Family Tradition

by Edward Lee

  “What?” Sheree asked.

  “Well, on one of those blow-job trains he pulled at the club?” Carol snickered. “I had a friend of mine secretly videotape it. So if Fat Boy Bobby ever sends me packing, I’m sending that tape straight to Bill Gates.”

  “You’re horrible!” Sheree delightedly shrieked.

  Carol grinned. “I know. I can’t help it.”

  Eventually, they dragged themselves up naked from the floor. Sheree leaned against the Winnebago’s narrow kitchen counter, looking out the small window. “What’s taking them so long? It’ll be getting dark in an hour.”

  Carol pressed up behind her, gently reaching around to cup Sheree’s already worn-out vagina. “Yeah,” Carol said. “In an hour.” A long finger popped in. “We can do a lot in an hour.”

  Sheree’s fuse was already re-lit. “I don’t know. You pretty much fucked me out. I feel like I’ve been run over by a city bus.” She hesitated, feeling Carol’s cock grow turgid against her buttocks. “I don’t know if I can do it again.”

  Carol quickly turned her around, set her ass up on the counter, and slipped her dick right up into her pussy. “Sure you can,” she said and began fucking her again. She pressed forward, kissed Sheree’s lip, sucked her tongue.

  Yeah, Sheree thought in another rising wave of bliss. I think I can…

  ««—»»

  As the darkness of dusk had just begun to stain the horizon, M. Gerald James was maintaining a solid seventy miles per hour down State Route 101 along the glittering Strait of San Juan. Canada could be seen on the other side, and its rising mountains.

  Something similarly rising existed between James’ legs, but he couldn’t very well see it now. All he could see instead was the back of Rochelle’s pretty head going up and down. James’ slacks were opened, and Rochelle was sucking his cock as fastidiously as the mouth of a devil ray sucking a five-pound conch out of its shell. James had brought his little “spy” along because…well, in his current state of occupational stress, he needed comfort. And Rochelle, cute little pipsqueak that she was, had recently grown quite accustomed to the eccentric nature of James’ needs.

  His foot pressed down on the gas as his heart raced. He pressed Rochelle’s tender mouth all the way down on his cock and then held it there. (A little gagging was good for a girl), and then his hips clenched in the mahogany suede-leather seat as he spent himself right down into her gullet. Even after he’d come, he held her head down, listening to the hoarse sucks of her gags.

  It was good for her. Showed her the proper ways of the world, where men were dominant and women provided the wastecans of men’s pleasure.

  Eventually he decelerated back down to seventy, and let her up for air.

  Rochelle wheezed, a smidgen of semen dangling from her chin. Her mouth opened to rebel but then she thought better of it.

  “That was…nice,” James said in a slow breath.

  Rochelle kept silent, wiped her mouth off. She sat beside James in the Lincoln’s spacious front seat, dressed quite prettily in white sneakers, white shorts, and a bright white top. Such a prize, delicate and delectable as a vanilla-cream torte. Sweet as confectioner’s sugar. But—

  Taking her on this trip? It was proof of his appreciation, wasn’t it?

  “Yes, yes,” he exhaled. “You’ll manage my restaurant some day. This I promise…”

  “Thank you,” Rochelle peeped.

  Sometimes, James actually felt bad about his raging abuse of her… Sometimes. It wasn’t really his fault, though, he deemed.

  It was Ashton Morrone’s.

  James gripped the Lincoln’s leather-gloved wheel harder as he muttered out his stress: “Best chef in the city… Best restaurant in the city… Five-star reviews in Gourmet and the Michelin guide…”

  “Stop it,” Rochelle softly bid.

  “Multiple James Beard Awards!”

  “Mr. James. Don’t give yourself an ulcer!”

  James broke like a piece of dry egg noodle. “I already have an ulcer because of that corpulent faggot! I trained in Paris, goddamn it! At Trievan! That fat shit can’t microwave a Hot Pocket but I’ve cooked delicacies for kings! Why does he get all the great reviews? Why is his restaurant the talk of the town?” James punched the Lincoln’s center console, peeling his knuckles and cracking the Nakamichi CD player. Veins pulsed at his temples.

  “What about me!” he shouted. “What about me!”

  Rochelle stroked his arm, tried to console him. “Mr. James, don’t get so worked up. Everybody knows your restaurant’s better.”

