Nisan 5, 2021

Stanley Steamer Ch. 11: Megan at Xmas

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Disclaimers: This vacuous stroker, the first of a three-part story arc, is fiction, so chill. Everyone is over 18 and shuns condoms. Tags: mother-son, mother-daughter, brother-sister, grandmother, fuckfest, bisexual, pregnancy. If you object, stop reading. Voices may be unreliable. Details may be incorrect. Opinions may not be the author’s. Read prior chapters first. Comments are invited. Enjoy!

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Stanley Steamer 11: Megan at Xmas

Steaming-hot family Christmas

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MEGAN

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“Funny farm; quack quack.” Okay; I knew I had the right number.

“Uncle Stan, hi, it’s Megan. Is Mom around?” I doubted she was.

“Hey there, hon. No, Pam’s shift isn’t over. What’s up? Any way I can help?”

“Well, I was going to spend the holidays with my boyfriend Jerry but he’s in Portland to see his sister and I have a couple weeks free. Can I come stay with you and Mom till Old Christmas? I really want to get out of Tucson for awhile.”

“Sure thing. Let me guess — you’ll fly into Palm Springs and I’ll get to pick you up. No problem. When are you coming?”

“I can catch the noon flight if I hurry. There’s an hour layover in Phoenix and then I’d land about 3:00 PM.”

“That works just perfect! I have to drive then anyhow and you’re not far out of the way. I hope you won’t mind a detour to San Bernardino on the way.”

“You’re driving Heidi, right? I’d love that! Umm, how is Mom doing now?”

“A lot better since she moved in with me. The shit is past. She’s still on that killer job but she loves it. You can just expect her to be exhausted, as usual.”

“I’m sure glad she out of that horrible situation with Dad. I don’t even know what happened. She won’t tell me about it.”

“There’s a rule called Need To Know, hon. You really don’t need or even want to know anything about this. Trust me.”

“Okay. Well, I’d better book my flight now. See you at three!”

“Love you, hon. See you then.”

Click.

I sure am glad my uncle is there. Mom says he totally saved her from a really REALLY disastrous tumult she will not talk about.

I was not surprised when she divorced Dad. He was always creepy. Not sex-creepy, except for not respecting women. It was more social-creepy. He hates Blacks, Jews, Mexicans, Arabs — just about everyone not like him. He despises most of the sailors and Marines he treats. He loves the perks of being a Navy doctor — and the Navy paid for med school. He just hates doctoring.

I grew up a military brat. Mom was young; Dad just about had to marry her because of me. He was deployed from base to base so I mostly knew other brats. The best times were when he had ship duty for months. Then I could study without being told that future wives don’t need educations. He was surprised when Mom finished R.N. and paramedic training. But that was not an M.D. so of course she was inferior.

I studied hard. I took all the science and advanced courses I could. At first I hated our being stationed with Marines in Twentynine Palms. What is a Navy doctor doing out in the desert? But then I got into classes at High-Desert College and I really aced the botany program. That, and challenging some classes, got me into university in Tucson early. Now I’m 18 and officially a junior already. School in the fast lane, or something like that.

Botany is fun. So is my crazy boyfriend Jerry. He is mostly into xerophytic psychopharmacology — desert plants to get high on. I’ll see how that goes. One datura trip was enough for me.

=====

Back to now. I booked my flight, stuffed my carry-on shoulder bag — undies, papers, my melodica — caught the bus, and made it through inspections in time for my plane. Since that 9-11 stuff last year, airport security is a pain.

A monograph on platyopuntia hybrids kept me busy on the flight and layover. The view from my window seat was great when we skirted the tall mountains and swept into Palm Springs. The desert sky was clear; a tongue of cloud filled Whitewater Pass’s two-mile-deep cut in the Coast Range. It was so beautiful!

I left the arrivals gate and saw my lanky, craggy uncle with two striking young Asian women. All wore denim jeans and varied bright tees. I waved. They waved back. I rushed over and hugged my uncle Stan.

