On the Beach Ch. 08

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Everyone gets in on the action and Mark freaks out.

The action is primarily incest but there is MM sex. If that, but not incest, bothers you click your way to freedom now.

Enjoy. Helpful, even negative criticism, is appreciated.

Whatever errors you may yet find, don’t blame LarryInSeattle.


I was fucking my sister’s mouth. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the idea. I didn’t really care, not at the moment. I was too busy enjoying the blow-job to worry about much. I drew in a breath to warn her I was about to cum when I noticed her eyes weren’t on me.

I followed her gaze. I jerked away in surprise. That only made it worst, assuming there’s something worse than your parents watching you cum in your sister’s mouth. Personally, for what it’s worth, I think your parents watching you shoot a load all over your sister’s face and tits is worse. Maybe that’s just me. I’m just saying.

Bill and Jim didn’t know what was going on. Jim was too immersed in the pleasures of having my brother Bill deep-throating his cock to pay much attention to either my or Jill’s facial expressions. Bill’s face was between Jim’s legs, head tilted back with what even little old straight me had to admit was a beautiful black cock sliding in and out of his throat.

I forgot about my parents for a second, fascinated by the way Bill’s throat bulged when Jim pushed his cock in. It was like watching a snake swallow a rat or something, except in this case it was a big old black snake being swallowed by a little old white boy. I suppose if Bill tilted his head back a little he could have peeked below Jim’s ass and seen our parents, upside down from his perspective, standing in the doorway watching their children fucking and sucking.

Mom starting gnawing at her lip. Dad was staring at Jill’s tits. They looked at each other. Mom, of all people, moved first. I readied myself for a smack or a punch or a scream or all of the above.

She just stood there. Jim stopped fucking Bill’s mouth. Jill looked at her. Mom looked at me, then at Jim. Bill, wondering what was up, craned his neck, half of Jim’s cock still in his mouth and looked at mom. Dad joined her.

We waited.

I heard Bill moan around Jim’s cock, when our mother leaned over and kissed Jim. Jill, my crazy little sister, clapped her hands and smiled.

I didn’t know what to say or do. I stood there, my head still pressed against the ceiling with my mostly limp dick dripping onto Jill’s left boob and watched Jim put one hand behind my mother’s head and drive his tongue into her mouth.

My father’s cock stood out straight from his body. He tore his eyes from Jill’s breasts and looked at me. He didn’t smile. He looked at my cock and it twitched. He stepped past mom and knelt with one knee on the bed. He leaned forward. I wasn’t sure what he was up to until he used his tongue to lick a line of my cum off Jill’s tit. He licked again and again. He took her nipple in his mouth and sucked it clean. He licked the side of her face. He kissed her, his daughter, my sister. He stuck his tongue in her mouth while he kissed her. That nearly woke me from my stupor.

What finally woke me was when he leaned further and gobbled up my soft cock into his warm mouth. I jerked away, staring. I saw concern in his face before he looked away. I sat, leaning into the corner, watching.

Dad bent over and began to lick Jill’s clit or Bill’s cock, it was hard to say which. Bill pulled his feet up close to his butt and began to really fuck Jill. She was grunting and moaning and her ass was smacking into his thighs. Drops of sweat glistened in the air as they flew from Jill’s face.

Bill pulled out of her pussy and began to rub his cock up and down her slit. When he came, dad’s mouth was waiting. He caught as much of Bill’s load as he could and then began to suck his daughter’s clit, with his son’s cock rubbing against his ear. Jill squealed, grabbed dad’s head in both hands, and began to shake.

She fell back off of Bill and huddled against my legs, panting.

Jim pulled his hips back. His cock left my brother’s mouth. Jim pointed the head of his cock at Bill’s open mouth and stroked it. He must not have minded getting a blow-job from a dude because, despite all the fucking we’d been doing, he spewed a prodigious load of cum onto Bill’s face and chest. His ejaculation was too much for him to control; it appeared to me very little ended up in Bill’s mouth.

My father knelt by the bed and began to lick and suck the cum off of Bill’s chest, then his face. My mom knelt beside my dad. They kissed. She kissed Bill. Dad kissed Bill. They pressed their faces together in some weird three-way attempt at kissing.

It didn’t work. Mouths are made to be shared with only one other mouth. That’s how they fit together. Pussies have room for one cock. So, for that matter, do asses. This was wrong – all of it – wrong.

