The Big Flood of 1925

Alice Johnson's 46, wooden rocking chair creaked loudly as she slowly rocked. Her husband's old calico shirt hung open, exposing her E-cup breasts, prominent belly pooch, and thick brown thighs. A tangled forest of greying pubic hair covered her Mons. The index finger of her free hand slid through her pussy's dark purple butterfly lips.

She took a long gulp of moonshine from a mason jar. The potent 'shine helped relieve the boredom of a farmer's wife's humdrum existence in the South in 1925.

Her husband, Ed, 60, and Clay, their 20-year-old son, eked out a hardscrabble existence on their small cotton and peanut farm in the Mississippi Delta. They worked from sunup to sundown, from can to can't, scratching out a marginal existence.

It was rare that she could drink and indulge in her fantasy life. This Spring's unusually heavy rains gave her this respite, causing the old levee to leak and threatening to flood the valley. The county's men were desperately sandbagging it to prevent the catastrophe. Alice had nothing to do but wait for the rain to stop.

Alice Johnson's husband, her three sons, and the other Delta County, Mississippi men were sandbagging the levee in a desperate attempt to save their farms and livelihoods. Like most farmers early in the 20^th Century, they ate what they grew. If the valley flooded, there would be no crops and a hungry Winter.

Her husband and her youngest son came home every night, exhausted. They would wash up and eat supper. Between mouthfuls of food, Ed warned her to be ready to evacuate. Then he'd crawl onto their cot and pass out from fatigue. He and Clay rose at daybreak the following day and went back to sandbagging the levee.

Their acreage and the neighboring farms her other three sons owned were partially underwater. This year's planting would be late, meaning lower yields and less income.

The 'shine, heat, and humidity induced a lethargy in her. Alice drifted in and out of her fantasy world, a world replete with imagery of sex. Though the only cock she ever had was her husband's, many men fucked her in her imagination.

She dreamed of cocks of various girths and lengths. She dreamed about how it would feel to be fucked by thick, thin, long, and short cocks. Her index finger was sticky with her juices, and her thighs were wet as she stroked her gash.

Periodically a man's face would swim out of the alcoholic haze. Most times, it was her husband, Ed. His weather-beaten face would float above her. His thick musk from working in the fields all day would fill her nostrils, driving her lust.

Occasionally, the cock she dreamed of fucking was her youngest son, Clay. She had birthed, diapered, and watched him grow into a strapping example of manhood. She had seen him naked as a baby, child, teenager, and young man. She had watched his cock grow into an enormous tool, hanging between his thighs like the old mule that died.

Unlike the asexual mule, she imagined it spewing pints of life-giving seed. Her most private fantasy, the one she desperately tried to suppress, was she wanted that seed to fertilize her womb; she wanted her son's child.

Alice scooted down in the chair, spread her legs wider, added a finger, and plunged them deep into her creaming hole. She imagined her son Clay's manly musk cloying her nostrils, his fat, thick cock filling her hole. It was a wicked fantasy, one she was ashamed of when she was sober but one she could not suppress.

Alice Johnson was a farm woman, used to the daily grind of farm life. It was rare for her to have time on her hands. These rare times were when she was alone and drinking that she indulged her wicked fantasy.

She thought that he wanted her also. She caught him staring at her when she washed up in the porcelain basin in the mornings.

Once when the family was chopping the weeds that grew in the fields, she stepped behind a tree to pee. Clay was at the end of the cotton row. He turned as she lifted her tattered skirt, dropped her ragged drawers, and pissed. They held each other's eyes as her thick yellow stream splashed in the dirt.

She cherished that moment, the moment she showed him her womanhood

She gulped more of the moonshine from the quart mason jar. Usually, she had chores to do, meals to cook, or cotton to chop. Alice took her fingers from her pussy and stuck them in her mouth, sucking her juices from her fingers.

With time on her hand, she retreated to drinking and her fantasy life to dull the aching boredom. One vice drove the other. The more she drank, the deeper she retreated into her fantasy world.

Her hand rested on her Mons and idly stroked it through her thick greying pubic thatch. She gasped as her fingers slid into the crease of her swollen pussy lips. Her husband hadn't fucked her in nearly a week. She understood him being tired. Still, she had needs.

