9 comments/  35706 views/  37 favorites

The Long Hunt Ch. 01

By: PlatypusJones



My name is Will Messer, and this is the true story of how I unraveled the secret at the heart of my mother's sprawling family in the foothills of Carolina and took my vengeance. It's a story that began years before my birth in 1963, a story that didn't end until my 50th birthday. So there's all sorts of places where I could start. 

But in my mind, the story of my long hunt always begins on the day my Aunt Clair took my virginity on a summer afternoon when I was 18. It always begins with that mixture of quivering fear and aerial excitement that separates the young from the experienced, with those vivid memories of my balls contracting as Clair swallowed every spurt of my cum – once, twice, three times. Never once gagged on it.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. 

Here's how I got there. 

Unlike my cousins from Trotter's Mill, North Carolina, I wasn't raised in the shadow of the Blue Ridge. My mother, Lisa McRae, left for the University of North Carolina at Greensboro way back in 1958 and never quite came back. Through a series of improbable events – the kind of luck that tends to follow doe-eyed beauties who drift like faery mist through this weary world – my mother made her way to New York City. There she married at 20, divorced at 21, and met my father while she waited on a bench in Union Station to catch a train home. 

Instead, she wound up being carried away in the whirlwind that was Long John Messer of Haywood County, N.C., a Smoky Mountain original if there ever was one. He was a few years older than she was, a 6-foot-6-inch banjo-playing mountaineer with an uncanny hook shot that took him all the way to the doorstep of the New York Knicks. They drafted him out of N.C. State, and when he broke his leg during training camp, they gave the man enough cash to hang around the city while he recovered. 

Not that he ever played ball again. By the time his leg had healed he was bored with basketball and already on to the next thing – rambling around recording Appalachian folk songs that he'd bring back to archive in some New York collection down in the Village. Mostly he'd just come and go.

Anyway, Lisa met Long John in February 1962, and my sister Amy was born in Brooklyn in November of that year. Do the math. 

I followed in 1963, with my sister Diane completing the set a year later. We look like quite the happy little family in photos, but apparently the old man got restless around this time, and when his brother wrote in 1965 to say he was joining the Army to go fight the Communists in Vietnam, John went right down to the recruiting office there in Brooklyn and off he went. My mother was none too happy about it, either. But that's the way they were.

John was tall and lean with bronze skin and close-cropped dark hair. Had an easy mountaineer manner and that laconic Cherokee sense of humor. Came from a family of Germans who arrived early in the Smokies, settling in a place called Jonathan Valley, where quite a few of them took Cherokee wives. They eventually took to farming, but back in the early 19th century they were apparently famous around their community as "long hunters," men who would pick up their rifles, kiss their wives and head west out of Haywood into the valleys of Tennessee and walk right on up to Kentucky, taking deer and bear and beaver as they went. Stayed gone for months at a time.

Though Long John and Lisa never divorced, they were seldom together, and when he'd visit us – at base housing in Kentucky, or later on in Washington, D.C. – my sisters and I never knew how to act. Our parents clearly loved each other with some dark and animating passion, but settling down like normal people just wasn't in the cards.

I have a few memories of him, all from after the war – which he never spoke about. But the most indelible came in 1973, when Long John took me camping for a week in Pennsylvania. In just one week he taught me how to catch trout, shoot a Springfield rifle from the standing and prone positions, and start a fire with just flint and steel. 

"Son," he told me one night before he took me home, "we come from a family of long hunters. And there's not a damn thing either one of us can do about it."

The night we got home from that trip, I woke up before midnight with growing pains in my legs – a common ache that I'd learned to treat with asprin. I was on my way to the bathroom down the hall when I heard the sounds of movement in the living room and noticed the dimly shifting pattern of candlelit shadows on the walls.

At the corner where the hall met the dining area, I stuck my head around and saw two things. 

The first and most obvious was my mother on her knees in the middle of the living room, her naked body lit by five white candles arranged in a circle on the floor around her, wildly sucking my father's enormous penis as he towered over her.

The second was my sister Amy. And I wouldn't have noticed her if I hadn't instinctively knelt there at the corner of the dining room. I felt subtle movement under the dining table just a few feet to my left, and as my eyes adjusted I recognized Amy's shape in the darkness. She was tucked into a perfect hide position with an unobstructed view of our parents in the living room, leaning forward on the seat of a ladderback chair, on her knees in her flowered nightgown and socks, with her left hand between her thighs. 

Watching. Mesmerized. Just like I was.

And well, it all pretty much freaked me out. 

So I snuck back down the hall and into my room, where I lay in bed with my legs aching and my rock-hard dick aching and the image of my mother's worshipful envelopement of my father's frighteningly huge cock running on an endless loop. Somehow I fell asleep, but that night I experienced my first wet dream – a confusing mixture of erotic images that involved Amy in her nightgown, a shy girl from my school naked except for an elaborate leather harness, and my mother – only she was my age and dressed in a gingham dress that she was slowly unbuttoning.

That first orgasm was shockingly painful, and I woke in the darkness to find my cock still throbbing and my underwear filled with what seemed like a half cup of hot white goo. Didn't have a clue what was going on. Not one. So I cleaned up as best I could, lay there in the dark, and pushed all that sexual confusion as far away as I could, remembering instead the cool, mottled darkness of the forest, the feel of the wooden rifle stock, the flashing silver, green and red of the rainbow trout.

Four years later we got the news that John Messer had been shot and killed just a few miles away from our apartment in Alexandria. A mugging gone wrong. My mother hadn't even known he was in town. 

It was 1977. I remember because Fleetwood Mac was all over the radio. 

I spent most of my teenage years not doing the things my peers in Alexandria considered fun. I camped and fished in Maryland, Virginia and Pennsylvania, sometimes in groups, sometimes alone. I joined a rifle club with the proceeds of my job working for a landscaping crew, and became quite good with Long John's Springfield 1903.

Coaches pestered me to take up sports – not because I was particularly athletic, but just because I was so damned tall. Six-foot-three at 15. Six-foot-six at 17. But while my peers dreamed of glory on the court, I just wanted to get back in the woods and walk right out of civiliazation. And though I was an indifferent student with pedestrian grades, I read a lot of books. 

I never had a girlfriend, and not because I didn't want one. I was freakishly tall for my age and suffered through growth spurts that robbed me of basic coordination. This also meant that my pants were perpetually too short, while my father's hand-me-down flannel shirts draped billously over my skeletal adolescent frame. I had acne and an uncorrected gap between my front teeth. And though the boys my age generally avoided messing with me too overtly – unless they were hunting in packs – to the girls I adored from afar, I looked like the younger, less-attractive cousin of Frankenstein's monster.

And, to be blunt about it, our family was not only poor, but weird. Weird in ways none of us could ever quite explain. It wasn't just my come-and-go father, or my fey but uncomfortably attractive mother. It was the whole lot of us. Just never quite fit in, no matter where we moved, no matter what school we tried. Though it's not as if we were particularly unhappy. Not as I remember it. 

Still, as I entered my senior year of high school, we were clearly showing signs of strain. My mother was working too hard at a VA medical center. My older sister Amy dropped out of college after the first semester of her freshman year and struggled to find work. My younger sister Diane tried to join the Georgetown punk scene at 17. 

And me, I'd joined a Boy Scout troop just to go camping – not that I ever gave a fuck about the merit badges and uniforms and all the other militaristic religious crap that came with it. Between scout trips and the local Sierra Club hiking group, I was running off to the woods on a regular basis. I generally spent the rest of my time doing temp labor, fixing my 1967 VW with my father's tools and a Chilton's manual, reading library books and keeping up an impressive masturbation routine.

But when Diane came up pregnant before she was old enough to vote, and Amy started drinking until she'd pass out at parties all around the District, mom decided it was time for a change. 

A week later, Aunt Clair arrived with her grown son and we packed all of our things into a U-Haul and quit the District of Columbia for Trotter's Mill. It was eight hours and entire worlds away from anything I'd ever known. 

I was a freshly minted, well-read,18-year-old high school dropout, a virgin without a close friend in the world beyond my two fucked-up sisters and my perpetually drifting mother, heading off into family territory where everything held a meaning that was unknown to me.

---

Aunt Clair's little farm cottage dated to the 1880s and sat just a few feet from a spring house the McRae ancestors had built to keep perishables cool in summer. Consequently, everyone in the McRae clan still called her place the Milk House, so as to distinguish it from the other homes on the patchwork property. Like Willa's Place (my grandmother Alice's house), The Hedges (where Uncle Jim and his family lived), the Stockade (a modest wooden home built in the 1940s besides the ruins of a stone structure that dated to the early 19th century), the Old Inn (which is exactly what it sounds like, and housed Tom and Jenny Stevens and their four offspring) and the Apple House, which is where my family finally settled down in 1976. 

And even though Trotter's Mill wasn't quite part of the high-country world that Long John had described in his campfire stories, I fell in love with it immediately. The McRaes lived just south of the Virginia line on more than 200 acres of family land that stradled the invisible boundary between the rising Appalachian foothills and the rolling countryside of the Carolina Piedmont. They'd farmed, fussed, fought and generally driven themselves and their neighbors half-crazy on this land for more than 150 years. Every crease in the landscape of woodlines and fields called out to my DNA. 

But in the early days of that first summer, it was also a lonely place for me. My mom had taken a job 10 miles away at the county hospital, and we had yet to make any friends outside the family. We had cousins everywhere, but the boys weren't exactly the inclusive type, and I thought the girls looked at me funny. So while my sisters spent their days watching television with Tom and Jenny's daughters at the Old Inn down by what everyone called "the hard road," I took to wandering.

Then one August afternoon, while returning home from a slow bushwhack up a nearby peak called Snakey Top, I passed the back yard of the Milk House in the woods. I heard something and looked up to see my Aunt Clair having sex.

She was pushed up against the back porch rail with her dress up over her butt, her panties down around her left ankle, and a rough-looking man with his jeans clinging to his knees fucking her like he was holding a grudge. She was blonde and curvy, a pretty little mom who sang in the choir at the Bethel Baptist Church. He was a brutish-looking man with a thick dark beard and work clothes.

The scene horrified me. And, of course, excited me, too. I was instantly hard – which wasn't too much of a trick in those days – and knelt down, hoping that neither of them had heard me walking through the pathless woods. It was only after I'd stared at the scene for about five seconds – the image of Aunt Clair's mature rump rippling with the impact of every thrust has never left my mind's eye – that it occurred to me that I might be witnessing a rape.

After all, I'd never seen this man before. And Clair was being fucked forcefully while the man held his hand over her mouth and pressed her face against a wooden post on her back porch. Maybe he'd snuck up on her while she was working in her garden. Maybe he'd attacked her. 

