check them out. The bedroom door was ajar and moved smoothly and silently on its hinges. Randy had kept the hinges of that door well oiled, because his mother brought a lot of men home at night—a lot of young men. Some, Randy suspected, not much older than he was.

There was a squeaking noise, though. The bedsprings of his mom's bed were groaning and squeaky.

They were on the bed and Roger was giving her a bouncing missionary fuck. Her ankles were on his shoulders, and she was clutching at the beefy arms he had buried into the mattress on either side of her, propping up his heavily muscled torso. His butt was in motion, and he dipped his head down from time to time to either kiss her hard on the mouth or, lower, to suck a flopping tit.

Randy wasn't at all pleased. But he hung around for the climax to pick up pointers. He'd been picking up pointers from Cousin Roger for years.

So, Roger fucked his aunt, did he?

* * * *

Aunt Janice wasn't a shy one. She was Randy's mother, Joyce, in superdrive as far as sex with young men went. Same with looks. She was a more voluptuous version of Mom, if that was possible, although Randy was sure she had help on the bigger tits. She'd married down from old several times, accumulating assets as she worked her way to younger men, having gotten rich enough now that she didn't bother to marry them—although she always checked their birth certificates. She wanted them as fresh as possible.

She and Randy's mom didn't meet anymore—they screamed at each other through Roger and Randy, which is what kept the two guys, who otherwise wouldn't have much to do with each other, talking. Janice's Number Three or Four—Randy couldn't remember which—was Randy's dad, on the rebound from his marriage to Joyce, although why he'd want two of the Winstead girls in succession, Randy couldn't imagine. They both were high maintenance. Somehow Randy's mom didn't think that was fair. Janice didn't keep Randy's dad long—Joyce already was soaking up half his income. There wasn't much room for Janice to get booty from him.

. . . Upon thinking of that, Randy's mind was briefly sidetracked onto the realization that, at one point, Janice was his step-mother as well as his aunt. He wondered why he hadn't thought about that before he'd started thinking about bonking her in the ass. But, then, back to the main story. . . .

Janice did have lots of booty, though. The Hamptons house, called the Bluff, because it was on one, had come from husband Number One. It required a whole lot of maintenance, and Janice was pretty cheap—thus why Roger and Randy were being enlisted to help get it open for the summer season by going over the yard and working on the winter sea's storm damage to shutters and the shingles the house was clothed in.

Number Two had left her with something even more interesting and useful to her—three nightclubs in New York City. The most appealing to her was a Chippendale men–style male strip joint, although on a less tasteful note than the Chippendale dancers. This helped her maintain a good flow of young studs into her bed. She still was in fine condition, but there'd be young studs to keep her company as she aged just on the basis of her "because I'm the boss" status.

Roger called the Bluff the One-A-Day Inn (and out and in and out and in, he'd always added with a little laugh), because she did seem to drive back from the city with a new young man most every evening, returning him to NYC with drained nuts the next day. Not that she made it back home every evening.

The first night Randy spent there in his two weeks of servitude this summer, he woke up early for him—maybe around 8:30 a.m.—and went to the window of his bedroom to check the weather. A red Eldorado convertible was in the drive below. A young bare-chested guy was sitting in the driver's seat with his head thrown back and an ecstatic expression on his face. As Randy watched, Janice's head bounced up and she wiped a handkerchief across her mouth as she sat up in the passenger seat.

She'd obviously been giving the guy a blow job upon arriving home with him after a night on the town in the big city. Quick, quick, the young guy scooted over to the passenger seat, and she was riding him, in his lap, facing him. It was how her tits were pummeling his face while he tried to latch onto the nipples with his mouth that made Randy realize that she had bigger honkers than Joyce did—and bigger than Randy had ever remembered Janice having.

Made Randy go right hard and pull on his meat as he watched them fuck in the car. Made him feel a little guilty too—for about twenty seconds. She was family—his aunt. But then he remembered that Cousin Roger was fucking his mother, Joyce, and Randy didn't feel bad for what was going through his mind anymore.

As Randy had admitted before, he took a lot of pointers from Roger. Would Randy fuck his Aunt Janice if he got the chance? You betcha. He'd been thinking about doing it for some time and had regularly beat off to the image. He wondered how many of her young studs gave it to her in the ass. He wondered even as he watched her bouncing up and down on this one, where the guy's dick was going. Was he doing that now—fucking her in the ass? Randy's spunk splattered on the windowsill.

Randy leaned his forehead into the window pane and watched them continue without him. The guy didn't look much more than the edge of legal—eighteen, just like Randy. Almost like Roger, who was fucking Randy's mother, his aunt.

And, of course, before the two weeks was up—before a couple of days were gone, actually—Randy was fucking Aunt Janice—and in the ass too. He wouldn't mention, though, that she got firsties.

* * * *

The day was hot, the lads were working, but the lasses weren't. They got bored. Then the lads weren't working anymore either.

Chloe, a bottle blonde version of Auburn-haired Janice and Janice's sister-in-law by husband Number Five, who Janice had yet to get around to divorcing, was visiting. The two women were reclining on chaise lounges on the back patio of the Bluff, working on their tans—first topless and then "why the hell not?" bottomless as well (which is how Randy knew that Chloe's hair color came from a bottle; she hadn't bothered to dye her trimmed muff, which was a mousey brown).

