Snowed In Ch. 03

Vanessa drew back -- her father was on the knife edge of orgasm, trying to hold it off. She could see his whole body tensing, his fighting to retain control. And she was amazed to see that, despite everything, her mother seemed to understand. The thrusting of her hips, the grinding of her thighs slowed; she waited for him, even as (with noises like a hound of hell) she continued to devour Josh’s dick.

She backed away from her father, despite her longing for him, and fell forward onto the bed beside her mother. She wasn’t helping that way; she needed to help her mother cum. Neal needed no help cumming, God knew. It was Sherry who might need nudging over the edge. Vanessa had lost it for a second there, but now, as her own naked curves melted into that of her mother’s, she felt her duty was clear.

As she touched her mother’s nipples for the first time, burying her fingers beneath her splayed, sweaty tits, she watched her mother’s mouth sucking, saw her tongue slurping at Josh’s hard red cock. Her brother looked down at both of them with an unreal expression, a look as bereft of cockiness and egotism and smartass as she’d ever received from him. She kissed between the pale, heavy breasts and licked between them, and laid her head against them to hear her mother’s hammering heartbeat, the gurgling noises she made. She met her father’s eyes, briefly, as he resumed his slow stroking, watched his belly loom closer with every thrust, saw the curls of his pubis merge with her mother’s rhythmically, hypnotically. For a while she suckled one of her mother’s nipples, tugging at it with her teeth, marveling at its hardness, its stalky length. Keeping her face ever close to the pale flesh, she glided downward, across the white expanse of belly to the hips and upper thighs. She encountered the jungle of hair with a small shock -- she hadn’t been able to tell just how overgrown her mother was until now (waaay hairy pussy, her brother had said, ages ago). Into this mass of dark curls the long, glistening barrel of her father’s gun kept sluicing, burrowing, pistoning wetly. She could hear the squelching, maddening sound it made as it entered and withdrew, the sound of some soft-working, well-oiled machine. Only by watching the slippery mushroom head could she see, in the shadows, the fat cleft of the lips accepting this hard offering. Keeping her fingers splayed on the soft belly flesh, that she might feel the tension and release of orgasm, and breathing in deeply the musky aroma of her parents’ sex, Vanessa moved closer.

She knelt, like a lapper at a pool, nudging through the thick curly grass of hair to find the sweet, wet opening. The hot folds electrified her tongue, flooded her senses with woman-ness. She hadn’t slept with a woman in quite some time, and never with a woman like this. Her girls had been sleek and shaved, their bodies studded with piercings, their skin exuding the scent of clove cigarettes. This woman, this body was somehow primordial, savage, basic -- fleshy, overgrown, fertile and pungent. Natural. She dimly realized that she was at the site of her own being, that her own life had begun right here, with these two slow-working, passionate bodies. The thought, if it could be called a thought, excited her further -- she felt an infusion of wetness between her legs, a sudden stabbing ache of emptiness in her pussy, and began lapping at the bowl with greater rapidity.

At first she had rested her chin at the very crest of her mother’s opening, dipping her tongue downward tentatively, fascinated at the sight of this wet, wide pussy accepting the hard steel that was her father’s cock. But after a minute of dancing her tongue-tip across the delicate folds, like a child stealing frosting from a cake, she felt the belly flesh beneath her fingers set up and firm, becoming as rigid as a table. Her mother’s obvious excitement excited her even more, and she snaked her tongue deeper between the plump, oily lips. The fire in her belly, in her breasts only increased when, delving deep into the hot gash, her tongue met the solid, plunging rigidity of her father’s cock. Vanessa felt the coarse pussy curls grinding against her cheek and chin, the slapping of her father’s belly as he stroked. She inhaled the scent of pure sex. She dug her fingers into the firmness beneath her, willing it to give way, to let loose.

There came an animal snarling, snorting sound from behind her; she stopped the wild whipping of her tongue long enough to look behind her. Across the pale landscape of her mother’s undulating curves, her brother, his body twisted, stomach so tight she could see his heart thumping, clawing desperately at his own shoulders, having nothing else to hold onto; his face contorted, the chipped tooth plainly visible in the dim light; her mother, upper torso raised from the bed, resting on her elbows; her lips working, her cheeks hollowed, throat muscles contorting, Adam’s Apple bobbing. This sight, this delicious sight, framed by the splayed, peaked hillocks of her mother’s breasts, for a few seconds only met her gaze, filled her vision -- she then dived into the pussy once more, the thought buzzing through her head crazily:Josh is cumming, Mom is swallowing his cum . . . The idea flashed through her mind, stoked all her lustfulness. She wanted to be her mother, fucked by her father, swallowing her brother’s spurting cum -- wanted to be Josh, loosing his seed into that gluttonous mouth -- wanted to be Neal, relentlessly fucking, driving, working that fat pussy, this fat, hairy pussy. Most of all, she wanted her mother to cum. She wanted to make her mother cum. She wanted to feel it, to know it, to make it happen.

