The Winning Ticet

***** It's funny and a bit ironic that so many of the readers who commented on the previous parts of this story, noted that the relation of Bobby and Tish, was one of being "half-siblings," and not "step-siblings." That was the big issue that concerned a number of people. The subjects of coercion, incest and rape were casually accepted. As usual, I will accept all of the blame for any misspellings and literary mistakes. When I get tired of all of the two-fingered typing, the structure can seriously degrade. Take it for what it is intended to be or pass it by altogether. If you're still with me, please enjoy! ****

I hesitated for a brief moment, my brows furrowed and a slightly confused look rippled my grin. Seeing my indecision, his soft hand reached for my blonde locks and he pleasantly combed his fingers through my lush mane. It felt so nice to have his strong hand brushing through my tussled hair. He saw my posture relax as I permitted him some unaccustomed erotic closeness, that a mother would not normally concede to a grown son. Then I felt his hand gliding slowly and caressing the tingly skin at my neck and apply a bit more pressure to my nervous shoulders.

Just a minute before, my son had eased towards the front door, with me anxiously following in his footsteps, and stopping at the entranceway. He was preparing to take his younger half-sister shopping, when he paused and turned back in my direction. "Before I leave, how 'bout making me smile?" That was the statement that had so perplexed me and caused me to freeze in place. For an instant, I imagined that he wanted me to smile at him and maybe kiss his forehead as I'd done on so many occasions when he walked out the door as a young boy.

With the continued downward motion exerted on my upper torso, I snapped-out of my momentary daydream and instantly understood the implied directive and allowed my knees to collapse. "That's right," he grinned, as if this old dog had learned a new trick. "You know where you belong, when I want you to be a good girl." My head merely nodded and I went about my assigned task accepting that this would now be a major part of my daily routine.

I was on the carpet between his legs and with an instinct, learned and practiced over the past few hours, I knew to unbuckle his belt, then unbutton and unzip his pants and tug the denim material down his firm thighs and come face-to-face, (so to speak,) with his rapidly inflating cock. But something strange had taken place overnight, that I was adjusting to more and more, the erotic idea of settling-in to the role of submissive sexual partner to a dominating force, (and in this extreme case, to an incestuous one.)

This illicit chore was no longer the repugnant, demeaning task that only yesterday, I had been forced to endure. Now, I seemed to appreciate the fact that I could be a sexual turn-on to my young son and that he was fulfilling my sensual hunger from being abandoned and "an unfinished product," in the prime of my sexual maturity. I welcomed the chance to learn and experiment in the taboo arts of manipulation and perversion. We had essentially sealed a pact of perversion, where he would provide security and financial wherewithal, if I accepted the proposition that he gained exclusive and undeniable possession of my body.

It wasn't the type of contract that I would proudly proclaim and I wouldn't wish that its details ever become public, but we both had something of value that the other one wanted. I was beginning to understand my position and his leverage, so I determined that my wisest course of action would be to make the best of the situation, which meant that I quickly get on his good side and that I learn to enjoy what I'm called-on to do. I took his large meat-stick into my small hand and gathered my breath, plastering a contented smile on my face and proceed to the business before me. I readily stroked the firm tool in my greedy palm and planted a series of warm wet kisses up and down the tremendous length of his prodigious shaft. And his eager humping of my willing mouth, showed me that I was progressing well, in my crude education.

During the exhaustive tutorial of the night before, where I had been lectured and shown just how I should fondle and arouse his swollen appendage, I came to appreciate the engorged member that would for the next year or more, provide the sexual relief and satisfaction that, up until now I hadn't realized that my yearning psyche had been missing. During the quieter hours of the evening, I had taken the time to study his impressive organ up close. It grew from a thick, dark patch of curly black pubic hair, where his scrotum hung like heavy ornaments in a weathered, leather pouch. When I cupped them delicately or swirled them on my tongue, I could sense each individual orb as it filled-out the restrictive reservoir. I knew that if I squeezed this sex sac, or in any way caused it harm, I could gain a measure of revenge, but then I figured, "What the hell good, would that do for me?" So, my next step was to learn just how to fondle and caress this squishy pleasure center of his, so that our time together, would be beneficial to the both of us.

