Games Some People Play Ch 05

And so I stood, arms hauled over my head, shagged with blessed relief; they had let me come—finally. And suddenly down there on her knees, meek as a Greek slave girl in the house of Caligula, conscientiously licking clean my dick with a soft lapping—guess who? My own sister-in-law, Steph, who had stayed out of the action ever since her guests rode in from out of the West, or wherever they came from.

As I looked down, she looked up, with that determined, pretty pixie face, nose and lips shiny wet, and gave me a couple tongue flicks that made my limp dick bounced. I already felt a premonitory tingling, promise of revival. Come on, with this stimulation all around me?

Still gazing up at me, she took it with two fingers, at the base, and gave it a vigorous shake, so I felt the blood surge back. "I think you're already back to about seven inches," said Steph, just before her delicate lips closed over it again.

Then, my head shot up, and Stephanie's turned, at the same instant. What in hell were they doing to Sandra? Butch was right back on the sofa beside her, arm wrapped around her; again, and she had Sandra's bent-back knees in either hand. From her position, Stephanie was looking right into her Mom's on-display pussy, still bright red, the clit pronounced, from her orgasm. I saw the same thing, and realized that Butch had taken advantage of my mother-in-law's post-coital daze to entrap her, again.

And now, Butch's sidekick, Sundance (Angelina), was moving in with the vibrator. "No," Sandra was saying, "no more, now. I'm done; it was heaven!" No doubt, she was accustomed to having some say in such matters. It is difficult to comprehend that your pussy is now someone's toy.

Angelina flicked the switch, the buzz filled the room, and she touched Sandra. I literally jumped, as though at a gun shot. Sandra's shriek was inhuman, and, then, her face bright red, she was babbling, "No, too intense! Too intense! No, no!"

I saw that the nipples on the gourd-like breasts were pinched like squashed candies. Angelina had her orders; the vibrator never budged. Stephanie had abandoned my cock and stood up, watching her mother's martyrdom. Was Steph going to do anything? I sure wasn't, hanging by my wrists from the ceiling.

The manic cries had subsided, now. Sandra's scarlet face had relaxed, her lips still widely parted, big breasts rising and falling. She made sounds that meant nothing—animal sounds of another orgasm building; she was over the hump of painful sensitivity-for now. Mesmerized, I watched the bottoms of her feet, raised, facing me-pretty feet, a perfect size, with bright red nails—as her toes curled and uncurled, over and over, spasmodically.

She began to shove her belly toward the vibrator, her hips flipping up six inches, so Angelina had to chase the bouncing target. Now began the long, ultra-slow second orgasm, taking its time, the pleasure too congested, mounting like the pressure to sneeze, but unable to release. Her strong face frowned fiercely, eyes shut, lips apart, her world reduced to what was happening between her legs.

Then came the language, loosed from moorings of civility; Stephanie's face registered shock as her mother cried out about "my fucking cunt," "my goddamn twat," and then "oh, you fucker, you fucker, you fucker...," again and again. And, yes, I assured myself, it all was coming from the handsome, refined face of my mother-in law, the lovely lips snarling in abandoned demand for release.

Her shriek was imperious: "I'm coming! Watch me, everyone! I'm creaming, now!" It was shrill and insistent, rising and falling with her shuddering spasms; her loins gone wild, jerking back from the vibrator, then chasing it.

Finally, her breath steadying, her hips relaxed, and she murmured, "Okay, that's enough, now. Enough."

But the merciless vibrator did not move away.

"Stop!" she yelled, the cry manic, and her stomach, her neck, suddenly strained, the muscles popping, and she sought desperately to reach the vibrator with her hand to shove it away. Butch had no problem holding her, a big smile on her face.

"Stop!" It was amazing high-pitched, but then the voice seemed to crack in terror. "Noooo! I can't stand it!"

And she was repeating, again and again, almost unintelligibly, "No, please, please, please. Don't, don't, don't. Too much! Please, Butch!"

"Are you actually begging me?" asked Butch.

"Yes!" Then screaming, "YESSS! Begging!"

"Okay, stop Sundance," said Butch casually, and Sandra's whole body wilted, utterly slack. I heard a muffled sob of sheer relief. And more quiet sobs.

Butch shook her shoulders, but Sandra's eyes remained closed. "Can you read?" Butch demanded.

Sandra nodded, ever so slightly, eyes shut.

"Read what's on my belly!"

Sandra opened her eyes, dazed, and strained to turn her head to see the vast belly. She said, dully, "My hot clit..."

"Good! Follow the signage."

Sandra lapsed back. She murmured, "Not right now. Not just now. Maybe..."

