"Will that be all for this evening, Mrs. Wiler?" Georgette Milton asked, stopping just short of the wing chair occupied by Barbara Wiler.
Barbara looked up from the book she had been reading, seeing the attractive young girl waiting. Barbara wondered vaguely (as she was doing more and more often as of late) if she were ever as young as Georgette now was.
"How old are you, Georgette?" Barbara asked, unconsciously having put her thoughts into actual words. "Nineteen?"
"Amost twenty, Mrs. Wiler."
Jesus, almost twenty. And, Barbara had a son and a daughter older than that. Bobby was twenty-five; Jill was twenty-one.
And Barbara, as she always did when thinking of her exiled children, got a faint chill that ran up the full length of her spine and then came down again.
"Yes, I'm through with you for this evening, Georgette," Barbara said. "You go off and have a good time. A date with some young man, is it?"
Yes, of course, it would be a date with a young man. At that age, young men were all the young women were thinking about—and vice versa. At twenty, people were still naive enough to think that life was one sexual encounter after another, interrupted with a bit of love to give reason to the promiscuity.
Barbara watched as Georgette left the room, wiggling her attractive little ass behind her. And, Barbara suspected some young man was going to have one hell of an evening in store for him.
Putting her book to one side (she no longer felt like reading) Barbara focused in on the fire, thinking of absolutely nothing for a few moments, except the way the red-white glow was slowly eating away the edges of one log.
Was Barbara getting old, or was she just feeling that way lately? Forty-three, after all, wasn't anywhere near death, was it? She still had plenty of years ahead of her. Most widows of her age would have been out kicking up their heels. So, why in the hell was Barbara hibernating?
She was forty-three. She was rich. She certainly didn't have to hide her head in a paper bags. She would have probably had a whole gamut of suitors if she would have let them within striking distance. However, Barbara—even though she did have moments when she wished she could get fucked—kept pretty much to the house. She had even been lax in attending all of those club meetings which had kept her occupied while Willis was alive.
Barbara stood, stretched, walked over to the window in pretense of watching the ocean in the moonlight. In actuality, she went so as to catch sight of her reflection in the night-darkened glass. What she saw, even she—in her somewhat despondent mood— had to admit wasn't all that bad. Black hair: long and lush. Arched brows. Thick lashes. Black eyes. Upturned nose. Full mouth. Long neck. Large—but not giant—breasts. Thin waist. Slim hips. Excellent legs.
Put them all together, they spell mother ...
Barbara turned from the window, went back to the chair where she decided she didn't want to sit down.
Hell, what did she want to do?
She checked her wristwatch. It was only eight o'clock. She somehow thought it would be later.
Goddamn, she was getting into a rut, wash't she? When Willis was alive, Barbara would have given anything for a few hours on her own. Now that she had the time, she seemed content to play hermit (or was it hermitess?). Whatever ...
She did, of course, know why she wasn't leaving the house, didn't she? Sure, she did!
Quit trying to fool yourself, Barbara! You know ... you know ...
It was because Bobby and Jill were in town, wasn't it? Barbara was simply scared that she was going to, somewhere, run into her two offspring. That was what was keeping her ensconced here day after day, night after night.
Of course, when Willis was alive, the two kids kept away, didn't they? Oh yes, Willis had made no bones about the fact that he didn't want either of them anywhere within his eyesight.
"The minute either of those two perverts show up on my doorstep, their allowances get completely chopped!" Willis had proclaimed whenever the gossip columns mentioned that Bobby and Jill were back in the States.
Willis, though, probably since he hadn't been planning to die of a heart attack at fifty, hadn't made any provisions in the will to keep his two children at lengthy distance from his widow. Oh, he had gotten around to cutting both Bobby and Jill off with little more than the allowances they had gotten while he was alive, but, he hadn't gotten around to making any stipulations other than that the continuance of those allowances would depend upon Barbara's largesse. Although, Barbara hadn't gotten up the nerve yet to contact either child to let them know she didn't want them around any more than their father had. Perhaps, Barbara was just a little guilty that the bulk of the sizable estate had been left to her; and any confrontations were bound to have Bobby and or Jill throwing up the fact that Barbara had done pretty well for herself, while her children were forced to exist under the shadow of a stringent budget.
Not that their allowances made either of the kids a pauper. Hell, no! What each got would probably have kept a family of five well fed (they were, after all, for better or worse, Willis Wiler's children); but, compared to what Barbara had come away with, their share was pretty paltry.
Maybe if Barbara offered them more money if they would leave, she would have less hard feelings than if she threatened to cut off their present allowances if they didn't move the hell on.
What in the hell were they doing back anyway? Compared to the jet set life they had both been living for the past three years, the social life this town had to offer had to be low-key.
