Family Tradition
"His stepmom and her mother have shared everything for decades. Men, secrets, pleasure. Now it's his turn to learn the family tradition."
I hear them before I see them.
Low voices from the living room. Laughter. The clink of wine glasses. My stepmom Patricia and her mother Ruth, thick as thieves like always.
I'm supposed to be at Jake's place. Was, for about an hour, until the party got busted and I caught an Uber home early. Dad's in Chicago until Monday. I figured I'd have the house to myself.
I figured wrong.
"—hasn't been fucked properly in months," Patricia is saying. "Richard's useless. You know how he is."
"I know exactly how he is." Ruth's voice, deeper, rougher from decades of cigarettes she quit ten years ago. "Why do you think I never liked him?"
"Because you never like any of them."
"I liked Antonio."
"Everyone liked Antonio."
They both laugh. I freeze in the hallway, keys still in my hand.
"Speaking of which," Ruth says, "when are you going to do something about your situation? You're forty-five, not dead."
"I've been... thinking about it."
"Thinking won't make you come, sweetheart."
More laughter. I should announce myself. Should cough, slam a door, something. Instead, I inch closer to the living room doorway.
"There's someone," Patricia says. "But it's complicated."
"It's always complicated. That's what makes it fun."
"This is really complicated, Mom."
"Try me."
A long pause. Then Patricia's voice, so low I almost miss it:
"It's Marcus."
My heart stops.
"Your stepson Marcus?" Ruth doesn't sound shocked. She sounds interested. "Well, well. I can't say I'm surprised. I've seen the way you look at him."
"You've seen—"
"I've been watching men look at women and women look at men for sixty-five years, Patricia. I know want when I see it." Another clink of glasses. "The question is, what are you going to do about it?"
"I can't. He's Richard's son."
"Richard who hasn't touched you in months. Richard who's never home. Richard who married you for a housekeeper and a hole to occasionally—"
"Mom."
"I'm just saying. If you want the boy, take him. Lord knows I would."
I must make a sound—a sharp intake of breath, a shuffle of my foot—because the conversation stops dead.
"Marcus?" Patricia's voice. "Is that you?"
Shit.
I step into the doorway.
They're on the couch together, wine glasses in hand, dressed for an evening in. Patricia's wearing a silk robe over what looks like a nightgown. Ruth is in a loose caftan that hides nothing—I can see the outline of her body beneath it, heavy and soft.
Patricia is forty-five. Five-four, a hundred and seventy pounds of curves that strain against whatever she wears. Wide hips, thick thighs, breasts that overflow her bras. She married my dad when I was twenty, and I've spent three years trying not to stare.
Ruth is sixty-five, but she carries it well. Same build as her daughter, maybe a little softer, a little lower. Her gray hair is cut short, her face lined but handsome. She's got the same eyes as Patricia—dark, knowing, hungry.
Those eyes are on me now.
"How much did you hear?" Patricia asks.
"Enough."
She sets down her wine glass. Her hand is trembling.
"Marcus, I can explain—"
"He heard everything, Patricia." Ruth's voice is calm. Amused. "Look at him. He knows exactly what we were talking about."
I can't deny it. I'm half-hard already, the blood rushing south despite my best efforts.
Ruth sees it. Her eyes drop to my crotch, linger there, then rise to meet mine.
"Come here," she says.
It's not a request.
I walk toward them like I'm in a dream.
Patricia stands when I get close—puts herself between me and her mother, like she's protecting me. Or protecting herself.
"We don't have to—this was just talk—"
"Was it?" Ruth stands too. She's taller than her daughter, and she moves with the confidence of a woman who's never been denied anything. "Was it just talk when you touched yourself to his picture last week?"
Patricia flushes. "Mom—"
"Was it just talk when you told me you dreamed about him? About his mouth, his hands, his—"
"Mom."
Ruth ignores her. She's circling me now, looking me up and down like I'm a piece of meat at market.
"You're built like your mother's side," she says. "That's good. Your father's family are all pencil-necks."
"I—thanks?"
She laughs. Stops in front of me. We're close now—close enough that I can smell her perfume, see the pulse in her throat.
"My daughter wants you," she says. "And I think you want her too. Am I wrong?"
