Wilma Crane - Family bride

"Don't let it end!" Jeanne whimpered, her hips writhing helplessly on the sheets.

Valerie passively accepted the brutal thrusts into her ass, even as she seemed to topple from the crest of her own climax. She could feel her cunt squeezing down on itself, but the coating of oil between her legs was cooling.

"Unngh! Unnggh! Unnuggghhh!" Rich groaned, his baritone chant furnishing the only sound in the room other than the faintly protesting bedsprings. Valerie grew dizzy in his arms. She felt the scalding ooze of his cum flowing into her, but even her anus had ceased resisting his barbaric thrusts. Her hands dangled weakly at her sides. Her head rolled against her chest, her long hair shaking from side to side over the cooling surface of her breasts. She didn't know whether she was awake or sleeping.

Sleeping peacefully on the living room carpet, his long brown legs drawn up in a nearly fetal crouch, Rich scarcely resembled the man whom she had alternately loathed and loved earlier that afternoon.

Valerie sat on the couch in one of Jeanne's bathrobes, staring at her sleeping brother-in-law with a mixture of wonder and fear. For a while she, too, had slept, but it had been too warm in the bed with both her father-in-law and her dozing roommate. Now she leaned back against the soft green cushions of the sofa, a half-empty tumbler of red wine on the coffee table beside her. She had expected to feel bruised and raw, so she moved gingerly as she crossed her legs, even though she had no aches and she felt strangely calm and relaxed.

I should be screaming, she thought. Or calling the police. Or something. But she couldn't make up her mind whether she had been outraged by the behavior of the others and herself, or secretly pleased. She knew she would never admit to herself or anyone that she had enjoyed what had happened to her. But, even so, she could not suppress a strange smile of satisfaction that formed on her lips.

When she became aware of the smile she reached for the glass of wine. Except that my lips are so dry, she told herself, I feel better than I have since I left Jim. Can it be true that a woman needs sex just as much as a man? That would account for my sense of… well, almost relief at being used so thoroughly. She had long advocated the position of Women's Liberation groups that women should be as free as men to decide, and demand, sex when they felt the desire. But it was only now that she began to believe in the position herself. It seemed odd to her that, despite the fact of her adamant stand on the issue, secretly she had always believed that, sexually anyway, women were really not psychologically equipped to be anything but receptacles for a man's camel cravings.

"That kind of thinking," she whispered to the wine glass, "is pure shit." And she added silently, And it's probably a big part of the reason you left Jim. How can you hope to live with a complicated human being if you can't even recognize something as simple as your own sex drive? She shook her head in self-mockery and took another sip of the wine. Well, she told herself, looking once again at her sleeping brother-in-law, at least you know that you must be a good lay. She shook her head, thinking, So many times!

I must've lost weight, she thought. So many times, so many different ways! It's a wonder my cunt doesn't look like raw hamburger. She glanced at Rich to make sure he was still asleep, then parted the bathrobe and looked down at her cunt. She had examined it once already when she washed, but now she spread her thighs a little and looked down at it again. It's not as pretty as a cock, she thought, But it's a pretty cunt. She touched the silky pubic hair with her delicate fingers, then gently parted the folds of her labia. She couldn't see it very well without a mirror, but she examined it as best she could from that position, looking for any traces of damage. Except perhaps that it looked slightly mote red than usual, she could detect no drastic change.

Then she looked over at her brother-in-law, who was still asleep on the rug, and she thought, That is a good fuck. That's about the best fuck I've ever had.

When she fumed her head and reached for the wine glass she saw that her brother-in-law was awake and watching her.

"Don't you know you'll get zits if you play with yourself like that?" he asked her.

She was embarrassed that he had seen her looking at her pussy, but she said, "If you can scratch your balls all the time, I can certainly look at my cunt when I want to."

Rich almost laughed. "That's pretty nasty talk for a Catholic girl," he said. "Where's my dad, and what's-her-name?"

"Her name is Jeanne, and they're both in the bedroom. Still sleeping, I guess."

"What time is it?"

"I don't know. About five, maybe. The sun's starting to go down."

"I'm hungry," he said. "Why don't you rustle us up some chow?"

"Why don't you go home to eat?" she asked him, picking up her wine and taking a long sip. "I don't think there's anything to eat here, and anyway, Frances will be waiting supper for you."

"Give me some of that, whatever it is," he told her. "I feel like I'd slept with a pair of dirty socks in my mouth."

She handed him the wine and watched him drain the glass, his Adam's apple bobbing on his bull-like neck.

"Thanks," she told him when he set the glass on the table, where it made a purple ring on the glass, even though she hadn't noticed him spill any.

Rich stretched his long legs, worked his shoulders in circles for a moment, then said, "There must be something to eat."

Valerie nodded in the direction of the kitchen.

"See for yourself then," she said carelessly. "The cupboard is bare. We don't eat much here."

Rich groaned a little as he got up, his heavy balks swinging between his thighs. He stretched again, then started for the kitchen, which was at the other end of the room.

"Take this with you," Valerie said, handing him the wine glass. "I'd like some more. And when you come back, bring the bottle with you. It's on the counter by the sink."

Rich looked down at her for a moment, apparently evaluating whether or not his sister-in-law was actually giving him an order.

"No woman gives me orders," he said.

"Don't be such a macho klutz," she said, pressing the wine glass into his hand. "I think there might be some yogurt in the refrigerator if you want that."

Rich hefted the glass in his hand, looking down at her. "Yogurt?" he said incredulously. "Isn't that made out of spoiled milk? You don't actually eat that stuff."

"I've eaten worse today," she said.

Rich gunned at her. Then he went into the kitchen. She didn't watch him, but she could hear him blanking the wine bottle and glass together on the counter. And as though she were looking out the paisley-painted window and at the red and purple stain it cast on the floor near where he had been sleeping, she could visualize him as he opened the refrigerator door and bent down to see what was inside, his buttocks bumping the cold handle of the oven behind him.

When he came back he sat down on the carpet beneath her and poured some wine in her glass. He took a swig out of the bottle, which looked ridiculous since it was an expensive brand which one of Jeanne's dates had given her, and the mouth of the bottle was not shaped for drinking. He had found a plastic basket of cherry tomatoes and an unopened can of Vienna sausages, and when he pulled the spiraling aluminum from the sausage can he cut his thumb a little.

"Watch out!" she said, too late.

Rich sucked on his thumb, and with the other hand pulled one of the jellied sausages from the densely packed can. She watched him tilt his head back to drop the sausage, whole, into his mouth. Then she reached into the green plastic basket and pulled out a tomato, her fingernails holding it by the tiny stem. She took a sip of the wine he had poured her, then bit off a third of the tomato, still watching him eat the sausages.