As the assault continued – and now I could hear her moaning, hear the man telling her to "Take every inch, bitch" – I remembered that I was carrying Long John's old Springfield 1903 rifle. It was the one thing of his I really wanted as a possession, and with permission from Granny Alice to shoot on certain parts of the property, I'd made the gun part of my summer uniform, along with jeans, tan work boots and white t-shirts.

So as silently as I could, I unslung the rifle and raised it to my cheek, heart pounding so violently I thought it might smash through my ribs and give me away. Wishing for a telescopic site to give me a better view. Wishing I knew what to do. Wishing it was my cock in Aunt Clair's pussy. Wishing it was me pounding her ass with such power and strength. In her slightly bent-over position, Clair's heavy breasts swung freely within the thin fabric of her dress, obviously unconstrained by any bra, and I imagined reaching around, grasping them while I pummmelled her rump.

From my vantage point I had them at a three-quarter profile – enough to see that he was holding her mouth with one hand and grabbing one of her wrists with the other, but not clear to see her expression, or estimate the length of his cock. Like my father, I was a natural and confidence marksman, but the thought of having to put one shot through that man while making sure I didn't injure my aunt was enough to shake me. I could wait until he finished and got off of her, I figured, and then shoot him.

But then very adolescent line of logic chattered through my already sizzling brain. If the rapist orgasmed inside of her, Aunt Clair would get pregnant. And maybe contract a disease. As an 18-year-old virgin in 1981, that's roughly what I thought I knew about sex at the time.

And so I resolved to shoot him. 

Which is a strange thing to explain, but that's just the way it unfolded. I re-established my aim, set the sights just above the base of his skull, tried to calm my breathing and hold steady on center mass. It was just a simple transit of less than half a basketball court, bursting through the leafy canopy at the edge of the woodline, crossing the little stream below the spring house, then zooming across Aunt Clara's garden and directly into his brains. So close I didn't even need to elevate for distance. I let my index finger begin to take up the pull in the trigger, just like Long John had instructed me.

At which point the bearded, burly man shouted "Clair! I'm ..." and released my aunt from his grasp. The curvy mother-of-three instantly spun around, dropped to her knees and fumbled with his twitching penis in a race to get her lips around it before it started spurting. 

She was only partially successful. The first shot splashed across her left eye before she got the dick in her mouth, but after that she sucked greedily, taking his thick, roughly six-inch shaft all the way down her throat, until her nose pressed against his belly. I watched her throat contract twice before I realized she was swallowing his cum as it pulsed into her mouth. 

When the man's partially erect, still-glistening penis popped out of her mouth and he staggered backward, I thought I noticed Aunt Clair staring straight at me. 

"Alright Ray," she said, rising from her knees and wiping semen from her lips with the back of her hand. "Now you got yours."

But rather than dress herself, Aunt Clair sat down, leaned her elbows back on the porch, and spread her legs, revealing a swollen and lush pussy framed by pale, strong thighs and a softly curved lower belly. The man she called Ray hiked up his jeans and then fell to his knees at the bottom of the three wooden porch steps, burying his face in her naturally blonde delta. 

Apparently Clair was plenty close by that point, because after only a minute or so she convulsed mightily, wrapping her legs around his neck and bucking forward. I could see she was biting her lip at first, but after about three seconds she couldn't hold back, descending into sounds I'd never heard before. 

And then she was done, and Ray rolled over with his butt on the ground and leaned back against the porch, catching his breath. Clair sat up with her bare feet on the steps, her knees still spread, her dripping wet pussy still visible. And once again I felt her eyes probing the edge of the forest as if searching for me. 

When her gaze came to rest in what appeared to be a direct tunnel into my eyes contact, I simply stopped breathing. 

The two shared a cigarette there on the back porch and then Aunt Clair cleaned the man up, kissed him chastely on the lips and smacked him on the butt. 

"Best pussy in Trotter's Mill," Ray said.

"Take care of yourself, Ray."

"See you soon?"

"If you're lucky," she said, grinding out the last of their cigarette on the edge of her porch. Her eyes followed him as he walked around the outside of her house, and a few moments later I heard an engine fire up, followed by the sight of Ray tooling down her driveway in an old pickup with the words "Ray Ross Repairs" painted on the door. 

Before she walked back up into the cool of the porch and into the house, Clair looked back toward the woods one last time, then up into the bright blue sky. "Beautiful day, isn't it?" she said, her wry expression lingering generally in my direction. And then she was gone. 

I could have masturbated then and there. Just a touch would have likely tripped my hair trigger. But for some odd reason the woods no longer felt private, and so I waited until I'd treked back to the Apple House, went straight into the bathroom, and splashed an astonishing amount of sperm into the sink after about 10 seconds of work. I was fortunate to notice a massive glob of cum on the medicine cabinet mirror just before I walked out, and removed the evidence. 

Not that I was done for the day. If memory serves, I had to cum at least three more times just to get through the day and fall asleep that night. 

I had a new sexual fixation, my first erotic obsession: My Aunt Clair – a 5-foot-3 inch, 150-pound, D-Cup goddess of the wild places in my heart. Yes, I'd had crushes before, and fantasies that rushed me to climax. But I'd always been a young man disconnected from my own time, my own peers, my own youth culture, a boy who barely spoke to girls at school. I didn't talk well with silly flitting girls or pretentious punk poseurs. 

I didn't know it at the time, but Clair had just turned 50 that summer. Even if I had known it, I wouldn't have given a tinker's damn. I wanted to fuck my country aunt, and I had a strange intuitive sense that the feeling was mutual. 

---

I don't exactly remember what chores my mother had set for us the following day, and it hardly matters. What matters is that I still remember that I was eating my breakfast with my sisters and my mother when the phone rang, and somehow I just knew it was Aunt Clair. 


The Long Hunt Ch. 01



Which it was. 

And when I heard my mother say "Well sure you can have him for the day," my dick charged up like the paddles on a defribulator. "I've got some chores for him here, but he could stand to pitch in for the rest of the family, too."

So a few minutes later I was walking up the dirt driveway that connected the Apple House to the Milk House, just a bit farther up the slope of McRae's Hill, alone beneath a heavy canopy of poplar and hickory. Tasting the tang of dust and old creosote on a humid summer morning, heat already rising under under a cotton sky, swinging the sling blade my mother had told me to collect from the shed behind our house. Frightened and excited.

Clair was waiting for me at her mailbox as I rounded the bend. 

"How tall are you now, Will?" Aunt Clair called out to me, her voice surprisingly smooth for a smoker. She was still in her nightshirt, with her hair pulled back in a loose pony and her bare feet balanced precariously on the sharp gravel of her driveway. She was more playing with her cigarette than she was actively smoking it. 

"Six-foot-six," I said. "Or I was last month."

"Yes, I imagine that a month might matter to a boy your age," she said. "I swear, I think you've grown since I last saw you. But Lord, child, how much to you weigh?"

I was mabye 180 in those days. I lied and added a few pounds so as not to sound so spindly. 

"Well, then the first thing I'm gonna do is feed you, honey," she said as I reached her, sliding a maternal arm around my waist. "Come on into the house and I'll make you some breakfast with the girls."

I thought about volunteering that I'd just eaten, but in those days, I'd take all the calories I could get. 

And so I sat at the old wooden table in the big kitchen at the Milk House, a wood-frame two-story vernacular building set on field-stone pilings, with a design that made it look like the little house had a high forehead. I was flanked by my cousins Julie – at 18 years old, a virtual twin for the photos of the teenaged Clair that adorned the mantle – and Paul, a grumbling 13-year-old whose only apparent interest was professional wrestling. 

Clair talked with us happily while she cooked, and every time she passed my chair she touched my arm, shoulder or neck descretely. A few minutes after the meal the house emptied out, with Julie hugging me her way out the door, piling Paul into the family Chevelle. It was a day shift at the Piggly Wiggly in town for her, another day of Vacation Bible School for him. Once the car disappeared around the bend, the house and the whole end of the hollow felt profoundly quiet. 

"You hear that?" Clair said, stopping in of me at the front door and staring up into my eyes. It was hard to keep my attention fixed on her face with that cleavage gazing up at me, too. "That's the sound of the Big Lonely, Will. That's the sound of living back up here. It's a sound that's been up here for centuries."

We paused there for just a moment, maybe a moment too long, and then Aunt Clair led me out to the driveway and pointed out the work to be done. It was a long stretch of high grass, blackberry brambles, pokeberry and Jimson weed that had cropped up over the long summer. I got to work with the sling blade, pointing myself toward the old tobacco shed in the seldom-used corner of her yard. When I looked up for her again, she was gone. 

I must have worked for a couple of hours before Clair re-appeared, this time with cold glasses of iced tea. We sat together in the shade of the tobacco shed on a couple of rusting old metal chairs, drinking our tea and feeling the prickly heat rising. Droplets of sweat slid down her exposed skin into the valley between her breasts, and the wet patch on the back of my t-shirt stuck to me like a new layer of skin.

"Did you know that I've never lived in a house with air conditioning?" Clair asked me, staring out across the road toward an opening in the trees that led to Uncle Jim's corn field.. "I've been in air conditioning, of course. But I grew up with your mother and Jim and Jenny up at Willa's Place, and then Bart and me moved down here to the Milk House when we got married. So that's it. Only lived in two places, neither one has ever had air conditioning."

"You could always get one of those window units. Mom put one in the living room so we could all have a place we could close off and get cool."

"I thought about it," she said, turning back to me with a look that began at my feet and rose up to my eyes. "But I think I'm just hot-blooded my nature. If I were to get one, I think, maybe I'd turn into to one of those cold ladies from in town who still come out to our church. Hell, they're practically embalmed."

"Whatever happened to your husband Bart?" I asked. 

"He just wandered off, I guess," she said. This time she cut her eyes away from me. "Haven't seen him in 10 years." Clair ran her fingers provocatively down her cleavage to wipe away the sweat. "Hey, would you like to see something cool?"

I think I understood, even then, that we were about to cross a line into new territory. But rather than take me into the house and lead me to her bedroom, or have me fuck her on the back porch like Ray, Clair led me to the spring house. 

"Duck your head," she said as I followed her into the thick-walled building. "Pull that door closed behind you."

As soon as I did, I felt the cool room settle around me, and as my eyes adjusted to the half-light, I began picking out the details. Sunlight slanted down from two small openings near the rafters, revealing the source of the gentle gurgling sound below my feet. There was no floor at the center of the room, as the spring house had been built around the spot where the stream that flowed past the Milk House rose from the earth. The central pool had been constructed to hold crocks of milk and cream on shelves that kept them just below the surface, although those crocks were long gone by 1981. 

