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It is the power upon which I feed. As a statuesque American, I am accustomed to heads turning in my direction wherever I am. My milky skin is complemented by the inky, black curls that tumble just below my waist. People are always doing a double take when they see my eyes. They’re slate gray, giving my heart-shaped face an other-worldly appearance.
My mother, Rachel, is the Queen of the Dykes. However, being raised by one of the strictest FWB families in Eastern North Carolina, there was no way she was going to be allowed to live the life of a lesbian…openly. Enter my poppa. Jeremiah is the son of a tobacco baron and was disciplined early and often – which may explain why, though a gentle and tender man, my poppa, as starting center for UA three years running, assisted his team to the Sugar Bowl each of those years. Jeremiah was voted MVP numerous times. However, instead of playing professional ball, Jeremiah went into a much more deadly sport. Politics.
One would think Mother would cut Poppa a tiny bit of slack. After all, they were THE Senatorial couple. Generations of breeding and money assured them a place at the table. Instead of entering an open partnership with her husband, she treated their union as a war, refusing the surrender of divorce. It never ceases to amaze me how we can be our own worst enemies.
Thanks in small part to my undergraduate degrees in Chemical Science and in International Trade, and in large part to nepotism; I had been working for Jeremiah, as I refer to him around the office, in the capacity of Chief of Staff. It was heady. I lived in Georgetown with my parents, together again after my four year break for college. After a particularly brutal cocktail party, with my mother ending the evening my throwing the contents of her glass in my father’s face, I realized I was going to have to do something about the Queen of the Dykes. Poppa was not only one of the most respected and sought after personages on the Hill. He was also the very firm and stabilizing hand that continued to bring jobs, bring tourism, and keep the military presence in North Carolina.
As most statuesque women with substantial cleavage, I rarely went without a foundation. This evening, however, I allowed the thin, pale material of the silk shirt caress my bare breasts, the blood red of my nipples making colorful points through my shirt. “Poppa,” I said, nodding my head toward my father while I poured a martini from the pitcher. Walking to my place on the settee, I stopped briefly at my mother’s wingback, allowing one breast to slide down her check and the other to slide up when I bent to kiss her cheek.
Both Poppa and Mother were very still. I was behaving out of character. Hiding a little smile I continued to let the games unfold. “Poppa, I need you to go to Ronald Reagan this evening and pick up my guest, Sabra Watson.”
“Ridiculous, Eve,” my mother spat. “Harlan can go. It’s his job.”
Ignoring her, I gave Poppa one of my big smiles and said, “Take the Bentley, Poppa. We do want to make an impression.”
“As for Harlan, Mother,” I explained, doing my Sharon Stone imitation with utter perfection. With a cross of my legs, the smooth folds of my pussy now had my mother’s attention. “He, the Joyner’s, and Carstens have all been sent New Bern for the next two weeks. Poppa hugged me from behind, his hands, as always, skimming my breasts. He left the room whistling, something I had never heard him do.
Power. Poppa knew there was a new sheriff in town.
With the echo of the door closing, I turned to look at Mother. She was a writhing mass of desire, shame, and rage. Picking up the remote, I exchanged the seventeenth century for the twenty-first. I had compiled a blend of throbbing back beats to get Mother in the mood. Tonight, I was claiming my man. But first, I had to get his woman out of the way.
Bringing mother another cocktail, I then proceeded to dance for her. With small bumps, grinds, and twirls, I spent fifteen minutes captivating her attention, refilling her glass twice, while my calf length skirt was pulled higher and higher and higher up the length of my legs. I smiled when disappointed flashed on her face as I lowered my skirt back to my original position.
Backing up to my mother, I said, quietly and simply, “Unzip my skirt, Mother.”
The music continued to throb but I stood perfectly still. “No…” my mother whispered, her voice strangled.
“Unzip my skirt, Mother.” I demanded my voice calming and gentle.
I looked over my shoulder and smiled. Mother was shuddering, the drink in her hand dropped harmlessly to the floor. With a shaking hand, she reached out and unzipped my skirt.