“Hi hon, you’re looking great!” Not true — I looked too much like him.

“Hey, my favorite uncle, it’s good to be here! You look healthy.” He did.

“Too much dishonest work does that to a person. Now, let me introduce you. Kaylee…” (he gestured at the Japanese-looking woman) “…and Nikki…” (she looked Indian) “…beware of my incorrigible niece Megan.”

“You’re Pam’s girl? You must be superlative,” Nikki said. They hugged me.

They knew Pam? Had my uncle acquired new girlfriends?

“This is my only bag. Let’s get out of here.” I do not like airports. Only pervs do.

He gestured. “This way to Heidi.”

Uncle Stan took my right hand. Kaylee took my left hand. canlı bahis Nikki took my uncle’s right hand. Yes, cute girlfriends for sure.

I saw the lovely pearl-bright Karmann Ghia convertible. I love Heidi. She is so smooth, quiet, and sneaky. I rode in her just after she entered my uncle’s life last year. She did about 130 mph on that long stretch of Barstow Road. Mom said he has other steam buggies now. I am dying to try them!

Uncle Stan keyed Heidi’s doors open; he left her Kevlar ragtop up. I assessed relationships and decided to lounge across her back seat with my legs up and my bag by me. Let his babes have him for now! I sat so I could watch his face.

Nikki scooted next to Stan in front. We took off for the freeway surrounded by Heidi’s implacable silence, broken by our chatter.

“Our music program at San Berdoo State is off for the holidays so we came to confer at Rancho Relaxo,” Nikki turned to tell me. “No school till next year. We’ll be with our families in L.A. after we stop at our apartment.”

They’re students? My uncle is snarfing students? And not much older than me.

Kaylee twisted further. “We sing. We’re still training. But with Stan, we SING!”

“We impressed some people,” my uncle said. “We did some recording. It may be released soon — our agent and producer are still taking bids.”

Agent and producer? Really?

“Singing?” I asked. “Like what?”

“Like this,” he said.

He sang a bare low line. I recognized the intro to a largo duet from a Bach cantata. The women hit higher notes. He started again. Their voices swirled around his simple line. It was like a fucking heavenly choir compressed into two angels with a hint of a demon. It was the most beautiful music I had ever heard — and I grew up on the Swingle Singers, on Bach partitas and sonatas, on Ormandy and Levine, Kiri, Nina, and Aretha. And my pussy was wet. What?

They ended. They paused. He sang another intro. They did it again. I nearly passed out. And I was REALLY wet. What the fuck?

“What the fuck are you guys doing?” I asked. I was shaken. “I mean, I’m sorry, but what the fuck?”

Nikki rubbed his shoulder. Kaylee stretched to rub his denim-covered knee.

“We’re doing magic,” Nikki said. “When Stan provides a foundation with his voice or a mandola or tenor guitar or cittern, or even my harmonium, we do magic. Stan is magic. WE are magic. I don’t know how else to say it.”

“Are you magic, too?” Kaylee asked. “Do you play or sing?”

“Well, I’ve done a bit on melodica for awhile,” I said, reaching into my bag.

My alto melodica looks like a piano keyboard the size of a cigarette carton, but flatter, with a thin mouthpiece on the end. I thought a moment and played the start of a Verdi duet. The girls looked at each other. They hit notes. I played again. Their voices twirled and radiated. We ended.

“Holy shit,” Kaylee said. “This must be genetic. Can we marry you?”

I was even wetter now. I almost took her proposal seriously.

“What the fuck?” I asked. Nobody answered right away.

“Here is some of what we recorded.”

Uncle Stan keyed Heidi’s dashboard. Plucked strings emerged from Heidi’s sound system — probably his baritone mandola. Their voices joined. And, twenty seconds later, I nearly orgasmed on the spot.

Holy fuck! How can performances like this exist?

I was a puddle in the back seat by the time we left the freeway. We stopped in front of a generic two-level stucco apartment building. Uncle Stan and the girls got out and retrieved two small duffels from Heidi’s trunk. Nikki hugged and kissed him, slowly. Kaylee kissed him longer. They all hugged. The girls came back to Heidi, opened doors, leaned in, and hugged and kissed me, too.

