Brothers and Sisters

"And that, my love," she said, smiling as we relaxed, satisfied, our arms around each other, our lips close enough that each tiny movement became a light kiss, "is your second lesson on this busy day."

"Lesson?" I asked, following my question with a kiss.

"Yes, David, lesson, maybe the most important lesson I will ever teach you," she said.

"And that is?" I asked.

"Good sex, Dear One," she said, kissing my lips as she reached down and gave my now-soft cock a squeeze, "is often messy but never dirty."

I thought about what she'd said.

"No limits?" I asked.

"None I've found so far," she said, and the smile she flashed made the word "impish" just leap to mind.

"None?" I asked.

Her smile broadened, the imp being replaced by something more predatory, a wolf maybe? Or a great hunting cat.

She rolled out of bed, again making me think of a great cat with the way she moved, and left the bedroom.

I followed her cute, bouncy ass as she led me to Dad's, no, to

my

, office. She sat, naked still, at

my

fancy office chair and started tapping things into the computer.

She navigated quickly to the

Delete Unread

folder.

"You've done this before?" I asked.

She giggled, starting to scan through the various files.

"Your Mom and Dad and I go back a long way, Honey," she said.

And so I thought my way through it. Aunt Rita is Dad's Brother's ex. So while Sandy is my relation by blood, my relation to Aunt Rita is by marriage.

"So," I thought, "is it incest?"

.

"How long were you and Uncle John married?" I asked, watching as she scrolled and clicked.

"Eighteen years," she said, absently, her attention on what she was doing.

"Why'd you never remarry?" I asked and, yes, I realized how surreal it was having this conversation, rubbing my naked aunt's shoulders as she hunted through a long line of file names that I now knew contained homemade pornographic videos.

"Honestly?" she asked, spinning in the office chair to smile up at me.

"No, silly girl, lie to me," I said, giving her nipple a little tweak.

"David," she said and I realized she was being serious now, "I was in love with Charles," it took a minute to translate "Charles" to "your dad," "but Chelsea (and again I had to translate, taking "Chelsea" into "your mom") won him so, well, I guess I 'settled' for John. But when John died and Chelsea who was my best friend since were were in fourth grade invited me to, well," and she paused here, blushing and dropping her eyes, getting her thoughts together, "join in their, well, their 'experiments,' I never felt the need for another man in my life."

There I was, speechless again.

She giggled.

"You asked," she said, giving my dick a little squeeze where it was not fully hard but not soft either. What the romance novels might call "tumescent," but not yet a "throbbing member."

"So," I said, thinking hard, "you were okay with being the 'other woman?'"

She laughed.

"Oh, Honey," she said, "it was much more than that. I got to 'play the field' and, well, explore things I never thought I would experience."

"Explore?" I asked.

She rolled her eyes.

"Pull up a chair, Grasshopper," she said, "and all will be revealed."

So I did, and it was.

She scrolled, stopped, said softly, "No," scrolled some more, stopped, and clicked on the file labeled "House Party - August 12."

Once again I was struck by the production quality of these videos. This wasn't some cinema verité with its jiggling frame as you see with so many hand-held home videos. The camera panned, slowly and professionally, around the big, open-floorplan great room where a dozen couples were clearly having a party. As it panned across a set of steps leading up I understood that I was looking at a finished basement. Almost all of those in attendance held a drink of one kind or another, and a hookah on the coffee table was being shared by four, three men and one woman, in a cloud of smoke.

I didn't recognize the house, but I recognized some of the couples. There were Marge and Fred, my sometimes babysitters when Mom and Dad would get away for a weekend or a vacation. In the corner, Leigh, my cousin's wife was chatting with a man I didn't recognize. Their posture suggested that they knew each other very well, if you know what I mean. Fred and Ethyl, friends who always said, "No, we don't know Lucy and Ricky," were talking to another couple, Ethyl with two hands on the other man's arm in that possessive way of some women. An extremely old woman, she had to be deep in her 70s, was holding hands with a young man who I doubted could vote, as they talked to Mom and my cousin Donald. The microphone picked up the general hubbub of a dozen conversations and, in the background, oldies rock and roll was playing. On a little cleared area John and Kathy, married but not to each other, danced one of those stand-facing-each-other-and-kind-of-wiggle dances, while a group I didn't recognize was singing something about The Reaper.

