Buttered Salmon

Buttered salmon

What goes around comes around.

I was going to be late to the bedroom. Funny how workaday life could get in the way of our family adventures. Mom and dad were already getting frisky and I was in the office negotiating with a sub. That's a sub-contractor, not a sub like my mother. Although, as I grew into full partner with Robert Brown and Son it was getting clearer that my parents' perspective on how the world worked was universal. As at home, so at work. Relationships succeed by meeting or exceeding clearly stated expectations.

So when the plumbing sub failed to install the custom shower rough-in exactly as my father had specified, and as the sub had priced it, it fell to me to take him to task. He tried to say it was his employee's attempt to cut a corner, which didn't help his case. Clearly he didn't have the authority over his men that he needed. For dad, and increasingly for me, there were no good excuses.

What was making me late was that I had to make it clear in a diplomatic way that this one error was serious and further 'mistakes' would have painful consequences. Just as dad had taught me to punish refusal to submit to my leadership in high school with pain, so in business it was necessary to keep subs in line with some kind of economic pain.

I looked out the window into the deepening dark of the forest and felt the weight of my new responsibilities. Dad always said it was OK to fake it till you make it, at least the first time.

"Look, Jared," I said sternly into the phone, "you'll be dropped from the next bid package. But your work is usually excellent and our jobs have been smooth until now, so you'll be back on the list after that."

"Oh, come on, Bobby," he groused, "I've fired the guy. Isn't that enough?"

"It's the right move for you and your crew. They've got to know who's boss."

"I've always depended on steady work from you and your dad..."

"Yeah, stay on top of your men and we'll be good," I said, "But don't think of yourself as 'dependent'. You have to depend on your own excellence, not the generosity of others."

"You're not relenting, are you? I suppose there's no use talking to your dad?" I could tell he didn't like being taken to task by a twenty-one year old. For my part I was tired of being called Bobby by the subs who'd known me since I was a kid tagging along with the old man. Maybe this would help to change that.

"My word's as good as his, Jared." I was getting a little pissed now. "I know you'll do your best on the remainder of this project." The 'or else' was implied and understood.

By the time I got Jared off the phone and let myself cool down for a minute I was in a hurry to join my parents. Like on that first night, I wore my khakis and green collared shirt into the bedroom. But they were way ahead of me this time.

The cool thing about being a creative family, especially being builders, is that dad could make magic in any room. We'd done majestic summer homes, intimate woodsy cabins, homey country cottages and tasteful estates worthy of the American political royalty that owned them. But his own bedroom that night was medieval.

The deep stone fireplace glowed yellow-red with an oak log fire. In front, on the fur rug stood dad, his sinewy body sweating. From the dark, coffered ceiling of thick, hand-hewn chestnut beams hung my mother, upside down. Her legs were pulled apart on an iron spreader, her hands tied with thin leather thongs behind her back, her mussed hair hung loose toward the floor. Her full breasts sagged over her collar bones, nipples hard and long. Mom's mouth was filled with dad's purple cock. They'd been at it for a while. Her red face shone with spittle.

I stripped quickly.

I watched for a minute, hard and eager.

My mother's ankles were encased in supple leather sheaths like calf-high boots but without the soles. She'd had them crafted by a saddle-maker in Wyoming. The bar the sheaths were attached to was bisected by a steel cable that ran through a couple of pulleys, enabling the apparatus to be raised and lowered by a crank on the wall. It also had a swivel so mom could be turned smoothly through three-hundred-sixty degrees. And that's because dad wanted to share that mouth with me.

Soon, anyway. Meanwhile he held her head between his hands and swung her body along the arc of his organ, pulling her mouth over it until he was deep in her throat then swinging her away and letting her breathe for a beat before doing it again.

I stepped up to my mother's back while dad smiled a hello. I knew he'd forgive my being a little late. I understood his impatience to try the new apparatus. He'd been talking about it for a month as he put it together in the shop. Mom had been eager, also. "It's the helplessness," she'd said, "that I like. To be completely usable."

Just like with the subcontractor, this sub had clearly stated expectations. She knew we'd use her but not abuse her. And dad and I knew she'd submit for the pleasure of it, not out of lack of self-respect. My mother was a strong, accomplished woman who got joy from pleasing her men.

