A Taste of Incest - Lemonade

*****

An Taste of Incest: A Taste of Lemonade

(Mom and Sis are so very helpful!)

*****

"Fuck!"

Terry did not sound happy.

My brother was working SO hard. And the day was SO hot. Despite wearing only his Speedos, he dripped like a squeezed sponge. Even his six-pack abs were sweating as he leaned back from his Mustang's engine compartment.

This was freaky weather for Portland, the hottest I could remember. Oregon's biggest city is known for rain and clouds; this Palm Springs-like summer sun is alien to us. I guess those climate change guys are right, after all.

But Terry just HAD to do this work now, whatever it was. Something about dual Webrings, and Moon units, and turbo Flowmaster -- I thought that was some kind of laundry soap. (Not that I do much laundry; Mom handles that.) Terry insisted that this mechanical work was immediately vital. Whatever.

Anyway, we had record heat here in the Sellwood neighborhood. Flowers and vines were wilting. Mom and I would have wilted too, so we put on tiny bikinis, and ran the lawn sprinkler, and stayed as cool and wet as we could.

And Terry kept pounding and scraping his knuckles, and shoving tools in and out and back and forth, and struggling with cables and hoses and shit, and swearing loudly, and sweating profusely.

Mom and I lay in plastic chaises on the back lawn. The old oscillating sprinkler kept us nicely drenched. We watched Terry labor and drip.

"Take pity on your poor brother, Ronni," Mom said. "He's going to dehydrate and collapse if he keeps that up. Be a dear and make him some lemonade."

"Sure thing," I agreed, and hopped up. The grass was soft and squishy under my flip-flopped feet. I dried off before entering the kitchen; Mom did not like us dripping in the house.

Ah, lemon beverages. After-dinner called for

limoncello

with lemon zest soaked in sweetened raw spirits a few weeks. Cool evenings called for WPLJ, white port and lemon juice, heated to steaming like

sake

. Grey mornings called for lemon-ginger tea. The spice shop SAVORY on 13th Avenue had the best ingredients for that.

But a hot day like this demanded icy lemonade. And not that instant crap, all chemicals and sugars, no way. Not the frozen stuff, either. No, Mom had our own special recipe, with fresh fruit: a pile of Sunkist lemons, a couple kiwis, a clump of strawberries, and a big glob of clover honey.

I squeezed the citrus and threw everything into the big blender, along with enough ice cubes. One minute later, an icy, slushy kiwi-strawberry lemonade froth was ready to serve. Fucking perfection!

I poured a tall glass and flip-flopped out to where Terry clawed and cursed at his car. Damn, the guy was built! Too bad he was my brother. I could not help but notice the bulge in his Speedos.

I touched his shoulder. "Hey bro, want to cool down a little?"

He glanced at me. My bikini -- just a thin strap and a thick thong, really -- covered rather less flesh than his briefs. His hands reached for the iced glass. His bulging crotch reached for... frustration, not freedom. Too bad, bro! Hmm, my nipples reached out a little, too.

No breeze blew past the high fence surrounding our backyard. No eyes peered over the fence, either. Only sunlight and sounds connected us to the outside world.

Terry slurped. I heard faint carousel music from Oaks Amusement Park down the hillside, and traffic rattling across the old Sellwood Bridge, due to be torn down soon. (Want to buy a bridge? It's for sale! Cash and carry, though.) A small jet left a contrail high overhead. And Terry slurped again.

"Thanks, sis." He chugged more of the slurry, upended the glass, drained it, and shivered as the ice hit his core. "Wow, that's great! Got any more?" He aimed his dark-brown begging puppy-dog eyes at me -- up and down my near-naked body, then back to my face.

"For

you

, there's always more, count on it," I whispered seductively, and grinned. I wiggled my hips as I walked back to the kitchen for a refill. I felt his eyeballs burn into my bouncing butt.

I poured the rest of that batch into his cup. Would this be enough? Better make another half-gallon, I thought. I checked the ingredients; we were almost out of Sunkists, but there were some Meyer lemons and a bunch of key limes. Okay, the next run would be a little different. In time, in time...

Terry looked fairly refreshed after slugging-down my offering. But he still looked frustrated -- mechanically, more than sexually.

"Damn, this is harder than I thought. I just don't have enough hands. Say, could you help me here? Nothing hard; just hold stuff for me." His warm, pleading puppy-dog eyes were on me again. Down, and up, and back again.