The doorbell rang and the camera followed a big redhead, presumably the Lady of the House, to the front door. Mom followed closely. I couldn't help but notice that Mom looked like an extremely oversized hooker. Her bright red blouse was of some sheer material that apparently irritated her nipples. They were obvious hard little points showing against the material. Her matching red skirt barely covered her oversized ass, and her garter belt suspenders with four straps per leg were almost completely on display. Okay, she looked hot.

At the door, Aunt Rita was wearing a long coat, looking like something from a spy movie.

"All right," Mom called, that strong voice of hers carrying clearly across the room, "the entertainment's here."

"Relax, everybody," Rita said in her whisky-raspy voice, "I'm here."

She giggled and kissed the big redhead, kissed mom, and said, her voice coming through clearly, "Where's the bar?"

I reached across Rita and tapped the "pause" button.

"Who's that redhead?" I asked.

She chuckled. "That's Ingrid," she touched the screen pointing out a mousy little man, one of those men who has looked like he was about 70 since he was old enough to buy a beer, "and that's John, her husband. He's the Cadillac dealer and she's a whore who got lucky."

I laughed at that.

She clicked on the "play" button and the scene played out.

I watched fascinated as Aunt Rita drank a beer in two long swallows and took a second, brown longneck. The camera followed her to what turned out to be a stage set in the corner of what I assumed was a well-finished basement.

She turned to look at the group, pulled on the belt of her trenchcoat, and shrugged out of it.

The tiny bikini costume she had on made the old joke - two bandaids and a cork - seem positively modest.

She put a CD into the player on the stage and when the music started, Peggy Lee's version of

Fever

, she did a very professional pole dance. As the opening drum riff ended and Peggy's voice started, Aunt Rita swung up onto the pole, head down, her legs somehow, and I still don't understand how, offering enough support to hang from as she somehow, more magic here, reached around, unhooked the bra of her costume, and tossed it to the group standing, watching.

A man I didn't know caught the bra and lifted it to his face inhaling deeply, dramatically.

"Heaven," he proclaimed.

The woman standing next to him, a handsome woman rather than pretty, said, in a deep, almost masculine voice, "That's it. You ain't gettin' any tonight."

He smiled at her and said, "Baby, I think I'll be taken care of."

While this little vignette played out, Aunt Rita was working the pole, her tiny breasts and lack of a discernable waistline somehow adding to the pure, unadulterated sexiness of the way she moved.

"All right, ladies," the redhead announced, "girl's night out."

The camera panned back, widening the view and I watched as the women in the group headed for the stairs. Some kissed a man goodbye, I noticed that Mom kissed a man I didn't know and NOT Dad. Some just turned and left.

Ingrid was the last to the stairs. She turned and announced theatrically, "You boys have fun, don't wait up."

The camera closed in and followed her up the stairs until the door closed with an audible click as the latch went home.

Another slow, professional pan of the camera and Aunt Rita was on the pole, defying gravity and showing a level of strength, or pure power, that screamed GYMNAST.

And the men, I guessed a dozen although the way they sort of milled around it was hard to get an accurate count, were undressing as they watched.

Aunt Rita did another of those impossible movements, defying gravity and demonstrating amazing strength and body control as she hung by her legs and used both hands to pull the strings at her hips and then tossing the scrap of material that was her G-string to the men. A man I knew casually from times he had been to our house for a dinner party or to play in the monthly Euchre tournament Mom and Dad hosted, Bill, caught them and stuffed them into his mouth, turning, grinning, proud like a Labrador with a duck in his mouth.

As she continued to work the pole, working now to David Rose's

The Stripper

she was finally tiring. As that bright red/orange bush flashed by I noticed that she was sweating, her makeup starting to run.

When the music ended she stood and took a deep bow.

She looked around at the men arrayed in front of the stage, all of them no longer soft and three VERY obvious erections on display, smiled, and said, "Come and get it," like she was the cook at the Chuck Wagon calling the cowboys to dinner.

She sank gracefully if tiredly to her knees and before she was surrounded by men looked directly into the camera. I heard her catch her breath, sitting beside me. On the screen, the sweat had her makeup smeared, black mascara running in dark lines down her cheeks.

She looked, you should pardon the expression, perfectly slutty or, as Mom might say, "Rode hard and put up wet."

