tagLoving WivesIt's Another Family Tradition

It's Another Family Tradition


Copyright © 2004. All characters, events, and text in this story are purely fictional, and are created by and the sole property of the author. All rights reserved.

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Writer’s Note: This piece is a sequel to the previous story of Sam and the Powell women entitled “It’s A Family Tradition.” If you haven’t already read that one, I recommend that you do to get acquainted with Sam, his wife Callie, and her sisters. In any case, I hope you enjoy this story. It was fun for me to write it. Consider the usual warning: this story contains sexually explicit content. Do not read it unless you are an adult.

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My wife, Callie Powell Taylor, comes from a lineage of Powell women with some most unusual traditions. As you may recall, last summer Callie and I were chosen to initiate our eighteen year-old niece, Sue Ann, into the pleasures of adult womanhood with a week of instructional and recreational sex at the family cabin retreat. That is a rite that has happened with every Powell girl since Callie’s grandmother’s generation.

Six months after that initiation week, I thought that I had performed all my in-law duties toward the sexual traditions of the Taylor/Powell family. I should have known better. On the second Friday in February, I arrived home from an exhausting day of court appearances, and late client visits at the office. Callie greeted me with an especially warm welcoming kiss, and handed me a gin and tonic, one of the all-time great refreshments, in my opinion.

“Hi, sweetie,” she said. “We’re not expected for dinner at Momma’s for another hour yet. Go sit in the living room and have your drink. You look like you could use some wind-down time, Sam.”

I didn’t argue. I flopped into my favorite over-stuffed chair, rested my heels on the coffee table, clicked the remote to watch CNN, and took generous swallows of the G&T. ‘Life doesn’t get any better than this,’ I thought. Callie ambled into the room with a know-it-all smirk on her face. Plopping the mail on the table next to my chair, she said with a teasing tone in her voice, “Here’s the mail, Sam. The usual stuff – bills, catalogs, and advertisements. But there is an interesting letter on the top. Looks like you’ve got some sort of invitation. Now I wonder what that might be?”

I looked down at the mail. There, right on the top of the pile of catalogs and window business envelopes rested a cream-colored, almost square envelope, the kind that wedding invitations come in. Curious, I picked it up to examine it more closely. There was no return address either in the front corner, or on the back. The postmark was local (Augusta, GA). The neat, rounded handwriting, with tiny circles for dots on the ‘I’s’ appeared decidedly feminine, and the brown ink was a dead giveaway. I tried to recall what female clients I had served recently (by that, I mean in the lawyerly sort of way).

“Well, Sam, aren’t you going to open it and find out who it’s from and what it says?” Callie inquired in her buttery-soft Georgia twang. She had that ‘cat who swallowed the cream’ sort of grin.

I suddenly got the feeling that Cat already knew both who and what, like so many things that women first share with one another, and then later spring on some unsuspecting male. Since she was so interested in my opening the envelope, I tried to tease her by showing my indifference.

“I’ll read it later, Cat.” I casually tossed the envelope toward the coffee table on which my legs were resting, but shot an air ball that had the card curving in a spiral down to the carpet. Giggling, Callie retrieved the fallen missile, and then straightened up with the letter in her extended hand. I could feel the warmth in my blushing face, but tried to recover my composure.

“Nice try, hotshot,” she said. “Come on, Sam. Open your invitation. I know that you’ll like it.”

“Why is this invitation addressed only to me, Cat?” I asked, as I slipped my thumb under the flap of the envelope. “Why not both our names?”

Cat decided to sit on the arm of my chair with her arm around my neck. She looked at me with that ‘what a dumb thing to say’ look. “Sweetie,” she said, “This party doesn’t work that way. We each get invited separately, and I’ve already opened mine. Just read it, and then I’ll explain.”

I opened the envelope and extracted a folded note card of high quality stock. The note was printed with that fancy raised ink used for formal invitations. There was no signature on the note, so there was no way I could identify the sender. I read the following message:

“The ladies of the Powell Family Heritage Association cordially invite you to participate in the 2004 Powell Family Scramble. This tradition has been celebrated in the Powell family for several generations, and contributes to the bonding of all members of the family, both blood relatives and their married spouses.”

There was a small piece of computer printer paper with additional instructions:

“Your rendezvous location is the Holiday Inn Resort Hotel on Jekyll Island. You will meet your two Powell family partners 4:00 PM Friday, Feb. 27, at the address below, and return the following Monday morning. Enjoy the weekend, and respect the tradition of discretion.”

