tagIncest/TabooLes Autres Ch. 01

Les Autres Ch. 01

byMishaPearl2©

All Sexual Activity Is Between Characters 18+ Years Old.

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Author's Note: Les Autres continues the history of Ted and Mary Trotter, their relatives and their friends. It begins with Mary's inheritance upon the death of Eli Farragut. Readers, who have not already done so, may wish to read The Substitute (Literotica, February 2018) which introduces the main family, and A Tangled Web (Literotica, March 2018) which details their many complex relationships ten years later. The chapters in Les Autres may also be enjoyed as independent vignettes.

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Eli Farragut, namesake magnate of the Farragut and Central Railroad, or "F & C" as it was more commonly called, was laid to rest, unembalmed, on Tuesday, May 21, 1940. Immediately thereafter, his sole heir, twenty-eight-year-old Mary McGuinness Trotter, decided to consolidate her family into an enclave.

In a hectic flurry, Mary, her husband Ted, and her son Arthur, moved out of their small cottage, at 46 1/2 Garvey Street, into Eli's huge old Victorian home, at Number 46, fifty yards across the same massive city lot. So too, did Mary's parents, Jock and Isabel, along with her much younger sister, Cecilia, leave their bungalow, on Oak Avenue, and remove to great house. The green-and-ivory gingerbread monster had plenty of room.

Arthur and Cecilia, nine-years-old and only nine days apart, were great chums. They were delighted to get large neighboring bedrooms under the eaves in the mansion's finished attic. In their view, however, the most exciting feature was the roofwalk, which could be accessed through any of the dormer windows in their bedrooms, or from their large shared connecting bathroom. They could play Peter Pan and Mary Darling to their hearts' content.

Ted and Mary took over the master suite, which comprised half of the second floor and included its own private bathroom. Jock and Isabel settled into the two remaining second-floor bedrooms, which, like the children's rooms, flanked a good-sized bath. Jock acted disgruntled at the prospect of losing his sleeping partner of thirty years, but he secretly smiled at the increased opportunity to fuck his eldest daughter with greater frequency.

For herself, Isabel thought the accommodations would be a great way to honor her recently required sexual fidelity to her son-in-law. Cheerfully countering her husband's feigned complaint, she had observed, "We've never had the room to spread out before, dear. You know how you complain about me snoring... which I DON'T, of course!" She had laughed a little laugh, kissed Jock's wrinkled cheek and the matter was resolved.

Meanwhile, Ted proposed a sensible solution for the newly empty cottage: Rent it out, as Eli had done when he was alive. He argued further that Arlene and Cynthia Hart, a quiet widow and daughter who were both well known, would be ideal tenants. Mary agreed they were fine women and deserved a better place to live than their current duplex rental. "It will be a community service as well," she had said. "You're so thoughtful, Teddy. I'll call Arlene right away."

And so it was, on that June Solstice, Jock McGuinness came home from work early. It was not only the longest day of the year, it was the warmest day to date. The warehouse and stevedore crew had finished their last barge in record time and gone for drinks. Looking across the office at Arlene Hart, typing away at her desk between him and the door to the office's small bathroom, Jock grinned and said, "Let's call it a day, Arlene. I'm hot and bothered... think I'll go home. Why don't you nip down to The Shillelagh and join the boys for a round on me." He fished a deuce from his wallet and added, "Here... just because I'm a teetotal doesn't mean I disapprove."

Arlene wasted no time. She covered her machine, fluffed her hair, pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves and snapped her purse closed around the two-dollar bill before Jock could change his mind. "OK, thanks," she said, flashing pearly teeth between her perfect scarlet lips. "You sure you don't want to give me a pony-ride first, though?" She nodded her head at another interior door behind her.

"You know me, Lena." Jock used her pet name and spoke huskily, as he thought about their regular romps on the iron cot in the indicated converted utility room. "I would LOVE to, but really... I feel bushed." Pointing a finger at his bookkeeper, he gave her shapely mature figure a long lascivious once-over, then, with a wink, he said, "Go. Have a good time. I'll give you a rain check on the tumble."

Now, in his undershirt and a comfortable pair of khakis, Jock relaxed under the apple trees behind the stately looming Victorian at 46 Garvey Street. His weathered-wood Adirondack chair gave friendly support as he sipped a cold Hires root beer from the bottle. With a soft sigh, he regretfully mulled over turning down Arlene's offered quickie. "JESUS, I'm so fucking horny," he muttered to himself.