I look at Patricia. She's biting her lip, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
"No," I say. "You're not wrong."
"Good." Ruth's hand comes up, cups my cheek. Her palm is warm, soft. "Then there's something you should know about our family."
"What's that?"
She smiles.
"We share."
Patricia kisses me first.
She grabs my face and pulls me down, her mouth hot and desperate. I taste wine on her tongue, feel her breasts press against my chest through the thin silk. She moans into my mouth, her hips grinding against my thigh.
"Finally," she gasps between kisses. "Finally—I've wanted—so long—"
"I know." I grab her ass—God, her ass, so round and full—and pull her tighter. "Me too."
"Not here." That's Ruth, behind me. Her hands are on my shoulders, sliding down my back. "Bedroom. Now."
Patricia takes my hand. Ruth takes the other.
They lead me upstairs.
The master bedroom.
Patricia's bedroom. The bed she shares with my father when he bothers to come home.
"Take off your clothes," Ruth commands. She's already shedding her caftan, revealing a body that makes my cock throb. Sixty-five years old and still thick everywhere—heavy breasts sagging to her belly, wide hips, a soft stomach that folds into itself. Her nipples are dark brown, the size of silver dollars.
Patricia is stripping too. The robe falls, then the nightgown. She's softer than her mother somehow—younger, but with more give. Her breasts are enormous, DD at least, nipples pink and stiffening. Her belly is round, her thighs dimpled, her pussy shaved bare.
I'm naked before I realize I've moved.
They both stare at my cock.
"Fuck," Patricia breathes. "You're—"
"Bigger than Richard," Ruth finishes. She's smiling. "Much bigger."
She drops to her knees.
Ruth's mouth closes around me and I nearly collapse.
She knows what she's doing—sixty-five years of practice, and it shows. She takes me deep, her throat relaxing around my shaft, her tongue doing things I didn't know a tongue could do.
"Jesus—"
"That's it, Mom." Patricia is beside me now, her hand on my chest, her lips on my neck. "Get him ready for me."
Ruth pulls off with a wet pop. "Ready? He's been ready since he walked in."
She stands, and they switch.
Patricia drops to her knees and swallows my cock in one motion.
"Fuck!" My hands find her hair, grip tight. She moans around me, the vibration shooting up my spine. She's sloppier than her mother—drool running down her chin, gagging when she takes me too deep—but the enthusiasm makes up for it.
Ruth watches, one hand between her own thighs.
"That's my girl," she murmurs. "Show him what you've been dreaming about."
Patricia looks up at me, my cock stretching her lips, her eyes watering. She takes me deeper, holds there, and I feel her throat spasm around the head.
"I'm gonna—if you keep—"
She pulls off. "Not yet. I need you inside me first."
They push me onto the bed.
Patricia straddles my hips, her wet pussy sliding along my shaft without taking me in. She's teasing—grinding, rubbing, making us both crazy.
"Tell me you want this," she breathes. "Tell me—"
"I want this. I want you."
"And my mother?"
I look at Ruth, who's climbing onto the bed beside us, her heavy body making the mattress dip.
"Both of you," I say. "I want both of you."
Patricia smiles.
She sinks onto my cock.
She's tight—impossibly tight—and wet enough that I slide in with one stroke. Her head falls back, her mouth opening in a silent scream. I feel her walls grip me, flutter around me, adjust to my size.
"God," she gasps. "You're so big—Richard never—"
"Don't talk about him," I growl. I grab her hips, pull her down harder. "Not now."
She starts to ride.
It's slow at first—rolling her hips, feeling every inch. Her breasts bounce with each movement, heavy and hypnotic. I reach up, grab one, feel the weight of it overflow my hand.
"Harder," Ruth says. She's right beside us now, watching her daughter fuck me. "Give it to her harder."
I plant my feet and thrust up. Patricia screams.
"Yes! Like that—fuck—just like that—"
I pound into her while Ruth watches, one hand working her own clit. The sounds fill the room—wet slapping, breathless moans, the creak of the bed. Patricia is bouncing on me now, her whole body jiggling, her nails digging into my chest.
"She's going to come," Ruth says. Her voice is thick. "Look at her. She's right there."