Her face sideways in the cleft, jammed, sucking plump, slick lips into her mouth. The hips shaking beneath her, the gurgling, grunting sounds. Her brother’s groans lengthening and softening. The exact moment when he broke free of his mother’s tireless suction, the popping sound, the intake of breath, Sherry’s long sobbing moan. Hands on her head while she sucked -- her father’s. He smoothed the hair behind her ears as he had since she was a girl, before grabbing a handful of it. A hand on her ass, questing fingers dipping into her crack -- her mother’s? her brother’s? it didn’t matter. She sucked and thrashed, whipping her tongue against the brave clit button, poking out into her mouth. She focused her all upon it, bathed it with violent affection, as she did every dick she had sucked, every throbbing cock she’d ever tasted, when she wanted them to explode.

A sudden quake, a tremor -- and the bridge collapsed beneath her, the belly jerked, the hips thumped, her mother cried. Her nose, her mouth suddenly awash with hot, thick girl honey, pouring out, washing the still pounding cock. Her father, muttering long and fast, religious and obscene words mingled. The hand in her hair becoming a fist, pulling her away, a long rope of spit and juice linking her to the scene -- just as suddenly, just as roughly, thrusting her face back into the mess, while stomachs spasmed, bodies groaned and cursed around her. Her mouth wrapped around the shaft of her father’s pulsing cock like she was eating corn on the cob, her lips feeling the cum coursing through it, into her mother. Slurping, vacuuming the juice from its length, from its sticky base, to the place where it lay lost between the tight gripping lips. The cries lengthening and dying, the shuddering flesh subsiding.

Mashed between the two bellies, sobbing, her face soaked, she extracted one hand, extended one aching arm, and found her own orgasm at her fingertips, the very instant they touched her own quivering pussy.

***

They sat silent. Dazed. Puzzled.

There were no words to account for it, no way to explain it. Only the shaking of heads, grumbled curses. Wide eyes. Disbelief.

It wasn’t simply that the boundaries between them had been crossed; no, they had been rudely, irrevocably smashed.

The Father had seen the Mother sucking the Son.

The Son had watched the Father fucking his Mother.

The Daughter had lapped from the Mother’s cunt.

There was, quite simply, nothing leftbetween them. No walls, no rituals. Nothing sacred.

And yet, Who They Were to each other, fundamentally, had not changed: husband, wife, father, mother, daughter, son, sister, brother.(Master, mistress, son and daughter, as the song went.) What had happened between them was either far above, or far below, the meaning of such relationships. It was either fine and wonderful, imminently understandable, blameless . . . or base and instinctual, inexcusable, guilt-ridden. But it had happened, and there were no words to explain it.

No one I think is in my tree, remembered Neal, bemusedly. I mean it must be high or low.

He was sunk into his chair in the den, smoking his first cigarette in eight years. (A Virginia Slims, and a menthol -- he didn’t care.) Across the room, his bruised son sat huddled into a corner of the couch; snuggled close to him, his poor pregnant daughter. She and Neal wore bathrobes over their nakedness, the boy wore only a pair of cotton briefs. Vanessa had sat with him, Neal gathered, because she intuitively sensed he needed her more. The kid had been a smug and headstrong smartass ever since he hit puberty, and he could get on your nerves awful damn quick, but seeing him deflated, dumb, and senseless was somehow worse. Vanessa lay her head on his shoulder, stroked his arm. She was there to soothe, though she must have been as shocked as he was at what had happened . . .

They’re lovers, Neal thought, watching them, weighing the horrid incongruity.They are lovers, they fuck each other.

Too late, much too late to worry about that. They were more than that now, or less.

Good God, what had he done? What had he been thinking? He took a deep drag and exhaled, tracing the perversely complicated thought patterns in the air.