Her face screwed up into a lustful mask. The sound of the rain on the galvanized tin roof always made her horny. Its rhythmic beat was an excellent backdrop for hot, sweaty sex.

She caressed her breast, pulling and pinching her thumb-sized nipple, made large by breastfeeding five babies. She moaned as the pain/pleasure suffused her body.

Anne's eyes opened slowly. She took a long swallow of the 'shine. She fantasized about Clay a lot. She was unsure why she had such wicked thoughts about her youngest child.

Clay was the last of her five children. She never had such thoughts about his three brothers. Though she tried to hide it, he was her favorite. From his birth, she always felt especially close to him. She recalled being ashamed that breastfeeding him aroused her. She sometimes orgasmed as he suckled with one tiny hand holding her breast.

She only weaned him at four because of her mother's alarm and Ed's insistence. Even then, she would secretly let him nurse. He would hold her breast in his little hands, and his little cheeks went concave. It was a shared intimacy.

She finally had to wean him when he was ten. He was bigger and more mature than his brothers were at that age, and it didn't seem right to have this near man nursing.

But the die was cast. From puberty through his teenage years to manhood, Clay maintained his fascination with her breasts.

He sometimes hugged her from behind, his hands slipping up her waist and cupping her titties. She would push his hand away and chastise him, telling him it wasn't proper for a son to touch his mother in such a way.

Initially, it disturbed her. The three of them living in a one-room clapboard shack meant Clay saw more of his mother than any boy should.

It couldn't be helped. Anne and Ed fucking with a sheet hanging across the room provided no real privacy.

Sometimes when she and her husband were fucking, she thought of Clay on his pallet on the other side of the sheet. She imagined him stroking his cock as he listened. Once, she heard him groan and knew he was close to cumming. Her husband benefited from her sudden frantic thrusting as she tried to cum with her son.

Her fantasy world gradually intruded into reality. What once she only dreamed about, she allowed to happen. She stopped pushing Clay's hands off her breasts when he hugged her from behind.

Who could it hurt, she rationalized, letting him cup and squeeze her breasts.

It was their secret. Alice rationalized that it was an extension of her maternal love. Clay liked playing with her tits, and she enjoyed him doing it. A crack sometimes appeared in her rationalization. The impropriety worried her. Then she would hear him groaning on the other side of the sheet.

Poor thing, she thought. The only woman within 10 miles of their farm was his sister. She was 22 years old, married with three kids.

When she and Clay were alone, she let him play with her nipples a few times. Clay would hug her from behind, pressing his tool against her pillowy bottom. He would unbutton the top buttons of her house dress, slip his hand through the opening and tease her nipples while dry-humping her.

Alice knew that may have crossed the line. However, he liked doing it, and she enjoyed sharing that intimacy with him.

Allowing him to see her dressing was not hard in a one-room shack. She enjoyed the wide-eyed wonder he showed when she let him catch glimpses of her naked. Once she sat on the side of the cot dressing, he stood in the cabin door watching. She shamefully opened her legs, letting him see her sex.

Chapter 02

Down the road, Twenty-two old Ellen Crane was bent over her wooden kitchen table covered by an oilcloth with sunflowers covering it. Her threadbare print dress was on her back. Her cotton panties hung from one ankle.

Her brother, Clay, gripped her jiggly hips, pulling her back to meet his cock as he pounded her.

"Gawdammit, Clay, gawdammit!"

"Ellen, you got the best pussy ever."

"Get it all, baby, get all of my pussy! It's yours! It'll always be yours!"

Clay's back undulated as he drove his cock into his sister's spasming hole.

"Jesus Christ, I love fucking you!"

"You got to hurry, baby! You need to go get Momma!"

Belying her admonition, Ellen thrust her bubble butt back, burying her brother's tool deep in her hole.

"Your husband asked me to stop by and check on you. The levee is giving way. He said to tell you to get ready to evacuate."

Clay gripped his sister's hips, slamming her big ass back into his crotch, burying his tool deep in her pussy.

"Oh god, your dick is so good, but you need to go!" Ellen braced herself on the table, thrusting back. "Hurry, baby!"

Reluctantly, Clay pulled out of his sister's pussy without cumming. He knew she was right; he had to alert his mother.

Ellen embraced her brother, her head lying on his hairy barrel chest.

"I love you, Clay! I want to have more of your babies. I wish we could live together as man and wife."