But, then, Barbara was beyond trying to figure out her two children, wasn't she? How Barbara and Willis had, between them, come out with two such monsters was completely beyond Barbara's realm of comprehension. She certainly didn't have any recollection of something like this having shown up previously in her family tree; although Barbara was sure Willis—to his dying day—blamed something in Barbara's genes for what had happened as regarded their children.
Not that either Bobby or Jill had turned out "monsters" in the sense of being physically deformed. Quite to the contrary. They had both been beautiful babies (exceptional in a world known for producing an abundance of wrinkled uglies); and, they had each grown to be exceptionally attractive adults. So attractive, as a matter of fact, that they were favorites of photographers called upon to supplement material that filled national and international scandal sheets.
Barbara sat, reached for her book, opened the pages to where she had left off reading. But, she really wasn't into reading, was she? Although, her eyes were wandering obediently over the black words on the white paper, Barbara's brain was registering something quite other than what was on the written page.
In fact, what Barbara was thinking of at that particular moment was what had happened that evening she and Willis had come back from the Hamilton party (Willis had complained of indigestion) and found ...
She shouldn't be thinking of THAT, should she? But every time she thought she-had it sufficiently thrown back into a convenient corner of her mind, submerged deep enough to be forgotten, up it popped again.
On the other hand, how in the hell could anyone be expected to forget something like that? Something like that was bound to become deeply etched on a mother's brain as any brand was bound to burn itself into the flank of some unsuspecting breast.
Barbara fidgeted in her chair, disturbed by the heat along her legs and in her loins, until she realized the warmth could be explained away by the burning log and not be blamed on something flaming from the inside out.
Was her cunt grouting wet between her thighs?
Barbara often (still—to this day) had dreams about what she had Willis had walked in on that night of the Hamilton party, didn't she? And while she insisted those dreams were nightmares (what else could she call them—under the circumstances?) those nightmare fantasies were disturbing in that they always left Barbara drenched with moisture—inside and out. And, that couldn't help but be disturbing, since a wet cunt usually designated sexual arousal, didn't it?
And how in the hell could a mother be turned on by dreams of her own two children fucking?
And, that was what they had been doing, wasn't it? Fucking! The two of them had been fucking. Right here in this very room. Right here by this very fireplace (there had been a fire burning, then, too). Fucking! On a polar-bear-skin rug which Willis had since assigned to some dark and hidden corner of the cluttered upstairs attic.
Barbara shivered at the remembrance. She, at first, hadn't believed her eyes. How could she? Finding anyone fucking in the library was the last thing she had been expecting. Then to suddenly realize those sweaty and grunting bodies belonged to her own two children, well ...
Barbara shut the book with a bang, hoping that the noise would snap her back to the reality. Because, it wasn't at all healthy to be dwelling on that one perverted incident in her past. There had been something exceedingly horrible about that sexual coupling which went far beyond the mere incestuous implications. What Barbara had probably found the most horrible aspect of all had been the fact that the fucking rhythm of those bodies had been erotically beautiful.
Her children were so fucking beautiful, after all, weren't they? And, Bobby had been all young, healthy, muscle and dimpled ass cheeks. Jill had been an alabaster Venus, legs splayed and lifted around Bobby's waist.
And Jill's hair, black as her mother's, had been fanned on the bear rug beneath her head. Jill's hands had been at Bobby's neck, her long nails making slash marks that (while not drawing blood) were blood-like in their redness.
"Fuck me, brother! Fuck me!" Wasn't that what Jill had been mumbling; or, had Barbara only imagined that? Things, after all, were exceptionally muddled that evening, weren't they? Barbara was aware that there had been screaming as Willis had let go with his parental outrage. Bobby and Jill had come undone (surprisingly slow—even in discovery—to surrender their pleasure).
Jesus, Bobby's cock had been big, hadn't it? Barbara couldn't believe how big it had been. Or, maybe her imagination (her shock?) had made it seem bigger than it really was. Maybe the reflecting firelight off the juice-slicked shanks had somehow added to the dimensions. But whatever, it had seemed enormous.
And where had Bobby gotten his impressive phallic dimensions? From Barbara's side of the family? Barbara had seen her father's cock once: a short stubby thing almost lost within the tangled salt-and-pepper growth at the man's groin. From Willis' side of the family, then? Willis' prick had been good-sized, but certainly it had been nowhere near the seeming foot that had been jutting up from his son's bull-like balls.
Barbara let her book slip from her hand to the floor. The fall was hardly announced sound-wise due to the thick piling of the rug. Barbara left her arm hanging over the edge of the chair, her fingers slowly combing the softness of the carpet. For the moment, anyway, Barbara was lost in her recollection of Bobby (handsome and big-pricked), of Jill (beautiful and glossed with perspiration).
