Direct continuation of parts one and two. Based on a true story. Everyone is 18+.
In all the fuss, she hadn’t noticed her shorts around her ankles or the fluids dripping off her trembling knuckles and down her thigh.
Instead, Cherie’s eyes—horrified and gaping—bore through the window and into her husband’s. His—at first a reflection of her horror, but then ever slowly filling with sinister satisfaction—crawled over her from top to bottom like she was a rabid animal.
The sun pressed its sharp heat into the tops of her pale shoulders, down the exposed portion of her arched back, and onto whatever pastel-white buttocks hung free from her floral-patterned panties askew around her crotch. But the wind, a small gust no more than a whisper on her loins, brought her to straighten, rearrange her panties, and pull up her acid wash shorts. Her ears began to ring as she struggled with the button at her beltline, and the only meaningful response she could muster to discovering her husband trying to breed her best friend was to stammer incoherently into the lush grass of Maggie’s backyard. Shorts secure and mind swirling, Cherie looked back to the glass and, for some reason, at her husband’s spent cock. It hung indifferently, half-hard and gooey with cum and fluids. Her mind flashed to the first time she took its bulbous head in her mouth, struggling with it but wanting it inside her, and how it hurt ever wonderfully when they made love for the first months of their relationship. But she hadn’t seen that cock—the same one that, only moments ago, filled her best friend’s fertile womb with the seed that bore Cherie’s two daughters—in years. She had come to think of it as a friend who had long passed, a ghost of colourful days past, a reflection of times that were. Seeing it now was like seeing the brother of someone she once knew—similar but different. Now, as a gob of cum bead off the tip and to the grey carpet below, she saw the cock for what it was: a piece of meat. Cherie wiped her hand against her shorts, straightened, and looked wildly from her husband to Maggie and back again. “So, this is it,” she said curtly, knowing they probably couldn’t hear her through the glass. “This is how it is.”
Her husband, face distorted from withholding a smirk, reached for his left hand, pulled off his white gold wedding band, and lobbed it to the floor with disdain. When it had rolled against the window and flopped to its side, he turned to Maggie, who had pressed herself against his side, her mammoth breasts swallowing his arm. He reached between her legs and slid three fingers effortlessly into her sex. She drew a sharp breath, lifting her heels and smiling in surprise. He rummaged roughly inside her for a moment, pulling his fingers free as if cupping something. He brought these cupped fingers above Maggie’s mouth—high enough that she had to point her chin to the ceiling—and let his cum ooze onto her eager tongue.
Cherie—sweating from the heat and her rage—swallowed hard. Despite the urge to smash through the glass and strangle them, she felt her sex moisten. She took it all in, trying to decide how to feel, until her anger forced her teeth together, and she found her hands fisting at her sides. Her eyes lashed from one lover to the other. She mouthed, ‘The kids are mine,’ turned on her heels and marched with ragged steps around the side of the mirrored house and to the red convertible sunning itself in the driveway. The cream leather seat seared her skin as she threw herself into it. The engine gave its throaty roar as she throttled up, jerked the shifter, and swung the car backwards over the immaculate shrubs and flowers lining the driveway and onto the pristine lawn beyond them. She smiled wickedly as she hammered the brake and pressed the gas, forcing the tires to chew through the lawn before she released the brake and squealed onto the country road and toward her sister’s cottage. It took several minutes for her to cry, several more for her to stop, and longer than she would have liked to decide she was done with that man and Maggie and the rest of their friends; for all she knew, they were all in on this affair, and she was the only one sitting it out—damn them, damn herself, damn it all. With that decision settled in her mind and the road around her growing smaller, rougher, and more wooded along its edges, thoughts of revenge came to her. Her hands gripped the wheel, thinking about how she would screw her way through the next days and weeks and months until she felt she had scratched each itch within her loins that had gone unattended these past years. Yes, she grinned in the wind sweeping across her face; there would be many lovers, precious little discrimination, and much self-serving pleasure. No, she came to think, as the convertible slowed and climbed up a gravel driveway lined with young pines, there would be little protection—every sensation must be felt, every dormant urge indulged, consequences be damned. The convertible jolted to a stop. She looked at the modest, two-story log cabin before her while wiping the drying tears from her cheeks. Cherie felt the mask of motherhood coming on, the cottage reminder that Emily, her youngest daughter, had skipped their shopping trip with an upset stomach. Pulling herself together, Cherie went from the car to the cottage, pressing through the creaking front door with a searching gaze.
