Snowed In Ch. 03

But she never had to make the choice, because her mother appeared in the doorway . . .

. . . Sherry awoke from a startling, violent dream to find that the violence was real -- it was going on in her own home. She spilled out of her bed the best she could, head shaky, vision skewed. While she struggled to wrap her heavy robe around her naked body she heard another sickening thud through the wall, followed by grunts and curses.

Halfway down the hall to her son’s room she heard voices:

“You fucking . . . fucking prick! You broke my fucking tooth!”

Josh’s voice?

“How dare you?How dare you touch her, you bastard?”

Neal’s voice, definitely. But what . . .?

“You fucked her! You fucked her too, old man!”

The picture framed by her son’s doorway burned itself into her mind in the space of a second. It was surreal, incredible -- it made no sense. It could only be a drug-induced dream, a black fantasy -- she couldn’t be awake, not really.

Her husband of twenty years, naked, flushed, leaning against the wall for support. His eyes turned to hers in slow motion . . .

Her son, her beautiful son, also naked, on his knees before his desk, his accusing finger hanging in the air . . .

Her daughter, naked but for the corner of a blanket hastily tugged around her, on the bed, in the shadows . . .

And the words emblazoned in her mind, like the dialogue in that bizarre silent movie.

How dare you touch her?

You fucked her too, old man!

In time they all turned to her, their eyes blazing anger, passion, guilt. They stood there, stupidly, like actors in a play awaiting applause.

She ran.

Dimly she heard her husband curse and call out her name. The sounds of thumping footfalls behind her as her chest heaved, her eyes blurred with tears. A grotesque nightmare image as she slammed the door -- of her husband’s naked form racing after her, his penis flopping wildly, her naked son limping-lurching behind. She pressed herself against the door as though Satan himself were in pursuit . . .

Neal threw his whole body against the door in wild, frantic blows, hearing his own panting, his heart thudding in his ears. He didn’t know what he could say, how he could remove the crazed look from his wife’s feral eyes. He only knew it was time to put a stop to it all, one way or another.

“Josh!” he screamed.

His son understood. Seconds before they had been grappling and spitting at each other; now they were allies with one common, unspoken goal. His daughter was yelling frenziedly in his face, clawing at his chest. He ignored her, slammed against the door in time with his son.

. . . It could be no dream -- no nightmare, though she’d had nightmares like this before. She only wanted to wake up, to leave it all behind. But it was real -- she knew it, through all her confusion and shock, from the details her subconscious could not possibly have conjured. The blood on Josh’s cheek. The scent of weed lingering in the room. Vanessa clutching a trophy in her hand, like she was accepting some honor (for what -- Most Likely To Fuck Her Father?).

She heard wood splintering -- the door lurched against her. She leapt away, blind with panic, and snatched the brass candlestick from her bureau . . .

When Neal got through the door, emerging into his old bedroom for the first time in a week, he was greeted by a swift, savage blow across the face. For a moment he staggered from the blow, the dull taste of blood filling his mouth, before moving steadily forward into the darkness to where his wife was crying and shrinking away from him.

She was half doubled over by the big bed, her hair a long tangled mess that framed a puckered, hysterical face. Sobbing, shrieks, inarticulate words filled the room as he closed in on her, grabbing her wrists, shaking the weapon from her hand to clunk onto the floor. As he shook her, trying to speak over her babbling, her old mouse-colored robe opened wide -- he took in her jerking muscles, her bounding tits, her soft belly, the dark triangle of her bush, all in an instant. He twisted her forearms, bringing them to her side, his fists pressing against the warm, pliable skin of her waist.

He was hard -- rock solid hard, stretched tight, throbbing.

He blocked her knees with his own, his fingers digging deeper into her arms, forcing her back. She had nowhere to go, she fell backward onto the bed -- he pressed his weight against her. He tried to pin both of her wrists above her head with one hand, causing her tits to thrust upward at him -- but she was strong, she pressed back, determined. He stared into her eyes as she whimpered, and hissed, and sobbed in his face.

A thousand scenes rushed through his mind -- some old, some new. Fabulous sex with her while staying at a friend’s house. The cup she smashed against the wall when she found out about Melanie, the names she hurled at him. Her dazed expression at the kitchen table, the way she studied his gushing cum with a half-smile, her big tits bouncing in the moonlight while she rode him, her face lit only by the black-and-white flicker of an old movie.

