OUR OWN PASTORAL
Forbidden love in three acts
All characters are of majority at the time the sex takes place.
ACT I — The Stranger
I was seven when my mother died of complications from a fall she suffered while we were hiking the Appalachian Trail. I was devastated and thought my world was ending. My father had been killed during the last days of Desert Storm, a few months before I was born, and as I was an only child of a single parent who herself was an orphan; I stood at the abyss at a far too early age.
The Park Rangers and the hospital staff were sympathetic and helpful. They got in touch with a Deacon from my mother’s church that in turn got lawyers involved and within a week, I was staying in the Deacon’s home with his family while preparations were finalized for a funeral.
After the funeral I sat on the living room couch of my hosts while they spoke quietly with a man in a suit. After about twenty minutes, they came in from the kitchen table and introduced me to the man.
He told me he was a lawyer, and that my mother had retained his firm to be the temporary executor for her estate back when she first moved to our town. Though it sounds lofty, it was just a life insurance policy and a will that named a woman I’d never heard of as the real executor of my mother’s affairs and possibly, if she agreed, the aforementioned woman was to become my guardian. The lawyer told me he’d sent papers and a letter from my mother to the woman, using overnight mail, though he’d not yet heard back from her. But who was she?
After the lawyer and the ladies from the church who’d attended the service left, I went into the room the family had made available to me and cried myself to sleep. I’d never felt more alone in my short life, profoundly alone.
Two days later a cab pulled up in front of the Deacon’s home. A tall man, who walked with a slight limp, got out of one side, paid the driver, and came around to the curbside. He opened the door and stepped back to allow one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen get out. They walked up to the porch together. Five minutes later the lawyer returned.
The Deacon and his wife, the Pastor from the church, the lawyer, and the man and woman from the cab, talked for an hour. Papers were taken out of folders and passed around the table to be read. I sat in the living room with the Deacon’s two children, watching to see what would happen. I couldn’t take my eyes off of the two people who’d arrived in the cab. Though I couldn’t be sure, I thought the two strangers had tears in their eyes.
After few moments when everyone was quiet, the man spoke one word: “Okay!”
The Deacon’s wife came to get me and brought me to the dining room table where all the other adults were still seated.
As I approached, the man stood, and offered me his chair.
Once I was seated, the lawyer spoke.
“Meagan,” he said, calling me by my more formal name. Most everyone called me Meg, but by being formal, I knew he was about to say something important.
“Meagan,” he repeated. “Your mother left very specific instructions for you that, because of your age, we want to honor. If you were older, we’d be more open to other options. But you’re not, so I’d like you to know, everyone at this table is in agreement as to what the best course is for you.”
“May I,” the beautiful stranger interrupted, turning to face me and not waiting for permission.
“Meagan, my name is Andrea. A few years ago, my brother met your mother and, in a very short time, they fell in love. But he was called to war and killed in battle. Or so we thought.”
“I didn’t know your mother,” she went on. “As I was in Europe going to school, I only knew my brother was killed and that I was needed at home.”
I looked around the table. Everyone was quiet and focused on what Andrea was telling me.
“We had no knowledge of your mother or of the time she and my brother had spent together before he went to war. After a friend of my brothers told your mother of the tragic events in Iraq, your mother moved back here where she bore and raised you. After the friend thought my brother had died, he stopped contact with our family.”
She paused to allow me to take in this information.
“As she was heartbroken over her loss,” she continued, “over the past seven years your mother never once called back to our town to stay in contact with any of my brother’s old friends. In fact, none of us knew where she was from, so we were unable to contact her. And believe me, we wanted to reach her.”
The man with Andrea reached out and put his hand over her own hand.
“Yesterday, we received a package and a letter from your mother’s lawyer. There were copies of documents, official papers so to speak, and a letter explaining the circumstances surrounding the passing of your mother. We came immediately.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Though there was not time for your mother to marry my brother before he shipped out, your mother knew that biologically, I’m your aunt. Also, because she had no family of her own, she knew that if something happened to her, the only possibility for you to have a family was to see if I’d be okay with acting as your guardian until you reach majority.”
“Sorry. Until you’re 18.”
“Are you going to guard me?”
“No honey, not by myself. You see, there’s more to the story you need to know.”
