Scrambled Holiday


"Sheeet," Clifford said, as he slumped down into the La-Z-Boy Merri had vacated and picked up her copy of Fifty Shades of Grey.

"Like I said, I don't think there's anything even here for lunch," Merri said to change the subject. "And the grocery stores won't be open today. It's Christmas." She still could have kicked herself for perking up like she had when Clifford said he wanted to take her upstairs and fuck her. It wasn't really his fault that Muriel had stolen him from her. He was dumb as a lamppost and Muriel had those purported J-cup jigantics, whereas she herself was as flat as Kansas. And he was such a hunk. She wondered if he still had that . . .

She went to the refrigerator in the kitchen and returned with a can of beer and gave it to Clifford, who smacked his lips in thanks, but kept his nose in the book.

"I have an order in at Boston Market—the full meal. It should be ready in fifteen minutes. If you leave now to pick it up, Merri, it should still be hot when you get back."

Both Merri and Muriel swiveled their heads toward Paul, standing calmly near the door, surrounded by a mountain of suitcases—and one medium-sized black plastic bag with a distinctly sour odor to it. He certainly looked like he hadn't zoomed off to lalaland. In fact, he was softly whistling "I'll Be Home for Christmas," under his breath and casting his eyes toward the ceiling.

"Dad . . . ," Merri started to say. She was worried and didn't understand why. This, unfortunately, wasn't strange behavior for her dad. She shifted her eyes to Muriel, who was smirking, and then Merri was more worried without understanding why.

"Go on, honey. We'll be just fine until you get back," Paul said. "It's turkey and all the trimmings. Paid for already. Enough for all of us."

Merri's eyes narrowed. What was he up to? And what had he done with her real, increasingly forgetful father? And how did he know they'd be here now for lunch?

She looked down at Clifford, who was studying the words in the book very closely, forming each word silently with his mouth as he read. He was taking a swig of beer on every other line he read, it seemed, and Merri realized she'd have to go get him another beer before she left for Boston Market.

"What's this here word mean, Merri?" he asked her, pulling on her arm.

She looked down at the book, and blushed. "Later, big guy. I've got to go pick up our lunch now—which is likely to be our dinner too." She turned, and, after making another beer delivery from the kitchen, hurried out the front door.

Clifford smiled to the room in general. "She called me 'big guy.' She remembers. She wants a fuck."

Paul and Muriel were too busy looking each other over to hear what he'd said.

When Merri returned, Clifford was still sitting in the La-Z-Boy, spellbound with the copy of Fifty Shades of Grey. This time, as the stack of cans on the floor beside the chair attested to, he'd managed to find the refrigerator himself.

"What's that thumping sound I hear?" she asked when she came out of the kitchen, leaving the Boston Market bags simmering on the kitchen table.

"Why don't you go up there and find out for yourself, babe. Then come back and we'll fuck."

"Not a chance, Cliff," she muttered, more to convince herself than him, as she headed up the stairs. How many times had she told her father he needed to fix that loose shutter on the side of the house?

The bed was thumping against the wall in the master bedroom as Muriel rode Paul's cock. He was just laying on his back on the bed, staring up into her purported J-cup bazooms in wonder. She had her hands squeezing the orbs and leaned over from time to time to let him nuzzle the erect nipples and quarter-size aureoles. Merri could clearly see that it was Muriel's cunt that was being worked.

Merri turned, trembling and full of rage, and went back downstairs, making her own thumping noise with her heavy steps. Both of her parents had seen her and neither had looked the least bit embarrassed. True, her father looked a little confused and lost—but the sort of lost a little boy would be showing if he was walking around alone in a candy story with open jars.

And speaking of jars . . . She'd always been afraid that was what her father was missing in their relationship. Her mother's jugs.

She couldn't help remembering how it had first begun. Having been awakened to sex by Clifford after having been just blind to it all until she was twenty. Mere months later being pulled into bed by her parents—when she'd spied them there with her younger brother—and both of them working her over. Her mother seemed proud that they had held off with her until she was an adult and married, saying that it "just wouldn't have been right otherwise." Her Dad with that impossibly long cock and her mother with those bazooms—and with deft fingers and a tongue that had taught Merri what a woman could do to send herself to heaven even without a man.