  James glared at her. “Everybody? Who? Not the Times, not the Post-Intelligencer! I’ve never even been mentioned in Bon Appetite! I cook Swedish Meringue Cakes and Jamaican Escolar for my diners every night! If someone comes to my restaurant and orders Spiny Lobster Cassolet with Saffron Fouille, I prepare it personally! Why? Because I am in love with the art of cooking! But that fat bastard hires hack cooks to work his kitchen so he can primp his fucking beard on his GODDAMN tv show! And now, the only victory I’ve ever scored against the pompous cocksucker—he’s trying to take that away from me too! Only I can cook the Crackjaw eel to perfection! And now Morrone’s found it!”

  “Mr. James, calm down!” Rochelle implored.

  “How can I calm down while that-that-that…walrus tries to cash in on my expertise?” His glare froze, flaming with hatred. Without really thinking he—

  SMACK!

  —landed the back of his fist right across Rochelle’s face. “Ooow!” the girl whined high and loud, pressing her face into her hands.

  James gulped, drove in silence for a while. Rochelle sobbed beside him.

  “My dear girl,” he attempted. “I’m so terribly sorry. It’s just that Morrone’s got me so upset that I’m not in my right mind.” He consolingly touched her shoulder. “Please forgive me…”

  Rochelle’s sobs hitched down. “I think you broke my nose!”

  “There, there, let’s see.” James urged her hands away from her face. He quickly bit his lip, stifling an abrupt laugh. Rochelle’s nose had swollen to three times its normal size. “It looks fine,” he promised. “I feel awful about hitting you. I really am sorry.”

  Rochelle wiped tears from her eyes, gently touched her nose with a finger. “It hurts! And it feels…really big.”

  “Trust me,” James lied. “Your nose is fine. As beautiful as always, just like the rest of you. And, again, I’m very, very sorry.” James kept driving, and casting alternating glances at Rochelle. “I’ve been bad,” he said. “And I need to be punished. You know…”

  Rochelle rolled her eyes, muttered “Jesus” under her breath, then hitched her little butt up in the seat and slipped off the smart white shorts.

  “I’ve been bad,” James repeated, “real bad. I should never have hit Mommie.” He pulled over onto the shoulder and stopped the big Lincoln. He reached under the seat, then sheepishly handed Rochelle an 16-ounce Pyrex mixing cup.

  “I think I’m actually going to enjoy it this time,” Rochelle sniped. Still lifting her ass above the leather seat, she brought the Pyrex cup between her legs and began to pee in it. The tinkle was almost musical, not quite Handel’s Water Music, but musical nonetheless. Rochelle filled it up more than halfway—impressive for a girl—and then she actually grinned.

  “Jamesey’s been a bad, bad boy!” she yelled, huge-nosed. “Jamesey hit Mommy, and that’s bad!”

  “Yes, yes,” James blubbered from his seat. “I’m bad! I’m bad!”

  “So Jamesey’s going to be punished! Jamesey’s gonna drink Mommy’s piss!” and with that, Rochelle leaned up and began to empty the amber cup into James’ mouth. Eyes shut, he gulped and gulped and gulped, urine overflowing from his mouth. Gulp, gulp, gulp—recompense for a bad boy. Soon James’ belly was full of heat, and his black-satin St. Moritz shirt was drenched.

  “God, that was fun,” Rochelle muttered under her breath.

  Ahhhh, James thought, slack and sated now behi
nd the wheel. Rochelle pulled her shorts back on, then continued to inspect her bulbous nose with a finger.

  Who knows? James thought. I may very well marry her someday.

  But such a venture existed only in the future. James had, first, to deal with the present. He had to deal with—

  Ashton FUCKING Morrone, he thought.

  That fat, mincing queer has FUCKED with me long enough!

  I’m going to overturn his cart!

  I’m going to paint his wagon!

  James’ teeth slowly ground back and forth in the delicious vision.

  I’m going to KILL that limp-wristed behemoth homo…

  Just a bit deeper under the Lincoln’s seat, where James had kept the Pyrex cup of his perverted pleasure, was another object.

  A small .22 revolver.

  ««—»»

  “I don’t know about you,” Carol proclaimed, “but I’m shit-faced!”

