This is the fourth installment in the Morgan family taboo saga, following "Oh Daddy, Can't You See I'm Busy," "Nolo Contendere" and "The Fall of the House of Morgan," all published in the incest/taboo section. This story can stand alone, though the reader will gain more insight by reading the other three, especially the one that precedes it, "The Fall of the House of Morgan."
*****
There's nothing left to hide, no more deep, dark secrets, no more metaphorical skeletons lurking inside the Morgan's metaphorical closets. The tense confrontation in Bud's study room took care of that, set the record straight. Monique had been the only one left in the dark, and now she too knows what's been going on. Moreover, she's eager to climb aboard, wants to be "cut in on the action," as she put it.
Marissa had started it all by seducing her dad Bud. Then she seduced her brother Stephen. Then Bud almost raped her when she refused to grant him another rodeo. She wants more from Stephen, and Stephen wants more from her. Monique also wants Stephen, and Stephen wants Monique, his own mom. Got it?
It's not all that complicated, really, because Bud has reconciled, albeit grudgingly, to Marissa's moratorium when it comes to him, and Marissa has accepted, albeit grudgingly, what will surely take place between Stephen and their mom. If Stephen harbored sexual designs on Monique, he didn't know it until she flashed him during that amazing confrontation. His cock stiffened at the sight of her lifting her dress, showing her pink panties and plump white thighs.
He tries hard to repress his feelings. 'Okay, so it might not be kosher to screw my own sister,' he says to himself. 'But mom, my own mom?' That's a line he feels he shouldn't cross. He goes about his life's normal routines, diving into his college work and pursuing his passion for sports, both as spectator and competitor. Still, his mom's MILF charms beckon, eats at him, helped in no small part by Monique who pushes forward her ambition to fulfill her own desire. Lifting her dress that time was only the beginning. When Stephen is home, she makes it her business to pad around the house in see-through nighties and short dresses wearing nothing underneath, no panties, not even a thong to hide her now shaved pussy.
"We both want to, Stephen," she says, cornering him one Saturday morning in the kitchen. "All we need is the time and place."
Stephen, eating his Wheaties, knows how silly he'd look denying the undeniable. He can barely eat, sitting with his mom at their round breakfast table, staring at her bare thighs and half-exposed boobs and her bare feet, her toes accented in bright red nail polish. He knows she wears this blue nightie just for him. As she crosses her legs, the short hem of the nightie rides a couple inches higher. He sips his coffee, wide-eyed and grinning, perusing his mom's voluptuous charms. "You're incredibly erotic, mom, but the kitchen is hardly the place," he says.
"Oh, I don't know about that," she says, swishing her tongue across her lips. Re-crossing her legs, she pushes her nightie high enough to where Stephen can now see, as the cliché goes, all the way to China. "Your father's out and Rissa's still sleeping." She extends her bare foot into the crotch of his plaid cotton PJs. "Ya feelin' it?"
He's "feelin'" it. He shakes his head in exasperation as his cock stiffens. "This is so crazy mom, so crazy what we're all doing."
She reaches out to stroke his hair. "Not so crazy, more like deviant. Think of us as functionally dysfunctional. Your dad earns a great living. You and Rissa are good students. And I do charity-volunteer work. We're Mantua Estates people, upscale, respected and respectable." She grins in case Stephen doesn't get the sarcasm.
"On the surface we're respected and respectable," he says, getting it but pursuing a more serious line anyway. "We both know what would happen if the powers that be in this community found out what goes on here."
"Yes, but they won't, not unless one of us spills the beans, and I doubt one of us will." She slides her chair closer. "Now, where were we?"
Stephen shoves the last of his cereal into his mouth, grabs a napkin and wipes his face. "You asked me if I was feeling it." He rubs his hand over her bare thighs. "Now I'm feeling it, feeling your sexy legs, inhaling your Channel-scented skin and staring at your big boobs and bare pussy that I'd guess is either wet or getting there."
"Ooo, Stephen, keep talking like that and I'll drip all over this seat." She spreads her legs and shoves her hand inside her crotch. "For the record, yes, I'm wet. And how do you know what I'm wearing?"
