Games SOME People Play! Ch. 13

The trip wasn't long. We had decided to go back to the scene of yesterday's Big 30 party. Before we turned off Route 27, however, four motorcyclists roared up behind us. As the first rider passed, he glanced in the window and shouted, "Yo!" and plunged a pointing forefinger at Stephanie. I watched in shock (okay, panic) as Stephanie grinned at the helmeted primate and even reached out to grab at his finger.

The next guy, when parallel to us, matched our speed for a while, thundering along inches from the car. Since Stephanie had moved toward the middle of the seat, he could check out not only her perfect breasts with now stiffening nipples but also her lap, sandy brown and fluffy from sea and sun. This motorpsycho had a nice smile, I thought, with glee on his massive face and lots of straight white teeth. Again, Stephanie radiated a smile hot enough to sunburn his face.

For a nice change of pace, number three was a girl. Actually, a woman, and I realized that this crowd was more mid-40's than late teens. This female specimen's hair was bleached light blond and streamed from under her helmet, flying backward—a big blonde gal who had prepared for her turn with us by opening three buttons of her blouse and lifting out a bulbous boob with a sloppy pink nipple. It hung out of her shirt as she roared up, checked out Stephanie, with a hungry stare at her prim lap, and yelled against the wind, "Eat yer pussy for ya, honey?"

"What the fuck is going on?" Sandra demanded from the front seat. It was the second time. She added with alarm, taking a quick glance back at Stephanie, "They're in front, back, and on the side! They're going to slam into my car!"

She yelled, "Are these Hell's Angels or anything?"

"Just people on motorcycles, Mom!" drawled Stephanie.

"Put on your fucking blouse!"

"Sorry, Mom, it's in the back!"

I had turned in my seat, thinking that I was the only man in this car, so what would happen when... Did I have to die defending my women? Watch the gangbang and try to live that down? Of course, this was refined, ultra-civilized, highly politically correct East Hampton... Really not even a handy secluded spot to stage a genuine screaming gangbang of two daughters and their mother.

But the Lorraine women do not wait to be rescued by a man. Susan had thrown a cheerful yellow-and-blue beach towel over Stephanie, including her head, and was holding it around her with a full bear hug; Stephanie was yelling and struggling. And I turned and saw that Sandra was risking breaking the law by cell phoning while driving, her eyes darting from the road, to the motorcyclists, to the rearview mirror. She was talking to the police. I heard her say, "Motorcyclists, four, Route 27 just past the Hess station. A Subaru outback, silver. Myself, my daughter and her husband, and my younger daughter."

Stephanie's fourth admirer had come parallel with her window, grinning in at Susan in her bikini grappling with Casper the beach-toweled ghost. One truly massive and very hairy forearm and hand came off the handlebar and reached through the open window. I prepared to...do something...not sure what...

But the great mitt only patted the thrashing head under the towel, two quick pats, his grin from side to side of his helmet, and then gunned it. Ahead of us, the four motorcycles, in a beautiful maneuver, leaning into the curve in unison, and peeled off to the right onto the serene, evergreen-lined road toward Main Beach. In a few seconds, only the thunder of simultaneous acceleration lingered with us—or perhaps merely rang in my ears.

Now, I could hear Stephanie. "Get off, Susan! Off! I'll slap you from here to Sunday, I swear!"

Susan let go and sat up. Stephanie tore the towel off, flinging it into the trunk area, her face bright red, hair wild, and whirled to Susan. Susan turned to her with what I'm sure was infuriating calm, inspecting her nude little sister as though assessing a purchase for a zoo, and said, "Don't touch me, Steph. I don't even know what I can say to you! I don't know you! Have you become a..."

And, suddenly, Susan was weeping, shoulders shaking, palms abruptly clapped over her face, her sobs quickly overwhelming her, so she began to blubber like a child in breathless, high-pitched keening. "Oh, shit! Shit! Shit!" she gasped, "What has happened to you?"

At that, Stephanie's expression froze stiff. Although I was half-turned in the seat, wondering if I should reach to comfort Susan, it was as though Stephanie's gaze refused to focus on me, or on anything. Her eyes were wide, dry, and seemed not even to blink. Unconsciously, her hands had come up to hide her small breasts.

"Hang on, everyone," called Sandra from the driver's seat, "almost home, now." Then, she was on the phone telling the police how the crisis had ended.

Susan dabbed her eyes with a beach towel, sniffing, her face red. She said, with studied calm, as she continued to work on her face, "You can't possibly act like this every day, all day. You'd be dead—or in prison. Why today? Why act like a sociopath with Mom and Tommy and me?" She lowered the towel and turned her puffy eyes on Stephanie, waiting for a reply.

Stephanie would not look at her. Personally, as intrigued as I was with this classic confrontation, my sister-in-law's naked vulnerability, this sensual slight body recently ogled by the motorbrutes, and now, her sudden girlish modesty before her own sister's demanding gaze, was giving me et another hard-on. I was trying not to touch myself.