"When I was your age, living up at Willa's Place, we used to come down here on the days when it got too damned hot, and we'd sit in here on that bench there and just pass the time," Clair said. "It's still my favorite place in the world, I think." She sat on the bench and relaxed audibly. "Do you like it?"

"And this is where they kept the milk?" I asked, pointing to the pool. 

"Yep. Back before we got electric up here. But that was before I was born."

"I think I would have liked it back then," I said, examining the structure in detail. "I like those old-time things."

"You're just like your father," Aunt Clair said. "Born out of time. I look at you and I can just see you in buckskins."

"Like the long hunters," I said. 

"Just like the long hunters," she said. Aunt Clair closed her eyes, and we fell silent for a moment.

"I gave my first blow job in this very spot," she purred. Her eyes opened and engaged boldly with mine. "Do you know what a blow job is, Will?" 

Hell yes I knew what a blow job was. "No ma'am," I said.

"A blow job is when a woman – well, at the time I was just a girl – takes a man's penis in her mouth and licks it and kisses it and sucks it until the man can't take it anymore and ejaculates," she said, then closed her eyes again, drifting in an expression both distant and blissful. "Ejaculate. I've always kinda liked that word. It's a bit funny for what it is, which is just plain old cum, but it sounds almost happy. Ejaculate! When you give a man a blow job, when you do it right, he cums right in your mouth. Boom! And they're just so grateful afterward."

I tried to swallow, but my throat was so dry that it basically refused.

"Was... uh, was it your husband Bart?"

Aunt Clair laughed. "No. I didn't get together with that useless fuck until I was 19 years old. Have you ever had a girlfriend, Will?" 

"Yes. Sort of."

"Have you ever had a blow job?"

I shook my head in the semi-darkness. 

"Do you understand that I brought you in here to offer you one?"

I nodded. 

"And how do you feel about that, Will? Do you like the idea of a woman like me – a mother, your blood kin – giving you that kind of pleasure? Or does that bother you?"

"No!" I said. "It doesn't bother me. I just don't understand why."

"Honey," she said, shifting her weight forward on the bench, "I get lonely up here. And I realize that you may not understand this yet, but you're just a painfully beautiful young man." 

"You're beautiful, too" I said, swallowing hard again. "I think you're very sexy. I think..."

"Will honey," she said, "I'm 10 years older than your mother. You don't need to flatter me. I just need to hear you ask me. I just need to hear the words. And if you ask me, 'Please Aunt Clair, please give me a blow job, please suck me until I cum,' then I will."

"It can't be right," I said.

"I'm not asking you if it's right. We decide what is right here. That's not the question."

"Then what is?"

"Ask me, Will." 

It all came out like a single word with no punctuation. "Willyousuckmeandmakemecum?"

"Yes," my aunt said, tucking the stray strands of her long blonde hair behind her ear. "Come here, young man." 

I stepped closer to her, and Clair leaned forward, undid my belt and top button, and the pulled the zipper of my jeans. My cock – already as hard as a diamond, and only constrained by underwear and too-tight denim, leaped out of the opening like an animal freed from its cage. 

"My God that's beautiful," she said, leaning forward so close to my penis that I could feel the warmth of her skin in the cool spring house even before she touched me. "Will, I want you to know that this is going to be the largest penis I've ever touched. Do you feel honored?"

"Sure."

She laughed lightly again, then grabbed the base of my cock and swiftly sucked down about a third of my length, releasing it against strong suction, and then pulled her head away. The sudden jolt of pleasure made me gasp. "How long has it been since you last came, baby?" 

"Well, I mean, I've never..."

"I had two brothers and raised your cousin George," Aunt Clair said. "I know you boys have to jack it regular just stay sane."

"I don't..."

"Will," she said, stroking my cock and swiftly and gentling swirling her tongue once around its head, "if you want this blow job, you've got to answer my questions. Honestly."

"This morning. First thing."

She rewarded me with another deep bob on my dick. "And before that?"

"Three times. Yesterday."

"What did you think about about?" She slurped up and down several times. "While you were stroking this magnificient dick, what did you think about?"

"I thought about you." 

"Yesss...." she said, and now she brought both her hands up to grasp me, and her sucking grew more forceful and rythmic. "Was that you in the woods yesterday, Will Messer?"

"Yes," I said every muscle in my body now rigid with the equisite electric sizzle of pleasure she was generating.

"You watched that man fuck me."

"Yes."

"You watched me swallow his cum."

"Yes."

"And then you made yourself cum over and over again, just remembering it."

"Yes."

"Do you understand how excited that makes me, Will?"

"I'm glad."

Clair stopped so abruptly that her mouth made a popping sound as it released the head of my cock, and she stood straight up and pulled her v-neck top over her head, then reached behind her back and opened the clasp on her bra, freeing her womanly breasts. After staring up into my eyes for a moment, she sat back down, leaned back, and brought my dick to her chest before squeezing her breasts around it. 

"Thrust," she commanded, and I thrusted. "Imagine that's my pussy. Do you like it?"

"Yes."

"Do you want it?" 

"Yes." 

"You can't have it, honey. Oh, I'd like it. I'd like to feel this huge dick filling up my pussy. But this is my rule. This is my line. If you're family, I will suck you. I will stroke you. I'll let you fuck my tits. But pussy sex is over the line. Do you understand?"

"OK."

"Are you ready to cum?"

"Yes." I was panting now, breathless, my fingers reaching out to grab her head. 

"OK then, Will," she said, returning to deep-throating my dick. "You may cum in my mouth. You may shoot your load down my throat. Do it. Do it. Do it."

And I did, too, sprialing, looping, white ropes of cum blasting out of my dick as my hands held her head firmly in place. But I needn't have bothered. The moment I began to ejaculate, Aunt Clair pressed her neck forward, taking my dick so deep that I could feel her throat contracting around the sensitive head. She wanted every drop, and she took it. 

"Beautiful," she said when she released me. "Now watch me cum." It was the first time that I had even noticed that she had her left hand between her legs, and was already close to climax herself. 

"No, don't take you dick from me," she said when I tried to move. "I want it in my mouth when I cum." Rather than take it away, I leaned over instead and – for the first time in my life – slipped a finger into a pussy. She was drenching wet, and in a few moments one finger had become three, and while she rubbed her clit and strained against my fingers, I felt her tip over the edge into orgasm. 

The event was so exciting that my dick instantly came to life again, and as my aunt returned to the earthly plane, she suddenly became aware of the fact that my dick was hardening again in her mouth. 

"My God Will. You're ready to go again."

"Is that weird?"

"It's unusual. But not so rare for someone your age." She stroked my dick with both hands and resumed slurping on the head, humming as she did it. "I think you could cum again."

"Of course."

"God I wish I could feel this dick inside me," she moaned. 

"You can," I whispered. 

"I can't," she said, and then deep-throated me again. "Come on, Will, cum for me. Cum down my throat again."

"I want to fuck you," I said, feeling bolder. "I want to fuck you like he did."

She sucked harder and faster. 

"I've never had it," I whispered. 

"It's my rule," she said, refusing to look up at me. "It's the rule I always kept with Jim."

"You fucked your brother?"

"No!" she insisted. "Only blow jobs. Handjobs. Never my pussy. Not him or my cousins."

"So your first blow job in this spring house..."

"Was your Uncle Jim," she said looking up into my eyes now. "When I was 14. He begged for my pussy, but I always said no."

"Aunt Clair, may I please fuck you?"

"No! I said no!"

"You said I just needed to ask. And I'm asking. Can I just slide my dick along the outside of it?"

"Here," she said, standing up again and turning her ass to me so that my dick pressed against the cleavage of her rump cheeks. "Come on, baby, rub it there and shoot your load all over me."

"At least let me feel your skin," I said as I pulled up her dress, revealing her naked ass. It lacked the elasticity of a young woman's perky bottom, but it was classically shaped, smooth and strong. Clair moaned and dropped her head as I laid my penis between her ass cheeks and began to slide it up and down, the slick friction engaging her sensitive anus and coming perilously close to splitting her vulva wide open.

"God I want that dick!" she said, and when mistakenly I took that wish as permission, I fumbled frantically to find her opening with the head of my cock. She recognized what I was doing and immediately pushed away. We stood there, panting, staring into each other's eyes.

"Most boys your age do what they're told." She said.

"Yes ma'am."

"Most boys your age respect their elders."

"Aunt Clair, I do respect you. And I'll do whatever you say. But I really want to feel what a woman feels like, and I think you really want to feel me, too."

"I do. It's just..."

"One time," I begged. "Just let me put it in you one time. And then I'll pull out."

For the next two or three seconds, the universe seem to balance on an infinite spindle.

"If I let you, do you promise to pull out when I say?" 

"Yes."

"Do you promise to hold completely still if I say so?"

"Yes."

"I can't believe I'm doing this," she said, turning around, spreading her legs with her dress hitched up over her rump, and leaning forward to put her forearms against the cool walls of the spring house. "I hope God will forgive me, Will. I hope you'll forgive me."

Her pussy radiated heat in the perpetual dusk of the cool room. It was still a mystery to me, but I could see that its lips were open.

"That's it. Right there. Hold it!" She was gasping as the tip of my cock touched the opening of her wet hole. "OK baby, you're right there. Now when I say, I want you to push it in very, very slowly, until it's in as far as it will go. And then I want you to hold very, very still. OK?"

"OK."

"OK baby. Do it." 

We both gasped as I entered her, one long, excruiating stroke of pleasure. Aunt Clair slapped the wall as I reached her deepest point, let out a guttural sound, and then growled "Do. Not. Move." 

"Yes ma'am," I said. 

"Because if you move, you'll cum. Won't you?"

"I'm about to cum right now. I want to cum right now."

"Do not cum inside my pussy, young man. You made me a promise."

"Yes ma'am."

"I just want to feel this for a moment," she said, and I noticed she had taken her right hand off the wall and started to massage her clit while she talked. "Your dick is huge. It's shaped like a baseball bat. And I want to be fucked senseless by it."

"Then let me..."

"No!" she shouted, pushing back and away from me. I damn near lost my balance and fell into the central pool. 

"I'm sorry honey," she said, resuming her role as the supportive aunt. "I understand. I should have never taken you down this road. I had no right."

But I was crazed by this point, on the verge of orgasm, driven past the point of reason by the smell and feel of pussy and saliva and my own funk. Just two thrusts would have made me explode, and in that state of limited mental capacity, I was no longer the 18-year-old boy she had known, but every sex-crazed young man who has ever lived. 

And dear Aunt Clair recognized it, bless her heart. 