On further tactile examination, my fingers would slowly glide over the rubbery skin of his swelling shaft while it was still expanding, but as it engorged and grew more solid, the taut flesh would become roughened with the subcutaneous outcroppings of the blood vessels and bluish veins that crisscrossed the extensive length and girth of his steely pole. For the moment, I was only concerned with his arousal and that freed me, to actually discover why it made him feel so good. With each slight movement of my hand as I searched for his tender regions on his cock and balls, I sensed his sudden intakes of breath and felt the tiny shocks as his organ literally hopped in my grip.

As it enlarged, my fingers found it ever more difficult to capture its entire circumference in my grip. I could feel my own body heat rising and my nipples swelling but I wanted to concentrate on his reactions. My hands would ease up the generous dimensions of this cylindrical engine feeling for each slight change in thickness or pulse and finally reach the thicker ridge, that overhung the under side of the sleek head like a soldier's helmet, and my thumb always rubbed against this thicker layer of knobby skin. Gentle manipulation of the roughened contour of this flanged edge appeared to excite us both, causing his cock to jump in my hand while a shivering tingle shot through my loins. The simple act of patiently stroking and kissing his large cock caused us both to reach heightened points of ecstasy.

When my digits topped the sloping crown of his fleshy dome, my thumb automatically swept over the winking slit, where the oily precum moistened and then lubricated the full glans. The sticky string of his ejaculate clung to my fingers as I smoothed it over the tender head, bringing a pinker glow and a sleekness to his throbbing joint. By spreading these viscous secretions over the sturdy helmet, it lent an oily sheen which could then be extended down the entire shaft and make the gliding motion of my slippery palm, that much easier to massage and masturbate his prodigious pole.

I could feel the awesome power contained inside of his sturdy cock by its pulsing intensity and when I flexed my palm a little tighter and rubbed it up and down the slickened sides, I could perceive that it was preparing to explode. It was then just an expression of my willingness to please him, that I would allow the turgid tool to part my lips and begin its piston-like pumping action inside my puffed-out cheeks. Nothing this large had ever entered my mouth, but by now, after hours of having nearly strangled on his enormous rod, I looked forward to the transition of smoothly taking it between my hungry lips and using my tongue to give him the ultimate gratification. Once seen as a degrading form of humiliation or as a reliable trick to gain an advantage, I now realized that it was a precious gift that I could bestow on someone that I truly wanted to be with.

Knowing that I have suddenly come to experience the slobbering thrill of bathing his bulging erection with my lubricating saliva, to be an incestuous turn-on and to wish that my domineering son should find me exciting and passionate as a sexual partner, I eagerly performed my sensual fellatio and wanted him to be anxious to spill his syrupy load into my waiting mouth. When I circled his sturdy girth with my raspy tongue and wound my slickened path from the base of his thick organ, up to the robust, bulbous head of his meaty column, I parted my ruby lips and eagerly vacuumed his throbbing rod to the back of my throat and tongued the cushiony underside, hoping to compel his fiery fluids to fill me up.

It had been just over twenty-four hours ago, that I had believed that the idea of volunteering to drop to the floor infront of a man, (and particularly this man,) and suck his nasty cock while anticipating the most demeaning activity that I could ever imagine, would be like sticking a red-hot poker in my eye. But before I had settled onto my haunches and extracted his turgid tool, every membrane in my body was igniting as one, my nipples were perking-up and my hot cunt was boiling over with orgasmic juices, because I was learning to accept that I had a submissive and kinky personality that was triggered by the strong application of a dominant tone or a powerful force. I was aroused by performing sexual favors for aggressive people.

It filled a kinky and lascivious void in my staid comportment to actually pull a man's cock from his pants and assure him that I would provide a thrilling and satisfying blowjob, while also feeling the complementary rush of juices to my own roiling pussy. For years, I chased after a sexual pleasure that I didn't quite understand. It took the lewd and lecherous maneuvers of my blackmailing son, to bring-out the sluttish and submissive character of my craving cunt. I struck a deal with him under extreme duress but I have come to understand that if I can mollify my moral conundrums and learn to accept that any sex can be exhilarating if it's with a substantive partner, (or more,) then I will be the richer for the experience.