The cabin’s main floor had a small window in the kitchen and a larger one facing the driveway. The muddled light managed to hit all the partially used beach towels, swim gear, and duffle bags strewn about the quaint sitting area that doubled as a dining room, as well as the faded pictures of various heights and frames clinging to the walls.
“Emily?! Are you feeling better, dear?” Cherie called, kicking her sandals aside and looking around the empty main floor again. “Honey?” Cherie tried again, climbing the short flight of overly creaky stairs to the musty second floor. “Can’t hear a damn thing climbing these,” Cherie muttered. “Emily?” she called again. When no reply came, Cherie stopped at the top of the stairs and looked at each bedroom door awaiting her. Two were shut—the room she and her sister were sharing and the one her daughters slept in; Cal’s door was ajar a couple of inches, letting the afternoon sun streak sharply across the floor and over her feet. “She must be asleep,” Cherie whispered. Intending to wash herself before tending to Emily, Cherie made for the bathroom door across from Cal’s room. She tiptoed a couple of steps, then froze.
Cherie wasn’t sure how she caught sight of it—maybe it was the sunlight casting it in a heavenly glow or how she had just seen her husband’s—but out of the corner of her unblinking eye, she saw Cal’s cock. Still as a statue, with one leg lunged before the other, Cherie turned to look. Fuck, she thought, I forgot Cal stayed behind too! And fuck, she continued in her mind, that thing is enormous. She brought her heels to the floor but still hadn’t taken a breath. Instead, her eyes passed through the open door and over Cal’s sleeping, naked body. She sipped a breath and made carefully for the door. Just before crossing the threshold, Cherie looked at Emily’s room. And while thoughts of doing the right thing came to her, she pressed ahead. It wasn’t until she slipped soundlessly through the door and to the end of Cal’s bed that Cherie noticed Cal’s cock and pubic region were moist. She leaned closer. The floor creaked.
Cherie’s eyes grew, and she gasped softly, but Cal remained unstirred. Cherie lingered in the unnerving silence until she felt enough time had passed to resume her shameful exploration. With a knot building in her stomach, she brought her face near Cal’s loins and sniffed. Cum, she mused. He must have jacked off, did a poor cleanup, and fallen asleep. Cherie stood up quickly. What the fuck, she scolded herself, this is my nephew, my flesh and blood! But her eyes kept flittering to the cock. They passed over each vein lurking along the uncut shaft; they lingered on the shiny puddles of spent seed hiding in the folds of his athletic groin; they measured the amount of space she had to work with beside his hips.
Without further thought or sound, Cherie undressed from the waist down. On queue, she felt something warm dribble from her sex and down her inner thigh. She spread the fluid over her labia with eager, churning fingers that never left, tip-toed forward, planted her feet, and brought her mouth to Cal’s cock. With only her lips and tongue, she scooped it up and began to gently lap at his plump, round head inside her mouth. He stiffened immediately, and she couldn’t help but smile, remembering how quickly a young man’s cock could come out to play. In time, Cherie summoned the courage to slide Cal deeper into her mouth and toward her throat. She surprised herself pleasantly when her jaw opened, and his head touched her tonsils.
He groaned softly. Her eyes lurched upward. His remained closed.
Cherie continued. She slid her lips up his shaft and down and around the base of his cock, sure to taste all the salty residue he had unknowingly left for his aunt. With each cycle of indulgence, separated by stuffing him down her throat, she felt the heat and moisture and yearning build between her legs. Cherie felt like her body was calling her in a way she had never felt before, in a way that felt exciting and wrong and thrilling and horrifying all at the same time. And then she thought about her husband breeding her best friend, lurched upright, straddled Cal on the bed, grabbed his girthy cock, and sat down until she felt his head split her opening in painful bliss, filling her completely and coming to rest against her cervix.