“Meagan, this is my brother; the man your mother loved. As it turns out, he was not killed in battle. He was only wounded. Meagan dear, I want you to meet your father.”
I didn’t understand at first. My father was killed before I was born, or so I was told. This man was alive. I guess the shock of the past weeks events or my young mind couldn’t grasp what was being told to me. I got agitated and started to cry.
The Deacon’s wife got up from her chair, picked me up and carried me into the living room and sat us both down on the sofa. I lay with my head in her lap until I stopped crying. I was terribly confused and very frightened.
After a few minutes, the man with the limp came in from the other room and very awkwardly kneeled before me. I could tell he was experiencing discomfort.
I looked in his eyes and saw they were tearing up, so I reached my hand out and watched as he grasped it in his own and brought it to his face and just held it there for a minute before releasing it. Then he spoke.
“Meagan. I’m your father. My name is James. I want to ask you if you’ll come to live with my sister and me. It’s what your mother wanted for you.”
“How do you know that?”
“She wrote Andrea a letter. In the letter she asked, if the day ever came when she couldn’t care for you, or if something happened, then she wanted Andrea to be your guardian.”
“Why just Andrea?”
“Because she thought I had died.”
“Can I see the letter?”
“Of course,” he said, turning to the pretty lady at the table. “Andrea, please bring Meagan the letter.”
Andrea brought the letter in from the other room and handed it to me. It was handwritten in cursive, so I had a bit of trouble reading it.
“Will you read it to me? Please.”
“I will,” James answered, taking the letter from me. He began…
We don’t know each other, but if we’d met, I’m sure I would like you an awful lot. I can say that because your brother James and I were in love and hoped to be married when he came back from his tour in Iraq. Your brother’s quiet, generous nature endeared me to him the moment we met. He often said he’d had a great upbringing, and if his character was testament to his early family life, then I’m sure you are cut from the same cloth. It’s why I’m writing you at this time.
The day I received a call from Jerry Smith telling me of James’ death, was the best day and the worst day of my life. You see, earlier in the day, I’d used a pregnancy test to find out if I was late because I’d become pregnant while James and I were together. I was.
I have the most beautiful five year old child you can imagine (I named her Meagan after your mother’s middle name). She’s strong, curious, and quiet, like James was quiet. She wants to know everything, and answering her daily avalanche of questions is one of the great pleasures of my life.
I know you’re wondering if I am authentic or if somehow I am trying to trick you. I’m not. James was the only man I’d ever been with. He’s the father. Also, I’ve taken out a life insurance policy in case something happens that takes me from my beloved daughter. I’ve had a lawyer put the potential proceeds into a trust to help pay the expenses a guardian will incur if that person or family needs extra funds. There’s also plenty left for her college expenses, should she decide to go on to further her education. The remaining balance of the money becomes hers when she graduates high school and there’s no restriction on how she will use it. I trust her good character is already set.
If you’re reading this letter, something has happened to me causing the lawyer to forward it to you. You may be angry at me for keeping knowledge of your niece from you. I understand. I will try to explain.
I’m an orphan. As such, I’m uncertain of how a family is supposed to deal with tragedy. I admit, I did not handle the death of James well at all. I’m not certain what I would have done with myself, or to myself for that matter, had I not been pregnant.
I also understand this letter may be the most unfair intrusion into your own life as possible. However, I promise you, once you know my little Meagan; you’ll see the part of her that she most assuredly inherited from your brother. Please, please, give her a chance.
I cannot say more. I don’t know you. But if you’re like your brother was, you’ll know what to do. I offer my most heartfelt apology.
My sincerest regards,
After James read the letter, there was more conversation amongst the people in the other room. It seemed no one knew quite what to say or do. Andrea eased everyone’s mind when she sat on the couch next to me.
She told me she and my father were going to stay in town for as long as it took for me to grieve and to adjust to the new circumstances. She asked the Deacon and his wife, if they were okay with me staying a bit longer. They were.
For the next few weeks, they came every morning, and stayed until I went to bed every night. I gradually grew to know them and became more comfortable with having them around.
At night I would cry. But, in the mornings, I slowly began to look forward to their arrival.
After a few weeks, Andrea asked if she could take me to my mother’s grave. She said she wanted to meet her. She, James and I went one afternoon, just after it had rained. I stayed strong and didn’t cry until Andrea spoke.
