In The Library Ch. 07

A demon call burst from that red mottled white long throat, impossible to decipher but loud and high, and Grace exploded into orgasm, her every muscle rigid with the intensity of it, her long red hair rippling as her head jerked and twisted. And her hot lips convulsed one last time on the impossibly huge teats of my mother, and bitten blood smeared pink from a bitten nipple. And that last sharp pain brought my mother to her own climax, arching back her long neck, both her hands grasping each of her big succulent breasts, conclusively squeezing her hot fluid spurting from her tits. And my father pushed the long swollen body of Grace to one side, to make a place on the heaving chest of his wife my mother, so that we both could suckle on her enriched, white weeping breasts.

So I the son returned to the comfort and live giving warmth of the maternal breast, suckling that sweet warm milk down, savouring the hot engorged nipple of my mother's hot breast. And one of my hands went down to the slick hot dark haired place between her thighs, and I slid two fingers into her forbidden cunting place. My other hand caressed my mother's soft cheek, my fingers probing her soft lips and sneaking into her mouth. Her hand caressed my hair as I sucked on her fullness. And beside me the mouth of my father suckled on her other breast, sharing the milk with his son.

And the fingers of his one hand found the deep dark cleft of his wife's ass, and thrust in there so that our fingers touched with her hot flesh between. And the fingers of his other hand caressed my mother's other cheek, and her hand caressed his hair as he sucked on her fullness. So my father and his son sucked the hot sweet milk from those tight hard breasts until they were firm no longer, the mother and wife feeding the son and husband. The imposter child and daughter lay huddled and curled beside us, her chest panting in short quick bursts, her openings seeping trails of milk and semen and juice, her long red hair coiled around her filled replete flesh, filled and swollen.

Exhausted, my shattered mind remembered, from some long forgotten book, that there are two types of cuckoo. There is the type that lays its egg in another bird's nest, and the mother rears the chick as one of her own, until the faster growing cuckoo chick takes all of the food and even lurches the smaller weaker chicks from the nest. And there is the parasitic cuckoo, where the invading bird goes to much more trouble to mimic the size and colour of the egg, so that the feeding bird does not even know that there is an imposter in the nest. Until it is too late, and the foreigner is reared as the mother's own. I could only hope that my suckling on her luscious tit would be enough to remind my mother who her real child was, and that the pestilent Grace would not throw me out of the home.