At last, Sandra turned into our driveway and followed its long, rising curve to the ample, pebbled parking area adjacent to our garage and the encircling high grey fence that with our house created a completely enclosed sylvan compound. It seemed natural enough to shepherd nude Stephanie through the gate and along the rude slate path to our porch. "I love it here," cried Stephanie suddenly, as we reached the porch, and easily broke my gentle grip on her bicep and streaked across the lush green lawn, her perfect firm ass on view, her arms raised above her head in a fist-clenched power salute.

We watched her go, her pale body alternately in shadow and sun streaks, light flickering across her delicate back, until she entered a path into the woods—all enclosed with proprietary care by our fence—and darted past the dark boles of trees—now turning in a dancing sidestep as she ran, now seizing a tree with both hands and peering from behind it, her face wide-eyed in a pantomime of the terrified, fleeing nymph.

Sandra, Susan, and I stood watching her. What could we say? Sandra always seemed to know, even when it was impossible. She intoned, quoting:

"Wilt thou yet take all, Galilean? But these thou shalt not take,/

The laurel, the palms and the paean, the breasts of the nymphs in the brake;/Breasts more soft than a dove's, that tremble with tender breath;/And all the wings of the Loves, and all the joy before death..."

"That's beautiful, Mom," said Susan, turning to her. "Where is that from?"

"Oh, Swinburne," said Sandra. "'Hymn to Proserpine.' It's a sort of cry of protest against the loss of all the pagan pleasures. I was thinking Steph looks like a dryad."

"What made you think of it, now?" I asked.

"Oh, Stephanie knows that poem by heart," said Sandra sadly. "When she was in high school, she wrote a whole essay about it. Very brilliant, I thought, although, of course, I'm her Mom. I took it away from her. I thought her English Lit. teacher would send her straight to the guidance counselor for such thoughts."

"I never had any idea," said Susan. "She read that kind of thing?"

"Erotic stuff," said Sandra, with a sigh. "I didn't see her as the next T.S. Eliot in literary criticism. I saw it as obsessive about sex. What they call 'sublimating'."

"There she is, now," I said, bringing the conversation back. Stephanie walked toward us very slowly from a distant point of the lawn where she had emerged from the woods. She had draped some leafy vine around her neck, with another strand around her loins, like a skirt. I hoped it wasn't poison ivy.

"What are we doing to do, Mom?" asked Susan.

"This may be our one chance," said Sandra seriously—I thought grimly. "Just as you expected, this has opened her up—and all of us."

She turned, confronting Susan, and said, "Don't make your sister out to be the only wacko, Susan!"

"No," said Susan, agreeably. "But you were saying something important: This has opened..."

"Yes, not just her. All of us. To talk about..."

I modestly contributed, "Our demons."

"Harpies," said Sandra, but then, unfortunately, she glanced down. Her hand reached right down, with the utmost familiarity, and slide inside the waistband of my bathing suit to close on my rigid pecker. She asked, "What is this, Tommy?"

Susan had reached out to grab her mother's hand, but stopped herself in midair. She said, her tone incredulous, "Mom! Do you now have permanent equal access to my husband's dick?"

Sandra looked down at her own hand. She gave a few swift up and down jerks that sent pulses of joy through me. She said, "Actually, Susan, since you invited us in... Yes, I doubt things ever will be the same. Tommy said he might want to shag me on my big 60."

She added, "Would you be so distressed if he just hammered my pussy once in 10 years?"

Very slowly, Susan looked at me, then at her Mom, and then down where Sandra's hand casually cupped my dick. She looked as though taking inventory, matching some demand with supply. Finally, she said, a tone of remoteness, abstraction, creeping into her voice: "I don't see why we couldn't share...Mom... Your tits and ass are so much like mine...:"

But she turned to me with a distinctly less amiable tone. "Wouldn't you want more variety, Tommy?"

"Actually," I said, a bit delirious with the firm hand that still absent mindedly stroked me, "I love you both so much."

"He lives in his dick," pronounced Susan coldly.

By now, Stephanie had cut short this strained negotiation. She came to us across the lawn in the deepening dusk, a pale figure, her slight shoulders erect, the sad small swatch at the base of her belly an afterthought. She saw Sandra's hand wrapped around my dick before Sandra could withdraw it.

Stephanie asked, with renewed enthusiasm, "You want it again from Tommy, Mom?"

"Nope. Right now, I would like the travelers to gather around the fire and eat their striped bass, corn on the cob, and local fresh sliced tomatoes," said Sandra. "Is that too much to ask?"

"What's the reference? 'Travelers.' I know you Mom," said Susan doggedly.

"To Chaucer, I suppose," said Sandra, off-handed. "Each traveler tells his tale and the best one gets supper for free." And she added, "It's about time, isn't it? I mean to fill in the back stories?"