"Honey?" she said. It was a command, not a question, like she was gently speaking through the wild haze of lust and pre-orgasmic mania to find the sane person inside me, the one that wasn't absorbed with mad desire to fuck her rough like that Ray Ross had. To hold her down, slam her hard, fill her with sperm – then shake it off, harden up and do it again. It was like her voice was coming to me from far away, and then there she was, her face looking up at me, Aunt Clair reconnecting to the sane me with her eyes and voice, holding my twitching cock still deep within her pussy.

"Will, baby, I love you so much, and I'm sorry I've brought you to this. But you're not thinking straight, because need to cum, baby. That's all. It's just that I can't let you cum inside my pussy, even though I'd like nothing more than to feel you gush into me."

Listening to those words damn near flipped my trigger, but she was slowly drawing herself off my dick as she spoke. "Shhh..." she whispered. "Don't you worry, darlin'. I know what you need, and I promis I'm going to take good care of you. Shh. Come on. You're almost there."

And then, as I watched in amazement, my Aunt Clair reached behind her and used her fingers to take juice from her pussy and begin lubricating her tight little ass. 

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I didn't mean to bring you this far," she said, running a finger into her asshole. "But you need to cum and I know you need to cum inside me. So I'm going to let you finish inside my ass."

"But, Aunt Cl..."

"Shhh, Will, shhh. Come here, give me your dick," she said as she reached behind her, grasped my penis, and lined it up at her tightest opening. "Now baby, you're getting kind of a crash course in sexual pleasure today. But I think you can handle it..."




The Long Hunt Ch. 01



She began pushing her butt back twoard me as she spoke, and it felt as if I was entering her...

"...because I think you have a special gift for sex, Will. Ooo! OK! Hold it right there! Do you feel that?"

"Yes!"

"You're just barely inside me," she said, looking back at me over her shoulder. "Now when you push into me, it's really going to stretch me. So you need to give my ass a few moments to relax, so I can take your thrusts, OK?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Good boy. OK, Will, take a little more juice from my pussy and put it on you dick."

I followed her instruction, and as I did, I felt her push back against me, taking me another inch deeper. Again we froze in place, and after a few seconds I felt her shifting slightly, exploring the sensation of my cock within her.

"This was the thing Bart loved best in the world. He'd come home drunk every Saturday night and buttfuck me until I cried. But eventually, I learned how."

It felt incredible, and I was wild at this point, waiting only for her permission to seek my release.

"OK, I'm ready, boy. Take it. Take my ass. Fucking cum in my ass, son!"

And so I did. One, two, three strokes of medium depth. And I held back, barely. Her ass opening, accepting, drawing me deeper. Four, five, six strokes, and she yeilded entirely, the sensitive head of my dick now past the tight opening and impaling her deep and empty void. 

Her eyes rolled back in her head. The sight of that tripped something deep inside me, too.

My orgasm rolled in like a wave out of a dark sea, and as it gathered, I shortened my stroke so that the most sensitive part of my cock was compressed by the tightest part of her sphincter. Once it began, each contraction, each pulse, was met by a complimentary squeeze from my aunt. She ministered to me, mastered me, using every trick she'd ever learned to prolong my orgasm, draining my balls so completely that the experience began in unspeakable pleasure and ended in some fugue state where pleasure and pain intermarried and the horizon disappeared.

And then it was over. Like that. My dick, finally satiated, retreated from her ass, and I slumped to the bench in blissful idiocy. My aunt immediately grasped my face and kissed the crown of my head, then pressed me to her warm and naked bosum. 

"I'm sorry, Will," she said. "But I'm not sorry. Do you understand?" 

I nodded. 

Then she knelt in front of me and looked into my eyes. "I'll never force you to do this again. But if you want me – if you really want to do this sort of thing again – you'll do two things."

"Yes?"

"First, no jacking off for the next three days. I want to experience your cum at full force. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"And second, you tell no one. Ever. Agreed?"

I nodded. 

"OK then," Aunt Clair said, efficently gathering her clothing and straightening herself. "I'll see you in three days time."

She opened the door to the spring house and stood in the blindingly brilliant light. 

"There's an awful lot you don't know about this place. About your parents. About your story. But I'll help you, Will."

"Thank you," I said.

"You're welcome," she replied. "And welcome to the family." Clair gave me a Cheshire Cat smile, and then closed the door behind her. I let the cool darkness envelope my soul.



The Long Hunt Ch. 02



Here's the funny thing.

After Clair rather memorably took my virginity – and I mean, not that many 18-year-old boys lose their oral, vaginal and anal virginity in a single session with their 50-year-old aunt – I had to go back to work on her fucking yard.

And by the time I'd finished sling-blading and cutting back the rest of the scrub that had taken over that corner of her property, I was more than ready for another round with the curvaceous, blonde, middle-aged object of my sexual obsession. By which I mean to say, I spent the last hour of so of the job uncomfortably erect.

So I did what your average idiot 18-year-old would do. I finished up my job and went sniffing around her kitchen porch for seconds. 

As I was about to learn, my Aunt Clair lived in multiple worlds, with clear boundaries between each aspect of her fractured personality. Which meant that when I walked up and opened the screen door without knocking, Clair wheeled around from chopping onions by the sink and flashed me a look that could have cut glass. 

"Don't you walk in my house without knocking first, young man."

Did I mention I was 18 and stupid? Because you're about to see 18 and stupid in action right here.

"Well," I drawled – and I remember that I was smiling here, because I'd thought of this line as I approached the house – "seeing as how I've already come in your back door once today, I figured you wouldn't mind."

Aunt Clair smiled at me and dropped her eyes toward the floor as she sashayed over to where I stood by the screen door, shaking her head slowly with a wry grin on her face.

"You think you're a very clever boy, don't you, Will?" she said, coming to a stop right beneath my gaze. I lifted my right hand to fondle her breast, but I don't think it ever connected. That's on account of how Clair swiftly and accurately grabbed my testicles through the denim of my jeans and began to twist them into a something resembling a corkscrew.

"Now Will, honey, I know that you're young," she began, controlling my wincing retreat with more pain, "and I know how stupid young men can be. In fact, the only thing dumber than young men are young women. Because they let you idiots get away with it. They think it's cute. Can you believe that?"

"No ma'am," I wheezed.

"I told you what the rules were, didn't I?"

"Yes ma'am."

"But I guess I didn't make myself clear enough. So let me be plain, son. Don't you ever walk in my home unexpected or unannounced. Understand?"

"Yes."

"And don't you ever suggest that the two of us repeat any part of what we just did. You can jack off remembering it all you want, but if you ever want to have me again, it's going to be on my schedule, on my terms, by my rules. That's not because I'm a bitch, honey. It's because you're my nephew, and if other people here knew that I was fucking you... well, sweetheart, do I have to draw you a picture?"

"No ma'am." 

"Alright then," she said, releasing my nuts. I collapsed backward against the door frame. 

"One last thing, baby," she said, sauntering back over to her cutting board and picking up her knife. "I don't want you getting anywhere near my Julie."

I stammered something, and she cut me off.

"Look, Will," she interjected. "It's not some Mrs. Robinson thing from that movie with Dustin Hoffman. I ain't psycho or nothing like that. It's just that you're a sweet boy with a romantic streak, and Julie is an awful lot like me. I know she looks at you, and you'd have to be blind not to notice her. But y'all are cousins, honey. And I just don't think either one of you would be smart enough or controlled enough to handle what we're doing. You understand?"

I agreed, and that was pretty much that. We walked around while she inspected my work, ordered me to trim up a couple of small patches, and then paid me a crisp $5 bill. "Tell your mama I said thanks and that I'll call her later on," Clair said as she sent me off. "And remember what I told you about three days. Do you remember?"

"Yes ma'am," I replied, remembering her order that I abstain from masturbation for three days. Which is when I heard the sound of a car approaching up the long, winding drive, gravel crunching beneath slowly turning wheels. It was Julie, returning with her younger brother Paul. I turned to watch them approach, and Julie and I waved as she crept by and pulled into the yard. 

"Thank you, Will," Aunt Clair said. "You do good work. If you learn how to follow instructions, I'll have plenty more for you to do around here. Bye now."

So I didn't stick around to talk to Julie, just turned and walked home, got in the tub, and immediately violated Clair's orders by jacking off into a wash cloth while the memories of the blow job, of the agonizingly still pussy fuck, of the spectacularly tight grip of her ass, remained fresh in my mind.

But after that, I felt my resolve returning. I wanted more of Aunt Clair, and if that meant letting my semen back up for three days, then by Gawd, it was worth it. 

***

Clair actually dropped by the house the next night after dinner and spent a couple of hours on the porch with my mother and Diane, drinking beer and gossiping. She was polite enough when I stood in the doorway and chatted with them, but showed me no special interest. I went up to my room and fantasized about Aunt Clair on her back, her hips rocked back to receive me, begging to have her pussy filled with salty, warm goo.

But I didn't touch myself, and the pressure just continued to build. By the next afternoon it was beyond uncomfortable, and by the morning of the third day, I couldn't think about anything but Clair. The way the soft blonde curls of her hair came loose from her pony tail and tickled my skin and she took me and out of her mouth. Those heavy breasts. The hourglass curve of her figure. The thick strength of her thighs. The slight, soft curve of her belly. The way she held my penis still inside her pussy and how that made time expand into an infinite horizon. How her eyes flashed at me as she controlled my orgasm just inside the opening of her butthole, extending pleasure to the verge of pain.

And all day I waited. I fiddled with the VW. Took care of the chores my mother had set for me. Watched a little TV with Amy. Tried reading a book. Normally I'd have gone looking for some work, or walked up some hill somewhere. But I figured Aunt Clair was just up the driveway, with a house all to herself, and the call could come at any moment. 

So I waited. I waited until the summer sun began its evening descent, until my mother returned from her new job at the county hospital, pecking her on the cheek as she walked wearily up the steps to the front porch. Amy had supper on the stove, Diane was off somewhere with Julie, mom was in a good mood, and other than the fact that I was carrying around a loaded erection with the safety switched off, everything felt surprisingly right with the world. 

Which is when I heard Aunt Clair at the door. 

"Knock knock! Hello!"

My mother called for her to come in, and Clair swept into the kitchen with a basket of tomatoes and zucchini from her garden, hugging my mother around the shoulders, kissing Amy on the cheek as she passed her at the stove, then smooching me hard on the ear where I sat at the kitchen table. 

"Everybody doing alright?" she asked as she pulled up the chair next to me and sat down. 

And don't quite remember what we all talked about, but it was small talk, the kind of talk you get with family when you're happy to see each other. About the zucchini fritters that Clair was going to make. About how Paul would be down in a bit, but how he wouldn't eat any proper food. About when the girls would be getting home. 

