One In Three -part 1

Maggie had dropped by the porn store earlier in the day. One of three bottles of designer sex oil she had bought for tonight lay to her right in the folds of the clean towel – left to themselves, her daughters would have just dug up some Vaseline or Crisco. Maggie told the girls to choose which flavor they’d prefer, and they had asked what difference did it make, tonight was about anal sex. Their mother told them that they would also be doing some oral and that it wouldn’t be foreplay – they’d have other tastes to contend with. They decided on banana, liking the innuendo. Bridget asked if there had been cucumber.

“ – and what, no oak?”
“ – or steel?” Ellie and Gretchen chiming in.

George sat slouched on the sofa, his robe open and his prick reaching almost to his chest. The girls walked over to him and stood shoulder to shoulder with their hands behind them, as if each bringing him a small present, eyeing his big dick all giant for them.

“No hard feelings…” she said, and Ellie handed him another drink, scotch & ice. “For before.”

Bridget handed him a cigarette – pot – and said, “For after; save some, we may both need it” and she winked.

Preemptive peace offerings, George thought. He felt better. Maggie wasn’t let in on this stunt, and then realized they’d all be alright; especially the girls, but even she.

Gretchen waited; Maggie could see she held nothing. The girls looked at each other, then back at daddy. She then put out her hands, palms-up, empty: “No condoms; for during” and George chuckled, thinking this clever of his girls – and honest – and expecting them to be as pleased with their smart wit; but they just smiled warmly at him and went back to their mother for further direction, turning from him and sashaying away the mere few steps for all they were worth.

It seemed a shame: three small red triangles, at eye-level and accentuating more so than concealing perfect orbs of soft fat – the kind of ideal derrieres a few lucky women keep naturally, not a day of sun or exercise to their credit – his daughters’ lazy round fannies; but no doubt other men would one day have these very beauties, and he might as well be first.

“Line up, girls.”

George disrobed; now the only one of them wholly exposed, he finished his initial drink, then began downing the second. Maggie stepped up close, handing him the sex jell and touching his erection.

“I know what you like,” an aside, off the record, “ – go easy on them”, and a reminding smile, gentle and warning; she and her brother were long friends with a surgeon down the block sympathetic to their ‘arrangement’; he’d treated Maggie in the past, but had made George watch.

The girls flipped coins, and three dimes spun in the air alike until coming to rest to single out one: two heads and a tails – establishing who would go later, and who was to get done now. “Strip, Bridgie, and bend over” and she was naked and knelt over on the couch before she was sure being first meant she had won.

George pulled at himself behind her, oiling and polishing his cock, splashing lubricant between them, then began on Bridget abruptly enough – plunging and corkscrewing his fingers to the knuckles less gently than he could of, jamming the flavored Go-Glide up her butt and then his thumb hooked into her and tugging all around. After enough of this, Bridget thought her father’d put his fist between her buns, until she felt him affix his hands – both hands – to her hips while the force in question remained in place.

Then proceeded.

“ow” as if maybe that’s all it would amount to. Then “*ow*” again, not caring who knew and this being only the beginning. George closed in on his daughter’s ass: “ow-ow-OOOWAAAH” ever more pushing to a point, then constant pressure and holding. “Breathe, Bridgie” Gretchen & Eleanor cooed to their sister, coaching, and Bridget continuing to yell; as she was sure he couldn’t be fit in, that they’d have to try something else, her father’s lap then smacked flush to her seat – the big stretch and a sudden pound less of available space within her – and her buttfuck was fast underway, already a good number of full strokes in front of her grasp of it happening.

A last clipped shout from her, and a brief, trembling silence – Bridget plainly doggy-style and her father square behind her, George well ploughing as he had her mom in the home video – then crazed hollers & squalls, Bridget baying to her sisters for help, that she couldn’t take it though he’d delivered to her by then already another dozen in as many seconds, the first fast moments of 20 more minutes the whole of which she’d remember as individual strokes: pack-slap, pack-slap – her buns shaken in short, jarring waves and as hard a ride as she would ever know, Gretchen and Eleanor witnessing this power-sodomy of their sister as as well their own fate.

This was their daughters’ show: romancing & affectionate, the free girls worked-up the one getting railed with improvised fuck-speak, two sisters buoying the burdened third with lusty reminders of their purpose to bask in this banging, her hole getting cored, and to prove it with an orgasm – wallowing in the very twistedness of it all as a spotlight on the sheer sex of each thrust felt: dragging back & forth at her rectum, every inbound a ballooning rush inflated high inside, every outbound as forgiving as a good shit – until their slight frames shook and pussies would cream as no masturbation could effect. Maggie stayed an audience of one, an uninvolved authority, and her brother, George, the father of these girls of hers, a trustworthy prop of which to make crude pits of his daughters’ novice bottoms.