He firmly but tenderly held my head in his hands while his hips started a steady rhythm of sawing back and forth, plunging his thick tool ever deeper towards the back of my throat. I was learning now, to breathe through my nose and to use my tongue to move his ginormous pole into either side of my cheeks. Still the saliva flowed freely and he ordered that I use my fingers and spread it liberally around the huge dimensions of his substantial cock. He liked the skin-slapping sound that it produced and though he never told me, I think he also liked the look of lust on my face as our combined fluids painted my cheeks. Then while feeding his cock to the far reaches of my tonsils and allowing it to ease back so that only the mushroomed cap remained in my mouth, I could more easily control the hard-driving plunge of his potent prick without disturbing his tempo or ruining the mood. Without my gagging or choking, he enjoyed the smooth insertion and continued with his violent thrusting, until he reached his bursting point. And if he even knew that I was using a little bit of leverage of my own, it either didn't bother him or made him feel that he taught me to give a better blowjob.

I felt his grasp of my head tighten and the thump of his balls slamming against my chin eased. His pelvis shoving and flattening my nose subsided to a few quick, longer jabs and I could actually feel the pressure inside of the shaft and a tingling near the head, signaling to me, to begin swallowing and hold the firm column so that it didn't cut-off my airway. I felt the rush and tasted the salty trickle, that instantly became a deluge. Most of it went straight down and I knew how he liked it, when I would continue to suck the rest and as he would say, "Put a shine on it."

There was always the fear of being drowned in cum and having my face lathered like it was shaving cream. Life does sometimes imitate art, but this wasn't a porn video. Through a crammed-course of giving head, I learned to not be afraid of my son's cum. Despite all of the horror stories, in an average cum-shot, there really isn't that much of it and it doesn't actually taste awful. There couldn't have really been more than a couple of tablespoons full and while it had a unique texture, I have sampled worse things in restaurants. It's the consistency of the semen that you need to get used to. It's like a terrible cross between liquid cough syrup and the chalky "prep" that you have to drink before a colonoscopy. And though most of it goes down fast, there is always a little coating inside of your cheeks or that drizzles out of the corner of your mouth, that give the impression that it should be measured in quarts.

He was gimpy-legged after he shot his wad and I was still licking the overflow from my fingers and face, so we took a minute to recover. Without any spoken words but with plenty of eye contact, we both smiled and acknowledged that we each enjoyed the send-off. Ironically, we've never kissed though all of our other body parts have been meshed together. Kissing would symbolize a very forbidden Oedipal type of love, while fucking just means that we're horny. He simply winked at me and squeezed my tits, as he proceeded to his shopping errand and when he glanced back as he walked out the door, I lifted my pajama top and shook my boobs, indicating that I'd be ready for more when he returned. We were both laughing as he left.

Then I headed towards a warm shower and contemplated a tricky upcoming conversation with my mother. I toweled-off and slipped into jeans and a sweater. Standing infront of the mirror and rehearsing the uncomfortable dialog and the notion of a ticking clock, a wave of nausea and a film of perspiration hit me. This was not going to be easy. While staring into the reflective glass and hoping for some convenient answer, it occurred to me that for this crude chat, I might be overdressed. There would be no possible way to make turn this into a normal mother/daughter talk, so I may as well spell it out as clearly as I can. I scrambled out of my clothing and wrapped a sheer robe around my quivering bare torso, then grabbed my file box of overdue bills and padded barefoot to the kitchen, making a brief stop at the liquor cabinet on the way.

Addie was just enjoying some afternoon tea when I placed two water glasses on the table and plopped down across from her. I poured three fingers over ice, into mine and nearly the same amount into hers. She appeared surprised and asked what we were celebrating. She knew all about Bobby winning the lottery and of the new big house in the gated community, but she was unaware of the lascivious details involving its new occupants. In answer to her question, I told her that tomorrow was moving day and that we needed a plan. The nervousness and deceit, drove me to consume my first gulp.