How could I refuse?

So my brother and I, both nearly naked, leaned together over the engine, and did mechanical stuff, with our butts bumping together every now and then. I held stuff, and he twisted or poked or screwed stuff, and cursed.

---

Maybe I should tell you about us. Terry is tall and thin and dark and strong. And smart; he will be a great geologist some day. I am almost as tall and thin, except for my big boobs, and I am not so dark -- dirty-blonde, even, taking after Mom, who looks like I will in a decade or so, I hope.

Terry is more like Dad, except that Dad is off in Tierra del Fuego chasing Chilean Sasquatches or something. He has been gone for quite a few years now. Maybe he will finally make his big find someday. Whatever.

I am a music major, and maybe not so smart as Terry. I

am

smart enough not to carry a clarinet into the sprinkler. My plastic Suzuki alto recorder survives water. I pipe Baroque tunes into the spray.

I have always had a kind of a thing for Terry. Does that make me a perv? I do not think so. Remember what Joan Rivers said: "A man can sleep around, no questions asked. But if a woman makes 19 or 20 mistakes, she's a tramp." Okay, I had boyfriends, and girlfriends. But no doggy friends. I am no slut. And I have not played my brother... although he

is

tempting.

---

Terry and I worked away, and swore, and got hotter and sweatier. I ducked back under the sprinkler more than once. I dragged Terry with me more than once, too. Then we went back and worked and cursed some more.

Our heads were stuck deep inside the Mustang's guts when Mom's nearby voice startled me. "How are you kids doing there?" she asked.

"Ow!" I said as I straightened too fast, bopping my head on the raised hood.

"Heh heh, watch it, sis," Terry chuckled, moving himself more carefully. "Yeah, could be better. There are just too many loose ends flopping around."

"Damn," I grunted, "too many thingamadiddles and whirligigs and shi... and stuff. This is a job for an octopus, not humans."

"Can I help? Could you use more hands in there?" Mom's brow creased.

"That would be great, Mom!" Terry said. "Just hold this here... yeah, like that -- steady now, yeah..."

We all leaned in, and groped around, and sweated and swore more, and got a few attachments made. One problem: Mom and my bikinis were NOT made for the postures and actions we were in. Inappropriate. As in, our tits kept falling out. Mom finally voiced our immediate frustration.

"Enough of this!" Mom slipped off her barely-there top. "You'll do the same if you're smart, girl. C'mon, it's not like we have anything to hide. And nobody can see us here."

I gaped. Terry gulped. I thought, "She's right," and I pulled off my top too.

Mom was young when I was born after her underage shotgun wedding. Terry popped out just a year later. We have been physically active all our lives, and we put in gym time; we are all very fit. Mom and my abs aren't quite as well defined as Terry's six-pack, but we're no slouches. We women look pretty damn good.

We looked good, even sweaty and greasy. So did Terry, and he obviously appreciated what he saw. His crotch gave evidence of that.

After a bit more hard labor, Terry pronounced the job done -- for now.

"I still have some details to chase down but those can wait. We've finished the lion's share. Thanks! Doing it all by myself would've taken twice as long."

He hugged each of us appreciatively. We hugged back. We were all conscious of what Mom and my bounteous boobs were doing against his taut torso.

"We're filthy," Mom laughed. "Too filthy to go inside like this. C'mon kids, into the sprinkler, all of us!" She took our hands and dragged us out under the oscillating spray.

"Wait a second," I said, and trotted to the cabinet beside the back door. I grabbed a squeeze bottle of Dr Bronner's soap, the tea-oil flavor. I hopped back to the sprinkler and slopped a good squirt into Mom's hair, then Jerry's.

"We might as well get clean all over," Mom said, and pulled down her thong. She leaned back, her arms stretched high, big beautiful boobs pressed out, the thatch of dirty-blonde muff glistening in the water. She lathered her hair and giggled. "Damn, this feels good! We should clean up outside more often."

Terry grinned and pushed his Speedos down his legs and off his feet.

"Are you shy now, sis? That's not like you," he teased me.

I accepted the inevitable and slipped my own thong off.

Terry squirted Dr Bronner's into my hair, dropped the bottle, and started lathering me. Mom moved around so she could work her fingers through his scalp. I thought, why not? I moved beside Mom and frothed her curls. We all moved to the edge of the spray zone so the suds would last longer.