“Now pull it down, Mother,” I said gently, my hips slowly picking up the beat again as she slid the skirt over my kocaeli escort hips. I kicked it away and turned to face my slack-jawed mother. I slowly swayed my silk covered breasts in her face. Deciding the timing was right, I teased my mother. “Rachel, darling,” I sang playfully, “the twins want you to release them from their bondage.” Reverting to the gentle, persuasive tones of the top nannies, I said, “Rachel, remove my blouse.”
I was completely gratified when Mother reached out and shakily undid the four buttons of my blouse. I held out each arm to her and waited while she undid each cuff. I allowed the blouse to slide off my shoulders and tossed it over to my skirt. The timing was perfect. The music kicked up a notch and I began to dance in earnest. I, in all my denuded glory, was framed by naught but a bridal garter, stockings, and a pair of pumps. After five minutes, the music slowed and I made my way make to my mother. She was slumped in her wingback, her hands gripping the armrests. I raised her hands in the air, while my knees gained their balance on the armrests. My mother gazed up at me, a baby bird waiting for the worm to be fed to her.
Taking her hands, I placed them on my thighs and ran them up my legs. Up and down I guided her hands until she began rubbing my thighs of her own volition. Her hands stayed on my thighs while I swayed to the music. I parted the lips of my pussy, and no further invitation was needed. Sounding completely like a hog in a wallow, my mother began snuffling my pussy. I don’t believe I had ever been eaten with such need before.
I allowed her to continue for a few minutes, before pulling away from her mouth with a messy, wet, sucking sound. I slapped her across the face, backhanded her, and then slapped her across the face again. My mother sat in stunned silence, gaping at me.
“Rachel, darling,” I said, in my best ladies-who-lunch voice, “Take off all of your clothes before fixing another pitcher of martinis.” I picked up my blouse and skirt to redress and saw Mother hadn’t moved. Tossing my clothes on the settee, I walked over to Mother and took the pins out of hair, allowing her straight, Nordic blonde hair to hang loosely, something it never did. Wrapping her hair around my hand, I pulled her face close to mine and pulled tightly. “I want you undressed, and fixing another pitcher of martinis. Are we clear?”
Mother simply nodded, I unwound her hair and returned to the settee. Mother’s forty-five year old body was taut and beautiful, her legs flawless, and her unused pussy just as smooth as my own. Mother definitely took pride in her appearance. While she fixed the drinks, I took Mother’s clothing to the laundry room. I picked up the package I had assembled earlier and brought it into the library. I set it down by the fireplace and returned to the settee.
Mother handed me a drink, her mouth opening to say something. I cocked and eyebrow at her and she bowed her head without saying a word. Power was flowing through me. I loved my mother. All her screaming, bitching and demanding had, for the most part, gone right over my head. From an early age, no doubt with my father’s influence, I decided she was a loon to be tolerated but ignored. And, like all bullies, Mother buckled at the first sign of force.
“Go light a fire, Rachel,” I ordered, not looking at Mother while I rifled the magazines in search of ‘The National Review’. Idly, I read an article about sex in the workplace until I heard the strike of the long match.
“Bring that package over to me when you have the fire lit sufficiently,” I called out, reading an editorial about a piece that had run in another magazine. My mother stood in front of me, nude, with the package held out before her. I continued my reading and was both amazed and disappointed I didn’t have to reprimand her for putting the package down without permission. Tossing my magazine to the side, I gave Mother my full attention, taking the package from her. “You are quite beautiful, Rachel. I’m sure you will make me proud.”
I smiled at the humble tone. I gave her a slitted, crotchless teddy in red and black. It was a true whore’s costume for a woman colder than ice. Soon, I had Mother standing on a table in front of the hearth, handing her tools and gadgets, giving her directions, until we had her hooks, harnesses and swing in place. I had mother put on some Fuck Me Pumps, encircled her wrists in a pair of furry red and black hands cuffs, and tied her hands securely above her head, using the hook to stretch her arms high enough that, even with the FMP’s, Mother’s toes barely touched the floor.
All in all, I figured I had at least another forty minutes before Poppa would arrive with Sabra. I decided a quick bubble before I greeted my guest was in order. Slipping kocaeli escort bayan into the sudsy vanilla and cream scents, I decided to limit myself to ten minutes. For all intents and purposes, tonight would be my wedding night with Poppa.
