Family Matters
"His wife is at a conference. Her mother and sister have been waiting for a chance to show him what the family really has to offer."
Ellen's at a conference for five days.
"My mom and Carla are coming to help with the house," she says, kissing me goodbye at the airport. "I know it's a lot, but they insisted. Just survive until I get back."
Her mother. Her sister. Five days.
I should be worried.
I am—but not for the reasons Ellen thinks.
Margaret and Carla arrive that afternoon.
My mother-in-law is fifty-eight, widowed two years, and built like a woman who's never apologized for taking up space. Five-six, two-seventy at least, with hips that fill doorways and breasts that strain every button she owns. She hugs me hello, and I disappear into softness.
"James! So good to see you." Her perfume fills my head. "Ellen says you've been working too hard."
"She worries."
"She should. You need taking care of."
Carla is thirty-six—Ellen's older sister, divorced, no kids. She's her mother's daughter in every way: same height, same curves, same two-sixty of flesh that she shows off in leggings and a tight sweater.
"Hey, James." Her hug is longer than it should be. Her hand lingers on my lower back. "Ready for a long week?"
"Ready as I'll ever be."
They exchange a glance.
I don't know what it means.
Day one is normal.
We eat dinner. Watch TV. They take the guest rooms. I sleep alone in the bed I share with Ellen.
But I notice things.
The way Margaret looks at me when she thinks I'm not paying attention. The way Carla finds reasons to touch me—shoulder, arm, lower back. The way they whisper to each other when I leave the room.
Something's happening.
I just don't know what.
Day three.
I'm in the kitchen at 10 PM, getting a beer. Margaret appears in a silk robe.
"Can't sleep?" she asks.
"Just unwinding."
"Mind if I join you?"
We sit at the kitchen table. She's close—closer than a mother-in-law should be. Her robe gapes open, showing deep cleavage.
"James." Her voice is different. Lower. "I need to talk to you about something."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. Something's right, for once." She reaches across the table, takes my hand. "I've been watching you for years. Watching how you are with Ellen. Watching how much you give, how little you get back."
"Margaret—"
"She's my daughter and I love her. But I'm not blind. She takes you for granted. She doesn't see how lucky she is." Her thumb strokes my palm. "I see it."
"We can't—"
"We can." She stands. Her robe falls open. She's naked underneath. "Carla and I have discussed this. We've been discussing it for months. We want to give you something Ellen never has."
I stare at her. At her body—massive breasts, soft belly, wide hips. Everything forbidden.
"Both of you?"
"If you'll have us."
I should say no.
"Where's Carla?"
Carla is in the guest room.
Naked. Waiting on the bed. Her body is a younger version of her mother's—same curves, same abundance, same heat in her eyes.
"He said yes?" she asks Margaret.
"He didn't say no." Margaret drops her robe. "That's enough for now."
They flank the bed. Both naked. Both watching me.
"Rules," Carla says. "Ellen never finds out. This week only. No jealousy between us."
"And we share equally," Margaret adds. "Whatever happens, we both get it."
"Do you agree?" Carla asks.
I look at them. My mother-in-law. My sister-in-law. Two hundred and seventy pounds and two-sixty of forbidden flesh.
"I agree."
They undress me together.
Margaret takes my shirt while Carla works my belt. Their hands are everywhere—exploring, claiming. When they see my cock—hard, aching—they make identical sounds of appreciation.
"Better than I imagined," Margaret murmurs.
"Much better," Carla agrees.
They push me onto the bed. Kneel on either side.
"I go first," Margaret says. "I'm the mother."
"Fine. But I want to watch."
Margaret straddles me.
Her weight settles onto my hips—all two-seventy of her, pinning me down. Her wet pussy slides along my shaft, teasing.
"I've wanted this since your wedding," she breathes. "Watching you at the altar, thinking about what was under that suit."
"Mom," Carla scolds playfully. "That's creepy."
"I don't care." Margaret positions me at her entrance. "I'm done pretending."
She sinks onto me.
She's tight.
Hot. Gripping me with a desperation that makes my eyes roll back. She rides me slow at first—grinding, savoring—while Carla watches with one hand between her own legs.
"Fuck, Mom. He looks good inside you."
"He feels good." Margaret rides harder. "So fucking good—"
I grab her hips, thrust up into her. Her breasts bounce—massive, heavy, hypnotic. Carla leans over and sucks one nipple into her mouth.
Mother and daughter. Sharing me. Sharing each other.
"I'm gonna come," Margaret gasps. "Already—fuck—"
She shatters on my cock. Her whole body shakes. Carla keeps sucking her mother's nipple while she convulses, and I have to fight not to come with her.
When she finally stills, she climbs off.
"Your turn, baby."
Carla doesn't hesitate.
She mounts me reverse cowgirl, facing away, and I watch her ass—massive, bouncing—as she rides me hard.
"I've wanted this even longer than Mom," she pants. "Since you and Ellen started dating. God, I was so jealous—"
Margaret moves to my head. Straddles my face.
"Don't neglect me," she murmurs. "I need that tongue."
I eat my mother-in-law while her daughter rides my cock. They hold hands above me—mother and daughter, connected by me, connected by desire.
"He's so good, Mom—"
"I know, baby—I know—"
Carla comes first. Then Margaret. Then me—exploding into Carla while Margaret grinds on my tongue.
We collapse in a heap.
Three bodies. One bed. Every line crossed.
The week becomes a blur.
They wake me with mouths and hands. They ride me on every surface—beds, couches, the kitchen table. They share me like I belong to them, and by day four, I feel like I do.
"Ellen comes home tomorrow," Carla says on the last night.
"I know."
"This was supposed to be just this week." She's lying on one side of me. Margaret is on the other. "But I don't want it to end."
"Neither do I," Margaret admits. "James... would you consider—"
"An arrangement?"
"Something ongoing. When Ellen's traveling. When she's not paying attention." She strokes my chest. "We could make this work. If you wanted."
I think about Ellen. About our marriage. About everything I'm supposed to want.
Then I think about them.
"When's her next conference?"
They smile.
"Next month," Carla says. "Two weeks this time."
"Two weeks." I pull them both closer. "We should practice."
Ellen comes home the next day.
Her mother and sister greet her with hugs and complaints about the dishes I didn't do, the mess I left in the guest bathroom. They kiss me goodbye—chastely, in front of Ellen—and promise to visit again soon.
"Survive?" Ellen asks when they're gone.
"Barely," I say. "They're exhausting."
"I know. But they love you. That's what matters."
She doesn't notice me smiling.
She doesn't notice the texts that start coming that night.
Next month can't come soon enough. —M
Already missing you. —C
Some families are closer than others.
Ours just got a lot closer.