The Family Affair

Andre is pansexual with many male and female sexual partners. That includes a long-term relationship with his twin sister and the gay wedding planner he hired. Then, the night of her wedding, he and his mother experience a night of no holds barred sex. Life is about to become very complicated!

This story contains bisexual sex, anal, oral, incest, and probably a few other taboos! Be warned!

All characters engaged in any sexual activity are 18 years of age or older.

Chapter 01

My twin sister Agnes looked amazing, walking down the aisle in her ivory mermaid wedding dress. The scooped neckline edged in lace showed off just enough of her ample bosom to add an understated sensuality. She strolled to the time-honored beat of "Oh Promise Me."

My father, uncomfortable in his rented tuxedo, escorted her down the aisle. The pained smile on his face was an attempt to show his pleasure at marrying off his twenty-eight-old daughter. Dad worked construction all his life. His idea of dress-up was a clean set of Carhartt's.

My mother beamed as first her granddaughter, the flower girl, then dad, and Agnes walked by. Like Agnes, Momma had an Amazonian physique with an impressive bust, a slim waistline, a thick full behind, and large muscular legs. In this age of anorexic celebrities with lollipop heads and sticks for bodies, she was an anachronism, a big sexy woman. The below the knee organza dress emphasized the fullness of her hips. Her short curly grey hair framed a round, fleshy face. Her wide-set almond-shaped eyes gave her an exotic look, a little like a Black Oriental Rubens model.

Agnes gave us a small smile, and a nervous wink as dad escorted her to the dais under the flower-trimmed pergola.

The wedding planner did a fantastic job of turning the broad lawn of my wooded 10-acre estate into an illusion of paradise with its multi-variety and multi-colored flowers. The numerous potted palm trees created the illusion of a tropical paradise. Agnes wanted to marry outdoors in a floral garden setting. It cost a small fortune, but we pulled it off.

'We' includes an excellent gay wedding planner who a friend recommended. He was right. The man knew his stuff. His name was Clyde, and he was also a fantastic lover.

His advances did not offend me. I am open-minded when it comes to sexuality. He was doing no more than I had done many times. If you spot a good looking person, you make an overture and see where it goes.

Clyde was a little too swishy for my usual taste in male lovers but cute and sexy. I was on the rebound from losing my sister, and the best cure for losing one lover is another lover. I loved his slender, effeminate body, and tight delectable ass. He took hormones that softened the shape of his body and gave him large sensitive breasts. He had a nice fat cock that was a perfect fit for my mouth and ass. I'm usually the Top, but sometimes I like the feel of a cock in my ass.

He mewled like my sister when I fucked his tight asshole. His back undulated as he rocked back and forth, burying my cock deep in his bowels. He had this cute trick of flexing his Kegel muscles, simulating a spasming pussy. We fucked on the dais under the pergola one warm summer night before the wedding.

"Come on, bitch! I want you to ride me!"

"Baby, as long as we can keep fucking, we can do it any way you want!"

He looked incredible, riding my cock cowgirl style under the stars with his ponytail swinging. His face was wreathed in expressions of lust, and his small hands clawed at my chest. I pinched his tits, eliciting a high pitch squeal.

"You like fucking your bitch, lover?"

"You know I do, you slut! You fuck like a porn star!"

"Mmm! I've wanted your dick in my ass since the first time we met in your office!"

"All you had to do is ask! My cock got hard when you sashayed in my door!"

My hips pumped, slamming hard into his starfish. This was our first time fucking, but it wouldn't be our last. I needed a slut like him to help me forget Agnes.

We came together that moonlit night after a marathon fucking session. The moon was like a spotlight illuminating our rutting. I filled his bowels with my baby batter, and he squirted his seed on my chest and face. At any other time, I would have shared him with Agnes just as we shared our other male and female lovers.

However, times had changed. Agnes decided she wanted a more traditional lifestyle with the proverbial vine-covered bungalow with a white picket fence. Foolishly I told her I was not interested in a monogamous relationship. I would regret my selfishness.

In the current parlance, Agnes and I are pansexual, open to sex without regard to gender. Our sexual proclivity opened our lives to a smorgasbord of sexuality that few people experience. We frequently traveled to lifestyle events at homes, hotels, and on cruise ships. Depending on the venue's level of kinkiness, we either went openly as sister and brother or, for less kinky sessions, a married couple.

