Facets of Love Ch. 08

To my loyal followers and new readers:

Welcome back and thank you for staying with me. If I published "Facets of Love" as a traditional paperback or E-book, the first seven chapters would be volume one and this chapter would start volume two. In chapter 8, we transition from the year 2020 to 2036 and set the scene for the rest of the story.

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Facets of Love

Chapter 8

Robert Ryan Jones

2020

Fidel Castro, the former leader of Cuba, supposedly had sex with at least two and sometimes three different women every day. One each for lunch and dinner plus the occasional breakfast treat. It is estimated that he bedded at least 35,000 women in his life, which is 15,000 more than basketball star Wilt Chamberlain's total. Fidel only claimed eleven children, but the rumors on the streets of Havana put that number higher... much higher. Every Cuban boy who didn't know his father was called "Fidelito", or little Fidel.

I mention this tidbit of questionable history to put my plight in perspective. I only had three women to contend with and four children to raise. And even though work consumed a good amount of my time, I imagine ruling an island nation known for rum, cigars, and classic 1950s cars was slightly more taxing than running a cardboard box factory.

But, unlike Castro, I vowed to be a true father to each of my kids and wasn't into bedding a woman once and then quietly dismissing her. I knew that our 'special arrangement' would only work if I gave each lady of the house the attention she deserved. Which meant I had to walk a tight rope between keeping my women happy and protecting my kids' innocence.

Safeguarding Robbie's purity wasn't hard when he was still a toddler and the ladies were pregnant. Keeping the women satisfied was a different story. Any man who's lived through the hormonal mood swings of a pregnant woman will know what I'm talking about. Times that by three to understand what I was dealing with.

Over the previous year, the year when I was sleeping with all three of them without each other's knowledge, I thought I'd figured out what each lady liked, both in and out of bed. But let's talk about their bedroom desires because, let's face it, nobody really gives a shit about the strange food my women ate while pregnant.

The good news was that I kept getting my morning blow job. The bad news was the daily fight to decide who got to suck my dick before (or during) breakfast. Another bone of contention was the nooners. Mary kept us on her original sleeping schedule. My nighttime sex mate calendar was chiseled in stone. But, on the not so rare occasion that I felt like bending one of my beauties over the kitchen counter for a quicky, turning a shower into a 'soap and sex' event, or watching a football game with my hands under a lady's shirt while my cock went looking for her cervix... all of those seemingly harmless activities had to be evenly distributed amongst the ladies.

If not. If I rubbed May to a titty climax twice in one week without spanking my mother-in-law's ass until it glowed in the dark, Martha would complain to Mary who would discreetly tell me that I needed to come home for lunch the next day and fuck her mother senseless.

It wasn't just Martha who complained about being left out of the mix. May was a little more discreet about it. She wasn't one to tell Mary she wasn't getting her fair share of me but, when she kissed me goodbye in the morning and whispered, "tiny tits need love too", I knew she felt slighted.

A lot of that pettiness went away when the girls arrived. April and June were born one day apart, and Julie arrived a week later, two weeks before Robbie's second birthday. The hospital staff at first didn't believe that I was the father of three girls, born to three different women. When a paternity test proved us right, their PR department wanted to put us on channel seven news. James' lawyer put a quick stop to that. The last thing we wanted was publicity.

But, getting back to our family, life got extremely interesting in the Jones/Spencer household with three newborns and three lactating moms. Throw in a walking, talking, two-year-old boy with more energy than a road runner on Red Bull, and we soon learned to pull together. Needless to say, all nooners and any other non-bedtime related sexual activity was put on a temporary hold. Most of my spare time was spent changing diapers while each mother breastfed their respective kid.

Except that wasn't always the case. Martha and May had full time jobs and Mary continued to pursue her accounting degree via online classes. There were times when the mother of a hungry baby wasn't accessible so, instead of someone else feeding the fussy baby a bottle, an available mom just slipped out a boob and gave the kid what she wanted.

In retrospect, I think that was when Martha and May declared a truce. They didn't become instant bosom buddies, that would come later, but trusting each other to take care of their baby pretty much ended their feud.