Two hours later, Poppa and I were driving away in my convertible. We were laughing and chatting about Mother’s first training session, our appetites roused by Sabra’s ability to break her down over and over again. I drove south on I-95, letting the V12 have its way with the road. There was a particular … clubhouse … to which I wanted to take my father. Hopping off Exit 150, I drove into the parkland, taking an unmarked paved road through the thicket.
At the checkpoint, I stated my name matter-of-factly, “Little Girl Lost.” I was waved through the gates and drove to the Cinderella mansion in the middle of nowhere. I did the charm school slide from the driver’s seat, giving the valet my keys, and was caught up short when my father took my arm in a gentle lover’s grasp. My father, at 6’7″ is one of the few men who are able to dwarf my 6’2″ frame. It felt good to look up into his smiling face and to accept the chastest of kisses on my lips.
We passed a very amiable dinner together, talking about what we each would like to do over the Congressional break, about how we would like to decorate the house in Carolina to add some warmth to the place, and what issues we would like to tackle next year. After dinner, we retired to the piano bar chatting with several other couples we knew from the Hill. The combinations were as varied as human beings themselves. There were: father/daughter, mother/son, brother/sister, mother/daughter, father/son, grandfather/twin granddaughters – there simply are not any limits at ‘Family Style’. I left Poppa at the cigar bar while I headed for the Amethyst Bridal Chamber.
I performed my evening absolutions and dressed in my sheer, marabou Babydoll. I slipped into a pair of matching, stacked mules and walked into the bedroom, my face bursting into smiles when I saw Poppa stretched out on the tufted fainting couch, sipping what I presumed to be a green apple martini. I slowly walked toward him, slightly shy that the man I have loved my entire life was finely about to be mine. He pulled me onto his lap ever so slowly, holding his glass to my lips. I drank deeply of the green concoction and was shocked to taste the bitter of Absinthe. “Oh, Poppa,” I sighed, cupping his face in my hands and kissing him deeply.
And Poppa took it from there. He began massaging my back and hips while he deepened the kiss over and over again. I was wet. I was so very wet. My nipples felt as if they were going to burst their casings. Poppa pushed me to my feet and turned me around so my ass was in his face. He began a deep tissue massage on my ass cheeks, working my gluts heartily at first. Then he was massaging them a bit too strongly. And then he was viciously squeezing my tortured ass, pulling it apart further, and squeezing it relentlessly.
I began bucking against his hands. This prompted him to push his head, I swear, right up my rectum, his mouth chewing on my anus while he widened my sphere further and further apart. I began screaming bloody murder as the torture continued. Miraculously it stopped. The pain I had been experiencing was replaced by my body being thrown face down on the bed and my ass receiving the steady TWHACK! TWHACK! of a 2 flap leather slapper. The tears came. I was crying, gulping air. This only made TWHACK!’s come harder and faster.
Poppa’s face was in my ass again, my cheeks spread wide as he gnawed on my anus. Only, I craved his mouth. “Harder…” I managed to say through my constricted vocal chords.
“Good girl,” Poppa said, before he truly began his assault. One moment his mouth is probing my rosy depths, and the next moment, his fist is plugging my ass.
I screamed again, collapsing on the bed. Poppa picked me up with his free hand while he worked his fist deeper and deeper into my anus and colon. The thrusting slowed. Rather than relief, I felt fear. I was almost there, goddamnit. “More.” I whispered. The thrusting slowed further. “More!” I screamed, only to find his fist at a total standstill in my anal cavity. Without further ado, I began rocking my ass against his big ham of a fist. I captured his back with my legs for leverage and began pumping against his fist, slowly at first, working up a speed, bringing myself to the brink, when Poppa started flexing his arm muscle and fist, making ripples up and down my spine. That was all she wrote. I arched my back and Poppa took over the pumping while an orgasm shook every molecule in my body.
Poppa brought the wash basin to the bed and began to bathe my body. He told me about when he used to bathe me on Sunday nights, izmit escort the nanny’s night off, and how he would live for each of my giggles.