"I love you too, Ellen! Maybe it'll work out one day.

Chapter 03

The floodwaters were up to the hubcaps as the old truck struggled down the muddy road. It groaned as Clay shifted to a lower gear. They were losing the fight against the rampaging river. Clay's father told him to move his mother to high ground.

Clay hunched over the steering wheel, peering through the rain-streaked windshield. In the distance, he saw the outline of their home. Muddy water rushed around it.

The truck screeched to a halt in front of the porch. Clay jumped out and waded through the ankle-deep water. His mother sat slumped in her old rocking chair, the shirt hanging open, in a drunken asleep. Her massive chocolate titties sat on her belly pooch like ripe melons with nipples the size of his thumb. Her legs were crossed at the ankle, her knees spread, and her fingers jammed in her hole.

His mouth went dry as he beheld his mother's meaty butterfly pussy lips through her wet matted bush. Clay stood at the edge of the porch in the rain, witnessing the culmination of a fantasy. For years he caught glimpses of her partially dressed. It happened often enough that, as he got older, he wondered if she was letting him see her.

It was like the time she was pissing in the fields. She knew he was watching, but all she did was smile.

Long ago, he dismissed that evil thought. Alice was his mother. She nursed him as a baby. She nursed him back to health last year when he had the flu. He recalled being in bed, shivering with her warm body pressed to his. The memory wasn't clear, but he was sure she let him suckle her tit to comfort him.

She mopped his fevered brow. Over her husband's concerned protest, she warmed his naked body with her naked body while he shivered with fever.

Clay had a hazy memory of waking from that fever cradled in her arms. His head lay on her substantial bosom. His mouth was on her rigid nipple, and his cock was hard! He thought he felt her gnarled hand stroking his cock. He was never sure if that was reality or the fever.

Clay shook himself out of his reverie, grabbed his mother's shoulder, and shook her. He licked his lips to moisten them. His cock bulged uncomfortably in his ragged jeans.

"Ma! Ma! Wake up!"

"WHUH?"

Anne struggled from her alcohol-induced stupor. The cobwebs of her fading dream cleared. The object of her desire stood bare-chested over her wearing his bib overalls and battered Brogans.

"What...? What's wrong?" She blinked several times. Groggy, she eyed the bulge in his crotch.

"Pa said to get you to higher ground! The levee's going to give way."

"Help me up, boy!"

The shirt hung up as Anne extended one hand for her son to help her stand.

Clay pulled Anne to her feet, who was not a small woman, to her feet. She stood 5' 5' and was somewhere north of 200 pounds. She fell forward, and her son's arms enveloped her.

Anne's head lay on Clay's hairy chest, reveling in the strength of his arms and the muskiness of his male scent. She wrapped her arms around his waist and plastered her body to his.

Briefly, they held each other, each lost in their fantasy of the other. Anne felt the bulge in his pants stiffen against her belly. Clay felt her soft pillowy breast pressed against his chest.

Alice ground her cunt against her son's thigh, her lust driven by alcohol and his nearness.

"Uh...Ma, we got to go! Pa said the levee ain't gonna hold!"

Clay pushed his mother back to arm's length. He glanced down at the nearly empty mason jar of moonshine sitting on the porch's word wooden floor. His parents often relieved the boredom of twentieth-century farm life by drinking the corn squeezing one of his brothers made.

Alice leaned back and looked up into his eyes. He was at least six inches taller than she was and ten pounds heavier. His arms were thick, and his waist slim. Through the thin material of her dress, she felt his work-roughened hands squeezing her ass cheeks.

Alice shook her head to clear to separate her reality from her fantasy world. She pulled away from Clay and the cabin wall caught her as she stumbled back.

"Okay! I needs to get some things,"

Anne realized she was exposed to her son. She fumbled with her dress, clutching it together with one hand.

"We ain't got time, Ma! The water is coming up fast."

The hiss of the water had turned to a roar. The raging torrent covered the porch. It was too late to try to drive to higher ground.

"We'll have to take our chances in the barn."

With his arms around her waist, he struggled to get them to the dubious safety of the old barn. He looked back, seeing the now knee-deep water streaming into the house door.

Pulled by her son, Alice staggered drunkenly across the yard to the barn. She was dimly aware the old shirt she wore fell open, exposing her.