-

Doctor Gloria May Carter

I have always been self-conscious about my breasts. My boobs were too small, my nipples too big, and the damn things made my pussy damp when even slightly provoked.

Living with two women whose racks were more impressive than Kate Upton's and Salma Hayek's added to my already crippling insecurity. Yes, my boobs got bigger as my pregnancy progressed, but so did Mary's and Martha's. Ryan took a candid picture of the three of us wearing bikinis next to the pool when we were less than a month from our due dates. My tits looked like molehills compared to the Spencer women's mountain peaks.

Thankfully, Ryan didn't seem to care. He gave my undersized chest just as much attention as he did my overdeveloped housemates'. If anything, his hands spent more time playing with my malformed mammories than they did with Martha's monster melons. And why wouldn't he? My nipples were the quickest path to my pussy. After ten minutes of tweaking my nips with his fingers, Robert knew that my ginny would be a sopping swamp of desire, begging to be plundered by his pulsating pole.

He usually licked my clit through a warmup orgasm before splitting my folds with his spear. But there were times when he skipped the intermediate step and went directly from his lips on my nips to his cock in my cunt. Either way worked for me.

That was one of the many things I loved about the man. He always finished what he started. Not once did he make love to me and not make me come... at least once, often twice and, on Saturday nights, when I slept with both Ryan and Mary, I often lost count of how many times I screamed out in delight.

Thanks to Ryan and Mary, I didn't feel as if my less than voluptuous chest hampered my ability to please my lovers. But, as surprising as it may be for the majority of men in the world, the primary purpose of a woman's boobs was not to be a playground for groping paws. God gave women breasts to feed babies and, when I was pregnant, I was scared to death that mine wouldn't work.

Martha and Mary were both having their second child. They knew they could nurse a baby. Hell, Martha was lactating all through her pregnancy. When Robbie quit nursing, she kept pumping, never giving up on her Nipple Envy theory. As far as I knew, the milk in my morning coffee came from Martha's boobs. She probably gave both Mary and Ryan midnight snacks when she slept with them.

The "what if" monster haunted my dreams during the last six months of my pregnancy.

What if I couldn't produce milk?

What if I could lactate but not make enough milk to properly nourish my child?

What if my nipples were so damn big, my baby couldn't get her lips around them?

And the worst of all the "what ifs" ...

What if I had to ask Martha for help? I wouldn't mind if Mary lent a helping hand (or boob) but humbling myself by letting Martha feed my kid would be a sign of failure, an admission of inferiority. Something I refused to do.

And then I gave birth to Julie Carter Jones. The eight-pound, four-ounce, perfectly formed baby girl latched on to my oversized nipple when she was less than an hour old and got her first taste of my milk before we left the birthing room. Two days later, when my milk really "came in", I was making enough milk for two babies.

Which was extremely fortunate because, a month after the three sisters were born, Martha went back to work... forcing Mary and me to not only feed our own kids, but also share our bounty with June, Martha's child. And when I started seeing patients again, Martha and Mary fed Julie during the day. And, if Mary was taking an online class when her daughter (April) got hungry, either Martha or I slipped her a nip to tide her over until Mary's lecture let out.

I'm not saying Martha and I became BFFs. We continued to see a good portion of the world through completely different lenses - her's being rose colored and blurry, mine clear and well-focused - but when it came to what was best for our family, we usually agreed.

Our breast milk depository is a good example. When we weaned the last baby, the three of us agreed to keep pumping and donate our milk to my clinic. Many of my patients were mothers of young babies who, for numerous reasons, either couldn't or wouldn't breast feed their children. What we later called a milk bank started as a small refrigerator with bottles of our milk. I know it wasn't much, but the three of us provided healthy meals to three less fortunate babies who otherwise would not have thrived. A year later, we had four large refrigerator-freezers full of milk provided by over a hundred volunteer milk donors, just in time for what history books call the "2022 infant formula shortage".

Due to "supply chain issues" and the temporary closure of one of the largest baby milk factories in the country, baby formula disappeared from the shelves of most American grocery stores. Since the babies of non-nursing mothers had no other alternative food source, our milk bank operation exploded.