  Sheree lounged opposite her, her bare feet propped up on the Winnebago’s small kitchen table. “Then I must be double shit-faced.”

  The two of them had sufficiently plowed through half a case of beer and two snifters each of Ashton’s prized bottle of 1977 Gers Armagnac white brandy. Giggling, Carol had brought the bottle level back up with tap water.

  With some difficulty, Sheree got up, looked out the window. Full dark had settled over the lake. A full moon glowed over the water.

  “You see them?” Carol asked.

  “No. I don’t know where those two fat peckerheads are. They should’ve been back by now, though.”

  “Who cares? All that matters is that they’re not back. And that means it’s time for us to have some fun. I’ve got some Bebo.”

  “Some…what?”

  Carol was rummaging in her purse on the bed, her gorgeous breasts swaying in the tank top. “It’s the latest designer acid,” she said. “You’ve done acid, haven’t you?”

  “Well, no. When I was in L.A., I was too busy doing coke,” she admitted, remembering all the hard producers’ cocks she’d sniffed lines off of.

  “You’ve gotta try some Bebo. I’ve only got two tabs left.” Carol displayed the small strip of paper. On the paper were two scarlet ink-prints of what appeared to be the head of a bald baby with enormous ears and a third eye in the middle of its forehead. “It’s pretty mild, so don’t worry,” Carol added. “You’re game, right?”

  What the fuck? Sheree thought. “Sure. I just lick it, right?”

  “No, put it on your tongue and swallow the whole thing. But not here…” Carol got up, led Sheree by the hand to the RV’s narrow metal door. “We’re not going to drop acid in this dork-box.”

  “Where are we going to do it?”

  Carol opened the door. “On the lake.”

  Sheree, however drunkenly, followed her new friend out to the shore. The entirety of the earth sounded pin-prick silent. Moonlight floated in ripples on the water; across the lake, the island’s trees looked like crags of mountains.

  “Help me,” Carol asked. “The boat’s on the other side now.” Sheree got behind the crank on this end, grabbed the crank-handle, and began turning it, Carol cranking from the other side. In a matter of minutes, the “pull-ferry” arrived and they both stepped on.

  They began cranking in the other direction, dragging the old rowboat back across the lake. Sheree took inadvertent glances over her shoulder. “Aren’t you…a little worried about them?”

  “Bob and Ashton?” Carol chuckled. “They’re big boys, they can take care of themselves.”

  All of a sudden, the night and its tranquil surroundings began to bother Sheree a little. Sure, Ashton was a self-aggrandizing fat dick, but she supposed she cared about him, his gayness notwithstanding. “Well…”

  “You’re drunk, Sheree. Makes you a little paranoid. Don’t worry.”

  By now they’d hauled the rowboat to the middle of the placid lake. They stopped. The boat just sat there under the bright moonlight.

  “They’re probably drunk too,” Carol added. “They’ll be back in a few hours and have hangovers tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right…”

  They sat facing each other in the boat. The boat, riding on the water, gently rose and fell. Sheree at once felt lulled.

  “Here ya go.” Carol passed her the tiny snippet of paper. Sheree took it between her fingers.

  “Put it face-side down on your tongue, then swallow the whole thing.”

  Sheree shrugged, did it, and watched Carol repeat the process. Neither of them noticed, though, that as they sat there, the lake’s mild current was slowly drawing the boat toward the island’s shore.

  “Feel it yet?”

  “Nuh…no,” Carol said, still buzzed from all the alcohol. She lay back on her elbows.

  “Doesn’t take long. Goes straight to the brain…”

  Sheree was gazing up at the stars, smiling and breathing in the crisp, clean air. But then she momentarily flinched at an abrupt sensation.

  Carol’s bare foot was rubbing up and down over the crotch of Sheree’s cut-offs.

  Sheree sighed.

  “One thing I forgot to tell you about Bebo,” Carol commented. “It makes you horny.”

  Ordinarily, considering all the sexual activity the day had brought, even Sheree would’ve objected. But…

  Sheree sighed again. Sensations slithered up to her breasts like warm phantom hands.

  Soon the stars turned into fine white lines whenever she moved her head. She was trailing already. She moved her hand from right to left in front of her face, and saw a thousand fluttering duplicates like some surreal card trick.

  The moon gazed back at her, an animate face.

  All the while Carol’s foot kept pressing against her crotch.