On his way to work that morning, he had dropped Mary at the F & C depot to catch a train to St. Louis where she would finalize some estate details with her attorney, Robert Schuster. Jock had managed to get in a deep farewell kiss, and a solid tit-squeeze, but that hardly satisfied him. She was going to be gone the rest of the month.

Meanwhile, the separate bedroom idea had not worked out exactly as he had hoped. For more than a week, events had conspired against him. Not once had Jock had the pleasure of his daughter's pussy wrapped tightly around his prick. Also, Isabel had successfully avoided every conjugal overture since the weekend of Farragut's death. His nuts ached. Involuntarily, he crunched his butt.

Grumpily swigging his soda, Jock locked onto a positive note. "At least, Ted's taken Arthur and Cecie camping until the Fourth of July," he mused. "With everyone gone, maybe I'll be able to give Arlene her 'rain check' tonight... or tomorrow." Laughing into the overhead tree boughs, transitioning from fragrant full bloom to budding green leaves, he added out loud, "Or BOTH!"

Just then Cynthia Hart walked out of the near by cottage, carrying a tin pail in one hand and a short wooden step-ladder in the other. When he saw her, Jock exclaimed, "SHIT!" Then, to himself, he added more quietly, "Forgot about HER. At the office, Lena can lock the doors, but that won't work HERE, with her daughter around." His free hand clenched into a fist on the chair's wide arm. Jock's jaw tightened and his knuckles turned as white as the bleached wood.

Cynthia, unaware of her shadowed observer, opened the ladder and set about washing the cottage's mullioned windows. Jock squinted while he finished his pop and stared over the bottle at the eighteen-year-old brunette. When she leaned forward and rubbed the glass panes, her thin cotton dress rode up her thighs. Suddenly it was her mother who was all but forgotten as Jock studied the lightly clad nubile creature thirty feet away.

Cynthia's ass cheeks swirled beneath pastel blue and green geometric designs while her bare hamstrings and calves flexed, showing off the youthful tone of her shapely legs. When she stretched, either to her left or right for the extreme window squares, her bust was profiled and tautly prominent. Even at a distance, and despite shimmering heat distortion, Jock saw enough to make his mouth water and his dick thicken.

Looking down at the growing lump in his pants, he adjusted his position. His head snapped up when he heard the teen's high sharp shriek. Cynthia was no longer on the ladder, but lay crumpled on the grass and brickwork at the cottage wall's base.

Unfolding himself from the canted chair seat as quickly as possible, Jock rushed to see what happened. He found Cynthia trying to sit up and clear her head. Falling to his knees, he eased her shoulders back to the ground with firm caring hands. "You OK? What HAPPENED? Just lay still for a moment!" He peppered the stunned girl with questions and instructions as he surveyed the scene.

Cynthia smiled weakly up at her her landlord's father and her mother's boss. Closing her eyes, she explained, "A bee buzzed me." After a moment's silence, with her eyes still shut, she continued, "I was startled... lost my balance and fell." She again raised her torso from the path and propped herself up on her elbows. "I feel a little woozy, but I think I'm alright."

The soapy window water from the overturned bucket had soaked Cynthia from her neck to her knees. Her frock looked like a Rorschach inkblot. Jock's free association, when he stared at the vast sudsy splotch's bilateral symmetry, was restricted to the bulging, and clearly bra-free, breasts plastered by sopping wet, nearly transparent, dress. His swelling cock rebelled against the awkwardness of his kneeling stance.

"Don't be too hasty, Cindy," Jock said, calmly. His natural use of her informal nickname put her at ease. Her tongue tip peeked between her smiling teeth while he added, sympathetically, "Head injuries can be tricky... and I see a little bit of blood at the corner of your mouth."

When she heard this, Cynthia licked her fully open lips. The bitter iron taste she found invaded her consciousness. "Oh," she offered, "I think I bit my lip when I hit the ground." She rubbed her jaw with her right hand. "I'm alright... really."

Jock brooked no argument. He said, in a no-nonsense tone, "That may be, but just the same, let me get you in the house." Sliding his strong forearms, like lift-truck forks, under her back and bottom, Jock lifted her, rocked back on his heels and stood, as if her hundred and ten pounds were nothing.

Cynthia was impressed and said so. "Gee, Mr. McGuinness, you're really strong!" She stopped short of adding, "especially for an OLD guy." Although she did not exactly know Jock was fast approaching his fiftieth birthday, she was certainly aware that he was no pup. Secure and warm in his cradle, she automatically rolled to her left against him. An alarming message flashed from her nipples to her pussy as her breasts flattened on his hard stomach. Recoiling quickly, she blurted, "OH!" Covering her true dismay, she added, "I'm SORRY... now your shirt is as wet as my dress!"

