The Family Reunion_(0)

The family reunion was better than most. As usual, it was held on the old family farm inherited after the death of my grandparents. Uncle Harry had taken it upon himself to add some improvements. The 100 year old cinder block farmhouse was basically untouched. It sat roughly in the center of three acres of farm buildings.

Typical of that long ago era, the house had an enormous kitchen. It was half the square footage of the house. When this was a working farm, my grandmother prepared lunch for and fed the field hands in this kitchen. A hand hewn oak table, 12’ x 4’, occupied the center of the kitchen. Chairs of similar construction circled the table.

Two miniscule bedrooms, a laughably tiny bathroom and a small living area completed the sturdy dwelling.

The old barn at the far end of the property became a communal shower. The barn’s enormous pass through doors at either end were intact. A 7’ high cinder block wall split the building roughly in half. A water pipe extended the length of the wall. Showerheads sprouted from either side of the pipe, providing male and females a private, albeit cold, shower area.

The tree shrouded lawn area was intact. The many and varied trees provided shade in a park like setting. Our family pitched tents in the clearings formed by the various clumps of trees. It added an element of privacy. I pitched my tent adjacent to an old corkscrew willow; mom and dad tent was just the other side of that same willow.

That first night, we gathered around a large log fueled bonfire. It was a rough 3’ x3’ teepee shaped affair. This conflagration occupied a space at the back of the property across the lawn from the tents. It was adjacent to the fields but behind and between the farmhouse and the barn.

Uncle Harry was holding court, making a nuisance of himself telling stories he had told countless times before. His wife, Aunt Ethel, while shushing him was also making spectacle of herself in a black one piece swimsuit that was at least a size too small. Her enormous jugs pushed obscenely out of both sides and the top. And that was just my father’s side of the family!

At 47, my mom is a full figured bosomy woman. She has the signature red hair of her side of the family. She wore it in a layered bob. In her stocking feet, she stands about 5′ 9″, maybe 170-180 pounds. Years ago, I peeked in her lingerie drawer and saw her bra size. She was a 36C then. As I watched her across the fire, I could see she was a good deal larger now. I would say she was closer to 38C to D.

My mother’s family are boozers. Despite the implied and express disapproval of their spouses, her brother and sister were doing their best to empty the accumulated liquor for the group. Trooper that she was, mom was doing her best to keep up with her older siblings.

The title of their conversation could be Incoherency!

It was punctuated by interrupted sentences, slurred incomprehensible jokes followed by loud guffaws.

Mom reached the point where standing was not an option. She sat wide legged on the ground, her legs splayed in front of her. From my vantage point, I could see her cotton Bermuda shorts pull tightly against her pussy. In the shifting play of light and shadow caused by the blazing fire, I thought I could see the outline of her sex. Her sweat stained tee shirt clung wetly to her, emphasizing her large breasts.

I mentally shook myself. A small smile found its way to my lips. I was perving my mom! Like most teenage boys, she had been the object of my early sexual fantasies. As I grew older and, hopefully, wiser she took her place in my mind as the mother figure that all other women must measure up to!

Dad and I shared private jokes about mom, the casual drinker, trying to keep pace with her veteran drinker siblings. We made a little bet on which one of us would have to walk her to their tent or could she make it alone. Privately I wondered if I would have to walk them both to their tent.

Now I must confess I was doing my share of drinking! Like most drunks, I must point out how much the others drank while minimizing my intake! Nevertheless, we were all drunk!

It was a good night. The sultry Midwest August day cooled to a comfortable night. The arc of the Milky Way filled the cloudless sky on this moonless night.

I sat next to my father, Tom. Dad is a paunchy 50 years old. At 6′ 3″ and a good 250 pounds, he is an imposing figure. I am the same height but 30 pounds lighter. Playing football in college kept me trim. I watched as his head dropped to his chin, only to snap back as he fought sleep and alcohol. The heat of the bonfire served only to intensify the effects of the alcohol.

My name is Joe Cross. I just graduated college with a degree in IT Management. I start a position with a firm in the Silicon Valley in two weeks. This was quite possibly my last family reunion for a while.

Since I had been home, I had figured out that he and mom were not having sex much if at all. I mean my room is just down the hall and the silence at night was deafening! When I was still a teenager, they provided lots of masturbation material with their loud lovemaking. Mom was a screamer and when dad hit that good spot, her screams echoed through the house! Loud shushing and giggles usually followed.

Across the blazing embers of our fire, my cousin Anne caught my eye. She slowly and suggestively ran her tongue over her full pink lips, ending in a puckered moue. My cock stiffened at the promise of that lewd gesture. I puckered and blew her a kiss. Nervously I glanced around the fire. No one, especially her husband, Sam, seems to have noticed us.

In some ways, with her red hair, freckles and large breasts, she was a carbon copy of my mom. Then all of the women on that side of the family were voluptuous with full hips. Anne used to tease me that she was not big but statuesque!

We were both 22 and had been fucking each other since we were in our early teens. It started with normal inquisitiveness of “show me yours and I’ll show you mine” and quickly graduated to some of the best sex we had ever had. We shared our firsts: The first oral, our first 69, our first anal and, ultimately our first child.

Our 4 year old daughter sat between Anne’s husband’s legs, her head against his thigh, sleeping peacefully. A pang of jealousy shot through me as I watched them. The fact that another man was raising my daughter hurt deeply. The added fact that he slept with my woman every night caused my jaw to tighten and my fists to clench.

I forced myself to relax. I knew the decision to convince her then platonic boyfriend to fuck her and convince him he got her pregnant was the right one. The scandal of disclosing that our incestuous relationship produced our angel, Susan, would have ripped the family apart. And the social stigma would have followed our baby for the rest of her life. Yes, we had made the right decision, but still it hurt.

Before Susan was born, I left for college. The school was 8 hours away so my visits home were for Christmas and summer break. I found out about my daughter’s birth in one of my infrequent calls with my mom. It hurt that I could not be there.

In the intervening four years, Anne and I had many stolen moments. During the summers, there were more cheap motels than I can remember. When I was home for the holidays, there were passionate sweaty trysts in the back seat of cars.

Once, during Christmas, we risked all for a quickie in the basement storeroom of my parents’ house.