I scooted behind tuzla eve gelen escort Jill and over Bill’s legs and climbed off the bed. It felt like everyone was watching me. In the hall I looked at my room. – rejected it. It wasn’t my room. It was Bill’s and mine. I had no room. We had no room. Technically, they were all Muriel’s rooms.

I walked through the rec room. The world seemed very quiet, very empty. The pool sparkled under the sun. It felt hot on my shoulders and the concrete was hotter still on my bare feet. I opened the gate in the fence. If it squealed I didn’t hear it.

I climbed the steps to Muriel’s deck. If she hadn’t been sitting there I think I would have simply walked in. She rose to meet me. She didn’t say anything. She simply slid open the patio door and put I hand on my shoulder. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her turn her head toward our rental. She shook her head.

Whether that was a judgment on what we had done or a signal to my family to leave me alone was unclear to me. Maybe it was both.


I’m not psychic. I hadn’t been lying to Bill. I’m not. I don’t believe anyone is. But I’m reasonably smart, I’m reasonably clear sighted when it comes to human nature and I keep my eyes open. I figured Ben out years ago. Meg wasn’t in denial. She didn’t see it. She was too close. That’s the problem most folks have when it comes to figuring situations out. They’re too close and lack the ability to pull back and look at things logical like.

I’m no smarter than Meg, no wiser either. But, and it’s a big but, I’m not married to Ben. You might expect being married to someone means you know them better. Not always, not about some things. We’re more careful of our secrets around the people that matter the most to us. We hide our secrets from strangers, not because we give a shit about what a stranger thinks, or shouldn’t give a shit for the most part, but because we don’t want the secret getting back to the someone we do care about. Shoot, if Ben had the balls and brains, and was off somewhere and there was no possible way Meg would find out (and no chance of bringing her back a present on the end of his prick), what reason would there be for him to not go up to the first hot man he met and ask if he could suck his dick? No logical reason not to. Oh, sure, guilt but guilt is why he’s been keeping the secret in the first place.

How did I know about Ben? I didn’t know, not for sure but I had me a pretty good idea. I’d seen the occasional glance he’d give one of the workers that might be over at their place working on something. Those glances were never at the face, never an attempt to figure out what the worker was doing. Those glances were never at the face, never an attempt at recognition. Those glances were always aimed at the man’s crotch.

Once, or twice, every summer he’d find an errand to run that took him longer than it ought. He always talked a little too much when he got back; told too many details, trying to make it sound like he’d done enough to fill up an hour and a half or two. A couple of times I almost swore I smelled sex on him. Not strong, not the unmistakable odor of someone who’s been fucking, but a subtler whiff of sex. If we’d been in a city I would have sworn he’d been sitting in a porn theater. That’s what he smelt like. That musty, not quite clean, smell of old spunk and sad dead dreams.

When he offered up that cockamamie story about looking for Bill in the bars along the beach road, well that was total bullshit. It was clear he had a fair idea of where the boy had run off to and he was following along. The question was what had gone on after he found him?

I’m not nosy, truly I’m not. I was on my deck, glorying in the fact the world was just so damn beautiful most all the time, assuming you could ignore people and their unending capacity for fuckery. I sat, sometimes in the shade, sometimes in the sun. It was a rare day, no breeze to speak of, the surf little more than a lake ripple on the sand. I read. I smiled to myself, imagining the looks of the faces of my teachers, teachers I had not forgotten but had forgiven, more or less, imagining the looks of astonishment if they could see me now, reading Yeats. Poor, slow, Muriel, reading Yeats and getting aroused by “Leda and the Swan”.

How can those terrified vague fingers push

The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?

How indeed? I wondered as I drowsed in the languid heat of the afternoon.

I hear the two cars pull up. You don’t have to be nosy to hear that. Driveways of crushed shell are not made for stealth. The shells crunched under two pairs of feet. A door opens. A door closes. No voice. The house was silent.

I wondered how it was playing out. Would Ben settle for a simple, “found him, we’re back”? Would Bill? Lord, what a mess. I’d seen it building for years. I’d often wondered if I ought to give Ben a nudge but always decided tuzla otele gelen escort against it. Soon as I laid eyes on Jim and had seen how he and Jill looked at each other and how Bill looked at the two of them, I knew this would be the summer, almost certain.