The sight of Paul inside her mother on the bed—where he'd begged Merri to let him go both last night and this morning. And the obvious enjoyment he was getting out of the woman's purported J-cup jigantics . . .

For the first time Merri had the hint of a suspicion that her father wasn't as far gone as he had pretended—that he'd set this all up, the invitation and the Boston Market order and all—and sending her out to get the food. Was that what that was all about? To be alone with her mother? She'd been so surprised that he assumed she'd be the one to go she hadn't questioned it. Why, she did practically nothing around here. Why would he assume she'd be the one to pick up the food?

When she got to the living room—and after giving a little look of concern at seeing the leaning Christmas tree shimmer a bit from the stereo effect of the thumping of the headboard against the wall upstairs and her own glump down the stairs—she walked directly to the side of the La-Z-Boy, lifted the hem of her smock up to her waist to show that she was naked underneath, and muttered, "OK, big boy, let's fuck."

If good ole mom was going to take her joy stick, she'd have her mother's. She didn't want to press that too far, though, in the realization that she had fucked her mother's husband before her mother had suborned her dumbass spouse. And being with her father had been OK with her mother, especially if Muriel could be there too, until it became obvious that Paul preferred Merri over his wife.

Clifford looked up, eyes a little glazed. This wasn't from what Merri had said—he knew he'd be fucking her before the day was out, she'd never been able to resist what he had for very long—the glazed look was from something else. From the beer, perhaps? Nope.

"What a fucking amazing book," he said. (Ah, that something else.) "Can you really do some of this stuff?"

"Probably not without going to the hospital, and you can friggin well tell that the author hasn't done some of that shit. Listen, it's just a book, dummy. She put some of that stuff in there just to sell the book. She may be right. She may sell a couple of copies. People are that gullible in believing shit like that."

"Yeah, but . . . look what I found up in your room." Clifford was holding up a pair of velvet-lined handcuffs she kept for special occasions. "I think I read about these a few pages back, and guess who has some in her bedroom."

There was a horizontal grab handle at the back of the faucets for the kitchen sink that Merri had never figured out the function of. Now she discovered that it was to run the chain of the handcuffs through so that she could be secured leaning over and into the kitchen sink.

One pull up before the handcuffs were secured and her dress went over her head, leaving her naked. One pull down after the handcuffs were secured and Clifford was free of his leather pants and jock strap.

"Can't wait, babe. Been wantin' inside you ever since we got off the Baltimore beltway. Good memories. We had some good fucking, babe." He was leaning over and into her from behind, running his hands over her body, relearning every curve and crease of her. He already was hard, hard, and as he pressed his cock between her thighs—making her remember that her mother wasn't the only one who had a J something for jigantic—she got her answer of whether or not he still had that thick cock ring in his penis head too.

Merri groaned and Clifford laughed. "Yeah you remember it inside you, don't you? Good times."

"Shut up and just fuck me," she hissed through clenched teeth.

"Knew it; couldn't wait to get it." He laughed a happy little puppy dog laugh. This is what he lived for—fucking a broad over the kitchen sink. Well, that and beer.

He was cupping her mound with one hand, his cock also inside his palm, and rubbing that cock ring against her clit. She moaned and was already moving her rump back and forth gently into his groin. She liked the feel of the chest hair on her back and, looking sideways, seeing the tattoo sleeve move with the rippling of his biceps. Paul was longer than Clifford was but not as thick. And there was no tattoo or cock ring, or dirty words, or hard, hard muscles with Paul. And none of the danger and wildness of the man.

Of course Paul wasn't as dumb as a tree stump, which put a whole lot in his favor.

"Oh, Cliff, Cliff. Yes, right there, you stud. Like that."

He was paying her clit a lot of attention with that cock ring—a lot of attention. Could he have . . .? She ran her memory through the pages she'd read so far in Fifty Shades. Could he? Nah. "Oh, gawd, yes. I want it inside me, baby."

"Gimme a Big O first, darlin'. You know how I like to hear you scream with that."

His other hand was on her chest. She almost shrank from him. This is where she was most vulnerable in competition with her mother.

"Such nice titties," he murmured, as he thrumbed, first one nipple and then the other.

"But Muriel has—"

But he didn't let her finish that sentence. His hand went up to cup her chin and turn her head for a kiss. His cock was chaffing her inner thighs as he moved its head rhythmically across her clit. Her knees felt like rubber, and her panting told them both she was about to give him that orgasm he was demanding.