At some point, the conversation turned to mom's day at the hospital, and Aunt Clair suggested that she go plop herself down in the tub for a few minutes while the rest of us got dinner ready. "After all, you're the working woman in the family," she said. "Least we can do is give you a few minutes to yourself." 

And so as Amy stood over the stove singing along to Bob Welch's "Sentimental Lady" on the radio, Clair drew my mother a bath, kissed her on the cheek and closed the door to the bathroom behind her. I looked up hopefully at her down the hall, and she gave me an enigmatic smile. 

"Will, honey, come give me a hand over here?" Aunt Clair called to me. 

"Sure," I said, grateful that Amy wasn't looking my way, since my erection in those jeans restricted my ability to stand up gracefully. 

As I approached her, Aunt Clair turned away and walked ahead of me into the back room where we kept the washer, dryer and linen shelves. No sooner had I stepped inside than Clair shut the door behind us and popped the button above the fly to my jeans. 

"Did you do as I asked?" 

I mumbled a yes. 

"Then this won't take long, will it?" she said as she freed my penis. 

"No it won't, Clair," I whispered. She was stroking my dick with both hands.

"Will," she said quietly. "If you want this blow job, you call me ma'am."

"Yes ma'am."

"Yes ma'am what?"

"Yes ma'am please suck my dick," I whispered. 

Aunt Clair didn't say another word, just turned on the oscillating fan on the ironing board, dropped to her knees, opened her mouth and took me in. There was no slow, swirling build up, no long, exquisite tease. She just took me in her warm mouth, stroked my shaft in properly coordinated rhythm, and quickly, efficiently built me up to orgasm. 

I don't know how long it took, exactly. Certainly less than a minute. Maybe not more than 30 seconds. But with that much semen built up, plus all my agonizing anticipation and her expert ministrations, it all happened quickly, and exploded powerfully. 

There was already pre-cum glistening the tip of my dick before she even took me in her mouth, so it wasn't like she got much warning. The first blast caused Aunt Clair to gag, and she came off my dick spitting back the results of the initial contraction just as the second spurt launched an even larger load of semen right into her face. It missed her eyes but most of it splashed across her cheek, with the rest plunging into her cleavage. Gathering herself, she closed her eyes as the third pulse erupted, covering the 18 inches between my glans and her lips in milliseconds.

After that she was back on my penis, which continued to convulse, basically providing a warm place for my orgasm to occur. And when it finally finished, she resumed her sucking, until every last drop had been extracted, tasted, and consumed. 

"Spectacular," she said as she pulled away, using her fingers to wipe the sperm off her cheek and collect it from her cleavage. Each bit she found went straight into her mouth. "Now hand me one of those towels from that stack," she said. 

I helped her clean up, and other than a suspicious wet spot on her shirt – the recipient of a glob of sperm about the size of an oyster – she returned to the dining room looking none the worse for wear. 

All told, we'd been gone for not more than two minutes, and I helped her clean off the table and spread the red-and-white table cloth across it. Amy was finishing up the green bean casserole and putting it into the oven alongside the mac and cheese, oblivious to what had just taken place in the other room. She chatted with Clair about helping out with our aunt's plan to make zucchini fritters. 

"Honey, you've done enough," Clair said to Amy. "I'll get Will to help me."

Once Amy wandered off to the living room, and with my mother in the tub down the hall, Aunt Clair and I stood side by side at the counter, cutting up tomatoes and onions and zucchini from her garden, talking about sex like we were talking about the TV schedule. 

"Didn't know you were coming to dinner," I whispered. 

"Just talk in your normal voice," Clair said. "They'll hear the sound of voices, but not the words."

"I didn't know you were coming to dinner," I said aloud.

"Well, I didn't call your mother and offer to come over until this afternoon. Sure are some nice looking zucchini, aren't they?" She held up a massive green squash. "Kinda reminds me of someone."

"Thanks for the... uh..."

"Blow job, honey. And of course! Don't mention it." Clair chopped the ends off the zucchini, and I squirmed involuntarily. "It really was my pleasure. Isn't that kinky of me? I've just got this thing about cum. Or semen. Whatever you want to call it."

"So is this how it's going to be?" I asked, like I was asking if I should set the good china at the table. "You're going to show up at random times and take me in the laundry room?"

"Did you like that? I thought of that last night. Been trying to think of ways to get my hands on you without attracting notice. Can't have you up at my house every afternoon doing 'chores" without somebody around here connecting the dots. Honey, pass me that cheese grater."

"I go for long walks in the woods sometimes. Nobody around here takes any notice. Maybe you could sneak out the back sometime."

Clair started grating the zucchini into translucent strips. "Sweetheart, let me explain something to you. The men in this family are wanderers. But the other thing is, they all hustle for money. Some better than others. And so long as you're picking up money, whether you're working a regular job or not, nobody around here is going to pay any mind.

"But here's the thing. You're a grown man. And nobody has said anything, yet, because you've just been here a few weeks. But the truth is, Will, that there ain't much more time left for you to hang around the house, walk around the woods and picking up the occasional day labor job. Not before your grandmother starts talking. Not before the men show up and start asking when you're going to start pitching in around here."

She wasn't wrong, and I knew it. I just wasn't sure where to start. I didn't exactly have that many marketable skills. 

"Which brings me to an idea I had the other night," Clair said. "You remember that Ray Ross? The one who was fucking me out back?"

I almost sliced my finger off.

"Yes."

"Ray's a handyman. Does a little bit of everything. And since he owes me a few favors, I was thinking maybe I'd ask him to take you on as an assistant. Pay wouldn't be much, but he'd have you up to journeyman before you know it. Would you be interested?"

I flashed back to the image of Ray Ross, the burly, black-bearded mountaineer, rage-fucking my sweet Aunt Clair from behind, only to watch her spin around frantically to drop to her knees and drain his balls down her throat when his time came. 

"It's not like I've got better options," I said. 

"Well that's just great!" Aunt Clara said brightly, her eyes sparkling as she reached up, grabbed my neck and pulled me down into a sudden and warm French kiss. She released me with a jolt as we popped back into faux normality. "Because Ray does a lot of work for me, and nobody really cares. And if you should show up at my place on a job with Ray, I don't think most people would have a word to say about it. See what I'm saying?"

"Well, I do wish you'd explain a bit more."

"It's like this, sugar," Aunt Clair said. "I've had this idea that you and Ray could double team me and put me right over the moon. I just can't stop thinking about how good your dick felt when you came inside my ass, baby. I think about it all the time. Pass the flour, Will – yes, that kind, the all-purpose. Anyway, I just lie around, thinking about it, and it just gives me ideas. So will you go to work for Ray if I arrange it?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Will Messer, you speak politely when you talk to your elders or I will twist that ear right off."

"Yes ma'am."

"Yes ma'am," she said. "I do like the sound of that."

***

I still remember that dinner almost as clearly as if it were last week. My mother, my sisters, my Aunt Clair and her kids, Julie and Paul, all seated around that big farm table at the Apple House, which is what the family called the old place where we settled after moving down from the District of Columbia. Everyone was in a good mood, and it was one of those warm summer evenings when everything stretched out long and slow.

The McRaes were a big name clan around Trotter's Mill, and almost all of them attended Bethel Baptist Church just down the road. Up there where we lived back in the 1980s there were about 20 members of our closest kin spread out across 200 acres and about a half-dozen homes and trailers – some beautiful and classic, others downright tacky. But we'd barely met some of them in the first weeks since my mother moved us down, and even the ones we'd spent some time with seemed a little stand-offish at times. 

Obviously Clair was friendly, and my grandmother Alice was nice enough. By my great-grandmother Ethel – who lived with Alice in a house called Willa's Place – was a glowering troll of a woman in her 90s. 

Uncle Jim was the oldest and the most accomplished – he had been off to school at the University of North Carolina and had a private law practice in town – but he was also one of those people who took an extra second to look you over before he'd respond to your question, and I didn't appreciate the way he looked at my sisters. A handsome man, well-groomed. I'd yet to receive an invitation to The Hedges, his house up at the intersection with McRae's Farm Road. 

Aunt Jenny was the youngest of my mother's siblings, but had started putting out babies at 16 and lived with her husband, Tom Stevens, down by the hard road, which is just what everybody called the two-lane county highway. Tom did earthmoving work and kept pigs – not the most fragrant of jobs, but it paid the bills for Jenny, who had never worked a day in her life and spent much of her time watching television with her daughters. 

It was, for the most part, a property strangely dominated by women, with not that many patriarchs around. I seldom heard about my grandfather Rick McRae – Ethel's boy – but I picked up enough to know he'd spent some time in prison for moonshining. 

Looking back, I understand now why these family people didn't sop us up like a biscuit in red-eye gravy – we were family, yes, but strangers, too. And McRaes don't do well with strangers. 

Still, that night seemed to be the beginning of our casual acceptance into the clan. I always remember it that way.

My mom looked as happy as I'd seen her in months, laughing and leaning into her older sister as they sat on the porch swing. The resemblance was obvious – Lisa was just the willowy variation of the same genetic template, with Clair representing the curvy, buxom, lush version. And as different as they were – mom's voice was ethereal, Clair's down-to-earth, bordering on bawdy – you could still tell that both women were somehow singing out of the same hymnal. 

My younger sister Diane and Clair's daughter Julie bore some resemblance, too. Both were blonde with long torsos that made them look almost boyish, and though I didn't know it at the time, both were recovering in their own ways from secret wounds. Diane's made her occasionally wild and self-destructive. Julie simply dove into church and tried to sink her anchor there. She tended to her withdrawn brother, Paul, as if he were some personal penance, and for that night, at least, the 13-year-old seemed almost social.

But the person who had always been my confidant was acting strange that night. 

Amy was a year my elder, and like me, she took after our father. She was lean and tall like me, with the bronze-and-olive sheen of his mixed-blood line, her hair long and dark and shiny and straight, her demeanor naturally grave and inward. Growing up with our father coming and going and our mother looping in and out of something akin to depression, we had formed an attachment that was almost twin-like. We routinely completed each other's sentences, and our mother loved to tell the story of how, as a toddler, I'd once tattled on Amy for something she'd done to one of the other girls at nursery school – which was miles away. 




The Long Hunt Ch. 02



They laughed about it. But then there was this note that came home with her that said that Amy had given one of the other girls a haircut with those blunt little scissors, and nobody in the family understood how I'd known that.

That didn't mean we didn't fight. In fact, that whole year we'd been on the outs – the fallout from an incident at Christmas. But we'd never really lost that sense of a shared private reality that we'd carried around since childhood. And I could tell there was something heavy on her mind. I could tell by nothing more than the looks she gave me from her seat on the edge of the porch.

So when the evening wore down and the cousins went home with Aunt Clair, I volunteered to help Amy do the dishes. We said goodnight to our mother, who kissed us both before wandering wearily off to bed, and shouted some mocking abuse at Diane, who flipped us off as she climbed the stairs. 