Mother wasn't the drinker that I was and did not have the tolerance, either. I guiltily relied on that fact. We lifted our glasses to my son's success and to the new beginning for all of us. We laughed and raised many toasts, drinks were drunk, I refilled the glasses. I saw the rosy blush soon develop on her cheeks and nose, and her hiccups just confirmed my diagnosis. We continued to clink glasses and take bigger sips. Addie was slurring her words and sloshing her drinks. Then she focused hard on my attire. She noticed that the sash of my robe lay loose in my lap and the peculiar lack of underwear. I took a deep breath and started. "Addie, we need to talk about the new arrangements." My own head began to spin a little when I remembered that the only thing in my belly besides vodka, was my son's sperm.

I had rehearsed any number of stupid ideas that I thought might somehow sugarcoat the lewd fact that the three generations of women in our family, (including her,) would only be invited to move in, if they accepted the perverse proposition, that they would become charter members of my son's harem of sexual sluts for the first year. Unfortunately, Hallmark does not make a card expressing that particular announcement, so I was forced to adlib. I opened the box of unpaid bills, with the big red letters claiming, "final notice" and "eviction by landlord," and set them beside her empty glass which I then refilled. She had a bit of trouble making the connection and then thought that this was some crude joke. I stated very bluntly that Bobby wanted us for sex and that we would be required to perform for his entertainment. She was certainly getting drunk but there was no way that you could misread that sentence. I hoped that statement would answer her questions. Ofcourse, it did not.

"I don't understand," she said, forcing me to spell-out the demented details of our satanic pact. I then repeated my basic outline. "What are you saying? Are you telling me that Little Bobby is going to open a house of prostitution?" Addie was from a small town in the Old South. Prostitution surely existed and was acknowledged, but with a sugary veneer of a necessary business. Incest, however, was a sin and never to be spoken of, and could get any participating partner buggy-whipped. She sat open-mouthed with a wide-eyed look of confusion. Her eyes blinked crazily and her lids began to droop so often that she kept throwing her head back so hard, I was afraid that she'd suffer whiplash. "Prostitutes," she repeated, "you and Tish?" I replied that it wasn't quite that simple or even that tasteful.

I think maybe that the alcohol was having its desired effect to quell her fury and stunt her dissent. But it swiftly dulled her faculties. I needed to repeat and detail exactly what would be expected of her and before I could mention a second four-letter word, she shrieked in agony and then poured two more glasses of 80-proof incredulity. Apparently, this time the realization struck home. She sat up straighter in her chair and looked me in the eye. "Do you mean that before we can move in with him, Bobby wants me to suck his cock?" She stuttered, gasped and then chugged another shot of potato juice. "He wants me to suck him, so that we can live with him?" Her eyes seemed to close and it appeared that she was taking a short jaunt down Memory Lane. "I mean if I was younger... not with my grandson, but... why me? Why would he want me to suck him? Why not you or Tish?" She seemed singled-out and insulted, not entirely understanding the scope of the situation. But it was funny, the idea of sex didn't bother her, nor necessarily the incest, (this lewd obsession must run in the family,) but the feeling that Bobby had picked her out as a victim.

I was almost laughing out loud, hearing my mother list all of the obscene inferences and her use of such profane language, but then I needed to set her straight. "No Addie," I jokingly offered, trying to lighten the mood. "You're not going to have to take one for the team." She stopped speaking and a worried grin creased her lips. "But you are going to have to suck his cock..." She looked for a minute as if she might faint, then she swallowed another drink. "And whatever else he might demand." She slumped in her chair. "Just like the rest of us," I finished.

"What do you mean? Are you going to have sex with your son too?" She wasn't quite grasping the urgency of the situation. "Does he want you to... do all of that too." Actually mouthing the words as opposed to imagining the deeds, seemed to be a sticking point. The alcohol was muddying the water a little.

"Mom," I tried to reason with her. "Tish and I have already had sex with him."

"What!?!" She shouted, the effects of the booze, varying in degrees. "Why would you ever agree to such an incestuous, illicit idea?" She grew a bit more indignant. "How could you ever allow something like that to take place."