“We’ve come to meet you,” she said. “I say we, because the man standing next to me is my brother James. He was not killed, he was only wounded, but it was severe enough that he was in a coma and that the time it took for him to recover allowed you to slip through the cracks of both his and our own knowledge of your whereabouts.” She went on.
“When he was sufficiently recovered to be transferred to a rehabilitation hospital, he came back to the States. When he was stronger, he asked me to search for you to let you know he was alive. I did, but to no avail. And now, this.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t get to know you. Your daughter, the members of your church, not to mention my brother, all spoke with the utmost respect of the way you conducted your life. I’m beginning to see what an influence you had on Meagan. She’s very strong.”
“I speak for both James and myself. We make a promise to you. We will do the best we can with your daughter. Trust that. The best we can.” She paused for a minute.
“We will guide her to make good choices in life. We’ll remind her of you as often as we can, and though we don’t live in this state, we’ll visit you twice each year; On Meagan’s birthday, and on the day that would have been your own birthday, should you still be with us.”
Two days later, we left to start our life as a family.
For the next seven years, we lived together in the city where my mother met James. He and Andrea owned a very large apartment in the city which they inherited from their own parents who had died a year or two after James returned from Iraq. His mother died of cancer. His father was killed in a car wreck. Both James and Andrea said, it was really because his heart was so badly broken, he didn’t want to go on.
Neither James nor Andrea dated. I came to realize they were very wealthy as neither worked, but they were always busy with projects.
Andrea owned and managed three large empty lots, she’d turned into a communal garden, at the edge of the city within which she allowed people to use to plant vegetables. There were also fruit trees.
When I asked her why she wanted people to grow food, when they could just buy it at the grocers, she said the food from the garden was better because it ripened properly and didn’t have to travel far to be consumed. It was my first experience with agriculture.
James, counseled veterans, helping get them medical care, jobs, housing and working to direct them to the proper agencies to get their various needs met.
In the evening, we always ate dinner together. When I turned ten, they let me start helping in the kitchen. I learned from them, a great reverence for food and the many ways it can be prepared to be both healthy and delicious. By the time I was eleven, they let me choose the menu and do all the cooking for one or the other’s birthday dinner.
After dinner, we would each speak of our days activities. They would ask me questions about school and one or the other of them often sat with me while I did my homework.
I began piano lessons and joined a dance company to learn ballet. Both Andrea and James came to every recital, no matter how insignificant I thought it might be. They were my patrons, my fans, and some times, the only members of the audience. But I loved how they doted on me.
When I first got my period, Andrea consoled me. Though I knew about the menstrual cycle from school, the reality of how messy it first seemed freaked me out a bit. Andrea showed me the various ways I could wear a pad, and how I could keep my self from feeling unclean. She told me that the old attitudes about bodily functions change when societies mature and both gain and share knowledge about such things.
In my 14th year two things happened that made me aware of the wide range of choices when it comes to human sexuality.
First, my school had a mandatory sex-ed class that lasted one hour each week over half the school year. It was remarkable how curious I became.
I was too shy to ask James any questions, but I bombarded Andrea with everything I learned in class, and of course I had questions about the stuff my classmates talked about with certainty.
“Andrea,” I asked one day. “Did you ever have sex?”
“Lord Almighty, Meg (by now she was calling me by the shorter version of my name), what on earth possessed you to ask that?”
“It’s just at school you see, some of the girls…”
“Now hold it right there young lady. First off, I’m not one of the girls at school. For everyone, sex, of any kind, is a very personal thing. You just can’t up and ask someone a question about their sex life willy-nilly, now can you?”
“I’m sorry. It’s just all so new to me, I thought…”
“You thought wrong in this case. For another thing, I think a conversation like this really should take place around your 18th birthday. Sex is, and should be, for adults. Capiche?”
And that was that, except for the second thing that happened that year.
I was beaten and nearly raped.
ACT II — The Hero
It happened after my ballet class.
“Hi, what’s up?”
“Meg, I had a flat. It’s being fixed now. I should be there in about 15 minutes.”
It was James. He picked me up on Thursdays after he left his office.
“Don’t worry. I’ll go to the deli on 5th. I can buy some meats and cheeses for the weekend’s picnic.”
“Honey, I’d prefer that you wait at the school. I don’t like the neighborhood.”