George blew a soak of protein up Bridget’s ass, then withdrew, and turning his daughter around he eased into her mouth and encouraged her to spend a minute longer doing what she hadn’t counted on and was of no empirical merit; a resigned minute of cleaning up the spermy, bowel-juice mess of own insides off her father’s prick for her sister next in line – he’d have to re-lube for Gretchen, Bridget having left her father’s prick sterile of all but her saliva; and finished off, her backend limp & spent as a used condom, an understated ‘…wow’ was all she could say, mopping her buttcrack of trace bleeding and gouts of purged sperm.

Gretchen had made a bed of the sofa cushions and was curled tight on all-fours, looking straight at the floor, her hair spilling around her head and hiding her face; pulling one cheek wide aside while gouged & poked, having seen Bridget so prepared without fanfare, Gretchen knew of her father’s fingers first probing, then his thumb pulling, and at last his hands placed and not his fist pushing; she’d soon feel he was elbow-deep into her, and she put her hand back beneath her to hold fast to the floor. George looked down his daughter’s back, seeing her spine a ridged arch, her body a hard curvature of young muscle doubled-over & stone-solid, though her flourishing hips swelling round from her waist betrayed a burgeoning maturity – his girls not-so ahead of themselves, their bodies not yet all-woman but their greed not at all a child’s; he pitched hard into her – a wet creak and a brunt pat at her seat, like fucking a rock of flesh – her rectum swallowing whole his complete meat in one vast gulp.

Force-adjusted, it was Gretchen now loud for her sisters – for more kisses and caresses, reinforcements of any sort – and George spread his daughter’s pretty buns as far as they’d part to watch her soft hole clutching and smoothly hooping in & out with every stroke of his prick and the brown-pink froth foaming at the edges of her anus, the same broth of which he’d made Bridget suck him clean. Gretchen squatting froggy, low and her knees drawn up under and wide aside her, her buns boldy pointed at her father’s crotch and leading with her rectum, like her mom in the island layout and living the photo’s design, bare-assed and being butt-pumped, the contrast between her daddy’s great gnarled sausage dividing her raw muffins and all-opening her as he had mom when she was her age, cannon-firing his cock solid up her butt – explosion, recoil, and explosion again, spit bubbles and cooze, wet at both ends and her ass blasted for half-again longer as had her sister endured – and Gretchen then felt lumps of hot paste adhere to her insides, her daddy’s spillage flushing through her, an organic slick that’d take all night to drain off.

And then Eleanor, on the floor as well, but lying face-down over one of the sofa’s large throw pillows, more restful and in for the better part of an hour, her father’s knees planted to either side of her hips and his ankles hooked over her legs, behind her knees and holding her immobilized and pinned in place; no prolonged push until he was let inside, as he had been with Bridget & Gretchen, his weight carried him into her just as she was readying to be entered and before her yell reached her throat, no more unbearable but less gradual the discomfort: a rigid pause, waiting for air, George already stroking through his daughter, and then a howl from her she thought stopped long before it did, nailing Eleanor to the floor through her fanny, sodomizing heavier the third of his daughters, drilling and feeling her squirm under him, she as if in search of an easier way to get fucked up her soft ass: ten whole inches of play along the length of her father’s cock and none of it free of its girth – 3 inches wide and all too thick, whether shallow or shockingly deep.

Eleanor was then knelt upright by her father, his hands clamped atop her shoulders: she could be seated no further down than her ass squashed flat, was let no more up than within an inch of out, then forced at the shoulders for the wide ride back into place; he’d manage only a smear of semen inside the last of his daughters and he’d make the most it, driving hard, leveraging her whole body onto him. Bridget & Gretchen knelt in front of Eleanor as she was bounced pogo-motion from behind, and Gretchen ventured too-affectionate smooches of her face and neck – for both their sakes, Ellie’s titties jumping and jiggling – and Bridget reached under Eleanor to finger her pie.

Gretchen looked over at her, and Bridgie blushed, uncertainly smiling back at her sister, though her fingers softly remaining inside Ellie and getting results; Gretchen kissed Bridget on the lips – nicely lingering, entwining tongues, both discovering this would do until the boys their age grew up – now grinning easily again at each other, and then at Eleanor: goodwill & consent all around, and Bridget as sweetly smooched Eleanor in the same manner, their father still absorbed with reaming-running-roughshod up Ellie’s ass, and Gretchen put her fingers between Bridget’s legs. The girls they then all three looked over at Maggie; she’d at some point poured herself a large tumbler of wine and had been quietly seated off to the side, having a smoke, observing the action. She suddenly got their message and rolled her eyes and laughed, deeply blushing herself, and just said ‘…ok’, and then as cheerfully nervous as her daughters, “ – tomorrow night.”

All got their remarkable mention – Bridget, taking the first, biggest load, an entire pint enema; then Eleanor getting the last, longest ride, 40 minutes; and Gretchen, a good portion of both and set to her choice of music – throbbing, bass-heavy rhythm and a free-form vague poetry, the drive of the tempo rather than the songs’ simple messages: electro-botic / techno-botic mechanical & dispassionate music you could attach your own meaning to because all it did was feel good.

(part 2 to follow…)