No one at the garden wedding knew, including her handsome fiancé, that my long-time swinging partner was getting married. Or that the cute chubby flower girl was our daughter.

Agnes was a beautiful bride. She was full-figured but not obese. The seamstress had to reinforce the bra in the shoulder dress to support her full 36G cups. The natural waist of the gown flared and snugly flowed past her ample hips to the flowing train.

We took a considerable risk this morning after she left my bed and met the wedding party downstairs. After they dressed, she shooed her entourage out for a few private moments with her brother. Agnes wanted me to put on her garter. I knelt in front of her and slipped the ivory garter over her crotchless pantyhose. I gave her pussy a long tongue-filled kiss, burying my tongue so deep it hurt at the root. My sister came hard, gurgling deep in her throat, as she stifled her moans. We were both crying when I left.

Yes, Allen, the bridegroom, was in for a real treat. Sis was horny as a hoot owl and ready to start a new life with this second most important man in her life. She told me so herself earlier this morning as we lay in my bed cuddling after a night of vigorous fucking.

Six months ago, she told me, like a woman breaking up with a long-time boyfriend, that she had to move on with her life. She said that although our relationship was intensely satisfying physically and emotionally, she had to move on. She loved me. She loved what we had. But she wanted more; she wanted a partner for life. Brothers marrying sisters were against moral and legal codes. Besides, she was not getting any younger, and our ten-year-old daughter, Cassandra, needed a full-time father.

I fought it. I proposed several hair-brained schemes, including running off together. In this matter, Agnes was the more level-headed of the two of us. I eventually came to realize that she was right.

I demanded just two things from my long-time lover: that I pay for the wedding. At 28, I was reasonably well off. I took a childhood obsession with computers and turned it into a multi-million dollar IT business. The second thing was that she stop taking her birth control pills and spend the night before her wedding with me. It was my insane hope that she would go to her marriage bed pregnant with my child. My twin sister readily agreed to both.

So it was that as she took her vows, promising to love, honor, and obey, I took an emotional satisfaction in knowing that her belly, pussy, and ass were filled with my seed. We fucked and cried all night, crying because her marriage would change our loving relationship forever. We hoped against hope that we had made a baby.

The reception was held under an enormous gossamer tent that covered part of the yard and let on to my library and the formal dining room of my Georgian. The old house was much larger than a bachelor like me needed. When I bought it, I entertained a foolish notion that my sister and our daughter could, at some point, move in with me.

The two-story, five bedrooms, 6000 square foot monstrosity was going on the market next month. I purchased a condo in the city. From there I could walk to my office.

The champagne flowed freely at the reception. The caterers replenished the French 75 fountain several times as the large wedding party drank and ate their fill.

Finally, the happy couple exchanged vows, my sister threw the wedding bouquet, the groom removed the garter, and the newlyweds left on their honeymoon.

The last guests had left, and the cleanup crew was tearing down the arrangements. My parents were spending the night and driving home in the morning. Momma, dad, and I retired to the library for one final toast.

I poured them a snifter of an Indian drink one of my lovers gave me. It was called Bhang. It is a mixture of distilled marijuana oil, fermented honey, and his personal touch, a sweet red wine. It was about 60 proof, went down smooth, and packed a kick like a mule. Supposedly it had aphrodisiac properties. It is and was a traditional drink on the Indian subcontinent.

Momma sniffed her glass, nodded her approval, and took a big gulp. My father sat his glass on the end table, too drunk to drink anymore.

Neither of my parents was a big drinker. They were your basic salt-of-the-earth couple, married while in high school and together 28 years. They were 46 years old and a Mutt and Jeff kind of couple.

Momma was a full-figured 5' 9" and dad a solid, muscled 5'7". I'm guessing they each weighed around 190-200 plus pounds, with dad carrying his weight in his barrel chest and thick arms. I got his physique and mom's height. I was 6' 2" and 210, pushing 220 from lack of exercise.

"Harry, unzip this fucking dress. I've been holding my breath all day, so I wouldn't bust out of this sucker!"

Ah yes! Momma tended to be outspoken and opinionated. Whatever comes up comes out! Dad, on the other hand, was quieter, more reserved. I often speculated it was because he could not get a word in edgewise.

"Yes, Chantal!"