Jock glanced at the damp imprint of Cynthia's tits in the ribbing of his light tank-style undershirt. Chuckling, he said sincerely, "Don't worry about that." As he carried her onto the porch and through the door, he curled her back to himself again, enjoying how his gut rubbed her wet dress across her soft body. In the cool darkened hall, he asked, "Which bedroom is yours?"

"The first one... there," Cynthia replied, pointing to what formerly had been Arthur's room when the Trotters occupied the small rental.

Crossing the threshold and stopping near the simple, neatly made, single maple bed, Jock advised, "I'm going to put you on your feet. But don't worry... I'm right here, if you feel feint." He lowered Cynthia's legs to the floor, held her in a loose embrace, and asked solicitously, with a quiet tone, "How are you doing, Cindy?" His turgid cock had managed to free itself through his boxers' vent, but it was still trapped, upright, behind his khakis' fly. It chafed in its annoyance.

"Good, I guess," Cynthia hazarded her reply. The dizziness from her fall was gone, but a different lightheadedness clouded her mind: She felt charged up; exactly the way she felt when Mr. Trotter held her, before he made love to her. Her thoughts drifted and she hardly heard Jock's next words.

"That's good, Cindy," a soft faraway voice penetrated her fuzziness. "Now, I'm going to INSURE that's the case... with an old fashioned fatherly remedy: I'll kiss your sore fat lip... make it all well." She immediately felt Jock's mouth close tenderly on the injured corner of her cupid's bow. The sweet gentle kiss sent another jolt to her cunny.

"N-n-no, DON'T," Cynthia protested, feeling confused by the unexpected and uninvited intimacy. Though he was killed nearly seven years ago, she still well remembered Harley Hart's loving paternal pecks. "THIS is no 'fatherly' kiss," she thought, in terror.

Jock pulled back. With a shocked look, he asked, "Why NOT? My MARY always liked it." Without waiting for an answer, he moved a half-step closer, pulled Cynthia hard to his chest and resumed his therapy. Despite herself, she moaned and opened her mouth. Jock traced her teeth with his tongue, coursed his right hand down her spine, and pressed his left hand firmly between her shoulder blades. She melted like butter on a hot griddle.

Cynthia surrendered herself amid the familiar tingles and chills she had felt when Ted Trotter took her virginity in the mathematics room at George Washington High School. She did not know how many times Trotter had fucked her, both with and without her mother, in the five weeks since he popped her cherry, but she knew she loved it each and every time.

Jock sensed the changing dynamic as he felt Cynthia's hands roam his back from his belt to his trapeziuses. Emboldened, he dropped his right hand and gripped her bottom's nearest cheek hard. She lowed gutturally and pulled tighter to him, grinding herself against his stiff caged bone. Her soaked thin dress and panties were poor protection for her vulnerable pussy. Its feminine alerts through her attuned body.

Wordlessly Frenching her mouth as deeply as possible, Jock knew a corner had been turned. He would have had her, whether she wanted it or not, but he was just as glad she decided not to fight him. Keeping her ass clasped tight, he lowered his left hand to Cynthia's waist. Responding to his delicious sliding pressure, she reflexively draped her arms around Jock's neck and arched her back. Her tummy molded to his gut, creating space between their chests.

Jock pushed his left hand up, bulldozing the underside of Cynthia's unrestrained right breast. She sucked a great gulp of air and held it while he graded her pert resilient mound. She was surprised by how carefully, deftly and quickly, his strong hard fingers undid the small buttons on her bodice and opened her summer frock's neck. When he slowly closed his hand over her bare tit and drew his squeezing fingers to its puffy crown, she whimpered. Her cunt gushed its excited glee.

Finally breaking the kiss, Jock was briefly transported, ten years back in time, to the old Oak Avenue bungalow's garret. His mind's eye superimposed eighteen-year-old Mary's visage onto Cynthia's shining, expectant, oval face. He growled, low in his throat, "Lay down, Girly, Papa's got you."

Once again, a fleeting fright found its voice. Struggling against her treacherous body's insistent wrenchings, Cynthia began, "B-but Mr. McGUINN..."

Jock would have none of it. He would have all of something else, instead. "I said, 'Lay DOWN'," he snarled. Mary left his head while he pushed the present teen backward toward her bed's patchwork quilt.