“I’ll be okay. It’s only three blocks.”
“Okay. But stay in the Deli and wait for me.”
“I will. But hurry or I’ll eat all the food they have. I’m starved.”
“I’ll hurry,” he said, laughing as he rang off.
I don’t know where he came from, but in the last block before the deli, a man pushed me from behind and knocked me into the alley. I was dazed, but somehow knew I was in serious trouble. As I pushed up off the ground to my knees, I reached in my pocket and auto dialed James’ phone just as I saw the man pull a knife and lunge at me.
I moved quickly, but he stood between me and the street. I was stuck.
“What do you want?”
“On your knees slut.”
“Please mister, let me go.”
“I said on your knees,” he repeated, taking a step closer to me and knocking me on the side of the head with the handle of the knife.
I fell back to the ground, and nearly blacked out. Then he kicked me in the ribs and reached down and grabbed my shirt, ripping it away, exposing me.
“Now, are you going to be a good girl and do what I say?”
I never got a chance to answer because he kicked me in the jaw and I blacked out.
In court, my father testified that he heard the man threatening me over his phone as the connection had been made. He said he parked in the middle of the street, jumped out of his car when he saw the man in the alley, and hollered at him to stop.
My father rushed the man who stabbed him in the chest. But my father was in such a rage, he flipped the man over and with a maneuver he’d learned in the military, snapped his neck, before he too passed out.
When I awakened and saw my father bleeding, I crawled over to him and realized he lay on top of my dead assailant. I quickly called 911 at about the same time a woman walking by on the street saw us and rushed into the alley to see if she could help.
“I’m okay,” I said, over and over. “Help my Daddy. He’s been stabbed. Please. Help him.”
That’s all I remember saying before I passed out again. I’d sustained a serious concussion.
Both Daddy and I were in the same suite at the hospital. Andrea never left our sides. After four days we were discharged and went home.
As it turned out, the man was an off duty policeman. He’d a history of violence, of roughing up people he’d arrested, especially prostitutes, but because he was the cousin of some city council person, a Grand Jury was convened. For two weeks we stayed shut in our apartment, waiting to see what would happen.
No charges were filed once all the facts of the event were verified. Because of my age, I was not asked to testify. At the time, I was very grateful for that aspect of the whole traumatic incident. That and the fact my father was going to be okay.
Two days after the Grand Jury declined to indict, we were on our way to Europe. I still had a bit of a black eye, but I bought some really big sunglasses for the trip.
“You called him Daddy,” Andrea said as we were half way across the Atlantic.
“I did, didn’t I?”
“Not just once either. You’ve not called him James since the attack.”
“He is my Daddy.”
“Are you regressing?”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“Daddy is a term little girls use for their fathers.”
“Oh. Maybe. I hadn’t thought about it. But he came to my rescue and it cost him dearly. He’s not only my Dad…, I mean father, he’s my hero.”
“He was there to defend me when I couldn’t defend myself.”
“Don’t fawn over him.”
“Because he’s very vulnerable right now.”
“Yes. Here’s why.”
I leaned closer to hear. I didn’t want to miss anything.
“If circumstances would have worked out differently, he might have lost you. Remember, he already lost your mother. Also, and please try to understand this as best you can, since he woke from the coma all those years ago, when he’s at his most reflective, he tells me how much he hates violence.”
“But, nothing. He hates violence. More than most people.”
“I hate violence.”
“It’s not a contest Meg. His reasons are different than most.”
“Yes. His adult life has been one of death seemingly everywhere he turned. The war, your mother, our parents, and now he’s killed a man…”
“Defending both me and himself.”
“True, but it’s still one more death in his world, whether he caused it or not. And let’s not forget, he counsels people who’ve got nothing but death and stress on their minds day in and day out. He needs a break.”
“What can I do?”
“I can’t tell you much. But, and here’s what I’d like you to think about. I think, no matter how frightened you are…”
“I’m not frightened.”
“You might not feel frightened, but you’ve been brutalized. It may not have even sunk in yet, but you’ve regressed into a shell where you need your daddy. I’m not criticizing you. I understand. Believe me I understand. However, I’m going to ask you to go easy on your father. He’s healing also. We all need to help each other.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Stop and think about it. You almost lost your brother and your niece on the same day.”
