Author's note: The following incidents are probably mostly fictional. All sexual participants are living humans aged 18+. These standalone A TASTE OF INCEST tales (adapted and expanded from RON'S JOURNAL episodes) include incestuous and bisexual groups, and minimal non-sexual violence. Views expressed are not necessarily the author's. Your constructive comments are welcome. If you like this, join the 1%ers and VOTE!
*****
A Taste of Incest: Pears & Cider
(Ron and another cousin and sister, and more)
*****
Let us set the scene.
The time and place: long ago and far away (yes, some decades back), before internets, cell-phones, home video, ecology, and the Carter Presidency...
Long, lean Ron wandered a few years after high school. Put it another way: Ron was a drifter, a bum. A personable bum, well-read and -bathed, with decent manners, but still a bum. He hitchhiked, worked odd jobs, played guitar, screwed whoever was available -- no ties, no responsibilities. A bum.
"Oh, that was nice, thanks," Kate said, hugging him close. Kate
was
her name, right? They lay on blankets spread in the back of her station wagon, parked behind a hill away from the Pacific Coast Highway somewhere north of Santa Barbara. She rubbed his softening cock with her naked knee.
"Really, nice, yeah. Thanks for the ride, and thanks for yourself!" Ron kissed a nearby nipple, and then the other, and back again.
"Are you in a hurry to get anywhere? Would you like a place to stay tonight? My place is just a couple miles away."
"I'm in no hurry, no. But I've got to warn you -- I'm a rambler. I don't hang around, not for long."
"Well, ramble inside me tonight. We'll worry about the rest of it tomorrow."
Ron hitchhiked up from the southland at the end of a California summer. [See A TASTE OF INCEST - PEACHES & CREAM for that sister+cousin story.] He crashed with old friends and lovers at their cozy commune in San Francisco, shared their food and wine, slept in their beds -- the usual. A couple weeks' day labor put enough cash in pocket for immediate needs. He looked north.
He thumbed across the Golden Gate Bridge on the Redwood Highway. The latest of a series of short rides dropped him on the far side of Petaluma. A blue Volkswagen Bug pulled over; two girls peered at him, his rucksack, guitar, and destination sign: FURTHUR.
"Hey guy, where ya headed? We're going up around Eureka."
"Great! I'm headed for Seattle. This'll be a fine start."
He scrunched his six-foot-four frame into the back seat. He had scrunched into many such cramped Bugs. Ah, the hitchhiking life...
Introductions were made. Stories were exchanged.
"We're art majors," the blonde passenger said. "We're working on an entry for the Kinetic Sculpture Race next May. We're gonna kick ass, too! It's a floating tetrapod, very moderno-retro-looking, with hydro-mechanical thrusters and..." ...many more details, yada yada.
Petaluma to Eureka is a great long drive from suburbs through farms, vineyards, orchards, pine forests, giant redwood groves, and long steep river valleys. Mid-afternoon, they stopped at a sunny Eel River overlook off the Avenue of the Giants. They threw a blanket on the ground, got naked, drank Champipple Cocktails (Champale malt liquor plus Ripple wine), and sunbathed. He massaged their backs and legs, and kissed their warm, smooth, bubbly butts. But nothing more there -- too public.
They sunned, and sipped, and chatted, and then dressed (too bad!) and drove on.
Joan was a bouncy honey blonde, maybe a foot shorter than him. Lacy was calm, chestnut-haired, and a few inches taller than Joan. Both showed great hourglass shapes and firm legs, with loose shorts and tight navel-baring pullovers -- Joan's with wide red stripes, Lacy crosshatched in blue. Both pulled on long heavy Humboldt State U. sweatshirts before they arrived at dusk at their lapboard cottage in the Arcata fog zone, not far from campus.
"It's getting kind of late, Ron. Are you in a rush to go on? You can stay over with us tonight if you want," Lacy invited. This tall guy intrigued her. He had good hands. And a long cock.
"Yeah, we can order a pizza," Joan added, "and I made a new hookah we can try out. It looks like the Nautilus in that 20,000 LEAGUES UNDER THE SEA movie. Some people said I should have built a Starship Enterprise instead, but Star Trek's getting kind of old, don't you think?"
"I'd love to stay over with you! Hitching the coast north of here at night gets pretty damp and dreary." Ron mentally licked his lips at the evening's prospects.
Kindling and logs were lit in the living room's corner fireplace. The room grew warm and layers of clothing thinned. A Hawai'ian Special pizza was ordered and devoured, washed down by more Champipple Cocktails. For dessert they enjoyed hashish and human bodies. Yes, Ron sucked their lovely breasts, and ate them both, and fucked them both more than once, and was happily sucked by both, and shared. Yes, they all curled up under blankets before the nourishing fire like a pile of puppies. Yes, they kicked him out in the morning.
*****
A few short rides along the rocky coast brought Ron to salt-blasted Crescent City. A fisherman's cute wife gave him a dry ride and a nice wet kiss, only slightly fishy. He hitched a ride with an over-caffeinated logger on the Klamath Highway across the coastal Siskiyou Mountains to Grants Pass, Oregon, where Interstate Five left the Rogue River behind. Sawmills scented the air with evergreen resin and smoke.
Ron's dad's younger brother Hank and his wife Kate ran a grocery on the east side of Grants Pass with family living quarters above the store. He last saw this branch of his family almost a decade before. They welcomed him, and filled the dinner hour and evening with comfortable talk and laughter.
Little cousin Edie snuck into the guest room before midnight. She was his junior by two years and looked like a chin-high sister, with dark hair, cool hazel eyes, sharp features, great body -- yet another product of their good-looking genepool. She smelled like licorice.
After their first vigorous but quiet sucks and fuck, they snuggled and chatted.
"Geez, Ron, you don't look much like the photo from the last time you were here. You're much better now." She gave his worn cock an appreciative squeeze.
"And you're really gorgeous, babe. I remember you as a snippy twelve-year-old tomboy with no tits, no hips, and skinny legs. Smart, though! Now you're a total fox. How come you didn't marry a studly lumberjack or something?" He kissed her perfect creamy tits again, savoring her now-familiar flavor.
"Well, if I wanted to boost your ego, I'd say that it's because I saw you in the shower then, and I just loved how your big dick looked. Believe that if you want. But mostly, nobody around here is, well, interesting. So I have a plan. I'll work the store another year and save my money. Then I'll move to San Francisco or Seattle or somewhere -- with a better selection of man-flesh." She cupped his balls.
"I'm heading for Seattle right now. Want to come along?" He nibbled her neck.
"Umm, thanks, but I'm not really into vagabonding. And I made promises to Mom and Dad. Tell ya what, come back in a year with a good car, no goddam pickup or bug or clunker, and I'll go riding with you for a season. How's that for a deal?"
She rolled him on top of her and stretched out her legs. He slid smoothly into her welcoming channel. They groaned softly; she wrapped her strong long legs around his back and pulled him close. Their mouths joined again. They stopped talking as the eternal rhythm swept them along.