Callie grinned when I showed her the note. “Well, congratulations, Sam. Now some other Powell women will get to appreciate you almost as much as I do. I’m going to Savanna that weekend, by the way. I wonder whom the committee has worked out for our partners. Whoever they are, I’ll bet we’ll have a great time.”

“Ah,” I replied. “I think I get it, Cat. This Powell Family Scramble is another one of your family’s zany sex traditions, like the initiation of Sue Ann, isn’t it? What is this one about, and how does it work?”

“Well, Sam, my grandma Powell felt that after a woman gets married, she doesn’t always get to express her sexuality when or how she’d like to. For the most part, that’s OK, ‘cause if she’s made a good choice in the man she weds, then she gets enough sex of the good, loving kind, and she’s happy with that. But it’s only natural for a human being every now and then to feel itchy to try something new or different. You know, the longer you have a thing, the more interested you get for an alternative.”

“You mean like a guy and his car, for instance, or the kind of cooking you eat routinely at home, Cat?” I asked. “So the Powell family has created a solution for trying new partners outside of the usual married routine.”

“You got it, Sam, only in this case, it wasn’t the family that created the idea. It was a she. On her tenth wedding anniversary, Grandma Powell decided that when she reached thirty, she would get a taste of another man. But she didn’t want any tangling affair or embarrassment to her family, so she came up with the idea of asking one of her brothers-in-law to spend a weekend with her and a girl cousin, unbeknownst to their husbands and his wife. The clever part of her idea was having a threesome. That made sure that the weekend was just sexual fun, without any possible romantic affair getting started between either woman and the brother-in-law.”

“And I gather that her little escapade grew into a family tradition, Cat,” I added.

“That’s the way it happened, sweetie. When Grandma Powell returned from her little party, she told her sisters to try it for themselves. They did, and the idea kind of just grew. But I’m told that early on, there were so many scheduling hassles, that Grandma Powell and her sisters finally decided on one special weekend every Leap Year. Kind of prevents the thing from getting to be too much of a habit. That’s the way it’s been going on for over twenty years now. Only, now, of course, most of the husbands at sometime or other get invited, so the idea of a secret getaway has kinda got lost over the generations. We all know what’s goin’ on, just not with whom and where.”

“So that’s how the tradition got started,” I replied. “And its chief objective is to give a married woman the taste of another man, but without the predictable risks, as well as keeping it within the family. Fascinating. And it must be working for all you Powell women, because I don’t see an unhappy marriage among all of you. Will this be the first time, like me, that you went to one of these Scrambles, Cat?”

Callie blushed. “Actually, Sam, this one will be my second,” she said. “My first Scramble was in 2000, just before we moved from Boston. I told you that I was going to a family wedding.”

“I had no idea, Cat. Your family traditions are positively incredible.”

She kissed me tenderly. “Believe me, Sam, I was not bored or disappointed with your lovemaking. All that I was doing was satisfying some normal human curiosity, and perhaps acting out some fantasies. And that’s what will happen this year for you, too. And, just like with Sue Ann, once the weekend is over, nothing more happens.” She giggled. “At least for four more years, that is.”

“And you have no problem with me spending a weekend with two other women?” I asked.

“Of course not, sweetie,” she replied. “After all, I’ll be going somewhere, too. We’re husband and wife, and best friends, Sam, but we don’t own each other like property.”

“So with whom will I be at the scramble, Cat? I don’t want to sound particular, but I am more than a little curious as to whom I have sex with.”

“That’s part of the fun of the Scramble tradition, Sam. You don’t really know with whom you’re going to be until you arrive at wherever you’re told to go. There is a secret committee of the last generation Powell women who match up the partners. I have a suspicion that Momma Powell and Aunt Jess are both on the committee, but they won’t admit it.”

She giggled and grinned mischievously. “But it wouldn’t surprise me, Sam, if one of your women is Sissy. There’s another sort of a tradition that when a Powell woman has her fortieth birthday, she can drop hints on men she’d like to get linked up with at the next Scramble. And believe me, sugar; Sissy has been dropping lots of hints. She was interested in you before Sue Ann’s week, and afterwards, she definitely has the hots for you.”

“You know, Cat,” I said, “I seem to recall that Sue Ann said something last July at the cabin. It was something about her mother and me getting it on together, and you shushed her up. Was she referring to this Family Scramble thing?”

