Magnus and His Family Ch. 19

Magnus and His Family (Chapter 19)

Kathryn M. Burke

In a matter of weeks, Greg had moved into the house occupied by Kristen and the others.

He seemed to adapt readily to the game of musical chairs (or, rather, beds) that the others engaged in, although it was clear to everyone that Kristen was his special favorite—as Adele was Curt's special favorite, and Darcy the apple of Paul's eye. But the love and unity that everyone felt for everyone else was a wonder to behold. And the others also noticed that Greg had really started coming out of his shell: he was a lot less awkward in social situations, and he began developing a finely tuned sense of what others were thinking and feeling. He himself was a lot more in touch with his own emotions, even though he remained fundamentally shy.

But a small—and perhaps not so small—fly in the ointment emerged one day in late spring, when Darcy came home to find her brother pacing the living room nervously. When he saw her, he stopped dead in his tracks and his face went pale.

"Greg, what's the matter?" Darcy cried.

"It's Mom," he said with heavy emphasis.

Those two words were all Darcy needed to have at least some idea of the foreboding situation. Their mom, Maureen, had long been overprotective of both of them, but of Greg in particular; and given how she had striven to keep Greg away from girls his whole life, and also given how betrayed she had felt when her husband deserted her, she would probably be aghast at the way this household was run.

"Omigod," Darcy said. "You didn't tell her?"

"No, not exactly," Greg said hesitantly. "But—but I had to tell her something."

"What do you mean? Why?"

"Because," Greg said in a suddenly loud voice, "she was going to come over to my apartment!"

"Ah, yes," Darcy said.

"You know how hard I had to struggle just to let her live away from home and get the apartment in the first place. She comes over all the time—sometimes to cook meals for me, since she thinks I'm incapable of feeding myself and I'm starving to death. It's all so ridiculous. So she called me at work this morning, saying that she was coming over tonight—and of course I had to admit that I wasn't at my place anymore, and that I was living here with you and the others."

"And what did she say to that?" Darcy said.

"Well, she didn't say anything at first. There was this dead silence on the phone—I thought we'd gotten cut off or something. Then eventually she said, 'What others?' So I had to say, 'Well, there are three guys and three girls.' So there was another long silence, and finally she said, 'I see,' in this frightening kind of way."

"So what's she going to do?"

"I had to tell her where exactly I was living, and—"

"Why did you do that?"

"I had to, Darcy! What else could I say?"

"So is she coming here tonight?"

"I don't know. I don't think so. But something's gonna happen. She's not going to let this situation just go unchallenged."

"But you didn't tell her about—well, you know . . ."

"No, of course not! I'm not stupid! But she's not either. When she comes here, she'll probably figure out how things are."

"Maybe she won't. I mean, you can just say you have a nice girlfriend named Kristen. She'll probably like her. How could she possibly know that—" That Kristen sleeps with her brother Paul, and that you and I spend nights with our bodies entwined also?

"I don't know. I have no idea what's going to happen. But it doesn't look good."

When the others came home, one by one, they were all informed of the situation. At first they all waved off the matter as being overblown—"There's really no way your mom could possibly tell what goes on here," Kristen said airily—but after a while the sense of impending doom that seemed to hang over Darcy and Greg seeped over to the others as well.

The thing was that no one knew when Maureen would actually come by. She had a way of just dropping in to both Greg's and Darcy's former living quarters unannounced. Once she had actually barged into Darcy's sorority house on a Friday evening, when a party was going on—ostensibly to take her daughter out to a nice restaurant for dinner, but in reality to check up on her and make sure she wasn't "doing anything she shouldn't," as she later told Darcy.

So the days passed with everyone on tenterhooks, waiting for some kind of explosion from what everyone now took to be some kind of Gorgon who was going to blow up their whole house with her puritanical outrage.

But when the day came, it didn't work out as expected.

It was a Saturday afternoon, and for some reason everyone in the house was gone except Curt. The three girls were dutifully in the library in a collective study session (final exams were just around the corner), while Paul and Greg had decided to take in a baseball game at the college stadium. Curt thought it a wonderful opportunity to do his studying at home.