We didn't really talk as we washed the dishes and put them away. But when it was over and I shut off the light over the sink, Amy was waiting on the other side of the kitchen counter. 

"Will, I'm not here to judge," she said, finally speaking her mind. "But I just wish you'd told me about you and Aunt Clair."

I fumbled with a response, but she waved me off. 

"It's really none of my business," Amy said, shaking her head as she backed away. "Just don't let yourself get lost in this place. In this family."

***

That night I had a dream in which my mother appeared in the nude at the foot of my bed, took me by the hand, and walked me silently out of the house under the silver light of the full moon, across the yard and into the dark forest, following a path marked by little white candles.

At the top of the hill the forest opened into a clearing, where probably a dozen figures in dark robes stood around a circle lit by five small fires in small stone pits. My mom walked me to the edge of the circle, stood on her tiptoes to kiss me chastely, and then handed me over to one of the robed figures. The woman swept back the hood of her robe, and revealed herself as Aunt Clair.

Then Clair stepped out of her robe, revealing her softly curved hips, thighs and breasts, and held out her hand to me. I took it, and she led me to the center of the circle, where a slab of flat granite waited. When we reached the rock, my nude aunt began undressing me, wordlessly instructing me to lie down. While my naked mother and the rest of the hooded figures watched in silence, my aunt smoothed her hands over my chest, shoulders, belly and thighs, finally coming to rest on my flaccid penis. 

My dick responded immediately to her attention, particularly once Clair deep-throated in a stunning display of prowess. I was so lost in the pleasure of it that my dream self lost track of time and surrounding. It was as if one moment I was lying on my back, feeling the coldness of the slab and the warmth of her mouth, the erotic anxiety of being surrounded silent, cloaked strangers – and in the next instant I realized that my aunt was gone, and I'd been bound to the slab by ropes around my wrists and ankles. 

Now another hooded figure approached, only this one was holding a double-edged sword. I panicked, straining against the restraints, as the new participant in the ritual stepped up onto the slab and stood above me with the sword raised over her head, mumbling words I didn't understand.

Then she threw back her hood, and I instantly recognized my sister Amy. 

Without saying a word, she shrugged off her robe, revealing her lithe, naked body in all its perfection and glory. She stood over my hips, placed the tip of her sword on the rough surface of the slab, and then squatted down until her labia hung just millimeters above my erect but horizontal cock. Not for an instant did her eyes leave mine.

I tried to speak to her in my dream – to ask her to release me, to ask her not to do whatever she was about to do. But I was mute. I could only mumble.

And then, after receiving a blessing and a kiss from our mother, Amy reached down, grabbed my erection and pointed it toward her pussy. She enveloped it in a single downward movement of her hips. Neither of us spoke, but dream-Amy did gasp a bit.

I tried to tell her "I'm sorry," but no words came out.

And then I stopped being sorry, because the sensation – the mind-warping pleasure – was as real as anything I'd experienced with Aunt Clair. Plus – and there's just no sense in lying about it now – that sense of deep soul connection felt as right and comforting as anything I can describe. We had always been close, but as siblings we had learned to cloak that intimacy in elaborate boundaries and rules. 

To just lie back while she boldly took possession of my gaze and consumed my body sexually was the greatest of luxuries. 

Dream time isn't like waking time, so I can't describe how long it lasted. At no point did she ever speak, and our prolonged eye contact morphed gently into a shared, trusting encouragement. I moved with her. She moved with me. There were no longer any secrets between us, no distance, no artificial separation. Through it all, Amy just stared deeply and meaningfully into my eyes while her flawless 19-year-old body worked me smoothly, powerfully, deliberately, toward orgasm.

As the tension built, the hooded figures began chanting, and my mother and aunt approached us, touching our naked bodies gently with reassuring smooth palms. I cut my eyes away from Amy for a moment to gaze up at Lisa, my mother, standing naked at the head of the slab, staring down at my face with a peaceful smile. As beautiful as she was, I longed for my connection to Amy more, and quickly re-established it. 

As the rhythmic intersection of our hips increased its tempo, our mother bent down, kissed the side of my cheek, and whispered this in my ear. And this is verbatim: "I brought you and your sister into this world like two pieces of a magic amulet. The power you both need – the power we all need – begins with your union. Now release your seed into your sister, and change the world."

Lisa stood and stepped away and now Amy fucked me frantically, raising her sword and placing its tip on my chest right above my heart. As I felt my semen gathering to begin its explosive rush, Amy began to convulse in her own orgasm. 

"Fill me!" she commanded, and I did, blasting billions of sperm cells deep inside her. 

And in that moment of shared ecstasy, Amy plunged her sword into my chest, through my ribs, and impaled my heart.

It was the first wet dream I'd had in more than a year, and the shock woke me too fast, ripping me away from the erotic nightmare and tossing me back into my room upstairs. My chest heaved in the darkness, heart pounding in lust and terror.

I sat for a moment, and then lay back down to sleep. And for just a moment, I thought I caught a peripheral glimpse of my sister slipping away from the door to my room.

I didn't know it at the time, but our story was only beginning. 

And while I suspected that things with Ray Ross and Aunt Clair were about to get strange, I had no idea how deep that darkness was about to plunge.



The Long Hunt Ch. 03



I spent more than a week riding around with Ray Ross before Aunt Clair finally called us up to the house to "give her a little sugar." What she meant by that was pretty much what I expected, and despite my excitement, the truth was that I already hated Ray so much I was questioning whether another orgasm inside Clair was worth the trouble. 

On the morning when the call came, Ray was sitting in his office inside the grimy Quonset Hut on Commerce Street in Sudbury. Ray called the place "Ross World Headquarters," and it was the public face of the more-or-less legitimate side of his enterprises: small engine repairs, appliances, the occasional pickup or dirt bike. 

His staff was a barely functioning 60-year-old alcoholic named Doot (full name: Deuteronomy) who handled most of the little repairs, and two pimply, sulking twentysomethings named Dwayne and Shawn Patterson who appeared to be doing exactly fuck-all. 

So while I spent most of my time at the Quonset hanging around with those three losers, Ray entertained a steady stream of surprisingly diverse Sudbury characters, either inside his office, just inside the shade of the always-open double doors, or out in the sun in rusting metal deck chairs amidst the piles of old electrical motor parts, engine blocks and hulking, greasy transmission bodies. In the mornings they dropped by for coffee (it was my job to keep the urn filled). In the afternoon they came by for after-work beers. 

Some wore overalls and smelled of chicken shit. Others wore summer-weight suits and high-gloss black shoes. There were younger men in wife-beaters and gimme caps, wannabe bad-asses with packs of Camels rolled up in the sleeves of their T-shirts, skinny country rakes in straw cowboy hats and Molly Hatchet concert shirts, fat old men covered in tattoos that spoke to time in the military or prison.

Even my Uncle Jim stopped by sometimes after shutting down his law office for the day.

Sometimes they just talking about nothing. Sometimes they talked business. Sometimes they'd cut their eyes at me or the Patterson boys and Ray would say something like "Hey, pencil dick. Take a hike," and they'd continue in private. 

Pretty regularly someone would show up and reach for his wallet, or an unmarked envelope, and Ray would wave him off and say "Step into my office." 

My first day on the "job" consisted of sweeping up, looking for things to do, taking the occasional insult from Doot (who insisted on calling me "Slats") and being ignored entirely by Ray. But on the second day Ray took me with him "to go run some errands." So I climbed in his crappy-ass Ford F-150 and off we went.

The first thing we did was drop by Clyde's Diner for more coffee, but Ray made me wait outside in the truck. Then we followed a man I'd never met before out to the country, and Ray - who barely spoke to me while he drove - dropped me off at a big metal storage building with two padlocks on the sliding doors. The stranger came around, unlocked them and pointed me toward a push broom and a utility closet with a rolling mop bucket. Then the two of them climbed into Ray's truck and disappeared back the way we came. 

I was done with the job and sitting outside in the sun when they returned about two hours later - with a young-looking redhead sitting between them. Ray was grinning ear-to-ear. 

"Hey boy," he said as he helped the girl step down from his truck. "This is Natalie. Say hello to Will, Natalie."

"Hello," she said, giving me a shy smile. She was probably about my age - maybe a bit older - with a Marilyn Monroe figure and long, straight, red hair. Sexy, for sure, but with a kind of simple innocence. 

"Did you get that barn cleaned up, boy?" Ray asked. He poked his head inside as the stranger walked up to look it over ,too.

"That'll do," the stranger drawled. He was short, balding and pot-bellied, dressed in fat-slacks and a tucked-in polo shirt. 

"Alright then," Ray said, smacking his palms and rubbing them together. "Let's get down to business, Natalie."

"R-right here?" she stammered, glancing around. "All three of you?"

"Not that boy," Ray said. "He ain't got nothing to do with this. Do you, boy?" 

I shrugged. 

"She ain't much for a blow job," the fat stranger said. "But that pussy is right tight."

"Is that true?" Ray said, taking the chin of her heart-shaped face between his thumb and curled index finger. "You some kinda retard when it comes to sucking cock, girl?"

"That's what Bill says," Natalie said. She closed her eyes. "I gag on it."

"Well I'll take my own counsel on this matter," Ray said, and put both his burly hands on the girl's shoulders and pushed her down. She knelt on the concrete slab at the doorway to the empty storage building. "Don't just sit there, dammit. Them jeans ain't gonna undo themselves."

If the rough fucking Ray had given Clair that day on her back porch had looked like rape to my virgin eyes, then what transpired with Natalie really put me in a weird place. Because it wasn't enough that this pretty little girl sucked Ray's thick cock - he had to jam it as far down her throat as far as he could, holding her head by the scalp of her red hair as she gagged and coughed, fucking her face, and slapping her cheek when she got free of his dick.

Meanwhile, the stranger - who I would eventually know by the name Bill Ferguson - had dropped his trousers and was stroking his sub-average penis. Which was just about the most unsexy thing I'd ever witnessed. 

Eventually Ray released Natalie from his grasp, and she turned almost gratefully from his abusive, raging cock to start slurping on Bill. There was something gentle and erotic about it, even though her pretty face had been distorted by Ray's treatment. Her eyes were watering. Her nose was bright red and moist. Even her lips seemed bruised. But left to her own devices she was almost sweet to this toadish old man. 

Ray wasn't exactly a man who appreciated the finer things, though. While Natalie sucked Bill, Ray pulled her into a standing, bent-over position, pulled down her jeans, and with no foreplay whatsoever pushed his cock into her pussy. It was clearly unpleasant for her, but she took it like a trooper and kept up her rhythm on Bill.