"Do her, Sundance, and this time don't stop."

"No!" Again, I jumped at the wild cry. Sandra's body became animated, eyes wide and staring. She shook her head vehemently.

"Okay, then, I'm going to release you. All you need to do is slide down to the floor-on your knees."

Sandra nodded; I saw her lips move, but could not hear her reply. She was sliding down, first flattening herself on the sofa, pushing her ass off it, then flipping over, her knees landing on the floor. At the same time, Butch had slid her own hips forward, jutting her ass off the sofa, parting her massive legs, fingers reaching down to lose themselves in the forest of black furze.

I watched Sandra hesitate, staring, then take two steps forward on her knees. She bent forward, palms pressed to Butch's inner thighs, as though to spread them still more. She raised her head a moment, and asked, in a normal voice, "Not the vibrator? Suck your pussy?"

"Suck."

How was she going to find a clit in that impenetrable thicket? Butch cooperated, using her thick fingers to part the hair, to pull open her thick, long, dark-purple labia, so I saw, at last, wet flesh. No trouble finding the clit, now; it was like the stamen of some monstrous jungle blossom, stout as a finger, the clitoris button wide as a dime in its thick cowl.

Sandra's pretty face plunged in with determination, blocking my view, and Butch cried, "You go, girl!" She had had a long time to get aroused; it didn't take much before the vast, rounded rise of her belly was stirring, her thighs lolling still farther apart. Sandra's fluffy blond hairdo never stirred from its place against the jet-black pussy mat. And then, incredibly, I watched as Sandra's own knees spread wider, so that I saw her well-furred crack, and her slender fingers had slipped down between her legs and were worrying at her slit. Full recovery!

Now, Butch's heaving matched the accelerated, frantic wiggling of Sandra's butt. I think that they came together, Butch's hands mashing Sandra's head deep into her sopping gorge of flesh, Sandra struggling to breathe, but not stopping her assault on her own cunt.

Butch let loose a sigh, her body went slack, the massive arms flopping to her sides, and her eyes closed. As Sandra slowly straightened up, trying to wipe her face before turning to us, backing out of the V of the legs, I saw the puddle of Butch's lubricant. A good three inches across, a slick of clear oil spreading across the floor. Sandra rested one hand on Butch's knee, to help herself get to her feet, and turned.

Her face was as though coated with baby oil, her lips shiny, eyelids greased, cheeks slick, but there was a smile on her face—a tired smile, but a smile.

Because she seemed to look directly at me, I sought something to say to her. "That's three times for you, by my count."

She nodded. "Three times in 10 years, all within an hour."

"But now it will be different?"

After a moment, she nodded, and again, more definitely. "Got to be," she said firmly.

And I wondered what was it going to be like, now, at family Passover dinners (on Susan's side) or Christmas fire-side gift openings with spiked eggnog (on my side). What would we talk about?

Sandra turned to Stephanie, then self-consciously reached up to wipe her face, again. Quickly, Stephanie picked up someone's panties, and said, "Here. Pretty clean."

"Immaculate, I would say," and Sandra carefully wiped her face. Could there by anything left of her make-up—anything to avoid smearing? She handed the rag to Stephanie, mother and daughter now utterly unaware of their nakedness.

Sandra said, "Great to meet your friends." I could not interpret her tone. She added, "I have to thank Susan for inviting me."

"Mom..." Stephanie began.

"Oh, shut up!" said Sandra distractedly, dismissing her with a tired wave. "For Christ's sake. What can you say: 'I never knew you were such a slut, Mom?' 'Where did you learn to suck pussy, like that, Mom?' 'Mom, I think you have a super twat?'"

Suddenly, she turned, as though remembering, alarmed, looking at the couch. But Butch still lay there, like some beached sea mammal, eyes shut, the two half-basketballs rising and falling with her snoring, the twin brown thumbs at their center softened, now.

Sandra took two strides to the couch, bent, and untied the ropes that held me. She tossed them over the beams briskly, urgently, and then was at my side, untying one of my wrists. She said, as though to herself, "I want reinforcements when Gaia over there recovers from her post-coital snooze." She looked up at me. I nodded, then turned to freeing my other wrist. Weird, my mother-in-law and I, working together, talking, her big tits brushing my arm, my limp dick swinging between us. This nudism thing becomes natural fast!

With that thought, I again noticed Sandra's body and a current flowed through my dick. Oh Jesus, did this never end?

"I never asked," said Sandra, "none of my business. My own mother inculcated that in me-by counter-example. But do you happen to keep a gun in the house?"

"A gun?!"

"In case."