"I'm—fuck—I'm—"
Patricia slams down and shatters. Her pussy clamps around me, her body seizing, her scream echoing off the walls. I feel her come—feel the rush of wetness, the rhythmic clenching—and somehow I hold back.
She collapses onto my chest.
"My turn," Ruth says.
They switch.
Ruth straddles me next—sixty-five years old, and she moves like she's done this a thousand times. Because she probably has.
"Your stepmom is sensitive," she says, lowering herself onto my cock. "I'm not. Don't hold back."
She's looser than Patricia—age, experience, who knows—but she knows exactly how to move. She rides me with purpose, grinding her clit against my pelvis, using me for her own pleasure.
"Fuck," I groan. "You feel—"
"I know." She's smiling, not even winded. "I've had a lot of practice."
Patricia is beside us now, recovered enough to watch. She's stroking herself, her fingers sliding through her wetness.
"She used to make my father cry," Patricia says. "In the good way."
"Your father was a weak man." Ruth is moving faster now, her breasts swinging. "This one isn't. Are you, Marcus?"
"No, ma'am."
"Ma'am." She laughs. "Polite too. I might keep you."
She leans back, changes the angle, and I hit something deep inside her. Her composure cracks—just for a second—and she moans.
"There. Right there—don't stop—"
I grab her hips and give her exactly what she wants. I fuck up into her while she rides me, while Patricia watches and touches herself, while the bed groans under our weight.
"I'm close," Ruth gasps. "Make me come, Marcus. Show me what you've got—"
I reach between us, find her clit, rub hard.
She comes with a roar.
After, they both curl against me.
Patricia on my left, Ruth on my right. Two generations of soft, warm flesh pressed against my sides. My cock is still hard—these two have wrung me out but I'm somehow not done.
"He didn't finish," Ruth observes.
"I noticed." Patricia's hand slides down my stomach, wraps around my shaft. "We should fix that."
"Together?"
Patricia looks at her mother. Some unspoken communication passes between them.
"Together," she agrees.
They both go down.
Patricia takes my cock in her mouth while Ruth works my balls, tongue and lips covering every inch of me. Then they switch—Ruth swallowing me deep while Patricia licks lower, her tongue tracing places no one's touched before.
Then they kiss around me.
My cock between their mouths, their tongues sliding together, fighting over me. Mother and daughter, sharing me like they've shared men all their lives.
"Fuck—" I can't hold it. "I'm gonna—"
They pull back, and Patricia jerks me while they both wait, mouths open, tongues out.
I explode.
I come on both of them—stripes of white across Patricia's face, Ruth's tongue, their lips, their chins. They catch it, swap it, share it in a kiss that makes my spent cock twitch.
"Fuck," I manage.
"Indeed," Ruth says, licking her lips clean. "Welcome to the family, Marcus."
Morning
I wake up sandwiched between them.
Patricia is spooned against my front, her ass pressed to my cock. Ruth is pressed against my back, her arm draped over us both.
My cock is hard. It's pressed between Patricia's ass cheeks, and she's awake enough to notice.
"Again?" she murmurs.
"If you're up for it."
"I'm always up for it." She reaches back, guides me to her entrance, and pushes back.
I slide into my stepmother while her mother sleeps behind me.
We fuck slow and quiet, trying not to wake Ruth. It doesn't work.
"Starting without me?" Ruth's voice is sleep-rough. Her hand slides around to my front, finds where I'm joined with her daughter.
"Just a quickie," Patricia gasps.
"There's no such thing as a quickie in this family." Ruth presses against my back, her breasts soft against my shoulders. "Do her properly. I want to watch."
I do.
One Week Later
Dad comes home from Chicago.
We have dinner as a family—me, him, Patricia, Ruth who's "visiting for a few days." We make small talk. We eat pot roast. We pretend everything's normal.
Under the table, Patricia's foot is in my lap.
Across from me, Ruth winks.
Later, when Dad's asleep in the guest room—"to not disturb your mother," he tells me, meaning Patricia—I slip down the hall.
They're both waiting in the master bedroom.
"Lock the door," Patricia whispers.
Ruth is already naked on the bed.
"Your father snores," she says. "We'll never hear if he wakes up."
I lock the door, strip off my clothes, and climb between them.
Some families have poker night. Some families have book clubs.
My family has this.
And I wouldn't trade it for anything.