“I did, didn’t I?”
“You mean you haven’t thought about it before now?”
“Oh no, sweet Meg. I’ve thought about it every single minute since the police called me. I think I’ve aged ten years in the last ten weeks.”
“You never age.”
“Believe me. I may not show it, but I felt fear, like I’ve never known it before.”
There wasn’t much more to talk about. I reached over and clasped Andrea’s hand in my own. For some reason, her admission of fear, made me stronger. It was the start of our family’s healing process.
Our time in Europe was subdued. We went from country to country in a somewhat ambling fashion. We had no agenda, so we spent our time going to concerts, the ballet, visiting museums, and going to vineyards in Spain, Portugal, Italy, and France, where Dad and Andrea tasted and in many cases bought wines to have shipped back to the states. It was in Italy where we reached a decision to change our lives and get out of the city and into the country. When we returned home, my father and Andrea closed out all their businesses on the east coast and bought a vineyard in California.
ACT III — The Hedonists
Over the past nine years, the three of us have built our wine business into a respectable enterprise. Raising grapes, picking them at just the right moment, pressing them, storing the juice of the grapes in wood barrels, and finally pouring it into a glass bottle, are all processes that have been refined over the centuries.. We’ve studied the experts in the industry to refine our own processes that produce a product we’re all very proud of, and one that has been well received in the market place.
Our home sits atop the highest hill on the property, looking out over the vineyards. In the distance are the mountains and to the south are the major cities of California. But here, it’s like being in a different world entirely.
Our family’s a very quiet, non-social threesome. We have all we need out of life on our twenty-five acres of rolling hills. And we have each other. To be precise, we’re a ménage a trois. It happened during my first year of college when I discovered Andrea and Dad were lovers.
I’d come home a day early for Spring break. I knew that in a couple weeks we’d start to get busy with the vines, so I wanted to see if Dad and Andrea needed any help. In truth, I really hated being away from them.
When I pulled into the property, I entered from the rear, off the highway. The frontage road to the highway is where we have the tasting rooms and café. The house is at the back of the property.
I stopped just past the entrance and parked so I could walk the rest of the way up to the house. It’s my way of re-acclimating myself to the idyllic sounds and smells of the country.
When I finally got up to the house, the door was locked. Now that was unusual for that time of day as we almost never lock the door in the daytime. I wondered if Dad and Andrea had gone into town.
I let myself in and went upstairs to clean up and relax. As I passed Dad’s master suite, I happened to glance in and saw my father and Andrea lying in bed, sound asleep. And nude.
It didn’t shock me. For some reason, I immediately knew why neither one ever dated. It seemed as if I sort of expected it at some subliminal level. And here’s the odd thing; I was glad. This meant, they would never leave me for another person, nor would they bring a stranger into our family. An instant later I also realized, I would never leave them either, nor would I bring someone into our little world. I never even considered the word incest as those thoughts ran through my mind. The only thought I had, the only thing left to work out, was would they accept me into their bed.
It was the fastest I’d ever made an important decision in my life. And, as it turned out, it was the second best decision. The first being my decision at seven years of age, that day when Andrea addressed my mother’s grave, when I knew it was okay to go with them.
I went to my room, stripped off my clothes, took a quick shower, put on a robe, grabbed a book, and went back to their room. I sat in one of the two Queen Anne chairs and read while they slept.
I was deep into my book when I heard Andrea clear her throat. I looked up.
She’d sat up and leaned back against the head board, bringing her knees up to her chest. She did not cover herself.
“So now you know.”
“Yes. Now I know.”
“Are you angry?”
I thought for a minute. Then told her what I thought when I first saw them sleeping an hour earlier; the realization and decisions I made.
She arched her eyebrow.
“I know, huh. We’re certainly not an average family. You’re both the mother who’s never birthed as well as the big sister, he’s,” I said, pointing, indicating my sleeping father, “he’s the patriarch, and I’m the orphan. I’m not even sure we qualify as a family.”
“True. But he is my brother and the fact we make love is incest.”
“And if I have sexual relations with either one or both of you; that too will be incest. Except…”
“From the moment I met you two, my whole idea of love and family was redefined by our mutual experiences. I’d say we’re anything but typical. I want to tell you something Andrea,” I said, pausing for effect.