That focused my mind. "There is no 'in case,' Mom. You use a gun on her in any circumstances, here, and you go to jail. Want to try establishing that Butch was a threatening intruder and you fired in self-defense? For that matter, you want to go to court with all this in the newspaper?"

Punctuating my point, I waved toward the room at large. I noticed that Sundance/Angelina stood watching us. Had she heard about the gun? When our glances met, she smiled and threw me a kiss. Did I want to shag her before this day was over? Or Sandra? Or Stephanie? Or Butch? Or all of them?

"Can we deal with her, worse comes to worse, the two of us?"

I glanced over at Butch. "I doubt it," I said, shaking my head. "To be honest. I think she's been in more street fights than either of us."

Sandra nodded, "That would have to be only one street fight."

"Exactly."

"Okay, but we stick together. No sitting back watching the fun?"

"I was tied up!"

"I didn't hear you, Tommy, when I was being..."

"Mom, Butch is not impressed by talk."

Sandra shrugged. "How about moral support? I could have died when that skinny bitch put the vibrator on me the third time."

Nice to have an easygoing relationship with your mother-in-law. I was having unacceptable thoughts about her. She may have noticed, because she glanced down at "it." She said, with an effort at levity, "Still not enough for one day, Tommy?"

"Some of us have come only once, Sandra."

"Who is your fantasy, now?"

I just looked at her.

"Me? I haven't had dick in 10 years, kiddo. Aren't you married, by the way? Oh, yes—to my oldest daughter."

I'm sure I looked chastened.

"Oh, don't take it so hard," she said, dismissively. Without even looking, her hand snaked down and closed over my prick, giving it a half-dozen brisk strokes till it became passably rigid. She said, "All this is happening in another dimension, Tommy. When Susan returns, we repatriate to our own decent dimension and you're never, ever getting a piece of my ass. Or so much as think about it," she added.

"Not even on my Big 40?"

"That will be right around my Big 60."

"I imagine I'll still want it."

"Re-investigate your wife, Tom. Susan has sensational tits and I know for a fact she wishes she had more multiple orgasms with you. At a stretch, maybe you include Steph, sometimes." She added drily: "Both of my daughters are open-minded."

We both turned at about the same time. Grendel's mother was stirring, her eyes open, taking in the situation, one big hand casually between her legs, given herself an exploratory massage.

Sandra gave her the big smile. Without moving, Butch motioned her over. I glanced at Sandra. She shrugged and stepped closer to Butch, but not within reach. She offered her perfect social smile, and asked, "What now, hombre?"

"Oh, jeez, I don't know," said Butch contentedly, struggling to sit up. "How did my twat taste?"

"Best I've ever eaten," said Sandra promptly. "No comparison with old-style cuisine."

Butch's round face grinned, and she asked, "And the punchline?"

"First pussy I've ever eaten."

Butch nodded. "Great head, Mrs. Lorraine. I blew my load. I felt as though a 15-foot band-saw blade was being pulled out of my cunt, but it was pleasure, not pain."

"I don't think daughter #1 is returning anytime soon," said Sandra, looking around. "Isn't this party over—about?"

"Yeah, it really is," I said, promptly, supportive.

Butch's big face scanned the room slowly. She said, "Sundance hasn't popped. Steph hasn't come." She looked up at me. "You want to shag Sundance, Tommy? Your sister-in-law? Do my ass? Or what?"

I did, although most of all I wanted Sandra, but I didn't dare re-ignite the bonfire of the lusts. "I had the come-to-end-all-comes," I sighed. "I'm fine."

"You Sandra?"

"I came three times, last time while I was eating your clit."

Butch looked gloomy. Annoyed. Like a drunk when the bar is closing. She said, "Steph, give me the electric prod, 'kay?"

Angelina's musical voice quavered; I heard fear. "No, Butchy, no. It kills me, you know that. Please!"

"Give!" snapped Butch, and snapped her fingers to punctuate the command. It annoyed the hell out of me that Steph promptly dived into the bag and came up with the requested torture instrument. She walked over, holding it out. It was a black box, with a dial or two, and a silver wand like an antennae about a foot long, with a rounded tip. Butch took it, looked down, pushed a button, and said, "Let me demonstrate. Come here, Tommy. Try to be brave. It's just your fat butt."

I stepped to her, turned, and mentally prepared myself for whatever it was. The next second, I screamed "Shit!" and shot like a galvanized frog across the room, almost crashing into the fireplace. My hand flew back to my ass. It had felt as though the current of electricity lit a fire in every cell. But worse than fire, an intolerable jangling of every nerve ending, just like when you stick your finger in a live socket—if you ever have. I was still shaking.

