One In Three -part 1

Note : This story is completely fictional!

Place. Hold. Set.
Soft. Closed. Tight.
Length. Breadth.
Depth.
Push. Clutch. Pushing.
Tighter. Harder.
Dry. Big. Give.
In. Warm.

Deep. Drag.
Then deep then drag.
Then deep then drag again.
And again.

“Is this what you want?” her brother, from behind her, stroking.
“mm-mhuh…; more – ” like you did them, she said, his sister, naming names.

§§§

They sat across from George in a row from left to right, Maggie and their three girls – teenaged and too-true, triplets – his bevy of beauties, his life’s share of ladies; his twin sister and their daughters, their bare legs all, crossed right-over-left, his females grinning at him, especially Maggie, and he was fervently grateful to God to be the felled prey in this catfight among his women. Maggie, forty-one and green bikini-ed, still supple and smolderingly mature – he otherwise liked better her broader behind – and The Coup: Eleanor, Bridget, and Gretchen, identical and identically almost dressed in red – strings & a few swatches of fabric, as if wearing only samples of complete bikinis – three sets of blue eyes and dark brown hair, all ivory white softness and ready heat, they could brood and conform like George, laugh and swear like Maggie, had neither of their parents’ innate talent but were intelligent even more so, buying into none of the illusions of culture: sex was what it is, and morality was how you defined it.

§§§

George wrote music where he was. He’d listen to the jukebox at the bar, or, at home, to the radio randomly for melodies he wished he had written: jotting down words, phrases, changing whole hooks, verses, and themes to suit his tastes and mood, then incorporate them into guitar or piano – and still more changes – until he’d arranged another’s work into something completely different and that he could call his own, as far as copyright laws and awards ceremonies were concerned. Maggie edited his drafts for signs of life and marketability. They then together sang and harmonized and further arranged the sound until someone’d buy it. They’d always done it this way.

At the house, scribbling, and plinking or strumming through some confusion he’d created, the girls, home from their senior year at prep school – behavioral science & psychology – would take turns gleefully teasing their father with their newfound adult bodies and wiles, boldly wandering by in underwear that hardly qualified – waiting on the laundry, or for their hair to dry – and have a seat sideways in his lap, swinging an arm around his neck, setting their breasts under his nose and giving his lap a little grind – ‘hi daddy, whatchya doin`, how’s it goin`?’ Maggie could see this, and was as much amused by her own small jealousy as she was by her Georgie’s helplessness – what could he say? ‘I’m hard-up for my daughters – make `em stop’?

While developing their undergraduate dissertation, it’s thesis was still unclear; any one of the girls alone wouldn’t dare their father for exploratory sex, but as a group – The Coup, each alternately boss or baby-doll in their secret, fluid hierarchy – the three of them could brave their ambitions and gang-up on daddy, objectively reasoning through and rationalizing, even justifying, their ambush as scholarly and clinical, however sexually charged: ‘He wants to fuck us: what’s it like to let him…to want to let him? Bad? – it’s our idea…why? – we’re entitled to him… and he’s got no real problem with it – Oedipus wanted to screw his mother, but did his mother half mind the attention?’ They’d write the paper collaboratively, purportedly as pure theory, interviewing only each other and limiting their research to just the one sex act – his fetish – that daddy’d not refuse and would preserve their virginity in the traditionally strictest sense. They’ll have changed the names and would deny everything, having since destroyed their notes.

At least that’s how they’d sell it to mom; Maggie’d know better, but would appreciate the lie.

§§§

George was downstairs in the studio, where he’d be for the evening, so when Maggie came in on them in the den, it was now just the four females sitting around loopy and b.s.ing in that honest way the cold-sober cannot – the girls passing the joint and a drink to her as usual, Maggie having had to hang up her ‘mommy hat’ a year or so ago; the girls had killed the video though, in mid-scene, when they had heard her at the door, and so it appeared they had been just hanging out in the quiet.

Talk of anything else, as always, became talk of sex – revealing, and, among themselves, comfortable and funny: they agreed masturbation was never awkward – we don’t make mistakes with ourselves – and their mother confirmed for her young daughters that a good fuck was always great, the virgins weren’t wrong to dream of it.

“We’ve got porn” they offered, and their mother thought this would be good: what did her daughters think hot?

The flick resumed where it had been stopped, the two young people thrown in action. Maggie recognized her Georgie first, then a moment later the room – this room – and though she hadn’t watched the home movie in years, when the blondie he was sodomizing looked up, it would be her.

And then there she was, in all her glory: her face red, splotchy, and her eyes unseeing, wildly looking inward at all her brother was doing behind her and her voice loud and inarticulate, out of control and a string of drool swinging from her lower lip – a pure performance and no act, this was huge and she was into it.

The Coup watched their mother watch; for a sure minute, Maggie observing her early self and making it plain she wouldn’t shy from this surprise. She paused the video, finally, rather than quit it – all quiet and she and her twin brother a still blur as if caught in mid-air: boyish George forward into his tight sister and grimacing with the effort, all strain & tensility; young Maggie’s expression hard and as clean as a new dime, steely and exact; cheap awe and sweet misery, their hair everywhere – a poster of the girls’ parents at their best worst.

Maggie turned to her daughters; she didn’t often blush.

“So. What’s this about?” She really couldn’t say, but was not that surprised when they told her – she suspected more to their flirting than mere tease; as were their parents, the girls always meant what they said and did what they meant.