He loved her -- he knew that, had never doubted it for an instant. He was not going to lose her, not now. Not ever. He would save her from herself. He would give her everything she needed. He would devote his life to her, all over again.

“Josh!” he yelled again.

His son was behind him. In the distance, Vanessa cried and pleaded.

“Hold her arms,” he ordered, his mouth suddenly dry and parched.

The boy bounded onto the bed behind his mother; he wrestled her wrists to the mattress easily, a blank expression on his bleeding face.

Neal wrenched open his wife’s heavy thighs and grabbed onto her ankles, lifting her legs high into the air -- she kicked and cried impotently, but he was not letting go. He moved forward slowly, cautiously, wary of her every move.

No, Dad . . . no, please -- rang his daughter’s voice in his ear.

“Vanessa, shut up or get out!” he blared, ignoring his son’s nervous snicker.

In the shadows he could just see the pale column of his solid flesh, nestling into the dark curls of Sherry’s motte. Just rubbing against the hairs, digging into the curls . . . my god, she had a hairy pussy: savage, bushy, unruly, like a wild garden. He had always loved it, ever since they were kids. When they shaved her for birthing, he remembered how impatient he was for it to grow back, lush and full. He ran his cock across the entire length of it, again and again, loving the coarse, mossy feel, before he finally dragged his prick down and guided it between her swollen lips.

He nudged forward, experimentally -- though his raging erection begged him to plunge ahead with all his might. She was dry, unyielding inside, a sensation he had never experienced. He prodded her anyway, trying to ignore her winces, her grimaces and cries. His son was grinning bigger than ever, but it was a joyless grin, a grimace-grin composed of pure nerves.

“Nessa,” he said. “Nessa! Are you still here?”

“Oh god . . . yes.”

She sounded miserable. He licked his lips, tried to calm his voice.

“Now listen to me . . . Are you listening?”

“Y-yes.”

“Now I don’t want to hurt her -- I just want to . . .”

“Okay,” she said, breathing hard. “Okay, what? What?”

“Okay. In the drawer of the table -- if you’ll look in there, you’ll find some Vaseline, or KY or something. I need you to slick me up. Do you understand?”

She said nothing. He could hear her crying behind him.

“Nessa, do you understand?”

Again she said nothing, but he heard the snick of the bedside lamp, could hear her rummaging through the drawer. He looked down into his wife’s tear-streaked face while he waited. She had stopped her noise, but her dull eyes crept crazily around: looking at her son, at him, at Vanessa behind him. She bore the look of a trapped, drugged animal; he doubted there was one conscious thought in her mind, she was totally on instinct.

Her eyes seemed to settle, in something like fascination, when Vanessa appeared at his side, began rubbing some cool, slippery something over his cock. The sensation was intense, wonderful -- he kept himself in check. She rubbed the goo into his skin with a trembling, yet practiced hand, but Neal noted that she was looking at her mother. She was still sniffling, but her face seemed calm beside his own, though her lips trembled. She understood, or seemed to. He could depend on her now.

His wife gasped sharply -- once, twice, three times -- as he slid his adamantine cock into her with one slow, steady motion. He gasped himself at her tightness, grunted at her heat. He kept himself lodged there for several seconds, feeling himself throb and . . . yes! feeling her throb as well. Back again, slowly; in again. Perhaps the tightest, hottest pussy he had ever entered -- tighter than on their honeymoon, than when she surrendered her virginity to him, so many years before. Her moonlike face was still taut and flinching, her body still rigid beneath him . . . but her eyes were closed, and she didn’t struggle. In . . . and out, in . . . and out, and then there was suddenly a gush of moisture inside her, bathing his cock, lubricating his passage. So good, so warm and wet . . . He leaned back slightly, his own arms trembling and quaking, and watched himself sinking into her again. Her milky white belly, shaking as she accepted him, bore one dark smear near her navel -- blood from his nose. He focused on it, watched it as her stomach rose and fell. It told a story, that dark spot. It reminded him of pain, and anger, and ugliness -- it kept him strong, kept him resolute.

She said nothing, made only the smallest of noises, kept her eyes clenched shut but for one brief glance. His son looked her over brazenly, his wide eyes poring over her heaving chest, the broad, dark nipples. He was openly lusting after her, after his own mother. Alarms sounded in Neal’s head, alarms that he tried to silence. All that mattered was that he stayed hard, that he gave her pleasure. That he control himself, and pleasure her, and bring her back to him -- bring her back to them all. Vanessa still stood beside him, he realized; her gooey hand gripped his shoulder. There was no expression on her face; she simply watched. Her other hand rested on her swelling belly, stroking it absently.