“I’ve never had sex with anyone, and yet I feel as if I could easily lose myself in the various ways men and women enjoy themselves. I’ll be twenty years old in a few months, and though many may think I’m chaste, I’m not. At least in my thoughts I’m not. As an example, when I took my shower earlier, the various configurations that ran through my mind, made me think I’m true slut material.”
“Meagan, enjoying the human sexual potential does not make a person a slut.”
“Maybe not, but I really didn’t mean it in a negative context. I meant, I’m game. I’ve not thought about it before, not consciously. But in this past hour I realized I’ve always thought about it. Not the acts so much, but more like the connections. I’ve wanted for a very long time to be connected to the two of you without the fear of seperation. No. Let me restate that. I’ve wanted to feel I’d never lose the connection between us, that I’d never have to leave your side. Now, I know exactly what I want that connection to be.”
“Are you sure?”
“Good lord yes. I’m sitting here having a conversation with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, she’s naked, and because I don’t have experience, I have no idea if it’s okay to even bare my soul. But I’ll tell you, I desire you and James so much it hurts: Emotionally, spiritually and of course, physically.”
Andrea didn’t say anything for a couple of minutes. As the time ticked on, I felt more and more that she was leaving the next move up to me. I stood, shrugged off the robe, showed her that I too was naked and walked to the bed.
As I approached, she swung her legs over the side, stood and stepped up to me. We embraced. Our breasts were mashed against each others breasts, our lips found each others lips, and she reached down and cupped my groin, inserting a finger tip between the folds of my labia.
“Not now,” she said. “There’s much to discuss before we embark on what could be, and maybe should be, a lifelong journey. Come.”
She picked up her own robe, walked over grabbed mine, then took my hand and led me out of the suite.
We went downstairs to the kitchen where we made coffee, strong Cuban coffee.
Andrea made a plate of figs, dates, grapes and cheeses for us to snack on while we talked. She also put a bottle of Riesling into a vat of ice.
While I took my first sip of coffee she smiled, and spoke.
“Which do you like better, the figs, the grapes…”
“I like them all.”
“Good. Sex is like that, and more,” she said, getting up and going about the kitchen gathering foods. She went to the refrigerator and brought back several items as well.
“Here,” she said, handing me a banana. “Peel it.”
I did as she instructed.
“Now put your lips over your teeth and slide the banana into your mouth until it hits the back of your throat.”
I opened my mouth, put my lips across my teeth and slid the banana all the back until I felt the tip hit the back of my mouth.
“That’s what it’s like to have a cock in your mouth. Now here,” she said, spooning some yogurt and extending it to me. “Put this in your mouth for about twenty seconds and then swallow it slowly.”
“Cum is warmer. But when you swallow it, it has a similar consistency. You’ll either like it or not. But you’ll do it because it’s a gracious way of accepting a man’s most precious gift, a gift by the way that he constantly manufactures.”
“Do you like it?”
“I love it.”
She then put her finger under my chin and tilted my head back just a bit while reaching with the other hand for a glass of water. This she held above my mouth and poured in a bit, slowly at first, and then tilting the whole glass at once she spilled water all over my face.
“That’s what it’s like when someone pees on your face.”
“Are you trying to shock me?”
“No. I’m telling you this because if we’re to live in a ménage a trois, then you need to be aware that you may find your father and I to be quite versatile in the way we approach our expression of physical love.”
“But he’s so quiet.”
“He is. But he’s regained the healthy appetite he had for life before he went to war, and before everything that followed after that, until we settled in here.”
“These hills are my garden of Eden.”
“Well said. This really is our own bit of paradise.”
“Can we wake Dad?”
“How do you know?”
“Because, I saw him tiptoe past the kitchen archway just a couple of minutes ago. I think he was on his way outside so he could go down to the tasting rooms to see if anything is needed.”
“So he obviously knows I’m here.”
“Yes. We’ve discussed the possibility that you would find out about our relationship, and we decided that when you did, I’d be the one to have the first discussion with you.”
“I’m glad. I feel like you’re my sister, not my aunt.”
“That’s funny. I said the same thing to your father. I’ve always felt like you were my little sister.”
“You know what else?”
“I still remember the very first time I saw you, when Dad opened the cab door for you way back when you first came to meet me. I thought, and actually, I still think, you are the most beautiful human being I’ve ever seen.”