Alice was deathly afraid of drowning. She barely survived the last flood in 1915. She had just turned 18. Ed, her husband, 32 years old at the time, saved her life. He pulled her from the raging water as the deluge destroyed her parents' home. They were married in the weeks after the waters subsided.

Alice and her son were sweating profusely when they reached the barn. They clung to the 4'x4' wooden poles supporting the roof with the floodwaters raging around them.

"Boy, we gonna die!"

Alice's heart pounded as she stood in waist-deep water, clinging to the pole. Her worst fear was about to be realized. She was going to drown.

"Stop it, Ma! We ain't dead yet!"

Clay stared wide-eyed at his mother's large brown breasts and greying pubic thatch. His throat constricted at the sight of her butterfly vaginal lips.

"This old barn sits on a rise and is well-built. We stand a better chance here! "

He tore his eyes away from ogling his mother. He was ashamed of his secret lust for his mother. Even with death imminent, or maybe because of it, he saw her more as a voluptuous fuckable woman than his mother.

Sometime after puberty, she became his fantasy woman. Her loving hugs fed into his burgeoning sexual fantasies about her. He was tentative at first. It didn't seem right to get aroused when he hugged his mother.

The first time he felt her tits was an accident. He was hugging her from behind, and she bent forward. His hands slid up under her breasts. The weight of them surprised him. He quickly stepped back, his face hot with shame.

The fact that his mother did not react to his transgression encouraged him. A few days later, he came in to wash up for supper. Alice was busy setting the table. His father and brothers lagged behind him.

He wrapped his arms around her with his hands just under her breasts. His mother leaned back into him. She covered his hands with hers and pushed them up.

Clay could hardly breathe. The breasts he fantasized about were in his hands. He squeezed, and his mother moaned with her behind rotating against his rigid manhood. They broke their embrace at the sound of voices approaching the house.

A fire was lit. Feeling his mother up became a ritual with them whenever they were alone. Clay would hug his mother and play with her titties. Over time she let him open her dress and touch her nipples. Neither of them ever spoke about what they did. It was their little game.

Chapter

His mother's plump cuddly body reminded him of his older sister, Ellen. who lived on the next farm over. From the time he was 18, and she was 20, they explored each other's bodies.

Show me yours, and I'll show you mine graduated to mutual masturbation. Inevitably they discovered the joys of sex. They fucked before, after, and during her marriage. Neither was sure or cared whether it was lust or love.

Their first time was here in this old barn. It was a day a lot like today. It was Spring, and it was raining. Their father sent them to clean out the barn. They had an old mule then, making cleaning the barn a messy job.

Afterward, covered in hay and mule shit, they stripped naked. Initially, they used the water hose to wash off. One would pump while the other washed. Living in a one-room shack, Clay had seen Ellen naked before. This time he watched her hands slide across her body, lathering up with the lye soap. His cock got hard as he thought about how much she looked like their mother.

Ellen saw his hard-on and teased him, saying he had better do something about it. Embarrassed by her teasing, he tackled her, and they rolled naked in the fresh hay. Later neither one of them was sure what happened.

He was stronger and ended up on top of his sister with her hands pinned above her head as they wrestled. Ellen fought back, wiggling and thrusting her body under her brother, ostensibly trying to break free.

His cock was between his sister's thighs, pressing against her Mons. One or both of them moved, and Clay was inside her.

They lay joined for a moment staring at each other in wide-eyed wonder. At twenty and about to be married, Ellen was more experienced than her brother. She allowed her prospective husband to take her virginity in the back of his old truck one summer night.

That first time kindled a fire with her that burned with a heat she could barely control. Before and after her marriage, her lust was unquenchable. Her inexperienced husband could barely keep up with her need.

She wiggled her hips, moving her brother's dick around inside her. He was bigger than her Jimmy, much bigger. She felt the pain/pleasure of her pussy being stretched for the first time and knew it wouldn't be her last time.

Clay matched her movement, and suddenly they were thrusting against each other. His sister's eyes were wide and luminous. Her mouth was open. Saliva bubbled at the corners of her mouth.

"Clay! Oh, God! It wasn't like this with Jimmy!"

She gurgled deep in her throat with her plump hips pumping. Her brother's cock was fatter and longer than her fiance's. He was touching parts of her that she never knew existed. She writhed under him, feeling the pain/pleasure of his massive tool.