  It wasn’t long before the night and its moonlight was caressing them, and it wasn’t long, either, before each of them had stripped off their meager garments like dropping handkerchiefs to the boat’s floor. Sheree’s skin felt coolly ablaze. They embraced, kissing and sucking tongues. Sheree cradled the warm sac of Carol’s balls which felt big as starfruit. Carol’s finger went right up Sheree’s ass.

  Dimensions seemed to stray, sound seemed to echo. Now the gentle lap of the water against the boat’s hull sounded like hands clapping, and the distant moonlight beamed on them like fluorescent tubes. They lay nude in the bottom of the boat. Sheree on top, in the position often referred to as A69.” Carol’s tongue delved deep into Sheree’s pussy, while Sheree jerked the abundant foreskin of Carol’s cock back and forth over the gorged shaft. Eventually she stuck it all down her throat like a South Beach coed in a Kielbasa swallowing contest.

  Sheree was winning the contest.

  Carol sucked the tender pink meat of Sheree’s sex like warm taffy. Sheree came in her friend’s face twice, her legs widely spread as if sitting on the seat of a Harley panhead. When the sensations of sheer sucking became too painful, Sheree moved her rump off, concentrating on Carol’s long, night-stick-thick cock.

  “Jerk it,” came her friend’s feminine plea. “Jerk it right off!”

  By now, Sheree’s mouth tinged with the salt-taste of pre-ejaculatory ooze. Her woman’s intuition told her just the right time to slip off her mouth, and then she jerked the fleshy pole back and forth. Carol’s legs vised and she moaned like a low horn.

  Sheree watched the loops of semen shot high into the air, but on acid, each plume looked like jettisons of white, liquid phosphorous. Fluid flares which blew out of the swelled piss-slit, flew over the boat’s side, and landed in the lake water.

  “Fuck,” Carol softly gasped.

  Sheree gleefully played with the deflating dick as it slowly gave up its turgidity. The great foreskin fascinated her. She squeezed the softening meat, watched a final pearl of sperm appear at the slit, and licked it off.

  When Sheree glanced up the slope of Carol’s perfect female body—perfect save for the cock she was still licking—it looked like Carol’s eyes and open mouth
were bright flashlight beams.

  “God, that was good,” Carol slurred.

  When Sheree raised back up, her mouth drooped. The lake, now, looked kaleidoscopic, the moon a long white bar smeared across the sky. She could see silver-orange waves of heat waft off of Carol’s taut body. Then, squatting, she glanced at her own vagina and saw something that looked like eggshell-white light beaming from a bald, wet tart.

  “Christ,” she remarked. “This is good acid.”

  Next she was standing upright in the wobbly boat, vising each nipple between thumb and forefinger. The most minute magenta sparks seemed to shoot out.

  “Yeah, damn good acid.”

  “Be careful!” Carol warned. The boat began to rock as Sheree continued to stand, maintaining her footing.

  Sheree heard a flitting sound, like baseball card running through the sprockets of a bicycle wheel, as she roved her gaze ahead of her. A great bulk seemed to stand before her. “What’s that?” she half shrieked.

  Carol looked behind her. “How do you like that? While we were fucking around, the boat drifted all the way over to the island.”

  Sheree saw traces of sparkles seem to crawl up the old wood pilings. The dock shimmered as if made of dark gold.

  They both put their clothes back on, then Carol took Sheree’s hand and helped her off the boat. “Come on,” she said through a glowing grin. “Let’s check this place out…”

  ««—»»

  Ashton’s head throbbed like a beating heart on the verge of infarction. When his eyes pried open, at first, all he saw was black.

  Then the black was pierced with pinpricks of light: stars.

  “Bobby, Bobby!” he shouted, stumbling across the deck to jostle hid brother. One thing he stumbled over was the high white bucket full of several dozen empty Holsten bottles. “We passed out! Bobby! Wake up!”

  Eventually, Bobby did. His eyes spread on the sky. “Aw, man. It’s nighttime.”

  “Damn right it is!” Ashton bellowed. “Come on! Shag ass! We gotta get back to the Winnebago! The girls’ll be pissed!”

  At least they’d dropped anchor, they hadn’t drifted far. Ashton hauled it up and turned on the deck lights. Bob staggered rearward, started the big Evinrude motor.