Tired of all the political bullshit of the time, women of every age and walk of life finally found something they could agree on. Saving babies' lives. The Tri Delta and Zeta Delta Phi sororities competed to see who could donate the most milk. Perky breasted twenty something hotties got in line with droopy boobed middle agers, all wanting to do their part. Even though their social status, religious beliefs, and favorite sports teams varied, they surprisingly had all read the same book.

They'd all read Nipple Envy. Not necessarily because they agreed with Martha's sexual philosophy. There's a good chance most of the women skipped those chapters. But they all followed her detailed instructions on how to make a non-pregnant woman lactate and wanted me to prescribe the hormones required to start the process.

That was the breakthrough in Martha's and my relationship. We had found common ground on something besides our love/lust for her daughter and son-in-law.

-

Dr. Martha Weaver Spencer

I missed Frank.

Every day.

I missed his hands on my body, his cock in my mouth, his tongue in my pussy, and his cum in my fallopian tubes. More than anything, I missed having a man of my own. A man I didn't have to share with two other women. A man who would drop whatever he was doing and give me his undivided attention whenever I requested. A man I had known and trusted my entire life.

But Frank was gone.

Sometimes, when I laid in bed at night, alone, unable to get to sleep without a bed partner, I wondered if Frank's death was my fault. Did my insatiable sex drive kill him? Did his heart fail because it worked too hard trying to keep his dick stiff for me? Did I fuck him to death?

Robert tried his best to take my late husband's place. He fucked me when he could and let me borrow his wife or mistress when he was otherwise occupied.

Yeah, that's right. Gloria and I occasionally slept together. It took several years - the three sisters were in kindergarten when we started - but, realizing we both had itches that needed scratching, we started sharing a bed on the nights Robert and Mary slept together.

Sex with Gloria was completely different from anything I'd done before. My nights with Mary were tender and affectionate, full of kisses, caresses, and loving embraces which sometimes led to a mild but satisfying sexual peak but, just as often, ended with nothing more than a wonderful night of peaceful slumber.

An evening with Gloria was rough and competitive; a contest to see who could make their opponent come the quickest and hardest. Being a true lesbian slut (with Robert the obvious exception), Gloria initially had the advantage. She had licked a hundred more pussies than I and usually had me squirting all over the bedsheets before I could get my tongue in her cunt. But once I discovered her Achilles heel, once I realized her nipples were nothing more than oversized clitorises perched on miniature boobs, I soon had her howling in delight and then screaming for mercy.

Putting aside my curious relationship with Doctor Gloria May Carter, my burgeoning sex therapy business was what really got me through the grief of losing my husband. If there is such a thing as an upside to losing one's soulmate before his time, it was my unique relationship with my daughter and son-in-law. If Frank was still with us, I would have never discovered the joys of a menage a trois.

As much as I enjoyed the one-on-one sexual sessions with my various housemates, my favorite night of the week was Thursday, when Robert, Mary, and I slept in the same bed together.

Our first attempt at a threesome was nothing more than one person watching the other two have sex and then changing partners after a few minutes. Even though Robert initially enjoyed watching his wife and mother-in-law enjoying themselves in the classic sixty-nine position, he soon got bored of the show and decided to join in.

The first time we truly engaged in a successful sex triangle, I was laying on my back with Mary kneeling over me. My knees were raised and spread, allowing Mary's tongue access to my pussy. Mary's knees book-ended my head, giving me access to her sweet honey hole. I was initially upset when Robert climbed on the bed, lifted his wife's ass off my nose, and replaced my tongue with his cock, only to find that, as he stroked in and out of my daughter's baby birthing hole, I could playfully nibble at the balls from whence my second daughter spawned. And since Mary continued to caress my clit with her talented tongue while I got an extremely close up view of Robert plowing my daughter's fertile field, the inevitable result opened my eyes to what was possible.

Not the near simultaneous three-way orgasm, even though it should be on everybody's bucket list. What I'm talking about was a newfound business opportunity.