"Like I said, not much of a cocksucker," Bills said, using the same tone he might have used in discussing a hunting dog. "But how's that pussy, Ray? Not bad, huh?"

"Damn fine," Ray said. "Tight. And I like those little strawberry pubes, too."

"Now don't you cum in there, boy," Bill said. "I like to finish in that pussy and I don't wanna put my dick in none of your mess."

"Well, since we're business partners, alright. But I'm ready, boy." 

"Alright then," Bill said, pulling out of Natalie's mouth and shoving her over toward Ray. "Cum all over that pretty fucking whore face, Ray! Shoot it!"

"Oh hell yes," Ray said, grabbing her hair again and stuffing her mouth. A few thrusts later I watched Natalie cough up a huge mouthful of cum, and when Ray pulled her head hard to his belly to complete his orgasm, she began gagging and gasping, with each pulse of his dick drooling out of her mouth.

"Ragged," Ray said as he released her. "You'll never be a Grade A whore until you improve your cocksucking skills, Miss Natalie."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Ross."

"You'd better be sorry," Bill said, pulling her up and leading over to a makeshift table consisting of some plywood over some 55-gallon drums. She understood what he wanted, pulled her jeans down and off of her left foot, then spread her legs and bent over so that one of the drums supported her weight. 

"You're a gift to Mr. Ross today," Bill said as he tried to line up her pussy from behind. "And if you want to get all those good things we talked about, you'll work on your deficiencies." He pushed into her.

"Yes - uh! I mean, yes, Mr. Bill," Natalie said. 

"I do like to watch her take that dick," Ray said, walking around and smacking the girl on the side of her ass as Bill plowed her with steady, short strokes.

"One of the best things about Natalie is that she don't mind if you shoot your load in her pussy," Bill said. "Do you mind, Natalie?"

"No Mr. Bill." 

"Ain't you worried about her getting knocked up? Or maybe the clap?" Ray asked. 

"Not really - damn that's good - I mean, I haven't put her out in the rotation yet. Kinda keeping it for myself at the moment. Share her around for special circumstances. You ready to take your load, Natalie?"

"Yes sir."

"Good! Cause there it it! Damn!"

The little piggie-looking man shuddered, and then pulled out of her. Sperm dribbled out of her labia.

Natalie slowly straightened up, while Bill Ferguson hitched up his pants with all the ceremony of a man in a public restroom.

"So what's next?" Ray asked. Bill looked at his wristwatch.

"Willie's boys should be down with the bales any minute now," Bill said. "We'll handle things from there. You just stick to the schedule and follow instructions and you'll be right as rain."

"Alright then," Ray said. "Come on, boy, let's go."

Natalie and I caught each other's eyes as I turned to leave, but she cut her gaze away from me.

"What was all that about?" I asked once we were underway.

"That ain't none of your concern," Ray said. 

"The hell it ain't," I replied. "If you're putting me in the middle of something illegal, it's absolutely my business."

Ray laughed, a great big smile splashing across his black-bearded, beefy face. 

"Well, ain't you just Billy Bad-Ass today? Hey, I got a question for you, Will. At them fancy Washington schools you went too, did they teach you how to fight country?"

"Say what?"

"They didn't teach you shit," Ray said, and he stopped the truck abruptly in the middle of the gravel road and swung up his door. Clouds of gravel dust billowed over us. "Come and get your first lesson, you Lurch-looking mortherfucker."

I'm not going to lie. My shit felt very weak at that moment.

"Why... what..." I said as I hesitantly leaned out the open passenger window.

"Come on, boy," Ray said. "You've got the big brass ones to curse at me. Question my instructions. You think you've got room to speak to me? Fine! Get out of that truck and fucking speak to me, you smart-ass little punk."

Well, what was I supposed to do?

I actually got in the first punch - a jab that caught Ray on the jaw. It probably would have taken down a lesser man, but Ray Ross, it turned out, was more or less a professional brawler. He just kept on coming forward, and once he got in range of my torso he doubled me over with a combination and brought his knee up into the side of my head. That dropped me to my knees, and Ray delivered two swift kicks to my ribs that put me on the ground. 

"Here endeth the lesson," he said. 

All I wanted to do at that moment was crawl into that gravel and dust and disappear. But Ray pulled me up and dusted me off. 

"You know," he began, "I've got some pretty expensive dental work, and your one punch is going to probably wind up costing me around a thousand bucks."

"It was you who wanted to fight," I winced. 

"Son, I haven't lost a fight in your lifetime. But that was one of the better shots I've taken in quite a while. You do much fighting?"

"No. Hardly any."

"Clair tells me you're pretty good with a rifle. That true?"

"Yes."

"Come on, son. Get in the truck."

We were on the hard road heading back toward Sudbury before Ray started talking again. 

"Here's the deal, boy," he began. "Sudbury is a nice enough town, but it's not that different than most, I suppose. We have ways of getting things done and keeping things in order. Making sure the right people get paid and the wrong people get the message. You understand?"

"Not really."

"Think of it this way. I'm a simple man. I fix stuff for people. Sinks. Well pumps. Air conditioners. Clogged toilets. And then every now and again, a moonshiner will get sideways with a neighbor, and then I'll fix that him, too. Or maybe a husband will get drunk and beat his wife a little too hard. Understand that?"

"You mean you kill people."

"That's kind of extreme, ain't it? Killing people. You're a smart boy. Can't you think of better ways to fix problems than going around killing people all the time?"

"So you're a thug for hire."

"I'm a handyman, son. An odd-jobber. I fix things for people around here. And sometimes that means I'm on the other side of the fence from Johnny Law.

"But here's the thing for you to put in your mind. If you want to stay in the kiddie pool, you can hang around the Quonset Hut and sweep up and pick your nose like the Patterson boys, and I'll throw you a fucking bone every now and again. 

"But if you want to come out and swim in the deep water? Listen son - a man your size, with a right jab that hard? I can use a man like that on the more profitable side of my enterprises. Particularly if you know how to handle a firearm." 

I thought about the alternative for a moment. Hanging around with Doot.

"What's it pay?"

"Better. Don't you worry about money. It comes and goes, and I'll treat you right. But you get on my crew and it's more than just money. You'll get so much pussy you won't even be able to keep track. Maybe not as skilled as your Aunt Clair, but fine? Hoo-boy! There's some fine pussy that comes my way."

So that's how I signed on to Ray Ross' crew and became a criminal.

***

But I've gotten away from my story. 

Like I said, I'd been riding around and hanging around with Ray for about a week - mopping floors, answering phones, occasionally serving as Ray's backup at tense conversations I seldom understood - when Clair finally rang him at the Quonset. "Come on, Slats!" he shouted as he jogged toward his truck. "Service call!"

"Sounds like your aunt is quite the horny little slut this afternoon," he said once we were on the way. "Says she wants us to give her some sugar. You and me. She used to love that shit, man, but I figured she was getting too old."

"How long have you two..."

He cut me off. "We were just kids. And me and her first husband, Bart - he's my cousin - we were her go-to pair of dicks for years. Bart, he was a real ass man. Usually left her pussy for me, which was just fine as far as I was concerned. I don't go in much for sodomy. I suspect Bart picked up his taste for butthole in the joint, if you know what I mean."

"I had no idea."

"Yeah, the Rosses and the McRaes, we go way back. You'll see."

Clair was definitely in a state when we rolled up to her house, dressed in a silk kimono, panties and fluffy slippers, leaning on the frame to her open door like a lush Lana Turner gone to seed and ruin. She had a drink in one hand and unlit cigarette in the other. 

"Gave Julie some money to take Paul down to The Roxy in Sudbury," she purred as I followed Ray up the stairs to her porch. "That idiot son of mine has seen 'Cannonball Run' three goddamn times already, and guess what the fuck he wants to see? Again?"

Ray stopped in front of her and opened her kimono to expose her nipple.

"I can't believe Julie is gonna sit through another showing of that shit," he said. 

"Hell, she don't care," Clair said, turning her eyes to me. "She's just gonna be sitting in the back row giving a hand job to that preppie pooh-boy Eric Dingle. But boys, I don't care either. It's been a hard goddamn week, and I just need to get fucked and filled."

"What's so hard about your weeks?" I asked, stupid boy that I was. "It's not like you have a job or anything."

Ray laughed, Clair joined him. 

"Have I ever told you that you were about the dumbest boy I've ever met?" Ray said. 

"It don't matter," Clair said, taking a long drink from her glass. "That boy's got the most beautiful cock you've ever seen. And you two are gonna make me forget every goddamn little thing. Come on, fellas."

Here's what I remember. 

Clair paid the most attention to me at first, stripping off my shirt and taking down my pants, kissing my neck and chest. While Clair teasingly sucked my cock, Ray stood there looking awkward, fumbling around with a still-soft dick. 

"Hello!" he said. "I'm stranding right here!"

"Shut up, Ray," Clair said. "This boy has a hair trigger. If I don't make him cum now, by the time he fits this big old cock in my asshole he'll be ready to blow. And I can't have that. Anyway, don't you worry. I know how you like it."

After that she lay on her back with her head off the edge of the bed and invited me to put my dick in her mouth. With Ray licking her cunt while Clair urged me to thrust faster and faster into her throat, I lasted only about a minute before I blasted her lips with sperm. She smiled as my semen leaked down her face. 

Then it was Ray's turn. By this time he'd stripped down to nothing but socks, and looked goddamn ridiculous: Average height, burly but pot-bellied, covered in so much dark hair he looked like a pale monkey wearing white athletic socks. Clair didn't seem to really care about his looks, though, and went about sucking his dick aggressively. 

I watched mutely for about 30 seconds before Clair took a break, re-arranged herself on the bed and said "Don't just stand there with your dick in your hand looking like a moron, boy. Get to licking!"

And so I did. My first experience with cunnilingus. 

Without any experience, I didn't know then that Clair was a bit muskier than most women. Mostly I was just unskilled and kinda freaked out about it that first time. Didn't know where the clit was. Spent a lot of time trying to stick my tongue as deep as it would go. 

For her part, Clair was so intent on sucking Ray's middle-aged erection to maximum hardness that she didn't pay much attention to my first foray into giving a woman head. 

"You ever done that before, boy?" Ray asked, grinning down at me. 

"No," I mumbled. 

"Well, that explains a lot," Clair said before deep-throating Ray. Then she popped off his dick. "Not that it matters. I'm so fucking turned on right now he could rub it with a toothbrush and I wouldn't care." She glanced back at me. "Honey, you just do things so earnestly, don't you? Like you're working on a merit badge or something. Put a little English on them swirls, Will! It ain't like you're trying to start a fire with a couple of sticks or something."

"I'm as hard as I'm gonna get," Ray said. "You ready, girl?"