"Like mother like daughter. Rissa wears the same scent."
"Ah, I should have known. I almost forgot about your intimate encounter with your hot sister. Well, Rissa smells great whether she's wearing or not."
"Doesn't she though."
Monique nods. "Okay, now getting back to me." She again rubs her pussy. "My god, son, I'm so hot that all you'd need do is breathe on my cunt and I'd come."
She exaggerates but not by much. Mindful that Marissa is still sleeping, she's doing her best to modulate the volume of her moaning. Stephen, on his knees, works his tongue over her pussy, soaked and stoked. She hikes her nightie up around her waist and spreads her legs, giving him maximum access. "Ohmygod, oh baby, you're unbelievable!" While messaging her boobs, she leans over and kisses his head. "Your tongue is too much. I can't wait to learn what your cock feels like."
Stephen knows she won't have long to wait, not with his cock at full stretch and his desire usurping the staid rules of Western moral convention, not to mention Marissa's proximity, her grudging acceptance of a mom-son liaison notwithstanding. Breathing heavy, he stands up on the ersatz stone floor and takes down his PJs to show Monique the goods.
She nearly swoons at the sight of it, not from the size—it's just average after all—but from the anticipation of where it's headed. Dizzy from this surreal reality that she helped create, she shakes her head, then strokes her hand over it a few times, before taking it into her mouth. She rubs her clit as her pale lips work over her son's stiffness. Her head moves in accelerated thrusts as if she's trying to maximize the size of him. However, he's as maximized as he's going to get. Instinctively, she knows that if she keeps this up, he'll ejaculate inside her mouth. Not a bad thing, except that it's her cunt, her burning, yearning cunt, that she prefers he come into, her orifice of choice.
His too, because, as if reading her mind, he plops back down on his vinyl, light brown kitchen chair and invites Monique to straddle him. She does, facing him, so he can suck on her nipples as she moves, grasping the back of the chair, her eyes half-closed, staring into the room's ether when she's not bending over to kiss him. She loves the feel of his cock, of course, but also the sensual, tactile delight of his hands rubbing her plump, silky-smooth thighs. She imagines she'd have her legs wrapped around him if they were in bed. She imagines, too, that he's about to come. "Don't hold back," she says, "come into mom's pussy."
"I'm waiting for you," he says, and makes good on it after Monique, forgetting about Marissa, takes her last few bounces, then shakes and yells as successive waves of pleasure pummel her inside and out.
After slipping off Stephen's lap, she grabs a napkin and wipes herself, while assuring him that she won't get pregnant. "I'm on the pill, son, although I must admit that having a child through my own offspring sounds wickedly exciting."
"Wickedly wicked to my way of thinking," he says, wiping off his penis. "That said, you were terrific, mom."
"Thanks—and right back at you."
*****
Marissa heard her mom's screams in her dream and assumed, upon wakening, that a dream was all it was. Now, as she blinks and wipes the sleep from her eyes, she isn't so sure. She hears the voices of her mom and brother downstairs, laughter and bits of dialogue. Her dream was weird as all dreams are, and her mom's screams still ring in her head—screams not of terror but of pleasure. She knows, because they mirror her own in compromising situations.
Normally, she sleeps until around ten on Saturday. But now, at just past nine, she's wide awake. After tying her hair back, she begins to pad downstairs in her yellow nightgown, her little feet barely making noise on the thick white carpet. When she reaches the hardwood floor of the dining room, she hears commotion—the sound of a chair sliding across the kitchen floor and bodies scrambling. She enters the kitchen to find Stephen pulling up his PJs and Monique tugging down the hem of her nightie.
"Rissa, I thought you were still sleeping," Monique says, trying to stay calm and looking just the opposite in the process. She stabs her fingers through her short, frosted blond hair for a quick primping.
Marissa takes note of her face, flushed and sweaty. Stephen, too, looks like he did more than just breakfast. "I WAS sleeping...until I heard the screams. Thought I was dreaming. But I wasn't, was I?"