Due to the COVID lock downs, suppressed economic opportunities, perceived drought of marriage quality males, and the success of my Nipple Envy book, I was getting a noticeable increase in polygamous households requesting relationship therapy; usually consisting of one man and two women.

What once was taboo was becoming more common place. Not yet legal, like same sex marriages, but the stigma of two or more women sharing a single man was, out of necessity, slowly disappearing. It was a simple case of supply and demand. Women were getting smarter; men were getting lazy. College educated ladies were joining the work force in record numbers, video game addicted boys were holing up in their parents' basements with no intention to leave.

Let's face it. Men like Frank and Robert were the exception. The intelligent, industrious women of the day were unwilling to settle for the current herd of slothful, 'failure to launch' boys. Some women turned asexual, some chose another woman as a life partner, and others decided to share the few available knights. I dealt with the latter.

If one thought a normal marriage was difficult, try keeping the peace with three (or four) romantically involved people. That was my edge. As far as I knew, I was the only licensed marriage therapist in the entire state of Florida with real life experience in multi-partner relationships. I was certainly the only certified sex therapist willing to write a book about threesomes.

With all that in mind, I spent every Thursday night, for two decades, experimenting with new and different ways for three people to simultaneously pleasure each other.

"Thirty Ways to do a Three-way," was an instant best seller, my calendar quickly overflowed with clients willing to pay outrageous fees for my unique therapy techniques, and I even got the occasional gig to speak at symposiums and college campuses.

However, despite all my success and celebrity, I still missed Frank.

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Mary Spencer Jones

I was Robert's wife.

I was also a mother, aunt, sister, daughter, lover, and mistress. Not to mention a CPA (three letters which took seven years to earn) and Spencer Manufacturing's Chief Financial Officer.

But, in my mind, my primary purpose for being on this earth was to be Robert's wife.

I realize that statement will upset some people. A twenty-first century woman was supposed to be liberated, empowered to do whatever she wanted, not held back by traditional gender roles. For the sake of my personal wellbeing and as an example to all suppressed young women everywhere, it was my duty to find a corporate ladder of my choosing and climb it, to the very top. The testosterone dominated society had held its estrogen blessed members down ever since Adam blamed Eve for ruining mankind because she took a bite of an apple.

Most of that is true. There was absolutely no reason why a woman couldn't run a corporation, direct a major motion picture, or govern a nation. Women had the intelligence, skills, and right to do whatever they wanted, whatever made them happy.

Which is exactly why I was Robert's wife. Running his household, raising his children, satisfying his needs ... those were the things that pleased me.

I wasn't the mythical 1950's housewife who always had a pot roast on the table at 6:00 when her husband came home from work. I did my share of the housekeeping duties but also made sure everybody else in the house pulled their own weight.

Despite having four kids in the house, my biggest challenge was keeping Mom and Gloria from killing each other. Our first year of cohabitating was the worst. Despite being a medical doctor, Gloria had a huge inferiority complex. She didn't believe she deserved to be a part of our family and Mom did everything in her power to feed Gloria's feelings of inadequacies.

At the same time, Mom continued to grieve the loss of my dad while simultaneously feeling guilty for fucking her son-in-law, but not sufficiently guilt-ridden to stop doing it any chance she got. I constantly tried to convince her that it was okay.

"I don't mind sharing Robert with you," I frequently told her. "It's not your fault that us Spencer women have overly active libidos."

But, as often as I tried to convince her that her near constant sexual yearnings were justified, she would never acknowledge the obvious; she "needed it". Instead of admitting that she required at least one, and usually two orgasms per day to maintain her sanity, she constantly made-up bull shit excuses for her carnal cravings.

"I'm doing research for a new book," was one of her favorites.

"My clients deserve an intimately experienced therapist," was another.

Not that I was one to talk. I had a cock and/or pussy to play with every morning, every night and, depending on my housemate's work schedule and the kid's activities, I often got a midday snack. Robert obviously wasn't short of willing wet holes to warm his monstrous manhood. Like I said previously, it was Mom and Gloria that sometimes had to do without. And that was the proverbial bone of contention.