Another sudden, head-spinning burst of warmth and wetness around his cock and he could finally sink all the way into her, groaning aloud as he did so. His balls mashed against the dampness of her fat, bulging lips. She cried out -- but there was no pain in it. No pain, no fear, no anger -- was it, could it be pleasure? He imagined that every rapist must fantasize that his victim’s protests are cries of lust and gratification. But no, he knew his wife, knew the noises she made. And this was familiar to him: raw, bestial, abandoned . . . but familiar. They all said something at that moment in acknowledgment --oh yes oroh godoroh fuck, some variation. Josh loosed a silly laugh, almost a giggle; Vanessa dug her fingers into his shoulder.

It’s a group effort, he thought dimly, through the mist of his pleasure.We’re all fucking her.

Through the foggy haze Sherry tried to breathe, tried to focus, her mind reeling and spinning on a coarse faster and more erratic than any pills or booze alone could ever cause. The man before her, the man now invading her, had seemed odious, menacing, vile and dangerous when he entered the room; now against all her reason and judgment, against all her gut-wrenching indignation he was seeming more and more like her husband -- like her lover. With every strong, purposeful stroke of his penis, with every surge forward into her body, he became both familiar and distant, a man she knew, but without a face. Likewise, his steady penetration seemed far removed, like something happening to someone else, even as the sensations raised chills in her arms, sent ripples of sensuality rocking through her breasts and belly. It was torturous, awful -- it was rape, violation, defilement, she wanted to kick him and claw him. But her body seemed to recognize him, her burning pussy wanted him, welcomed him. It was invasion, what he was doing, it was sick. They were sick, those people watching him, encouraging him. On some level she knew that the man holding her hands in steel vices, the man whose eyes perused her exposed body hungrily, that man was her son. Her only son, born to her, whom she had nursed years before. But when her eyes met his, and she was dumbfounded by the lust she witnessed -- it could not be her son. It was just a man, a stranger, forcing her to comply, feeding off of her.

Sinking in and out of realization, dazed by drugs and alcohol, despair and shock, Sherry writhed and remonstrated against them all, and hated them -- but her body was wallowing in the sensations, her mind was ablaze with the excitement of it all. Even now -- as her body’s pleasure awakened and her traitorous pussy anointed her slow stroking, unchangeable, unstoppable husband -- even now she would flee them if she could, and lock herself away in some stronghold, and find some way to end her ruined, miserable excuse for a life. Yes, if she could, but she couldn’t. They held her, they forced her . . . they were blood and skin and bone relations of each other and they were fucking her, like the most degraded animals, the least discriminating of human beings . . .

Yes, they held her, but it wasn’t rape. They held her, but that wasn’t why she didn’t run. The pressure of her husband’s fingers on her legs had lessened, her son barely held her arms now. She could break away if she wanted to, but instead . . . instead her hips were lifting, she was meeting the thrusts of that slow working cock, she was letting it go in deeper, deeper. She wasn’t looking into her son’s eyes now -- he wasn’t her son anyway -- she was looking at his dick, which hung, hardening, in the air above her. For a moment there seemed something familiar about the posture, the shadowy form beside her, the hands on her, the rigid tool near her face . . .

Josh gazed down, openly fascinated, spellbound, jittery. There it was again -- that wonderfully weird combination he’d been relishing the past few nights. His mother’s face and his own hard cock, close together -- in the same frame, as it were. Two elements of everyday life that should never, would never come into contact, yet there they were. He studied her puffy, wet cheeks, her trembling lips, her big, heaving chest, and focused again on his own prick, stretched taut and twitching, veiny, engorged, mere inches away from her.

The first night he’d picked the lock into his mother’s room he’d been motivated by annoyance and curiosity -- anger at Ness for deserting him, fascination with his mother’s reason-deprived state. He’d looked her over, pulled the covers back to inspect her naked body. He’d even pulled his dick out that night, to wank a few times half-heartedly in her presence. The second time he’d been really frustrated with Vanessa, and had come in determined to molest his mother for revenge. And he had touched her, to be sure: run his fingers over her breasts, stroked her nipples, cupped her insanely hairy pussy. And he’d stroked himself to hardness, right there beside her. He hadn’t fingered her, as he told Vanessa later. But he had gotten aroused in her presence, his naked and demanding dick right next to her vulnerable naked body -- he had thought that was pretty damned kinky.