He stepped behind her, pulled the zipper down, and affectionately patted her rump. The dress opened to just above her behind, revealing the lacy lingerie Agnes induced her to wear for the wedding.

Agnes took mother shopping for the wedding, insisting that her lingerie be more feminine than her usual cotton granny panties and bra. She succeeded in making our mother looked like a mature Ashley Graham doing lingerie commercials. My breath caught in my throat at her earth mother sensuality.

Momma kicked off her Cuban heels, sprawled on the settee in the center of the room with one heel on one armrest, the other foot on the floor, and her head on the other armrest. The dress sagged between her spread limbs, exposing her legs to her thighs.

My mother was never one for false modesty. Many times after turning 18 and before I moved, I saw her in her panties and bra her, unruly bush poking out of her granny panties. Several times, I saw her braless, her breasts swinging freely, walking from the lone bathroom in our bungalow to their bedroom at the end of the hall.

Like most 18-year-old males, my mother became the personification of sexuality to me. I lusted over her like she was one of those models in the girly magazines I hid under my mattress. Looking back, I believe she knew of the magazines and my obsession with her and, if not encouraging it, accepted it as the norm. She never chastised me for ogling her body, nor did she behave more modestly.

"So when are you getting married, Andre? I need more than one grandchild to spoil."

As she spoke, Momma pushed the dress's bodice down, exposing her lacy white bra, and absentmindedly scratched under her breasts. Her large raisin-like caramel-colored nipples were visible through the lace, making significant dents in the sheer fabric.

I stared unabashedly at my mother's voluptuous wantonness, the copious quantities of alcohol I drank, and the reefer I smoked with Clyde, the wedding planner, giving me the license.

"The two things don't necessarily go together," I teased.

Momma turned toward me while lying on the settee; the dress and half-slip slid up her legs to just below her panties.

"Andre! Don't talk like that in front of your mother," dad slurred.

He was worse for the wear as he sat shoeless with the dress shirt open, revealing his hairy chest, with the tuxedo coat thrown over the back of a bar stool. His head bobbed as he fought off sleep.

"Aw, Harry! Don't be such a fucking tight ass. We didn't get married until I was four months along." She turned to me and guffawed. "I damn near popped out of the wedding dress."

"Momma, you've told this story a thousand times."

"Well, it's true! When your father and I were 18 years old seniors in high school, we banged the sheets damn near every night. We fucked like bunnies! Didn't we, dear?"

Dad lay back in the recliner, legs spread, his open mouth snoring, his arms draped on either side of the chair arms. Momma shook her head.

"Well, ain't no sheet banging tonight, I guess! I better get my Don Juan to bed. It looks like he is down for the count."

Momma stood, and her dress fell, puddling around her ankles when she stood. The half-slip caught around her waist, revealing the black shadow of her thick bush against the white lace of her panties. That left her in the white, lacey balconette bra, matching panties, thigh-high stockings, and mid-thigh half-slip. She looked particularly sexy in an earth mother kind of way.

I fantasized about shaving her bush, kissing her pussy, and then fucking her doggie style on the dais under the pergola from the wedding. In my fantasy, the wedding attendees watched and applauded.

I shook my head to clear it. It was as though I were viewing the world through waves of gossamer cloth, all fuzzy and shimmery. I was higher than I had been in some time. High enough to fantasize about sex with my mother. Little did I know that tonight I would realize that fantasy.

"Jesus! I guess I had my limit too."

She stepped out of the dress and, her arms extended like a tightrope walker, tottered toward dad. The alcohol seemed to have loosened her hips, causing them to sway seductively as she walked to where dad lay asleep. It was a surprisingly sensual moment.

Momma's slip rode up when she bent at the waist to shake dad awake, revealing the tops of her white elastic thigh highs. Her frilly panties were moist with sweat, clinging to the fullness of her bubble butt. When she bent further, the crotch of her damp panties pulled between her meaty hairy pussy lips.

I fought the insane urge to walk up behind her, push her panties to the side, and ram my dick between her dark cunt lips. What would she do? Would she scream in fear and outrage and push me away? Or would she groan, thrust back, and accept my cock in her mommy hole?

I shook my head to clear the image of me fucking my mother and to clear the Bhang-induced cobwebs. Maybe the stories about Bhang being an aphrodisiac were true. Perhaps that is why my mother and I ended up doing the dirty deed. The room spun slowly, and I grabbed the back of the barstool for support.