I wouldn’t have imagined it would turn out to be poor Mark who’d light the fuse, just trying to relax, enjoying the sun and having a little alone time with his hand and his cock. I shook my head. I hoped Mark wouldn’t prove foolish enough to imagine this mess was his fault. Or Jim’s? Or Meg’s? For that matter, my own fault. I needn’t have confessed to Meg and Ben my plans for Mark. I knew the idea of their lover bringing their son into my bed would excite them but I also knew Meg would tie herself up in knots.

Sex and love, are two dangerous things, especially love. Sex is an act of the body, animal. Love is an act of the mind and the heart and that makes love far more dangerous than sex. Sex results in lots of shouting and thrown things but almost always is forgiven in the end, sometimes even embraced. Knowing your partner wanted to have sex with someone else isn’t hard for most folks to imagine. Learning your partner loves someone else, even if you have no doubt they love you, well that can be a real kick in the pants.

I know Ben and Meg adore each other. It had always been a struggle not to envy them for that. Jill is still as much a kid as she is an adult, with all the good and bad that entails, but it’s clear she cares deeply for Jim. Now as for Bill, he was born old as my momma would say. I don’t think the boy has a flighty bone in his body. I suspect once he’s committed himself to something, even if it’s no more than the idea of something, he’ll have a helluva time letting go. And Jim? Poor kid never had a chance to be a kid. He wasn’t born old; he just had to grow up in an awfully big hurry. It sure looks to me like the boy is head over heels for Jill. But, and ain’t there always a but when it came to people, he loves Bill as fierce as any brother, maybe more so, because it had grown out of mutual respect and caring, not because they grew up under the same roof.

I gaze out over the flat water and nearly groan in frustration. On top of all this, as if this isn’t enough for a whole team of psychoanalysts, there’s Bill and Jill. The two of them are damn near inseparable. That leaves poor Mark as the outsider, the one on the edge of his sibling’s circle of affection, never entirely sure if he’s in the circle, part of the circle, or outside it altogether.

The look on Mark’s face as he trudges up the stairs does nothing to ease my mind. I welcome him, not bothering with a bunch of questions he’d not want to answer. I see Meg and Jill coming out of the rental and wave them away with a shake of my head.

Hand on Mark’s shoulder, I steer him to the couch, shake the comforter out over the cushion and gesture for him to lie down. He does and covers his eyes with one forearm. I notice his penis is soft but it’s shiny, something has been done to it recently or vice versa. I make a cup of tea while murmuring a prayer of thanks to the English, add plenty of sugar and a just a titch of cream, and pull a chair closer to the sofa.

“Here you go, Mark. Drink this. It makes no sense but it will help,” I tell him as I hold out the mug. He looks at it and sits up. He takes it from me gingerly. It’s hot; I don’t serve anything lukewarm. I elect to skip the chair I had pulled over and sit down beside Mark on the sofa.

His elbows rest on his knees. He holds the mug by the handle with one hand, the fingers of the other rest on the rim, where the mug isn’t so hot. He blows on the tea, then inhales. It must smell good, his face relaxes. I nudge him around with the side of my leg and pull my legs up to sit behind him, resting my butt in the corner of the couch. I knead his shoulders before using my thumbs to ease the tense muscles along his spine, under his shoulder blades, and across his lower back.

As I work some of the tension out of his body, he drinks the tea. When he raises the mug I stop what I’m doing. Hot tea in his lap is not very likely to ease his stress. He says nothing, makes no sound. His shoulders tremble for a time and I know without looking he’s crying. I let him. I take my time. When it feels as if I’ve done all that fingers and touch can do, I stand up. I take the mug from him and set it on the coffee table. I urge him to his feet with one hand under his arm.

“Come on, sugar.”

He follows without speaking. I turn down the covers on the guest bed. The room is stuffy, unused. I flip on the ceiling fan as Mark, not questioning, climbs into the bed and rolls onto his side. He stares past me at an art poster, a post-impressionist painting of a Paris street in the rain, by someone whose name escapes me at the moment. I kiss him on the cheek, he looks like such a little boy, and cross to the tuzla sınırsız escort door.

“Open or closed, sugar?”

“Open. Thank you, Muriel.”

“Sugar pie, you are so very welcome. You sleep. You’ll feel better. If not, I got a surprise in mind for you when you wake up. Just the thing to get body and soul reacquainted.”