So he could never have imagined anything like this: watching her getting fucked, seeing her body move in time. Watching her -- consciously, deliberately -- watching him, studying his nakedness, fixing her eyes on his cock.

The scratches on his body, the lingering pain of his father’s blows, Vanessa’s treachery . . . everything faded from his mind. He watched, he waited.

Neal was doing the greatest fucking of his life. He was steady, rhythmic, determined. He could not be distracted. He would not look at Sherry’s face save for the briefest of glances. He studied her belly, the dark spot of blood. He pressed on, slowly, deeply. Her hips had begun to meet him, her thighs to grip him, to let him in further. He was dimly aware of his daughter, clutching at his arm, her breathing. At one point she touched and stroked his nipples -- he stopped her, that would make him cum.

His wife’s pussy was incredible, the heat, the slickness, the tightness. Every time he drew back it seemed like he would never fit back in, yet every time the tender folds yielded, and his lead pipe cock got sucked back up inside. He tried not to focus on it, tried not to do all his feeling through his dick. He willed love into her, he flooded his body, his mind with love.

It’s a love fuck, he told himself, like a mantra,a love fuck . . . a love fuck . . .

. . . she remembered her dreams, her fantasies, her desires for the past weeks. They came to her suddenly, unexpected, forceful. The porn girl with the headband -- that was her. The big man, the sleazy man with the huge dick, the mullet-haired guy fucking her. The cameras had stopped rolling, but she wasn’t through performing. The camera man had come closer, to see what was happening up close. He was calling to the other men, the lighting guy, the sound guy, a few bystanders. He was also unzipping his jeans, hauling out his own cock. She wanted it. Even though she was getting stuffed, even though the mullet man was filling her with impossibly hard dick, she wanted more. They all closed around her, they were all pulling out their tools, they were all stroking, watching, waiting their turn . . .

That was what she had been wanting when she dreamed, when she masturbated, when she reduced her poor Big Bear to a mute, sticky uselessness. She’d wanted to be spoiled by dick. She’d wanted too much dick, too many to choose from, a small army of stroking men lusting after her . . .and she’d wanted Neal to know it.She’d wanted him to watch her, and be able to do nothing about it.

Vanessa gasped, her father groaned, her brother giggled when Sherry took his dick into her mouth.

She had been watching her mother intently, watching her nipples surge, watching her eyes roll around, waiting, hoping for some sign of consciousness, of pleasure, of acceptance. She could never have dreamed this, could not imagine how things had spun so recklessly out of control. But now that they were here, naked, highly aroused, helping father fuck mother, she had hoped against hope that her mother would come around, that something right would happen. Now this.

Her mother’s head had lifted off the bed and accepted her brother’s throbbing dick in one smooth motion -- no drama to it, no hesitation, no build up. A steady, sudden move and it was in her mouth, and Vanessa could see nothing of her mother’s face but her chin and her bottom lip. She wrenched her father’s shoulder -- her father who still pumped steadily but shakily away, his biceps trembling -- while she watched her mother’s big breasts heaving, listened to her taking breath in sharp hisses through her nose. Josh’s head fell back and he stared at the ceiling, he made noises she knew of old, of shock, of surprise, of pleasure. She felt her own heat rising, her own heart pounding as she watched her mother’s lips grasping their way up Josh’s length like a struggling rock climber, until his hanging, hairy sack was squashed against her nose.

Well, she thought absurdly, she had sworn to keep her parents together, and now they were together. With a twist.

It was the wildest scene she’d ever witnessed, and she’d witnessed a few. There had never been any doubt in Vanessa’s mind that she had had the most, and the most varied, sexual experience of anyone in her family. But she never expected that her wildest, kinkiest, most bestial night would ever occur in their presence, with their bodies, with their lusts. For several minutes she lost control in her enthusiasm, began groping and fondling her hard-working father as if she were a dirty old man, her hands on his fuzzy butt, between his crack, beneath to fondle his balls. Neal made sounds to warn her off, but she kept playing, her eyes intent on her mother’s fast-rising pleasure, her breathing fast, her cunt moistening, knees weakening. She locked her father’s arm and shoulder between her tits and rubbed against him, felt his chest and the small of his back, began kissing and biting at his shoulder. At one point Neal grimaced and sucked air through his teeth, held himself rigidly locked deep in his wife’s cunt.