"I like your titties. As good as Muriel's; just different. When I fuck you, it's like fucking a boy, and I always been curious about—"

"God, you're a fucking animal," she whined. "Don't say another word, or this story won't be posted." She was having difficulty forming the words. He was driving her crazy with that cock ring rubbing her clit. "I bet you think you're good at this," she hissed.

"Sweetheart, I knows I'm good at this. I knows you don't think I'm good for much, but I knows you know I'm good at this. And I knows you're about to come for me."

His hand moved the cock head back, at her entrance.

"No, not there. The other . . .you know."

"I ain't any part of your gene pool, lady. You can pull that crap with your father and brother as you like, but I do a man's fuck, a Hells Angels fuck. Fuck, we can go out and do it on the bike, if you want to argue with me on that. And I want to feel you explode and flow as I spike you. I want to feel it come down the sides of my cock and dribble on the floor."

"Feel what? Oh dear god. You need a condom . . . we . . ."

"Too late for that, babe. You didn't give me no brat while we were married. I'll take my chances. And Muriel and me don't use no condoms. If she had the clap, I'd be the first one to know."

"But what will the readers think?"

"Fuck the readers. Some of them are humpin' themselves right now just readin' this. Too fuckin' late. If somethin' bad happens just don't mention it until after the end of the story. Besides I like it raw, flesh on flesh, babe. That's the Hells Angels way."

Clifford thrust his cock deep inside her, and Merri did explode, and remembered all that she had missed after her mother had found a jealous streak about her father then had stolen Clifford from her in retribution. Her knees did buckle then, but Clifford had an arm under her waist, holding her up, as he pounded on and on up into her, as she writhed under him and begged him to be good to her.

She was turning blue from holding her breath from concentrating so hard on where he was stretching her and punishing her channel walls with that cock ring, and he was thumbing her slick clit, rubbing in the flow from her own orgasm, when he too exploded and flooded her deep with his cum.

They held there, panting. "Cliff," she moaned.

"I know. I can feel it too, babe. Long as it's been I'm not surprised there's a reserve load."

"Oh, Cliff. Oh, CLIFF!"

"Hang on, babe. Here we go again."

When Paul and Muriel came back downstairs in the twilight to gather around the table, with a Merri and Clifford who were avoiding eye contact, to dig into the now-cold Boston Market meal, it was Merri who brought up the sleeping arrangements that night.

She'd wanted to do it a good half hour before she did, but when Muriel went to sit down at the table, she gave a little cry, reached under her, and brought out the pair of velvet-lined handcuffs. She gave Merri a hard look, replaced with a smirk, followed by leaning over and kissing a perplexed Paul full on the lips, and then asked for a piece of chicken. "Something with a big, hard bone in it, I think." Then she gave a little cackle.

"I mean, I know I'll be in my room," Merri said. "But where are Muriel and Clifford going to be."

"You know you don't have to be in your room alone if you don't want to be," Muriel said. "Cliff is in a motel." She was wearing a smug smile on her face. "I can't trust him here at night. I assumed you noticed that no luggage was brought in for him. He's in a motel. He's taking the cycle and leaving me the truck. But I can't really trust him roaming around here at night."

Just a little late on not trusting Clifford to roam around free, Merri thought—right after it had registered with her that they'd brought both the cycle and the truck, which is why Paul could carry in all that luggage. And then she thought perhaps she'd said the "just a little late" bit that rather than thought it because Muriel gave her a sweet smile and said, "Clifford can go like the Energizer Bunny. Once is never enough. But I'll bet you know that as well as I do."

Merri didn't have time to seethe, because Muriel followed up with the declaration, "I'll be in the master bedroom with Paul, of course. I still own half of the master bedroom, you know." And then, with a twist of the knife, "If Steve ever shows up you can have him to keep you warm."

Indignant, Merri stood up from the table, swept up the handcuffs, and marched toward the stairs.

"Want I should come up and do you again?" Clifford called out to her back. "I can come up as soon as I finish this beer."

Paul's head swiveled toward Clifford and he gave him a quizzical look—like he didn't completely understand what Clifford had said about "again" because he couldn't have said that, but Muriel put a restraining hand on Clifford's divinely muscled arm, squeezing it a bit to assure herself it was still divine and still hers, and said. "No, sugar, you need to get to the motel and get a good nights sleep. I have a feeling that tomorrow's going to be a bumpy day around here."