Callie kissed my cheek. “She was, darlin’. Wouldn’t that be something – you getting to screw both momma and daughter. You sure are a lucky man, Sam. Now go get cleaned up. In thirty minutes, we’ll go to Momma and Poppa’s.”

While showering and shaving, I pondered over this zany proposition, and whether or not I should participate. My legal and logical mind conducted a debate with my lustful body over the issue of extra-marital pleasures vs. the risk of consequences. My testosterone-driven lustful side kept visualizing Sissy’s luscious breasts with large, begging-to-be-sucked nipples, along with the rest of that sensual body of hers. My logical mind countered that extra-marital sex is dangerous. Then my legal brain argued that there was a precedent. After all, if doing it with Sue Ann in the summer was OK, how can that be any different from doing it with her mother in the winter? By the time I had slapped on some after-shave, I was convinced. I would do it, especially since Callie approved without any reservation, and she was going to scramble with another man as well.

Fortunately, the following two weeks were quite busy, so my mind was not permitted to fantasize too much about the Scramble Weekend. However, I did manage to do some shopping for surprises and treats for my unknown partners, to help spice up the recreation. Finally, the Friday morning of the Scramble Weekend arrived. As I left for work, I kissed Callie warmly. I have to tell you that I still had some ambivalent thoughts as I placed my suitcase in the trunk of my car and waved goodbye. But, to be honest, by the time I had merged onto the expressway, I was imagining how Sissy’s ass would look in thong panties. On certain matters, males have short memories.

At 3:45 in the afternoon, I gathered up some papers to make it look like I would work at home over the weekend. I stuffed them in my attaché case, and left my office to drive to the designated address of my fellow scramblers. In the reception area, I said goodbye to Jody, the receptionist/para-legal in my office. She also happens to be a second cousin of Callie, but four years older. Her middle name is Pearl, keeping with the Powell tradition, and she displays that sauciness I find so attractive in the Powell women.

I said to her, “I’m taking off a little early, Jody. I want to get a head start on the weekend.”

“A head start - that’s kinda cute, Sam,” said Jody, smiling teasingly. “Well, I’m sure that your Powell women will oblige you with the head, but just remember that you’re there to please them. Hold your tongue, except for special moments.” She grinned, eyes daring me to reply.

It suddenly dawned on me. “Jody, are you by any chance going somewhere special this weekend?”

Jody’s eyes widened with mock curiosity. “Special, Sam? Special how?”

“I think you know, Jody. Well, I hope that you have a great time scrambling, but don’t spend all the time laying about.”

Jody laughed, accepting that her tease had been one-upped. Not to be outdone, however, she got in the last dig of the day. She asked, “By the way, Sam, why are you taking work home? When are you going to find time to do it?”

“Oh, I’ll squeeze it in,” I replied, trying to be as nonchalant as I could. “The social activities this weekend are no big deal. ‘Bye now, I’ve got to get home.”

“Liar,” Jody shouted, as I went out the door, bound for the Holiday Inn on Jekyll Island.

It was unseasonably warm for Georgia in late February, and the extended weather forecast was for five days in the high 70’s on Jekyll Island. On the drive to the designated pickup address, I speculated whether the women would take along a skimpy bikini, for possible beach trips. The designated address turned out to be a house in a new Augusta development, where I had never been. I rang the doorbell, and an attractive woman with medium length brunette hair expectantly opened the door. She was unfamiliar, but I recognized the Powell breasts and long legs. I judged that she was in her early thirties, and thought her to be very attractive. Her ample bust, hips and shapely legs were elegantly displayed under a black, sleeveless knitted dress with skirt a few inches above her knees. I was invited inside, and sitting on the sofa in the living room was a lovely woman whom I did know. Sissy saw me, and squealed with delight, rushing up to me and giving me an affectionate wet kiss.

“It’s you, Sam!” she exclaimed. “How wonderful to see you. I got my wish for the Powell Scramble. Oh, Sam, I’m so excited! Let me introduce you to my Aunt Gladys’ youngest daughter, Mary Pat Carter. Mary Pat, this is Sam Tonnelli, who is married to my sister Callie. My daughters and Tanya’s girls all call him The Hunk. Sam, Mary Pat is the third member of our Scramble party.”