He had been a fair logician at school, a dab hand at critical thinking. The problem -- or one problem anyway -- lay in his own internal words.Good God,he had thought,what had he been thinking?Neal believed in no god. As for thinking, he hadn’t been. He had only acted, on the purest instinct. He had been angry and desperate, jealous and confused, lonely and in pain. The anger, the angst, had turned to lust, as it so often does.

So once more, he thought, it was all down to him and his stupid dick.

There was nothing so unbalanced, so basically illogical as lust. Look at sex talk, for instance: the crap that passed for speech when the throes of orgasm were upon you.

Oh Jesus, I’m gonna cum.

Now there were two disparate ideas -- two words that definitely did not belong in the same sentence.

Likewise:Oh fuck, oh my God.

Then there were formulations likeGod, I love you, you bitch and its variations. Had he really entrusted them all, his own family, to thought patterns like this? Things had been bad enough, surely, without handing all the decisions over to his endlessly selfish dong.

“Should I . . . go up and check again?” asked Vanessa, her voice tiny and fearful, stabbing.

He looked at the clock. It had only been ten minutes.

“No. Give her a little while longer.”

The silence returned, a pall, a dank cloak that hung over them all.

They were waiting for their mother, his wife. After . . . after they, afterhe, had raped her -- there could be no other word, surely -- Nessa had shooed them out, remaining with her mother, the victim, awake but crying, breathless, shocked. Two minutes later his daughter had joined them, saying Sherry was in the bathroom, that she sounded like she was sick. Vanessa had remained at the door until she heard the noise of the shower, the sounds of her mother climbing into it. That was ten minutes ago.

Ten minutes, eleven now, for Neal to drag his soul through hell. Eleven minutes, twelve, to conclude that there were no excuses, that he had sold them all for one mindless fuck.

Yes, no matter what happened, no matter how much they fought to remain a family, to realize their mutual destinies together, this would always be between them. There would be no escaping it, no explaining it. There it would be, ever present. He cursed for the umpteenth time, and stubbed out the cigarette.

A sound, and they all sat up. Neal’s heart quickened, his breath came short. Their eyes all met, for half-a-second only. Footsteps. On the stairs. In the hall.

Sherry Ford came into the room, the dark cold room still hazy with cigarette smoke. Her walk was slow, but steady. The bath robe she wore -- not the old mouse one but a bright yellow terrycloth -- came to her knees and hung open, its ties dangling. She paused in the doorway and exhaled a weary sigh, lifting her arms to secure the towel that wrapped her hair, and the motion, and the posture, filled Neal’s head with a thousand conflicting thoughts. As she moved into the room -- seemingly in slow motion, still tucking away the towel, her arms spreading the robe so that he could see, so they could all see, the heavy breasts beneath, the pale stomach, the dark triangle beneath -- she seemed not one woman but many, a cubist nude in motion.

In her freshness, her just-washed cleanliness, she was the girl he married. The shy but wonderfully sexy girl, with no children yet, no ties, only her husband. She was youth and spring and adventure, long, exciting nights, warm, sleepy days.

With her tired eyes, her pained movements, her deep sigh, she was an old and experienced whore, a professional, a knowing hand. A woman who had seen all and done all, and merely needed a place to rinse afterward.

Her shamelessness, the middle-aged, less-than-perfect body she exposed to them made her trashy and wicked, yet also a victim, a sufferer. More sinned against than sinning, for all her uncaring nakedness. Modesty was gone, destroyed, shattered.

But most of all, so powerfully he could not explain it, she seemed like Sherry -- the woman he married, the mother of his children. Uncannily, everything about her -- her beauty, her haggardness, her exposure, the droplets of water on her legs, the bloodshot eyes -- indicated that she was the victor, that she had somehow won over them all. Neal realized with a start that this woman, this middle-aged woman, a woman he had nearly left, had engaged them all. Had centered all their attention, had focused all their lusts. She had taken them all on, pleasured them, satisfied them, and walked away from it. In the insanity of the moment he had argued that all his slow, steady fucking, all his restraint was somehow for her benefit -- that she was lost and needed to be rescued, retrieved. But there was nothing pathetic about this figure, nothing to be pitied. She was up, she was able, and she was theirs. Even more palpably: they were hers. Her walk, though slow and weary, was confident nevertheless.

She stopped in the middle of the room, massaging her hair through the towel, her large breasts shaking and swaying with the motion. He studied the two jostling curves and the valley between and realized, incredibly, that he wanted her again.