Dazed, but again submitting to his direction and her own needful desires, Cynthia willingly complied. Her world was weirdly time warped. While she moved and thought in slow motion, Jock stripped before her with impossibly swift blurred motions. In an instant he was on her bed. Between her legs. In her. Filling her.

He kissed her a third time, harder than before. His chest was a great weight upon her aching pounding bosom. Cynthia yelped, then moaned. Clutching her arms and legs around Jock, as he began humping her in earnest, she mewled and probed her tongue into his hot cavernous mouth. His pent up lust was too great to control. Heedless of all other considerations, he came on his fourth deep stroke and froze. His freed seed fled his gonads in a feckless frenzy.

For all of Jock's singular selfish focus, he had, in fact, wound Cynthia up tighter than her mainspring could stand. When he jammed his joint to its maximum depth, and interwove his curlies with her own dark thatch, her works broke. She cried into his throat and crushed her cunt around his crowding cock. Her waves swept upward, washing her body through and through. Working as designed, with exquisite timing, her satisfied system launched a ripe egg.

Across the river, a half-mile away as a stork might fly, Cynthia's mother sat at a corner table, near a window, in The Shillelagh Bar and Grill. A laughing quartet of Acme Distributors' laborers sat around her. Each man had a beer mug or a shot glass in front of him and a hard-on in his overalls.

When Arlene Hart had opened the joint's front door, two hours earlier, the westering sun showed her only as a silhouette, but what a silhouette. Her perfect paper-doll hourglass figure, with a glowing golden aura behind her shoulder length permanent-waved hair, gave enough information to elicit whoops and wolf-whistles from the dozen-odd dock men relaxing after their workshifts.

Not minding the rude attention, even a little bit, Arlene slowly paraded to the bar. The full knee-length pleated skirting of her navy-blue cotton-rayon blend dress swished left to right, while her hips swung right to left. The bold sunshine-yellow polka-dot pattern made the men want to play tiddly-winks with her. As she approached, Brian Doherty flashed his famous grin and wiped his hands on the bar rag hanging from his belt. It was a good way to discreetly give himself room to grow.

"Hey ho, Arlene," Doherty greeted, with a deliberately obvious gaze at the enticing cleavage centered in her scalloped décolleté. "Long time, no see, which is MY loss, let me just tell you THAT flat out." Brian licked his lips and asked, "What can I pour you?"

Arlene laughed, knowing full well her 35C tits would then jiggle provocatively in her plunge-front soft cup bra. "Oh, cut it out, Bri," she said, putting her purse on the oak bar and taking off her gloves. "You know a working widow has to watch herself. People can say the MEANEST things... but, since you ask, give me a draft beer."

Brian moved to his taps and began the pour while he continued speaking. "Sure, Arlene... but no one HERE would ever say anything 'mean' about you and, BELIEVE me everyone is so good about 'watching' you, you don't NEED to do it yourself!" He shut off the tap and put the frosty mug on the bar. Winking, he said with a smile, "That'll be fifteen cents... cash? Or trade?"

Arlene stuck her tongue out and snorted. "That's EXACTLY what I meant." She slapped Jock McGuinness' two-dollar bill on the bar and said, "Cash, thank you. Keep the change in your till and 'Old Shorty' in your shorts. Jock is buying drinks for the Acme crew until this runs out." Reaching across the bar, she had patted the back of Doherty's hand, so he would know she was just joking around with him, and excused herself, saying, "I'll go over and tell the fellas myself."

Now, as the dinner hour approached, married customers were bidding adieu while the single men, with no other welcoming hearth, wondered whether they should order stew, corned beef, or another drink. By six o'clock, only the Acme gang was left in the main room. They panted as Arlene held court and flirted expertly, with complete control. So rapt were they in her orbit, under her spellbinding canopy of good looks, sharp wit and sweet Shalimar, that none of the four men noticed when Greta Van Der Molen arrived.

Statuesque, with striking lemon-yellow hair, braided into long pig-tails which danced on her bosom as she walked, Greta was hard to miss and harder to ignore. Dressed in her barmaid's costume for work, she proceeded to the end of the long bar and spoke quietly with Stella, the shop-worn dowdy middle-aged day shift waitress. When Stella nodded, Greta walked past the snooker table to a door at the back of the big room and disappeared.

At the bottom of a set of plank stairs, she crossed a storeroom and passed through another door into Doherty's old speak-easy, which, post-Prohibition, had been converted into a private snuggery for unadvertised clandestine functions. As she entered, Greta beamed broadly at Brian, standing bare-chested behind a tall polished mahogany bar. The ornate gilded mirror mounted behind him revealed he stood bare-assed as well.

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