When the doorbell rang at around 2 p.m., he had somehow forgotten about the looming threat of Maureen. He opened the door and found a woman standing on the doorstep.

She was quite short, with jet-black hair and a round, pleasing face—or rather, it would have been pleasing if it weren't twisted into a grimace. It was a warm day, and the woman had no wrap on, so Curt could see that this compactly built woman had plenty of curves—especially at bust and bottom—that would make any man salivate. The thought that courses inevitably through every heterosexual man's mind at such a moment (I wonder what it would be like to fuck this woman?) shot through his.

The woman herself seemed taken aback to see Curt answering the door. Her grimace turned to befuddlement.

"Does—does Greg McManus live here?"

"Yes, ma'am," Curt said dutifully.

"I'm Maureen, his mother."

Curt flushed at the sudden recollection of the Gorgon everyone was expecting. Well, he thought, she doesn't look all that terrifying. Kind of cute, in fact.

When he made no answer, she said, "Is he here?"

"No, ma'am," Curt managed to say.

"Can I wait for him?"

Without a word, Curt backed away to let her into the house.

Maureen entered hesitantly, as if there might be bombs under the floorboards. She peered around the living room, gave a quick glance up the stairs, then drifted over to the entrance of the kitchen. She turned around to face her host.

To Maureen, this wasn't working out at all the way she had wanted. She was all primed to take Greg by the ear and—by main force, if necessary—drag him away from what she already sensed was some den of iniquity (Imagine three couples living together!). And her daughter was here also! Darcy hadn't troubled to inform her mom that she had found a boyfriend—her first, so far as Maureen could tell—and, without knowing even faintly of what actually happened in the house, Maureen had already worked herself up into a tizzy at the very thought that people would be casually walking around half-naked as they stepped out of the shower, that bras and panties and stockings would be lying all around, and that the silence of the nights would be shattered by the moans and groans of hormone-mad young people engaging in carnal congress.

But when she saw Curt, her world was turned upside down.

You see, she had long had a secret yearning for men of color. Of course, these days it was nothing special, when lots of interracial couples could be seen; but when she was growing up it was still a rarity, and there was something about such men—whether it be jet-black Africans or chocolate-colored guys from India or olive-complexioned Hispanics and Native Americans—that sent a thrill of sexual anticipation through her. As an Irishwoman who had married a chalk-white fellow countryman who burned like a lobster (as she did herself) at the barest hint of sun, she envied the darker races their pigmentation, which she thought the most beautiful thing she could imagine on a man.

And now she was facing just such a man—and a young, healthy, athletic man to boot, one who loomed over her as if he could pick her up with one arm and "have his way with her."

She tried to snap out of her funk and reassert her command of the situation, as a full-grown adult and the mother of two of the people living in this house.

"Is Darcy here?" she said. "That's my daughter."

"No, ma'am," Curt said, wishing he didn't sound so much like an automaton. "She's out studying with Kristen and Adele."

"Kristen? That's—that's Greg's girlfriend?" She could hardly get that last word out.

"Yes, ma'am." After a pause: "They make a wonderful couple."

"And Darcy has a boyfriend?"

"That would be Paul—Kristen's brother."

"Hmmm, how cozy," Maureen said in a heavy-handed attempt at sarcasm. "And who's the third girl?"

"That's Adele. She's my girlfriend."

"I see. And you all live here together?"

"Yes, ma'am. It's worked out pretty well so far."

"We'll see about that."

She began pacing the room, not knowing how much longer she was willing to wait around for either of her children to come home—or how much longer she could hold out against the temptations of this heart-stoppingly handsome man.

Curt just watched her stalk back and forth, trying to think of something to say that would calm this woman's nerves. But things took an alarming turn when, in a sudden fit of emotion, Maureen burst into tears and fell in a heap on the floor.

"Oh, God!" she cried, covering her face in her hands. "I've tried so hard to raise these children right—and got no help from my good-for-nothing husband! What does he do? He runs off with some floozie who's barely older than his own daughter! And Greg—he's so delicate, so troubled! He can't be on his own, really! He needs his mom to protect him . . ."