Some discussion, then all understanding and belief, after a time, and so the girls put on the movie again, their parent’s private archive; drinking beer, getting high, and Maggie and her daughters watched uncle dad despoil aunt mom in the ass – 18 years ago as now, illegal in all of Western Civilization, and, in the privacy of their domicile, the law not allowed to prove it.

“I’ll supervise” she consented, and Maggie confided in them things that even the video didn’t reveal, and her daughters confessed some of their darker needs and curiosities, and they lowered the volume so they wouldn’t have to speak over the shrieks of the young woman onscreen.

§§§

The girls crouched listening at their parents’ door that next evening, so far only the mist of light from a dim lamp inside – wordlessly joking and speculating, eavesdropping for telltale talk and sounds: lengthy, low-spoken debate from within the bedroom, and then no talk and some small motions for awhile; then more agreeable speak and a moment of broader movement about: one of the stout straight-back chairs, missing from the dining room, dragged to the center of the floor, then nothing.

George and Maggie, the girls knew, would never really get over themselves. Distrustful of their own intent, they were sometimes afraid of what they were and what each really wanted of the other – he, sure he was only an incestuous shit keeping his pretty sister hostage, and she, just a brother-luvin` slut using his weaknesses to her advantage; he’d poke her too hard so she would bite him, she’d scratch him so he would make her swallow too much; he’d spank her, she’d hit him – he’d force her so she would fight him and she’d fight him so he would force her, and rough sex was just their own lovesick way with each other.

Though more was expected, the girls still started at the first sharp cracks – no voices yet, just the irregular flat smacks of big flesh; the girls knew of the paddle and the handcuffs – and then the spanks coming steadily, faster, and finally their mother’s calls for more, demanding, as aggressive as was their father’s swing of the wood.

But not always.

Some evenings, their parents would retire early and not be seen or heard from again until the late news, reemerging after a couple of hours all sheepish smiles and unspoken satisfaction and affections – happily and not a mark on either of them, tranquil and pleased with their simple lovemaking, if a little embarrassed with their easy joy. The girls’d remark ‘good?’, smirking, and George’d just say, “yes. very good, thank you” period, and he meant it, and the discussion was over, and he meant that too.

No sounds, suddenly, from behind their parent’s door, and in the brief quiet the girls caught themselves gasping in the still of the dark hallway. They heard whispers, their daddy’s, telling, to mommy, then, no less shattering than the spanking, their mother’s voice in the grave groan of penetration where it always hurt, if even a little; the girls were new, it would be a lot.

They then began overhearing themselves referred to, breathlessly, by their mother, each in succession:
“ – …you gonna deep-ass Ellie…?” 
“ – and jam-fanny Gretchen…?”
“ – and fuck-butt Bridgie… this faa-asst & haar-arrd…?”
the sounds of their daddy’s sodomy of mom more vigorous with each mention of his daughters’ names; he was thinking of them.

The girls slipped back across the hall and watched their parents’ bedroom from their own, staring at the closed door as though seeing through it: varying noises, randomly urgent and relaxed, only the girls’ names and vulgar associations were intelligible, but all as understood as if living it.

The nightly news was flickering in the corner when Maggie stepped robed into their bedroom without knocking and handed her daughters a quart jar of what looked like spoiled egg whites; globules hovered throughout and it was still hot and gross with life.

“It took three times to fill it; now drink up” a pearl of which caught in their mother’s hair, another drop glistening from her face.

Bridget passed the jar to Gretchen who unscrewed the lid and took a sniff; it smelled like nothing they’d experienced and exactly like fresh sperm.

Gretchen communicated some courage to her sisters, then took the first foul swallow: her father’s produce slid liquid like a slug down her throat and made her eyes water; Bridget and Eleanor followed suit, sewer-warm mouthfuls of the starch apiece, then George’s potent virility swimming fertile in all his daughters’ stomachs. Maggie hurried the girls to choke back the jarful without pause.

“Did you fake?” asking their mother, regarding the home movie, the orgasms.
“It was real.”
“So we’ll cum.” A question.
“Dirty-talk helps; I’ll give him the go-ahead.”
“He’s so cute, all shy and shit” a safe, familiar tool: he loved his girls, and they knew it, and he was bothered with himself, and they knew that as well, gleefully so; Maggie warned them of what to expect from their father, detailing the moment they’d be at his lust’s mercy, when she’d just let them bear its brunt, as she had – their first week back in class, if they weren’t careful, sporting a stitch and a hemorrhoid pillow – and they were less cavalier with their folly.

“Oh, were going to do this, ladies” Maggie ruled. She tossed them a towel. “Have this with you,” and nodding toward the empty jar, “you’ll need it afterwards – the first of you, especially.”

§§§

“You know you’ll like it, so lighten up” Maggie said, while the girls laughed in peals at their father’s fake if-requisite hesitance. He was glad for the glass in his hand; he’d need to be liquored-up. It was three evenings later, allowing chaste time for the girls to get anxious and for their daddy to replenish, a day for each daughter. George still appeared the worse for wear after the other night: fingernail scratches striped his throat and shoulders, and he wore a lump over one eye where Maggie had at one point clocked him – when he was pinning her to the mattress, he thinks. George wore her marks as an announcement, a display of his worst character; but though the girls hadn’t forgotten their mother’s wails, his points scored on her however stayed secret, her warmed-over tushie and torn hole a matter between only them. Maggie knew no such guilt; she would not be ashamed of what she let George do to her – it’s private, but not shameful.

“It’s not always about you, daddy” the middle one, Eleanor, added. “C`mon daddy, do us” to the left of her, Gretchen, and “ – yeah, we’ve been bad girls” from the right, Bridget, and then more amusement.