She looked at me for a few minutes then said, “Kiss me.”
I leaned forward on my chair, put her face in the cups of my hands, and gently, ever so gently, brushed my lips against hers.
She pulled me tighter so our lips mashed against each other, then she released enough pressure between our lips and gently stuck her tongue into my mouth.
We held the kiss for a moment and then broke apart.
Andrea opened the bottle of wine and poured us each a glass.
“We’re going to put you on the pill.”
“We won’t chance vaginal penetration until the pill has had a chance to regulate you.”
“I get it.”
“In the meantime,” Andrea smiled, “I’m going to teach you to suck cock like a whore during fleet week.”
I laughed and reached for the yogurt.
When my father returned from the tasting rooms, we were still sitting in the kitchen. Andrea had been telling me all the various ways they had been having sex since their first time together. After the first few minutes of awkwardness, he sat with us while we continued our discussion.
She’d told me how she used to watch his cock become hard, raising the sheets while he slept all those years ago when she’d cared for him for the months after he returned from the war. She too was a virgin. She decided to stay that way until everything was sorted out. But then, the letter informing them of my mother’s death arrived and all thoughts of sex were repressed for another few years.
In Europe she began to feel the “itch” as she so eloquently put it. We’d gone to the beaches in the south of France and seen the women sunbathing topless. Though Andrea admitted to being attracted to other women, (so was I) even desiring to lay with them, she knew she wanted, even needed, a man’s cock inside of her. Upon our return to the States, she secretly began to masturbate and then discovered porn on the internet. It became something she looked forward to most late evenings; watching porn and “jilling off” as she described it.
It was here at the vineyard she knew she would bed her brother. It happened in a very matter of fact manner.
One night, after getting ready for bed, she walked into his room as he was getting under the sheets. He looked up and saw her standing at the foot of his bed. No words were spoken. He simply scooted over, patted the bed, and watched as she disrobed to join him.
They’d gone beyond the “making love” stage. They purchased a copy of the Kama Sutra for guidance and began working their way through the various positions illustrated on the book’s pages.
As my father had been my mother’s lover, he had the most experience sexually. However, he admitted, he and my mother had both been virgins, and so their sexual repertoire only included a bit of oral as foreplay. They mostly stuck with the missionary position when they made love.
Though both Andrea and my father admitted to experimenting with some kinky stuff, they really found great pleasure just being together in the same room. It didn’t matter what happened, even if nothing happened, what mattered most was being in proximity to each other.
My father told me he and Andrea had once watched me leave for school and, without words, they both knew I was the missing link in their relationship.
My first blowjob was not the prettiest sight; certainly not like you see in pornos. I tried to swallow all my father’s cum, but there was so much I couldn’t keep up with the pulses and I started coughing with his cock still in my mouth. Cum was running out my nose, my eyes were watering, my throat was clogged, and I couldn’t stop laughing.
I’d watched Andrea service him a few times before. She would kneel in the supplicant’s manner, open his trousers and fish out his member, all the while maintaining eye contact promising, without words, great pleasure.
She always took her time and when he was ready for his release, she would bury his cock in her throat, milking all the cum he had to offer. I loved to watch her beautiful throat work to swallow every last drop. After she released him she would swish her tongue about the inside of her mouth, gathering the entire residue. I would then kiss her. The familiarity with cum’s taste helped get me ready for my own first time.
Unlike Andrea, I learned to love having him fuck my mouth. She’s the supplicant, I’m the victim, the receptacle of his overheated loins. Andrea thinks the fact I like the rough stuff is somehow related to the time I was almost raped. We don’t share this idea with my father.
When he fucks my face, I like the way my mouth and throat feel for hours afterward. I can hardly concentrate fully on anything while I’m still in the throes of the act I’ve just experienced. Now when I fellate him, I know with certainty, I’ll service him perfectly and I know both of us will derive great satisfaction from the act.
When my father was showing me how Andrea liked to have her pussy eaten, he didn’t tell me that fact. But when she was near release, he told me to get closer so I could see her pussy palpitate. When she squirted, her juices hit me square in the face, some even went into my mouth and nose. Though it was less thick than Dad’s cum, it still turned me on to know I had swallowed some.
The first time I went down on her, I dragged her pleasure out for as long as I could. I was hoping she would fill my mouth. I wasn’t disappointed.