Mary Pat blushed while extending her hand. I took it and squeezed gently. “I’m pleased to meet you, Sam,” she said. “I’ve heard a little about you from my momma and Sissy’s momma. Sissy and I are excited about going to Jekyll Island. I haven’t ever been there. I think we’re going to have fun the next couple of days.”

“Well, Mary Pat,” I replied with what I hoped was a sexy smile, “It will be my pleasure to try to make it so. Shall we get going? We can get acquainted on the way down.”

The drive from Augusta to Jekyll Island is a little over three hours, so we had plenty of time to become familiar and get in the proper mood. Being a lawyer, I pride myself in putting people at ease when we first meet. Mary Pat was nervous at the beginning of the drive, but, by the time we had passed Savannah on I-95, she was relaxed and laughing at Sissy’s earthy jokes, even adding some sexy innuendos of her own. We shared the fact that this scramble was her first, like me.

Mary said, “I’ve been married eight years now, but Jeremy, my husband, was working in Greenville, North Carolina, up until last year.” Through the rear view mirror, I looked at her sitting in the back seat of my Explorer. She lowered her eyes suggestively. “I’ve been looking forward to this weekend for some time now. My momma has told me some of the goings-on that she’s done on her Scrambles. Land sakes, she let loose!”

Sissy was riding in the front seat next to me, and turned her head to speak to Mary Pat. “Well, then, honey, let’s have our own fun, just like your momma. Mary Pat, you and I are going to make good use of our boy Sam here. You just start imagining the kinds of things that you want to try, and we’ll make it happen.”

It was dark, but still warm when we checked into the Holiday Inn Resort Hotel. February is definitely the off-season for Jekyll, and there were only six or seven other cars in the lot. To my surprise, the girl at the check-in counter did not even raise an eyebrow that we were a threesome. Sissy registered under her Powell name, and claimed that she was Mary Pat’s sister, and I was Mary Pat’s husband. The clerk gave Sissy three passkeys and directions to our suite. It was on the second floor, with its own private balcony off the sitting room, overlooking the beach. The moon glistened silver on the Atlantic Ocean, and small white-capped waves broke on the sand. Inside, the suite had a sitting room with a wet bar, one bedroom with a king size bed, and a spacious bathroom with a large Jacuzzi tub and separate shower.

Sissy must have noticed the uneasy feeling in both Mary Pat and me, as we stared at the large bed. She set down her luggage, and proceeded to pull back the red bedspread with white flowers and palm trees.

“Help me with this damn thing, Sam,” she ordered. “We sure as hell won’t need this for the rest of the weekend, will we?”

That broke the tension, and Mary Pat giggled. “Sam, you don’t get to pick which side of the bed to sleep on. You’re in the center. I’ll take the window side, Sissy. You get the bar side.”

“Speaking of bars,” I said. “I noticed that there is a raw bar in the lounge. Let’s get in the mood with some margaritas and oysters on the half shell.”

Both women agreed, and we were soon seated in the quiet lounge. There were only three other couples besides us in the place, and the waitress was grateful for more customers. I ordered drinks plus a dozen oysters for our table. Talk about your male ego – I was delighted by the envious stares of the men in the lounge. You could almost read their minds asking, ‘what has that guy got to have not one, but two beautiful women with him?’

I decided to make them even more envious, and perhaps get Sissy and Mary Pat warmed up. After the waitress had served us our margaritas and the raw oysters, I raised my glass.

“Here’s to making the 2004 Powell Family Scramble a resounding success,” I said. I took two sips, one for each of my dates. “And now I have a request to make. It has always been my fantasy to be with a woman in a restaurant and feed her raw oysters. Sissy, you first.”

Her eyes brightened with the concept of the fantasy. She smiled at me, then leaned forward, her mouth open and her eyes closed. I garnished one of the oysters with the special house sauce and leaned across the table to give Sissy a French kiss. She pulled back in surprise, but I held her chin with one hand, placed the oyster shell on her lower teeth, and tipped up the shell. The raw oyster slid from the shell down to the back of her mouth, almost gagging her. She blinked, then rolled the oyster around in her mouth, and swallowed. She concluded with a ladylike dabbing of the corners of her mouth with the cocktail napkin. I heard some audible sighs of envy from the bar crowd, including some female ones. I repeated the oyster feeding with Mary Pat, who touched my cheek while she slurped the slippery oyster over her lips and down her throat. More sighs and groans from the spectators.

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