“I hope you won’t argue,” she said, her voice small but strong, and steadier than it had been for days, “when I say I need a drink.”

He was on his feet in an instant and holding her.

“I think we could all use one.”

***

Then there was the old joke about Chinese fortune cookies. How you could add “in bed” to each fortune to find new significance, how it never failed.

NEW OPPORTUNITIES ARE WAITING FOR YOU . . .IN BED

DO NOT FEAR TO TRY NEW THINGS . . .IN BED

SLOW AND STEADY DETERMINATION WILL BRING YOU GREAT REWARDS . . .IN BED

Neal turned the possibilities over in his mind while he studied his wife, his shaken and weary but still beautiful, oh so beautiful, wife.

Sherry was a wonderful wife and a caring mother,in bed.

Sherry provided for them, nursed them, fed them all,in bed.

Sherry loved her husband and her children better than anyone ever could,in bed.

In spite of himself, he smiled. It fit. It made sense.

She sat in his chair, lazily, but alert. Her legs were crossed, her feet muffled in ridiculously fuzzy slippers. She rocked one foot absently in thought, held her bell-shaped glass carelessly in a slightly shaking hand.

One glass of wine, she had wanted. Just one, to “steady her nerves.” Neal had fixed it for her, the best Cabernet in his closet. He had then downed a double of gin himself, and poured another. Vanessa (allowed only one drink by her mother) had taken a brandy, Josh a beer. Three beers, in fact. He had brought them two-fisted from the refrigerator. But his wife had only that one glass of red wine, and had only taken a sip or two. She popped no pills, she smoked no cigarettes. Her eyes were sharp in the dimness.

Neal’s own eyes, he was sure, were glazed by now, his features blank and stupid. Thirty minutes of questions, of details dredged up from years before, and from two hours ago. Through it all he had watched his wife, waiting for her to flinch, to crack, to break down. There was none of the lying, the evasion, the intermixing of anger with shame that had accompanied his confession about Melanie, and none of the accusatory looks and rending tones from his wife. So calm was she, so obviously in control, that he began to fear for her reason. Surely they had all pushed her too far; she could not possibly cope with it all.

But there she sat, almost motionless, seemingly serene. She took a sip of wine with unfeasible casualness.

“So,” she said, her round, clear voice filling the room, “you’ve been partners, you’ve been having sex for four years?”

Both Josh and Vanessa nodded mutely.

“Four years?”

“Yes,” said Vanessa. She looked as though she were going to choke, and Josh looked worse.

“When, for God’s sake? Where? No, don’t answer that.”

Sherry’s eyes fell on Neal.

“And you and your father, you’ve been partners for two days,” she said to Vanessa.

Again her daughter nodded silently.

“That’s all,” Neal offered.

“That’s more than enough, Neal,” she replied.

He shut up.

“So . . . the baby isn’t Brad’s, it’s Josh’s,” Sherry said next, smashing new bulwarks in Neal’s already flooded mind.

He hadn’t thought of it. He hadn’t had time to think of it, really. But here he was, worrying about his wife’s sanity when she was sharper than he was, thinking more clearly. My God, his daughter was pregnant with his son’s child -- the mind boggled, rebelled, refused to accept.

The guilty pair nodded next to him -- they made no excuses, asked for no mercy. There was something in their mother’s tone that forbade guile or subterfuge, even delay.

“Mmm-hmm. So, what is Brad, then?”

They looked at each other, Neal’s daughter and her lover, his son. Vanessa spoke up:

“He’s just . . . someone who liked me enough to marry me -- well, to say he would marry me, even though the baby isn’t his. I’ve known him since the tenth grade, he always liked me.”

“Mmm-hmm. Does he know whose baby it is? Please tell me he doesn’t --”

“No, he doesn’t.”

Sherry sighed.

“Well, that’s something anyway. So you’re going to marry him ‘cause he’s a pushover, ‘cause he likes you a lot. Do you like him? I know you don’t love him. I know you’d cheat on him, you told me so. Well --” She laughed, actually laughed. “Obviously you will.”

Both kids laughed, the laughter of the condemned.

“Um . . . he’sokay,” said Vanessa, making a pained face. “He’s steady, he’s nice, he’s reliable. He’ll do what I tell him to. No, I don’t really like him.”

“But you’re gonna marry him. And what happens in two or three years? What happens when you’re twenty-one, twenty-two, with a toddler on your hands? No more clubs, no more partying, just the guy you married to look at?”