My first intercourse hurt like a bitch.
My hymen was thick, thicker than Andrea’s must have been. I bled and did not enjoy it one bit. It was not a disappointment though. We’d discussed the possibility that it might hurt and boy did it. We didn’t try again for a few days.
The next time we tried, Andrea suggested I mount him from the top so I could control how far and how fast his cock entered me. It worked. Once he was inside all the way, I swooned, not from physical pleasure but from the spiritual connection. My father was inside of me. It was the final act of love connecting us forever more.
My favorite thing in our sexual menu is for Dad to fuck me from behind while I’m bent over eating Andrea’s pussy.
Our sex life is unpredictable.
“Meg. Meg, where are you?”
Andrea had just come into the house. I was sucking dad’s cock in the kitchen.
“Oh. There you are.”
Without any regard to the position I was in, Andrea sat at the kitchen table reading going over my choice of classes for my final year at school.
“I think you really should consider the advanced statistics class. Your ideas about using probability theory to meld the elements into a predictive guess, should I say, about the time the grapes will be at their optimum should be continued. Don’t you agree?”
My throat was full of cock so the best I could do was grunt in assent.
“Oh, sorry. Anyway when you’ve finished, we really should finalize your class schedule.”
Just then Dad came. This time, I didn’t swallow. I kept everything in my mouth.
When Dad withdrew his cock, I hollowed my cheeks so neither he nor Andrea knew I’d kept his cum. I stood up, winked at Dad and walked over to where Andrea was seated. I smiled slightly, made like I wanted to kiss her and when she offered her mouth I spit all the cum from my mouth into hers. She was completely surprised. It ended all talk of school business that day.
Our lives are about much more than sex. We eat well. We drink fine wines, beers and occasionally more hard liquors. We love music and are patrons of the great symphony south of us. I teach dance to the local kids at our town’s community center.
I think a better way to describe our existence is to liken the three of us to a modern interpretation of the ancient epicurean’s way of life. We enjoy all the pleasures of the flesh, in excess, in moderation, and twice each year in a fortnight’s abstinence.
At the end of our two weeks’ abstinence we throw a party for the local townsfolk. It keeps everyone from wondering why we spend so much time away from the general populace. The day after the party we enter a three month phase of moderation. After that, we indulge excessively for another three months and then it’s back to the two week period of abstinence.
This is not to say, we don’t enjoy sex more or less during either the moderate or excessive phase of our hedonist’s lifestyle. We enjoy both for different reasons. Abstinence increases desire. Moderation accelerates that desire and finally, excess exhausts desire.
We practice yoga and Marshall arts with equal passion. We play chess, go, and poker like our lives depend on it. But these passions are mostly amongst the three of us as we’re very protective of our secrets, especially those of a sexual nature. Our motto has become: No one knows, no one can know.
Tomorrow is Earth Day. The three of us have decided to add to our family. We chose Earth Day to attempt conception. Earth Day is significant to us as we work all year with the earth and her produce. It also coincides with my fertile period.
I’ve been off the pill now for four months. Andrea does not want to bear a child at her age. As I’m almost twenty-five, we feel I’m the most fit to be the biological mother. Of course, all three of us will be the parents. If it does not happen this year, we’ll try again next year.
At some point in the future, should the universe grant us long lives, we’ll tell our progeny who we really are so there’s never a feeling of us having been deceptive in our approach to child-rearing. We’ll set the stage gradually over the years, but we’re certain, with careful handling of the matter, our child, or children should that come to pass, will understand.
Tonight, Andrea and I are going to make love every way we know how with Dad looking on. We don’t want him spending his seed prematurely. In fact, for the past three days, he’s abstained from having an orgasm. When he finally releases his semen into my cunt, it will be rich with sperm and hopefully one or more of the little agents of birth will find their way to my egg. And life will once again find renewal.
Our lives remind me of the wonderful sixth symphony of Beethoven; the Pastoral. There’ve been four movements completed so far. The brutality my father and I experienced at the hand of my would-be rapist, the brutality of war, the loss of my mother, I liken to the fourth movement, the one I call the storm. But the storm in our life has passed.
Now, we’re in the fifth movement, the allegretto or the shepherd’s song as it were, the one with luck lasts for the rest of our days.