"Hell yes," Clair said. She pulled away from me and spun around to present her pussy to my boss, then put her forearms around her knees, grasped her ankles, and rocked her hips back to give him full access.

There was nothing subtle about Ray's fucking. He just slammed his dick into her pussy and started pounding away, looking more like a jackhammer than a sexually aware adult male. But Clair didn't seem to mind. And though Ray looked absurd to me, there was something about watching Clair get fucked roughly - particularly the little gasps and moans that she made - that just flipped my switch. 

"Look at that, Ray," she said, staring back at me. "He just shot that huge load all over my face, and now his dick is getting hard again."

"That's cause he's just a fucking kid," Ray said. "My dick used to do that, too."

"You're a liar," Clair said as she pulled away from him, got on her hands and knees, and offered him her rump. "I fucked you back then, too. Remember?" Ray slurched right back into her pussy, and I accepted her wordless invitation to slip my dick into her mouth again. Again she enveloped it - gently, cleverly, alertly - but the sight of it just seemed to annoy Ray, who now fucked her as if trying to throw off the rhythm of the pleasure she was giving me. 

After a few minutes of this I felt like my cock had been carved out of polished marble, and Clair's moaning descended into a deeper register. She'd been reaching back to twiddle her clit for a while, and there was no doubt she'd walked right up to the edge of the cliff. 




The Long Hunt Ch. 03



"Slow down just a bit, Ray," she said after taking me out of her mouth. "Will, honey, reach behind you on my bedside table and hand me that tub of Vaseline."

With Ray grudgingly moderating the tempo of his pneumatic fucking, Clair laid on her side across the bed while I knelt in front of her as she scooped a big glob of petroleum jelly out of the jar. The first portion she smoothed all over my spit-slicked dick, taking care to coat it all the way down to the hilt. Clearly, she had some deep expectations. 

"Ray, sugar, pull out and lie down on your back here," she said, rolling up to a kneeling position while he complied. As soon as he was in place, Clair looked back at me as she straddled him and lowered herself onto his cock.

"Kiss me, Will," she said, and I did. Her mouth was dry and tasted like cigarettes, but as her tongue explored mine I felt her spreading the rest of the Vaseline across the fingertips of my right hand. 

"Now baby boy, I need you to run your fingers gently up into my asshole and get me nice and slick. And this time, after my ass adapts to the head of your dick, I want you to work it into me nice and slowly, until there's no more of you."

"Yes ma'am," I said, repositioning myself behind her and gentling daubing lubricant around her tight hole. Her muscles contracted around the tip of my finger as I began to press on the opening, but soon relaxed. 

"Ray, hold still," she said. 

Within less than a minute she had accepted my middle finger right up to the knuckle, and when Ray shifted slightly, I felt his dick move inside her. 

"Two fingers now," she whispered, and I slipped my index finger up her ass, too, and began drawing the digits in and out.

"Do you know how long it's been since I've been sodomized while fucking another man?" she asked.

"Long time," Ray said. 

"Too long," she replied. "Like I let that wild side of myself go away while the kids were little."

"So how do you want this, Clair?" Ray asked. 

"Well, you're hitting that spot pretty well and I'm right on the edge, so I need you to hold pretty still. And I want you to stay that way until he's in me up to the hilt."

"Alright then."

"Will, honey," she said. "I want you to sodomize me slow and deep. Now once you get that dick all the way inside me, I'm going to lose my mind a little bit, because it's going to hurt, and it's going to feel so good. I might even tell you to stop. But you can't stop, understand? Once you feel me start to tremble, I need you both to start fucking me as hard as you can - no matter what I say, no matter how I cry out. Because I'm about to cum so hard that I'm gonna leave this planet for a while. OK?"

"Yes ma'am, " I said. It's not like I needed any more permission than that.

I pressed the head of my cock against her sphincter and felt its immediate resistance, then pushed forward almost imperceptibly. Clair gasped as her ass spread to take the first half inch of me, then collapsed forward onto Ray's chest.

Another shift, another inch. Then another. Each movement of my hips pushed my dick ever deeper, and Clair responded with moans and cries.

"He's sodomizing me, Ray," she whined. "That big young mountaineer is sodomizing my ass like the sinner whore that I am!"

"Damn right he is," Ray said. "Because you're a fucking slut, Clair. A damned Jezebel."

"I'm going to Hell, aren't I?"

"Straight to Hell," Ray said. "And I'll meet you there."

"Come on boy!" Clair shouted. "I'm as ready as I'll ever be! Push yourself up to the hilt and do it in one stroke!"

Which I did - watching as my aunt practically came out of her skin. I held her hips as I started that final push - giving her maybe the last four inches of my penis - and though she pushed herself back toward me at the beginning, as the slow stroke neared completion she scurried away from it, arching her back to avoid it, rocking her hips away.

"Goddamn it son, what did that woman just tell you?" Ray said. "Fucking push your dick as far up her ass as it will go!"

"No!" Clair pleaded. "No! It's too much too fast!"

"Fuck that," Ray said. "Sodomize this harlot bitch! Fuck her deep!"

And so I did, gripping her hips harder and forcing my enraged cock the final inch up her butt. Even at that point I thrust my hips forward, pressing deeper and holding it there.

Clair was unhinged, almost spastic, filled with two dicks, penetrated more deeply than ever before in her life. She cried. She wailed. She reached back to grab my thigh, to push me away. Still I held firm. She gasped and sobbed and pounded on Ray's chest. But Ray and I held our positions, and after a few second of straining against our forceful stillness, I felt her relax.

"Oh my God, boys," she panted. "I ain't never felt anything like this. Nothing before like this."

"You ready to cum now?" Ray asked. I was beginning to see that for a couple of nasty, middle-aged fuck partners, Ray and Clair had some history, some understanding, some tenderness. 

"Baby, I'm so close to cumming that I think I can get there just from being ass-fucked."

"That'll be a first," he replied.

"I think I'm going to explode. Just hold still, Ray, and let him finish me."

"You heard the lady," Ray commanded. "Fuck her ass hard, boy."

"Yes sir," I said. I drew my dick out until only the sensitive head remained inside my aunt, then pushed all the way into her in a stroke that took only about a second. 

Clair wailed.

"Again!" Ray shouted.

I repeated the stroke, only faster. Clair cried, reached back, and dug her fingernails into my thigh.

"Again, goddamn it! Faster! Fuck your slut-bitch aunt hard in her ass!" Ray ordered.

After that everything was a frenzy. I remember slamming my cock in and out of Clair. I remember her shouting "Sodomize me! Sodomize me!" which, always struck me as so Old Testament that it was kinda creepy. I remember her sobbing, I remember Ray growling. 

I remember that it took longer than she thought it would, and that after a while Ray couldn't stay still, and picked up a counterpoint rhythm to my strokes as we simultaneously fucked her two holes. Sometimes I was in when he was out. Other times our paces synchronized and our thrusts reached their apexes inside her in a way that sent her squirming for cover. 

And then her orgasm arrived. I felt it first in the clenching of her every muscle, heard it in her sudden silence, experienced it as a stunning collapse into a black hole of pleasure, a universe-obliterating unity of body and soul and mind. Then the sound arrived - deep and low, like a wave that travels for miles underwater - and after that everything became ragged. Me and Ray fucking her wildly now, the spasms wracking her in frantic, short waves, like a wooden boat in rough seas shaking itself to death on the rocks.

In the midst of her extended orgasm my own arrived - course after course of sperm splashing into her unseen rectum, her natural contractions milking more of my cum from me, this unrelenting explosion that rolling forward in mind-boggling ways. 

"Fucking whore!" Ray shouted as the waves subsided. He pushed up and I fell off of her, my sperm leaking out of her ass and into the slit of her swollen pussy. 

But Clair was in another world, her mouth hanging open, her eyes rolled back in her head, and Ray stood up on the bed, holding her suspended by her hair as she lolled there under his purple-headed cock. He stroked it a few times and ejaculated onto her face.

"Fucking whore," he said, releasing her, letting her drop to the bed. "That's what you want, isn't it? To feel like the fucking whore you used to be? To feel like the hottest little slut in Sudbury again."

"Yes," she said quietly. Her eyes were painted in Ray's sperm, and she lay there with them closed, wiped the cum off her face, and then sucked it off her fingers.

Ray got off the bed and went to her dresser, opened a drawer and retrieved a white t-shirt of Clair's. He used it to wipe his sperm off her face, and then dried his dick with it. 

"I reckon that out to rev up the magic in your little ceremonies for a while, huh?" he asked as he reached for his pants on the floor. 

"I'm gonna be spellin' like them old witches for at least a week or two," Clair smiled, even though her eyes remained closed. "I went places I've never been. Felt like I was gone from here for days."

"You gonna be OK, old girl?" Ray asked. When Clair nodded and snuggled deeper into the bed, Ray drew up a sheet over her. "Alright then, boy, let's get a move on. We got some shit to straighten out at the Quonset before we lock up for the night."

She never said goodbye to either of us. She was adrift on her bed like a castaway on a raft in the middle of the Pacific.

"Ray," I asked as we entered the outskirts of Sudbury, "what was all that about magic?"

"You really are too dumb to believe, ain't you, boy? Why don't you just mind your own business?" 

"You can't blame me for asking."

"I can do whatever I want," Ray said. "And you'll learn more by keeping your mouth shut and your eyes and ears open than you will by going around asking questions that are well above your pay grade. Understand?"

Back at the Quonset, Ray conferred briefly with Doot, went into the office to make a call, and then stuck his head out the door into the open bay and barked for me. 

"Slats," he ordered. "In here."

His office was a grimy cave where fading light through slitted blinds fell on overstuffed metal shelves, cardboard boxes, filing cabinets, old tool-calendar pin-up girls and ancient overflowing ashtrays. Ray had his back to me at as he unlocked a tall cabinet in the corner. Even in the dim evening light I could make out that it was full of guns. 

"Still think you know how to handle one of these?" he asked as he tossed me what I immediately recognized as a World War II surplus M-1 Garand rifle. The wooden stock felt worn and cool in my hands

"Yes sir," I said. 

"Then take these," he said, handing me an olive-drab cotton sling filled with eight-round clips, "and load up."

"What's going on?" I asked. I suspect my nerves were audible to him. 

"People are being stupid," Ray said. He tucked a Colt automatic into the waistband of his jeans and then started feeding shells into a 12-gauge pump-action shotgun. "Which means we have to go educate them. Come on."

The evening shadows were lengthening quickly as I climbed into Ray's truck and we backed out of the gate to the Quonset. Doot locked it behind us, and watched as we drove south on Commerce Street.

"We might not have to kill anybody this time," Ray said. "But then again, we might."