"You mean we're going to talk to Merri about . . . you know what?"

"Yes, love, we will talk to Merri tomorrow about that. But for now, how about you helping me get this stuff into the kitchen, and while we're in there we'll talk about what you can stuff."

Paul went back to hanging ornaments on the branch of the tree and trying not to listen to the loud sex going on over his kitchen sink. He kept running over in his mind that Muriel was Clifford's wife now. He walked over to the La-Z-Boy once and looked down at the book Merri was reading. He sniffed and whispered, "Junk," and went back to trimming his tree branch.

Late in the night, in the pitch dark, Merri felt her hands being handcuffed above her head to the headboard, heard heavy breathing, and arched her back and moaned as lips and a tongue moved down her naked body. He was below her, teasing her thighs apart by running his tongue up her inner recesses.

"Oh, God," she cried out as the tongue parted her nether lips and found her clit. She began to writhe and groan and beg as he relentlessly sucked and tongued and lightly teethed the engorged pearl. He wouldn't stop; he tormented and worked her until, as she exploded, she called out, "Steve. Stevie! Yes, Yes!"

Brother Steve was home from Seattle for Christmas.

When he moved up her body to cover her, there was the embarrassed moment when she reached down to grasp him—and came up with less than a handful.

"Sorry, sorry," he whispered in almost a whimper. "I know that Clifford . . . and Dad . . ."

"Shush. It isn't that. You've already more than taken care of me. And you do that gloriously. It's just that . . . that."

"That what?"

"You need to be sheathed. In my nightstand, top drawer."

"Is that really necessary? I'm clean. Kenneth makes me test twice a month, and it's only him . . . and well, Ted, and Nathan, and . . . well. But you're the only woman. You know that. It's always been special between us."

"It's the right thing to do. I mean we're related and all. What if . . .?"

"In fiction? You let readers tie you up in knots over this in fiction? You're so funny, Merri. I doubt the health and gene pool vigilantes have stuck with the story to this point. I'm sure you've been with Clifford already, and I know he won't wear them—certainly not in a fictional story. I think the anal retentive health nuts who can't visualize fantasy fiction are all gone by now, and we can . . ."

"Shush," Merri answered in a whisper. "I would just feel so much better."

"We could . . . instead . . . like Father does, He says it's the best he can get from you."

"There? Yes, that would be fine. If that's good enough for you. You know to some as long as there's no baby there's no incest."

Say what? Steve almost blurted out. But he managed to stifle it. Why give up the game when you are at least half way home?

"And with protection, of course."

"But dad doesn't—"

"Do you want to do it or not?" Merri didn't want to say that skin on skin with her father was in an entirely different league than with Steve and well worth any risk.

Steve sighed. But in answer to her combined acquiescence and demand, he made a big production of her being able to see him crown himself with a condom from her nightstand—even though the thought did run through his mind why she had condoms in her nightstand—and then he rolled to the side and spooned Merri into his chest. He kissed the hollow of her neck and ran his hands over her flanks and up to cover her boyish breasts, while she had a hand between their bodies and stroked his cock, working on working it up.

"Sorry. That's as much as it's going to—"

To save him further embarrassment and to stifle what he was about to say, she moved her lips to his. After the kiss, she murmured, "Now. Fuck me now."

Steve folded her upper leg up toward her chest and moved in close behind and a bit above her rump. He groaned his belabored attempt to enter her ass. In the end, he had to move her to her belly, and pull her up on her knees in a doggy position to give himself the greatest purchase. From there, it was fine for him—and as long as he had a hand wrapped around her waist and fingers rubbing her clit, it was fine with her too.

Poor, poor, Steve, Merri thought. Such a pair we are. I inherited flat breasts from Dad's side and he inherited a miniature cock from Mother's. At least he's beautiful in every other respect and his partners don't need the cock. Such a joke the gene pool pulled on us. I sometimes wonder if that's why we . . . "Oh, merde. Yes, do it. Fuck me hard." It may be a bit of playacting, but if it helps get him off . . . he seems to be close to sobs in the effort. Thank god the only woman he makes the effort with is me . . . unless he and Mother are still . . . Ahhh, at least he's able to come.

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