Curt was appalled, and moved, at Maureen's unexpected display. He flung himself to the ground and tried to wrap her in his arms, but she had by now actually slipped all the way to the floor and contracted into a fetal position, moaning and sobbing. He saw no option but to lift her up—she was, in fact, pretty light, being only five foot three and quite slender—and taking her to the sofa, where he sat down and placed her on his lap.

The contact that Maureen had been longing for ever since she saw Curt impelled her to throw her arms around his neck and continue crying on his shoulder. At times she almost wailed like a banshee, letting out the emotions that she had kept bottled up in her ever since her husband had deserted her two years before. Curt held her tightly and stroked her head to soothe her, but it didn't seem to be having much effect.

Then, just as impulsively, Maureen lifted her tear-stained face and pasted a long, wet kiss on Curt's mouth. It must have lasted for at least half a minute.

Maureen suddenly pulled away and cried, "Oh! I'm so sorry!" A blush rose up from her neck and proceeded to the top of her forehead.

Curt's initial look of surprise gave way to a warm smile. "That's okay, ma'am." Whatever it takes to stop you from bawling.

Curt's proximity, and his body scent, had worked its magic on Maureen. This was the closest she had ever come to uniting herself with a man of color—and this one seemed especially nice and sympathetic. It didn't hurt that he was also strong and good-looking.

His head was only inches away from her large, firm breasts—and that proximity sent a shudder through her. Staring at him with a glazed expression, she reached behind herself, took one of Curt's hands, and slid it up her skirt.

You have to understand that Maureen had been totally celibate in the two years she had been alone. For a long time she had been so disgusted with her husband's treatment of her that she had developed a furious hatred of all men, thinking every one of them faithless and treacherous. That feeling had subsided a bit, but she was still out of practice in dating and flirting; hence her clumsy attempt to get Curt to feel her up.

"Ma'am . . ." he said, alarmed.

"Oh, God, just touch me!" she cried in anguish.

Her proximity to him was also stimulating. She was a fine-looking woman, and he sympathized with her obvious sexual deprivation. His hand crawled slowly up her bare thigh under her skirt until it reached her cotton panties—the crotch of which were already sopping wet. He pulled the crotch aside and, purely by feel, touched her magic spot. Maureen let out a harsh groan: it was the first time in two years (actually a little more) that anyone other than herself had touched her there, and she spread her legs wide to accommodate Curt's large but gentle hand. Her moisture quickly covered his fingertips as he first stroked her labia, then her clitoris. Now she pressed his head against her breasts, whose contours he could feel even through the blouse and bra that covered them; but he was fixated on bringing her the release she so yearned for, and his strokes became more forceful without ever being rough or violent.

His expert touch had its desired effect. In minutes Maureen let out a gasp, then a high-pitched cry, and her entire body shook as if electrocuted. Her tongue stuck a little bit out of her mouth as she let out strange little choking cries. He continued to stroke her gently as he sought to prolong her orgasm to its maximum extent; and, managing to look up from the near-asphyxiation of her breasts, he saw tears squeezed out of her eyes as she moaned and gasped and shivered. Then she thrust his hand away, collapsing on his lap in exhausted contentment.

"Omigod," Maureen said, "that was incredible."

"Glad you liked it," Curt said, just a tad smugly.

There was an unspoken assumption that some kind of reciprocation was needed, and Maureen seemed eminently prepared to oblige. So Curt managed to lift her up in his arms and carry her up the stairs to one of the three bedrooms. He dumped her a little unceremoniously on the bed while he calmly undressed. Maureen watched with rapt attention as he uncovered himself unhurriedly, doffing shirt, pants, socks, and underwear until his glorious nudity was exposed to her gaze. Within moments, she herself had shed her own clothing—and that made Curt gasp.

Maureen McManus proved to be a superb specimen of ripe womanhood. Her strong shoulders, flat stomach, tuft-covered delta, and lusciously curved bottom were wonders to behold; but her prime features were her large, round, and firm breasts, set so close together that they created a natural cleavage even without the confinement of a bra. Only fleetingly did it pass through Curt's mind that these exquisite globes had suckled his friends Darcy and Greg; they were true works of art of the sort that only a Renaissance sculptor could have fashioned.