"Mom Lorraine?" asked Butch. "For the sake of the experience?"

Sandra promptly turned her butt to Butch. Her face was scrunched up in advance, anticipating. The wand went out to touch the smooth curve of the butt cheek, but Butch quickly, wickedly, brushed it down her crack. I jumped a mile at Sandra's shriek. And she, like me, practically became airborne across the room to escape. She turned to her tormentor, eyes wide, breathing hard. "Wow!" she said. "That's a sex toy? I would rather die!"

Butch nodded. She looked down at the half-moon shelf of her own white breast and the dark-red protrusion from its center. Casually, she turned the wand and, looking right at us, touched the tip to her nipple. We heard the buzz; that thing was on! I couldn't believe it!

Butch's expression did not change; now, the tight flesh of her boob was literally twitching, jumping like an electrified muscle in a dish. The nipple twisted itself aside, its base bunching up in agony on one side. No expression on Butch's face. She said, "You guys never been tortured, actually?"

"Stop!" I yelled. I believed! But I couldn't stand it! "Stop, Butch! I get it! Please!"

She lifted away the wand. Where she had touched down, a ragged patch of breast was almost pure white, as drained of blood as though dying.

Now, she said, "Come on over, Angelina."

"No..." a low mewling, the protest of a hurt kitten shrinking away. But, face ashen, she came toward Butch. Her eyes staring at the wand were huge. I watched her long, slender throat as she kept gulping.

Butch said, conversationally. "Sundance is an amazing submissive. Nothing but masochism turns her on. She's scared out her wits, but I can make her come—with this." She held up the awful wand.

"Let's skip it!" snapped Sandra. "This party's over. Time to clean up."

I quickly nodded. "End it," I said, in my firmest masculine voice.

"No..." The sweet voice, shaking, said: "It's all right, if Butchy wants to. We... we've done... it. Plenty of times."

She stood in front of Butch, who sat down on the couch. Angelina's long body, dark-skinned-every sleek muscle defined-made the stretch from her lower belly to her breasts a lovely contour of rolling hills. Her pert breasts and long legs were formed to perfection. Her face, now, quivered around her lips, the big brown eyes blinking. But she stood stock still, arms at her sides, offered.

Butch looked up at her for a moment. And then it began. The long silver wand poked into the little navel. Angelina's whole stomach seemed to spasm, crunching; she hunched her shoulders, her fists balled tightly, and gave a long moaning sob, a wail. Her small feet stamped in her agony. But she did not pull away. I was amazed to see the very dark little nipples distended. I wanted to turn away, because, I have to admit it, my prick was iron hard. Sandra glanced down at it, gave a wan smile.

The wand had flitted to the dusky, perfect skin of Angelina's inner thigh. Her knees clamped together, little fists balled even tighter, face scrunched as tight as I could imagine the muscles going. She bent forward as though in a seizure, which perhaps it was. Butch flicked the wand to her ass, now; Angelina jerked her hips, as though to escape, but she couldn't. Now, she inverted herself, neatly trimmed dark pubis thrust far forward, head and shoulders arched back. Tears were streaming down her face. Her mouth was open wide to breathe. Suddenly, almost spastic, her hand shot down and her long, slim fingers burrowed into the curly dark hair between her legs and she was rubbing herself frantically.

The wand swung from the clenched ass, poked upward at the dark brown nipples. Angelina's mouth opened in a scream, but her eyes were tight shut. The little breasts, seeming rock hard, now twitched madly, the flesh cringing away. Still, Angelina's fingers worked frantically between her legs.

At last, the tortured tits were left and the wand went between Angelina's child-slim dark legs. It entered at about knee level, not touching on either side, but the flesh on either side twitched as the wand slowly rose. Was the last stop poor Angelina's cunt? Impossible. Unthinkable.

The wand approach and stopped. Angelina's face was now distorted, but not in pain; the mouth, the eyes were wide open in the prelude to orgasm. Then, she was coming, her fingers no longer gentle, raking at her wetness. Suddenly, she pulled away her hand, and cried, "Yes!"

The silver finger competed its upward journey. I turned my face away, unable to stand it, and then looked back, fascinated, horrified. Just in time to see the silver finger disappear up inside Angelina.

At the same instant, I started forward, lunged toward them, but Sandra did the same, and I crashed into her. Too late. Angelina, with a note struck on the highest chord of agony, pitched forward to the floor, landing flat. And I saw her roll over, both hands shoved down to cover her cunt. She rolled over again, the small hands locked over herself. She seemed unable to catch her breath, unable to cry, or call out, the only expression came from the writhing of the body at our feet.