Mom finished with Terry's head. She moved her hands lower, sudsing his shoulders and arms, inside his armpits, around his bulging biceps and chiseled chest. He flinched when she pinched his nipples.

"Sensitive, are we?" she chided.

Terry laughed. He obviously took her move as a signal. His hands moved down on my body, around my torso... and cupped my breasts. I jumped when he tweaked MY nips, then laughed myself. What's fair for the goose... I cleaned Mom's body, and arms, and boobs. We all pinched nipples and twitched. Terry's stiff cock twitched the furthest.

"You really like this, don't you?" Mom reached down and thumped Terry's mighty manhood with her thumb. "Like what you see and feel, yes?"

Terry nearly hyperventilated.

"I'll take that as an affirmative," Mom said. She took my hand, put it on Terry's cock, and held hers over mine, squeezing gently. "I like it too. You're much longer than your Dad's, and sexier. Feels good, yes?" She leaned in to lightly kiss Terry's lips. The she turned to me and kissed me. A real kiss. With tongue. Like a girlfriend.

Mom broke away. "Let's get real clean now." She squirted a blob of soap into her hand and rubbed it into my thatch of muff, then repeated the move with Terry's dark pubic hair. "C'mon and clean me, Ronni," she told me.

I had stopped thinking about 'kinky' and 'pervy' and 'what?' and just went with the flow. I sudsed Mom's muff and gently rubbed her groin, as Terry rubbed mine -- and Mom and I both rubbed Terry's crotch. Mom stroked his cock. I felt his finger work into my pussy. I gently fingered Mom's labia.

The soapy lather ran from our hair as we masturbated each other.

I expected Terry to cum right away, but Mom had his number. She stroked him to the edge of orgasm, then backed away, leaving him gasping.

Terry had apparently practiced his finger work -- his stroking of my pussy was tantalizing and exhilarating. I gasped also. Mom and Terry both bent and suckled my terrible twins. Oh fuck!! His fingers and their lips took me over the line. I screamed... right into Terry's fast mouth as he captured my joy.

Mom and Terry both pressed against me, held me up, kept me from collapsing. I was weak for I don't know how long.

When I had my sea-legs again, I moved my mouth to Mom's and kissed her deeply. My hand probed her pussy carefully; I traced her labia, circled her clit, and then inserted one, two, and finally three fingers into her sensitive vagina. My thumb lightly brushed her button. Terry and I suckled her as we had when we were infants -- and she came, spasming, clenching my fingers, groaning loudly.

I slowly pulled my fingers out of the portal from which Terry and I entered the world. I put the fingers in my mouth. Oh wow, Mom tasted good!

It was we kids' turn to support our mother as she recovered from her climax. She slipped from our arms after a minute and dropped to her knees in front of Terry. She held his cock.

"Yes, you're much bigger and sexier than your father." She licked his shaft. "Thicker, with bigger veins, and a better flavor..." She swallowed him.

I saw her fingers massaging his balls. He groaned. I thought, "I can help too." I moved behind him and tweaked his nipples. He groaned, and came, and came. I watched Mom ingest his full load. I held him upright, my crotch grinding into his tight

tuchas

.

"Oh fuck, Mom, oh fuck..." Terry murmured.

"Yes, we'll have to clean up outside more often," Mom said. "But I think we should take this inside now. And I don't know about you both, but I could use more lemonade."

We staggered to the back door. I pulled towels from the cabinet; we all dried off.

"It'll have to be a little different," I said. "How about

limonada con soda

like we had in Guatemala?"

"That sounds fine," Mom said. She pulled me to her and slipped her fingers into my still-quivering quim, then licked them. "Mmmm, you taste good, too. I think we'll be having some more taste-testing, yes? And we won't need to work on a car to justify it."

We somehow managed to slop the

limonada

around enough that we all had to be licked off. Multiple times. Wow, that was fun! So were the triad daisychains, and Mom's toys, and everything else.

Summer, and lemonade, and family, were never the same for me after that.

The End?

Author's note: This story by Hypoxia Smurf is copyright (c) 2014. Keep your eyes peeled for more standalone A TASTE OF INCEST tales -- some adapted, some new, none depending on their predecessors -- but go ahead, read them anyway. If you like this, VOTE!

And don't miss THE BOOK OF RUTH and the BLACK & WHITE stories.