“You know, little girl,” Poppa said evenly, “your mother is a lesbian. So when I unleashed this,” Poppa continued, dropping his robe and leaving me to stare in open mouth wonder at the 18″ long humongous cock staring back at me. My eyes glazed in wonder. “This really was by far more than your mother reckoned she should have to handle.”
And like a dime store slut, I opened my legs side and held my arms open. “Poppa!” I smiled at the lightly tan man before me with my inky black curls and my slate gray eyes looking back at me.
Poppa started on my left leg, working his way from my ankle to my pelvis. He repeated the process on my right leg, layering kisses, licking my sweat, and suckling my flesh like a true connoisseur. His large, lethal hands gently rubbed my nipples when his mouth finally found my clitoris. Circles, circles, circles. Everywhere on my body, circle patterns were being performed, weaving me into a trance, relaxing my body like not even the best Tijuana Gold could. He layered my orgasm, bringing me over and over to the cusp, until my body couldn’t hold out anymore orgasms rolled over my body after he blew on my clitoris as if he was trying to light on fire.
And then the huge knob of his cock was entering my vagina and I moaned. Poppa had my legs weighted down with his knees. His hands massaged my belly and pelvis while he cooed sweet nothings to me. His thumb began stroking my clit at the 9″ mark and I have never been so thankful for anything in my life. Tears leaked from my eyes but I did no more than moan every inch or so.
Poppa stopped entering me and I looked into his eyes. “Poppa?” I asked shakily.
I followed his gaze and found we were fully conjoined. Holding onto my hips, Poppa began to slowly fuck me, pulling halfway out and then slowly coming into me, getting my cunt stretched to fit him. He then began pulling halfway out and then plunging back into me, making me arch off the bed. We picked up the rhythm and soon he was pulling out and plunging in and pulling out and plunging in. It’s incredible. Eighteen inches of velvet steel building up speed as it plunders the folds of your pussy. I bucked like a wild woman, throwing Poppa into the air, my legs slamming him back into my cunt. I crazy came, over and over again. Like every woman, the more often I come, the more intense the feeling.
Before I knew it, a murderous rage built inside of me. I rolled us over onto Poppa’s back and clenched my pussy in the tightest grip. Reaching behind me, I found his balls and began rolling them in my hands while I watched Poppa’s face. It was his turn to moan. And he obliged. I switched positions again, my body tight against his while I friction fucked him, my lips finding his while we kissed. I increased the rhythm of my fucking, feeling his hips jerk in response.
Poppa sat up with me, and I began to fuck him in earnest. We were both snarling at one another, nipping on one another, kissing, pushing and pulling before we found one another. In synch, we strained our bodies together. Poppa pushed me on my back, raised my hip in the air, and came in a steady stream that lasted minutes. When he was done, he propped pillows under my hips, kissed my face and lips, and suckled my clit until I begged for release.
Sore, stretched, and completely sated, I curled against my father and caressed his face, my eyes taking in every detail of him. “Poppa?” I asked quietly, “Are you trying to get me pregnant?”
“Mmmm,” Poppa murmured, catching my lips with his own for a sweet kiss. “Nothing would make me happier than for us to start a family right away.” Poppa turned my body in order to spoon. He massaged my belly and thighs, making me tingle all over again. “The Vice-President’s son would probably be your best match for a marriage. George Jr. and the family chauffer had a commitment ceremony a couple of years ago. Oh, it was all hushed and forgotten.” I moaned when Poppa began to harden against me. “You and George Jr. could get married after the election. I’ll need a break over the winter; the chauffer was originally the captain of the ‘Justus Freedom’. It’s perfect!” Poppa rolled me onto my back and crawled between my legs. “Right now, your beautiful pussy’s satisfaction is all the further in advance I can plan.”
And it was good. It was very, very good. We made our first baby that weekend. We have six children all together. They are happy and well adjusted. They have four of the most caring parents and a grandmother that sends them gifts from her travels around the globe.
My parents and I have numerous adventures, together and apart. My husband, George Jr., is content to raise the children with me six months of the year while he and the family chauffer sail together the other six months of the year. Periodically, I’ll write about my experiences. What my parents and I have I could never share with my children.
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