His eyes flung open. Hers narrowed. She smiled down at him, pressed a hand to his chest, put the other in her hair and ground herself against him. He opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and sank his strong hands into her hips to push deeper into her. They couldn’t deny it now; they were in a forbidden dance of passion—a dance reserved for lovers, for strangers in the night, for souls lost to the wind finding each other again, but not a dance one does with their kin, their family. They went along, silently panting at each other, their bodies arching and swaying with the rhythmic beating of their love until Cal’s hands moved up and under Cherie’s yellow top, feeling for her nipples, finding them, and beginning to stroke them gently, as he pressed his cock further and further into her. Wrapped in ecstasy, Cherie curled towards the ceiling, a grand orgasm building in her loins and thundering through her trunk and out her lips as a guttural, pleasureful groan. She careened toward him and kissed him the way one does a soldier going to war. He grabbed a fistful of her hair as she broke the embrace and held her so he could whisper into her ear, “I’m cuming, Aunty.”
She smiled, but it was short-lived. At that moment, as Cal’s thrust grew urgent and less controlled, Cherie heard a rustle from the closet on her left. Her grinding slowed, and Cherie looked over.
“Where do you want it?” gasped Cal, mesmerized by how Cherie’s labia hugged his cock. “On your face?”
Cherie studied the closet doorway. The folding doors had a slight crease, with the joint protruding an inch or two.
Cal’s hips bucked in shorter and shorter bursts, and his eyes clamped shut. “In you, Aunty?!”
Cherie gasped—along the floor, peeking out from under the closet door, were the bottoms of Emily’s red two-piece polka-dotted bikini.
Cherie froze as Cal emptied himself into her, and despite herself, she grinned slightly at the familiar feeling of young, virile sperm briskly exploring the depths of her womanhood. She looked at Cal, initially with carnal hunger and then with something more complicated. His eyes were open, full of dread, and hung on the closet door. He gulped and faced his aunt; his hands, assuming she wanted off, eased from her chest like she was a wild beast he had only momentarily tamed and fell to his sides. She remained on him—studying him, feeling him in her, mulling things over. Cherie looked down. Cal again had much wetness on his pubic area, but it was whiter and thicker than before, and its source was no mystery. She slid off him, laid on her back, pulled a mushy pillow under her pelvis, and lifted her feet into the air. He rolled onto his elbow, studying her with a furrowed brow and giving her a full view of his body. His cock held its size; even at half-mast, the foreskin stayed back, and she could see its battered head glistening in the sun. She felt the heat build in her again—especially when she spotted the streaks of blood hiding along the ridges of his foreskin.
“I-I can explain,” Cal started.
Their eyes found each other.
“How long ago?” Cherie asked softly. She didn’t turn when the closet door slid open with a harsh squeak.
“Not even fifteen minutes,” Cal said. “I was pretending to be asleep—”
“Emily, come here, honey,” Cherie cooed, again without looking. She smiled at Cal, but not like a lover, like his aunt.
Emily emerged from the shadows of the closet, naked and with Cal’s residue shimmering around her sex. She held herself like a nervous, embarrassed child—one hand across her chest and gripping her opposite elbow, shoulders forward, head down. When her mother patted the narrow strip of bed beside her, Emily slunk over. “On your back, dear,” Cherie instructed with care, “that’s it, yes. Grab that pillow—yep…” Cherie reached over and touched Emily’s knees, “let’s lift those long, beautiful legs toward the ceiling and sink into the pillow. That’s it, relax.”
Cal’s mouth fell open. He and Emily traded confused glances.
“You don’t want to waste a chance to let them swim up there and find their mates, right?” Cherie said, her voice cracking slightly. “We’re all in this together, now, and if I remember your last cycle…you’re ovulating.”
“What in the fuck is happening here?!”
The lovers threw shocked glances at the open doorway.