The rest of the video, according to the little bar across the bottom of the screen there was another 57 minutes of it, was, basically, a Bukkake party. We watched about fifteen minutes of it. By that time her face was a mask of semen, she was drooling and her nose was running. She was beautiful.

"Okay, Grasshopper," she said, clicking and turning it off, "now you know."

My mind was racing.

She was watching my face intently.

I think, looking back, that she might have seen my next question coming.

"Did," I started and couldn't finish.

"Did?" she asked, her eyes big and innocent. Yeah, she knew what was coming.

I took a deep breath and spit it out.

"Did Mom ever do that?" I asked.

She smiled and turned back to the screen. She scrolled, stopped, murmured, "No," scrolled some more, double-clicked on a file and, once more, I was captivated.

This wasn't a party room.

The camera panned slowly around.

Shit. It was a fucking DUNGEON.

The walls were unfinished concrete, you could see the little lines where the forms met, the little dots where the wall ties kept the forms in place. They appeared to be damp and something dark, I thought "mold," seemed to be crawling up from the floor. The floor was dirt. The light seemed to come from candles although I thought maybe they were those electric candles since I saw no smoke. It was yellowish, dim, and flickered.

A dozen men, dressed formally, well, in suits anyway, sat on chairs facing Mom.

Mom was in chains.

Yes, literally in chains. She was naked, and obviously in one of the "fat" phases of her ongoing yo-yo diets. Just looking I guessed her at around 300 pounds. A heavy collar was on her neck and a heavy chain, the words "log chain" came to mind was looped through a big eyebolt on the floor. The chain was short enough that she couldn't straighten her back and I thought of those "stress positions" the CIA famously used as part of their "enhanced interrogation." Her wrists were bound behind her, captured by professional-looking leather cuffs.

A man got up from his chair and went to stand my Mom.

"Charles," he said, well, he "intoned," "come forth."

That odd language drove home that this was some sort of ritual.

"Your woman," the other man said and the use of the word "woman" rather than "wife" struck me, "transgressed."

"What did she do?" Dad asked and the camera zoomed in to show the scowl on his face.

"She said 'NO' to a member," the man said.

I realized, then, that this was acting. I mean, the shocked look on Dad's face was just too much.

But it wasn't acting when he slapped Mom hard enough to snap her head around.

"I apologize on behalf of my family and my woman. It will NEVER happen again," he said.

"Prepare her," the man said.

I could see that Mom was crying as Dad went out of the scene for a moment and when he came back he put a heavy leather belt where Mom's waist would have been if she had a waist and then drew it so tight it disappeared into the softness of her belly. He moved behind her then and with a practiced movement twisted her hair into a knot. The other man handed Dad a length of cord and Dad tied it to the knot at the back of Mom's head and then through a silver ring at the back of the belt. He pulled it taut then, forcing Mom to bend her neck and arch her back, making her look straight up and put her big pillow breasts and rolls of belly on display.

The other man handed Dad something and it took a second to figure out what he was doing. It looked like a leather string, it made me think of the leather laces in a pair of boots I once had. As I watched I understood. The string split in two for the bottom six inches or so, and each separate string had a stainless steel hook, a small shiny "J" shape with a little ball on the end.

Dad put the hooks in Mom's nose, pulling until her nostrils were distorted and she cried out, the first sound she made, and then tied the lace to that ring on the back of the belt.

It was like a car wreck. I couldn't look away.

The man handed Dad something and he bent over Mom's upturned face. I recognized it as soon as he started putting it into her mouth. It was a dental mouth prop. I have had dental problems, a bout of juvenile gingivitis, and recognized it. He fit it into Mom's mouth and worked the little screws on the side, spreading it, until I was afraid Mom's jaw would dislocate.

She moaned.

The other man went over and handled Mom like a piece of meat, inspecting what Dad had done.

He smiled.

"She's ready," he said, turned, and started unzipping his pants.

I expected him to start jacking off so he could cum on her face.

Instead, he started pissing on her.

"Oh, Jesus," I said, as I watched the other men lining up like it was the line at the urinals at a fucking baseball game or something.

"Turn it off," I said.

I couldn't look away as Rita clicked, stopped the action, and then the scene disappeared.

The image that was burned into my mind was Dad standing there, watching, and smiling.

"Do you want more?" Rita asked, her voice soft and her hand covering mine.