And we didn't withhold pleasure from her. As I stepped up to her and dad held her waist and neck while pulling her mouth onto his rod, I found her spread vulva wet with her ooze. Her puffy flesh was red and parted, the hairs plastered where they'd been licked apart. I put my nose to it and inhaled her musk.

She smelled like buttered salmon. My mouth watered and I leaned in to run my tongue deep through her crimson flesh until I had a good taste of her salty, fishy, sweet and slippery juices. Her body convulsed in its restraints. She groaned around dad's cock.

I put my hands on her belly and stroked up toward her mons, letting my fingernails trace sharp lines into the creases where her legs parted. My tongue kept exploring through the chewy folds of her sex. Her juices kept oozing, bubbling up from her as we teased.

I pulled my face back and dad mouthed her. This vertical sixty-nine rig seemed to be working as designed. At least the noises mom made seemed to indicate that. She writhed in the harness and groaned and whined around his knob. Spittle dripped on the rug and she had continuous tremors shaking her as she hung in the air between us.

Dad stood back and indicated I should eat at her buffet again. I could tell he was near to his release. He'd been dreaming of this rig since before I joined them last year and clearly he was pleased with the result. It was the enjoyment of a job well done, a display of mastery and competence. I wanted him, I wanted both of them, to be happy in their accomplishment.

So I leant down and doubled down on my meal of mother flesh. Tender, pink and steaming, her vulva lay open for my tasting. The wet ran down between her cheeks and I traced my fingers along that trail, teasing at her sphincter. She clenched and moaned.

Putting a wet finger at her rectum I pressed gently, making small circles while I flipped at her clit with my tongue. Her body shook. Dad's look of feral hunger told me he was about there.

I pressed my finger two knuckles deep and kept on licking, my arm around her body to dampen her convulsions. My mother was abandoned to her release, keening sounds escaping around dad's swollen rod, her body twitching to my relentless tongue.

I saw dad's eyes roll up and his body go rigid in a crouch, his hands on her head, his cock thrusting, pulsing into her throat. My mother gurgled. Her pussy squelched. Their mutual orgasms petrified them both as dad's seed poured from his body into hers. He yelled his pleasure, "God dammit, Amy!"

Then, as their tensions eased and he stumbled back, cock red and dripping, he spun her suspended body around to face me. "Your turn, son," he panted.

I'd learned I didn't need to ask permission, to make sure mom was OK with what I was about to do. Dad was the boss and we both benefited from his benign leadership. I grasped my thick, veiny cock, its flared head swollen well past the foreskin and, grasping my mother by the neck, inserted it into her mouth. Dad's cum drooled down her cheeks and dripped on the rug.

Sloppy oral seconds were always a treat. She was slippery with the thick white, foamy mass and my cock hardened at the heat of sinking deep to her throat. I pressed until my hanging, sticky testicles were glued to her forehead. I held myself there.

Mom's hands clenched behind her and she went very rigid. I felt her swallowing, straining against my grip. Finally, I pulled back and she gasped a thick, wet lungful.

I put my hands around her waist and my mouth on her mons again. I licked at her clit with light, loving persistence. She panted and strained to get my cock back in her mouth. "Let me make you feel good," she gasped.

All the tension of a long work week and the challenge of that threatening phone call were bound up in my body. She knew what made her hard-working men happy. My knob sank again into her mouth and she moved on it with abandon, letting me sink into her throat without restraint.

The energy of her and dad's orgasms still buzzed in the room. It quivered in the vibrations of the cable she hung by, in the crackle of the fire blazing, in the intense look dad turned to watch us using his new toy. I felt my power spiking as my mother climbed to another peak under my tongue. This is how we gave to each other. This is how we loved.

Her body went rigid again and her throat clamped, swallowing repeated on my deep-seated knob. I came hard and fast, the first big clot into her throat, the next splattered across her face as I pulled back and she spluttered, spunk flying. My pole pulsed and spat again, a ribbon across her cheeks. Mom hung untouched, but took the rain of my semen and shook, quivering in her bridled state, the leather anklets and wrist straps creaking as I jerked out more streams across her body.

I sat back on the warm stones of the hearth and watched her body swing as I deflated and dripped. My cum and dad's too ran in swathes into her hair. Her eyes were plastered, but she smiled a gooey smile.

"It works, Bob. It works great," she sighed.