"Boy, stop staring at my ass and come help me with your father."

"Momma, I wasn't staring at your ass!" She caught me! The heat rose in my face.

"Yes, you were! You're like all men. You get a chance, and you take a peek. Ain't nothing wrong with it."

She gave me a lopsided grin over her shoulder. "I ain't like some women who worry if their ass is too big. I got a big ass and I know it! Your father never complained, and he is the only one who matters!"

"Well, stop standing like that, and I'll stop looking!" I staggered across the room and smacked my mother's ass.

She whooped and grabbed her ass with her hands. "See! What did I say? Like most men, you couldn't resist getting a free feel!"

"I wasn't trying to feel you up! I was reaching for dad's arm, but your ass got in the way."

Momma stared at me in disbelief, stuck her tongue out, and shook her ass at me

Our hips collided repeatedly as we struggled to get my father's drunken bulk on his feet. Momma was drunk and uncoordinated, more of a hindrance than a help. At one point, I grasped her waist to move her out of the way. When I pushed her away, my cock brushed across her ass.

"See! I told you! Now you're trying to feel me up again."

"I am not," I shouted indignantly.

I was too loud, overreacting to the truth my mother spoke. I had run my hand across her behind as I pushed her away from my father.

I cleared my throat and softened my reply, "You're not my type anyway."

Our conversation was totally inappropriate for a mother and son. The champagne and Bhang lowered our inhibitions and accentuated my mother's natural bawdiness. She staggered back to the settee and plopped down with her legs spread, her panties in full view.

Smiling at me, mom finished her drink and my father's full snifter of the potent liqueur. She belched and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Is that swishy wedding planner more your type? I saw the way he kept looking at you."

"Momma, I'm 28 years old! You don't get to approve my dates anymore!"

"So you are fucking him! I never thought I would have a gay son."

"I'm not gay! I just prefer...the variety... and a little adventure in my sex life."

"Your father and I never got THAT adventurous in bed. We taught each other everything we know. We never invited anyone into our marriage bed like I hear some folks do. Definitely nothing like you and the wedding planner! I wanted to try some things, like leaving the lights on, fucking in the yard, or something. Your dad wouldn't do it. He does let me get on top sometimes, and that's fun!"

"Stop! I don't want to hear about my parent's sex life. And if I'm fucking Clyde, it's my business! Now get out of my sex life, and let's get dad upstairs."

"So how does it feel when you fuck his ass? Does it feel like a vagina? Does he cum?" Momma was drunk and curious, asking things she would never bring up sober.

"Momma! Shut up!" I was exasperated and aroused by discussing sex acts with my mother. "Help me with dad."

Together we guided him up the stairs. It was the blind leading the blind. Or, more accurately, two drunks trying to lead another drunk. We giggled like idiots as we stumbled, fell into each other, our hands inadvertently touching forbidden places.

My mother stumbled up the stairs and I attempted to save her from falling. I ended up behind her, my arms wrapped around her waist, cupping her breasts as she fell up the stairs with her big ass pressed into my crotch.

Her breasts were softer than I imagined, kind of like feather pillows. She struggled, trying to stand, with her rump pressed against my crotch. It was probably my imagination, but I thought she wiggled her ass and pushed back against me before standing.

"There you go again! You can't keep your hands off me, " she crowed.

"Momma, I was trying to keep you from falling!"

"A likely story! You just can't keep your hands off me, can you? I got more meat on my bones than your boyfriend!"

"Momma, he's not my boyfriend!"

We tried to continue up the stairs when dad fell face down on the steps, pulling us down with him. We lay in a puppy pile for a drunken moment. My mother was on top of dad, and I was next to and partially on top of her.

"Either get your boner out of my ass or use it," she laughed. "or would you prefer your gay friend."

She whooped when I slapped her behind. We were tittering like school kids doing something naughty. The problem was we weren't school kids, and the naughty thing we were doing was pushing the limits of a mother/son relationship.

"Watch your language, old woman!"

I precariously rose to all fours, my knees on the steps just below my parents, my arms on either side of them. Momma was on her belly, lying on dad, trying to catch her breath; the half-slip was around her waist. I did the unthinkable and ground my cock into mom's panty-covered ass.