He nods and closes his eyes. I hear his soft snoring before I get back to the kitchen. I work as quiet as I can. I fetch some home-made stock from the deep freeze in the garage and dump the frozen block into a stock pot on a low flame. If I was truly a psychic, I’d have set that to thaw in the fridge yesterday, I chide myself silently. No matter, besides I don’t have time for worrying about all the ought-to-have-done things in my life. My hands get busy with the noodles. The familiar task is as good as mediation.


I wake when my stomach growled. I hadn’t had lunch. I try to recall if I had breakfast. A bagel I think. I teased Jill by showing her a half-chewed mouthful of bagel. Was that only this morning? Fuck. Two days! Two full days into the vacation and enough shit had hit the fan for a year’s worth of drama. Jerking off by the pool, Muriel, my mom and dad, Bill. And then the shit this afternoon. Letting my sister suck my dick. Watching my dad eat another man’s cum off his son’s chest and then, then letting my dad take my dick into his mouth.

I squeeze my head in both hands, trying to crush my skull, or at least the memories inside the skull. I want to go back to sleep but I know, from the way my head is already racing, that’s impossible. I remember Muriel telling me I’d feel better after I slept. Did I? I’m not sure. I hope her crack about having a surprise isn’t something about sex. I shake myself, never imagining such a day would arrive, but the idea of sex is unappealing at the moment.

My stomach growls again. This time my stomach actually cramps. I sit on the edge of the bed and rub my eyes. I eye the poster of one of Edouard Cortes’ paintings of a Paris street. Muriel has good taste. I instinctively look for my clothes on the floor before recalling I have none. That wakes a fresh wave of recriminations in my mind. This all started when I decided to strip and jerk off by the pool yesterday. It was impossible for me to imagine it had been less than twenty-four hours since I had fucked Muriel on her upper deck while my family watched. And while I watched my family. I’m in the fucking Twilight Zone or some shit.

I wrap the thin summer blanket folded at the foot of the bed over my shoulders and gather it at my chest with one hand. I hope Muriel doesn’t mind. I hold the bottom of it up with the other hand and shuffle toward the door. The floor is hardwood but I can hear the cackling snap of static electricity from the blanket. When I reach the end of the short hallway, I feel my hair starting to stand on end, not quite, my hair is too long but it’s definitely trying to. I feel absurd. Being naked would have been less ridiculous than this.

Muriel’s laughter at the sight of me confirms that. I feel myself smile and I’m amazed at how good it feels to smile. I pull the snapping, sparking blanket off my shoulders. I can’t fold it, it keeps clinging to itself in the most bizarre fashion.

“Go throw that in the dryer with a Bounce, sugar,” Muriel says, wiping a tear from her eye. “Don’t you fry the circuitry on that fancy dryer of mine. Touch the faucet of something first.” She points to the other side of the house. “Down that way, by the garage door.” I shuffle past her, holding the blanket away from my body. I stop when she calls after me, “Sugar, you eat cheese?”

“Yes, ma’am. Yes, Muriel,” I correct myself. “Thanks.”

The door of the dryer is open. I figure it’s safe to touch the handle. I brace myself but still yelp. I see a blue streak zip from the tip of my finger to the handle. From the kitchen, I hear Muriel snort more laughter. By the time I get the damn thing in the dryer, I’d gotten two more zaps, none as intense as the first, but still. I toss a Bounce in and set the machine to tumble on low heat. I flip the blanket and dryer off as I leave. I feel stupid for doing so but at the same time I feel a little better.

“You know, honey,” Muriel drawls as I come back into the living room, “Jim would make a better Elecrto than you, pigment-wise anyway.”

“Ha-ha, aren’t you the witty one,” I try to snap but that’s hard to do with a smile on your face.

“You hungry?” she asks, then adds, “Sparky.”


“You okay with cheese?”

“What do you mean? Do I like cheese? Sure.”

“Good, good. I wanted to make sure you didn’t have a problem with lactose.”

“Nope, good to go.”

Muriel reaches for the bread. She holds the loaf in her hand and looks at me. “What about gluten? You okay with gluten?”

“I love gluten. Gluten is my favorite.” I can see her hesitate. Before she can say anything, I add, “I’m not allergic to nuts, to MSG, to chocolate, wine, red or white, mushrooms, olives, or anything else that I know of.”

“You’re not a vegetarian are you?” I realize Muriel’s smirk is a lot like my sister’s. I feel my smile fade thinking of Jill.

“No, I’m not a vegetarian.”

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