Curt's member reacted as expected to the sight, and a glint appeared in Maureen's eyes as she saw it rising and swelling. She stretched herself out on the bed and gestured to him to approach her. The height of the bed was exactly at the level of his cock, and she slipped it into her mouth while also grabbing hold of his bottom with her hands. She sucked with gusto, not omitting to place Curt's balls in her mouth from time to time. But she knew that more was to come.

After several minutes she rolled over onto her back and spread her legs provocatively, fixing her eyes on Curt and ordering him: "Go into me."

He was not slow to oblige, although he first had to pay homage to those glorious breasts, squeezing them and rubbing his face against them before sliding up her body and entering her. She let out a gasp as he did so, for he was quite a bit larger than her no-good ex-husband; and she had to confess to a certain grim satisfaction at belatedly turning the tables on him: here she was, bedding down with a handsome college student just as he had betrayed her with a twentysomething bimbo! But mostly she was preoccupied with giving Curt the fulfillment he had just provided her—although his pounding of her pussy, along with his frantic squeezing and stroking of her breasts and bottom and the kisses he was raining down on her face and neck and shoulders, was providing more than enough pleasure to her.

She clung to him tightly, and when his moans advanced to a higher key she knew that his culmination was approaching. The flooding of her vagina with his copious emission was a profoundly moving experience for both of them, and she urged him to remain in her as long as possible so that the indescribable sense of being filled by this remarkable young man could be prolonged as long as possible.

When he did slip out and rolled off of her, she peered at him intently and said, "Are there more like you out there?"

Curt, breathing hard, smiled back at her and said, "I think that can be arranged."

*

Curt slightly misunderstood the purport of Maureen's comment. What she wanted were more good-looking men of color to service her. He interpreted her query to mean that she was up for more action with young guys like him—in other words, the rest of the football team.

His teammates were, of course, in their off-season training schedule, but not much was really going on. So he didn't have much trouble, on this lazy Saturday afternoon, summoning them to come on over and have a good time with Maureen.

And they did come on over.

When Kristen, Adele, and Darcy came back from their studying, they found that their house had become the haven of what appeared to be a male nudist colony. Close to twenty naked men were wandering all around the place; and as the women took in the sight with wide eyes, the guys didn't seem to have the slightest embarrassment at parading around in the buff in front of them.

"What on earth is going on here?" Kristen cried.

A confused array of grunts—at least one of them in a female voice—from a bedroom upstairs gave them some hint of an answer.

Darcy, intuitively sensing the true state of affairs, dodged a trio of laughing men as she flew up the stairs. The tangled figures she saw in the bedroom were difficult to distinguish, and what she mostly saw was a pair of men, each of them pummeling a woman lying on her side between them, one of her legs draped over the man in front. Peering more closely, she cried out:

"Omigod, it's Mom! Jesus, Mom, what are you doing?"

A passing man—his cock glistening with either his juices or Maureen's or both—gave her a look that said: What does it look like, you dope? Your mom's getting royally fucked.

By this time, the other two women had thundered up the stairs, and they quickly understood that the long-awaited and long-dreaded visit by Greg and Darcy's mother had become a reality. But this was the last thing they expected.

Adele collared Curt, who was about to head downstairs. He, like the other guys, was naked.

"Curt, what the hell's going on here? Are you guys—?"

He was quick to grasp his sweetheart's meaning. "Hey, don't look at me! She wanted all these guys to do her! As you can see, she's having a pretty nice time."

And indeed, Maureen had wrapped one arm around the guy in front (who was clearly in her vagina) while stretching an arm back to encourage the guy in back (who was plugging up her anus).

"Who are these guys?" Adele almost shouted.

"The team," Curt said blandly.

"The football team? The whole team?"

"Well, no—not the whole team. They probably couldn't fit into this house all at once, so some of them are coming over a bit later."

"And exactly how many will that be, all together?"

Curt frowned in concentration. "Um, fifty-two, I think."

"Fifty-three," corrected another naked guy drifting from one bedroom to the other.

"Fifty-three guys?" Kristen exclaimed, after listening to this colloquy with increasing alarm. "There's no way any female can handle that many all by herself—especially since you guys seem to like to have seconds or thirds. She—she'll expire!"