Willis' screaming had burst out to ruin their erotic coupling, flooding Barbara with the reality of not looking on merely an exquisite (if pornographic) sculpture. Bobby and Jill, rudely called back from their sexual euphoria, still appeared as if they weren't fully cognizant of the fact that their parents were now in the room with them.
Someone—probably Willis— had told Barbara to leave them. She had obliged, going to the upstairs bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed, listening but not really hearing the shouting that continued down below.
And, Willis had finally come up to the bedroom, his face flushed, his chest heaving with his labored breathing, his cock as stiff as steel.
Willis had fucked her. Willis had screwed Barbara with a power and vibrance that had shocked Barbara senseless. Her husband had always—before—been merely adequate in the bedroom. But that night—oh, Jesus, that night!—he had been something else again: a veritable dynamo. In fact, Barbara was later to suspect that Willis had been exceptionally disturbed because of his stud performance with his wife that particular evening; and, because of his feeling ill-at ease from having been possibly sexually stimulated by what he had walked in on that evening, Willis had, perhaps, overreacted by exiling both of his children so completely.
If any parent could overreact to walking in and finding his only two children locked sexually in obscenely incestuous embrace.
Still, if Willis hadn't surpassed all previous performances in the bedroom on that particular night, would he have somehow been able to negotiate the peace he hadn't been able to manage after he had pumped his hard prick to five consecutive orgasms inside of Barbara's body?
On the other hand, what alternatives had there been? For what Bobby and Jill had been caught at, it was hard to simply slap their hands and make them promise not to do it again. It wasn't as if they had just been caught in a bit of adolescent exploration (they hadn't been adolescents!), nor had they been just caught in heavy petting—for that matter. They had been "going all the way". Bobby's hard, blood-engorged prick had been shoved all of the way in to "his cum-bulged balls ... pulled all of the way out to his pulpy cock head ... plowed all of the way in to his cock roots. Out ... in ... out: Barbara had seen it as it had appeared (inch after inch after inch) and disappeared (inch after inch after inch).
And if Bobby and Jill had advanced to the point where they could strip naked, lie on a polar-bear-skin rug in front of a blazing fire, and fuck, then what had they already done previously to lead up to that moment?
How and when had it happened: this thing between Barbara's two children? Surely, there had to have been some sort of very special circumstances to bring Bobby and Jill together that way. It was, after all, incest, wasn't it? And no one entered an incestuous relationship easily, did they? Granted, Bobby and Jill were members of another generation than the one Barbara and Willis belonged to; but, still ...
And which of them (Bobby or Jill) had initiated the first contact? The first sexual contact. Did Bobby casually lean to brush a hand across one of Jill's hardening nipples beneath her blouse? Or, did Jill notice Bobby's swollen cock beneath those skimpy swimming trunks Bobby usually wore at the pool; Jill letting him somehow know that she had noticed his burgeoning prick?
Incest The idea frightened Barbara shitless. Hell, the very word scared Barbara shitless. It was one of those things that existed amid its own aura of degenerate perversion. Anyone who dared venture even near it was bound to get tainted.
Tainted ... tainted. God, but both of her own children were tainted!
And, how many times before that one night of being discovered had Bobby's blood-hardened cock made a similar trip through Jill's hair-fringed pussy doors, pumped within until thick, creamy streamers of opaque cum came blasting out to drape his sister's glistening pink cuntal folds in curtains of sticky male sex-juice? Once? Twice? Three times? Four? Had Willis asked?
"For Christ's sake, how many times have you fucked your own sister?" Had Willis really screamed that query; or did Barbara only imagine having heard it? And if he had asked it, had Bobby answered?
Barbara folded her hands in her lap, her clasped fingers resting directly over her juiced pussy.
Barbara could feel the liquid sloshing inside of her cunt, oozing from her weeping pussy walls.
Juicy cunt equals sexual excitation, doesn't it? She was excited by her thoughts of Bobby and Jill fucking, wasn't she? What was worse, she had been sexually excited that night, too, hadn't she? When Willis' hard cock had penetrated her with hardly any foreplay, it had slid in with the smoothness of a corncob across soft butter. Her cunt had just been waiting, primed for the moment. Primed by what? By what she had seen down in the library, on the rug, before the fire?
No! No! Jesus, no! She ... refused ... to ... believe ... she ... had ... been ... sexually ... excited ... by ... that ... incestuous ... lurid ... mating ... of ... her ... own ... children.
Barbara got up. The heat from the fire had warmed her skirt. Her skirt now heated her legs. From the tight slicing of her cunt, a river of hot female oils leaked, drooling along one milky white thigh before being finally absorbed by the material of Barbara's pantyhose.