Randy and Roger were busy doing what they were supposed to be doing—Randy mowing the vast lawn just in running shorts and combat boots—and Roger was painting window shutters laid out at the edge of the extensive patio on saw horses, barely wearing low-hanging jeans shorts and sandals without socks. The guys were really (really!) buff, as naturally endowed, narcissistic eighteen- and nineteen-year-old football player hunks tended to be. Although the women were pretending to read magazines, their eyes were following every movement the young men were making, the challenge being to keep both in view at the same time in hopes of catching the young men's shorts slipping off their slim hips. The danger of this was imminent for both of the hunky lads.

Chloe asked Janice which one was the most hung, assuming Janice would be on top of that.

"Don't know," Janice responded, with a sigh. "Haven't gotten into Randy's pants since he was a toddler."

"Well, he's a hunk and a half now. Is he legal?"

"You betcha. Just."

"Bet you invited him here this summer to remedy 'the question,'" Chloe cooed.

"You betcha," Janice answered. (Yes, "you betcha" was a favorite family phrase.)

"But Roger—"

"Yes, Chloe dear, my son is hung like a horse," Janice purred.

"And that's because you've—"

"You betcha," flashed back the response.

Chloe whistled. "We planning—?"

"You betcha. I've got the money if I wanted to get a company in to do this work."

The lads got hot from the son beating down on their work. The lasses got hot from watching the lads work. (The lads also were getting hot watching the women in the altogether and eyeballing them, if truth be admitted. Randy may not have known where the bidding was; Roger certainly did. As usual, he was three steps ahead of Randy. He was already fingering the condom packets in his pocket, counting them out.)

The woman broke first. Randy looked over in a mower pass not far from them to find Chloe's ankles resting on Janice's shoulders on Chloe's chaise lounge and Janice's face buried in Chloe's muff. The pass took a suddenly semicomatose Randy all the way around the house, and by the time he got back, Roger was in the process of deserting his post—and his jeans shorts. He was ripping at a condom packet with his teeth and was walking toward Chloe's chaise, where Janice was laying full on top of Chloe, kissing her on the mouth, squeezing the stuffing out of her tits, and rubbing their privates together.

Randy mowed around to the side of the house, completely on autopilot, the mower not going in a straight line, where he stopped, turned, leaned on the still putting mower, and watched Roger, holding Chloe's legs up under his elbows, with Janice's feet on the flagstones on either side of the chaise lounge, mount the women from the rear and start pumping.

When Randy asked Roger later which woman he was fucking, Roger just smiled and said, "Yes."

Another pointer Randy filed away for future use. A couple of the U. of D. cheerleaders were so chummy that they went everywhere in pairs. The guys couldn't pry them apart to screw one of them. Chances are, Randy thought, they'd go down in pairs too. Now Randy knew at least one position in which to get that done. He let his imagination run. Yeah, he guessed he could get them in the ass in the position as easily as in their cunts—more easily probably.

Randy's mower ran out of gas while he was watching Roger fuck the women. Reluctantly, he broke away and went around to the garden shed to fill it up with gas again.

When he got back, Chloe was laying on her chaise and stretching languidly in a very self-satisfied way. Roger was sitting on the side of Janice's chaise, watching Chloe stretch and running his hands over her tits, which had almost disappeared when she stretched. Didn't make the nipples go any smaller, though. He was tweaking those, much to Chloe's moaning delight.

The used condom on the ground next to the chaise lounge looked like a white slug.

Janice was sauntering out of the house with a tray holding a pitcher of what looked like lemonade (but was something with vodka in it) and four tall glasses with ice in them. She had something else under her arm that Randy couldn't identify.

As Janice walked toward him, Randy was speculating on whether the breast job had been all the work she'd had done on her. Could those puffy wings of her cunt folds really be natural? Made him want to dive right between them to see how deep they went. Made him wonder if he might prefer that door to the other one. Could those puffy wings grab him, not let him go no matter how hard he struggled, and milk him dry?

She called over to Randy, "Come and get it." Randy hoped she meant what he thought she meant rather than just offering him some spiked lemonade. That proved to be the case. He didn't have sip of the lemonade and the ice in his glass melted without having touched any other liquid.

Chloe was patting the cushion of her chaise as Randy walked up, obviously inviting him to sit beside her, which he did—a little more nervously than he wanted to admit to anyone present. He turned his face toward Janice to see if there was a glass of lemonade on its way from her hands to his, but then he looked down into his lap. Chloe had a hand stuffed down the front of his running shorts. Of course he was hard. He'd been hard since the women had taken off their bikini tops—and that was a lot of hard teasing in the past. It seemed like he'd been perpetually hard and throbbing for an hour or more, each enticing development on the back lawn getting him harder. His nuts were aching something fierce.

"I don't know, Janice," Chloe said. "It might be a tossup between them. This one might be as hung as the other one."

Randy bristled at this, and, looking over at Roger, he could see that Roger was none too pleased either. Their well-honed competitive streak lights were flashing. Randy wondered who would be the first to call for the measuring tape challenge. Not now, of course. No time for that now. Chloe had the waistband of his running shorts hooked under his aching balls, which she was holding in one hand and separating, rolling, and distending, making him groan from deep down inside his core. And she was giving him a deep-throat suck.

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