“We WILL see you again,” Kaylee said. Nikki agreed.

They took their bags and disappeared indoors. Uncle Stan returned.

“Do you want the front seat now?” he asked.

I sat in front but leaned on the passenger door. I was afraid of what I might do if I sat closer. We hit the freeway enveloped in silence. I broke it.

“How did this start? Where did you find those girls?”

“We were non-participating refugees from an old rockstar’s orgy party not too long ago. They were shipwrecked and my dates were just wrecked. I pulled a rescue job. Somehow we started singing, and this happened.”

“And they’re just students?” Orgy party? Dates? Rescue job? What? Dare I ask?

“They’re modest. Their families are music pros — formal singers, conductors, pop producers — and no, not our producer. But something happens. I pluck strings and I sound okay. They sing and they sound good. We do it together and something happens. It’s crazy. It’s scary.”

It’s more than scary, I thought. I had to ask.

“I’m feeling a… a physical reaction. Do other people feel like that?”

“You heard the girls call it magic. I have no better explanation. I expect our agent will be rather wealthy soon.”

I suddenly considered my uncle one of the bahis siteleri world’s most dangerous men.

“Anyone who doesn’t react to that, and buy it, is dead,” I said. I would have raped him if he had touched me right then. I would have raped a broomstick.

“It’ll help pay for upgrades to Rancho Relaxo, for sure. Want to hear more?”

“Yes! No! Yes! You’d better not. Oh fuck. You’ve GOT to. Oh fuck. I’m sorry, but oh fuck…”

More music sang. I could barely keep from masturbating. I was relieved when he switched to a North Indian evening raga.

=====

Heidi left the metro basin and climbed the freeway into the mountain gap. We passed the big Indian casino-resort just before the Cabazon dinosaurs.

“It’s after quitting time. No use trying to track down my ‘dates’ from that party. They work and live here, when they aren’t at my place. You’ll meet them soon anyway.”

We rolled over the pass, up the grade, past the strip-malls, and up the twisty byway. I spotted a tall iron roadrunner where we turned on the rough track to Rancho Relaxo. And there we were.

It looked different. Near the big steel barn stood another. Beyond the old galvanized soaking tub was a glassy geodesic dome maybe a dozen yards across. A few huge boulders surrounding the compound were topped with giant metal blossoms — except some looked suspiciously like floral vaginas.

The fieldstone ‘cabin’ sheltered by a granite overhang looked the same.

Uncle Stan fingered Heidi’s dash and his barn door opened, noisier than Heidi. He parked inside by Angela the boxy minivan and Tilly, that’s Waltzing Matilda, the spindly pickup on absurd five-foot-tall bicycle wheels. I knew them from Mom’s descriptions. All are steam buggies.

I grabbed my bag. The barn closed behind us. A people door opened in the other barn and a very freckled and rather pregnant redhead stepped out. She wore moccasins, a fringed leather miniskirt below her belly bump, and an open leather vest on her swelling breasts. Her unbound crimson hair hung low. Her all-the-way-down freckles were spectacular. So was her smile.

“Stan! And you must be Megan! Welcome to paradise!”

She stumbled over and hugged me. And kissed me.

“That’s Anathea or Anny, our resident welder and moneybags. Watch out for her! Hormones are driving her nutz. I’ve seen it before.”

I recognized her from Mom’s description, too. Fuck, she was so gorgeous! She wrapped an arm around my waist and kissed me again. Right on my mouth.

“With any luck, Pam will be up soon, and Jeri will escape the studio.”

I knew their cousin Jeri lived here along with Mom, and Anathea. Jeri’s friends Mariana and Lorna stayed weekends — his ‘dates’ from that party, I am sure. I think that is about the total count right now. Well, my grandma Ursula may move in part-time. And they’re all going to have kids. Whose kids? And where will they put them?

“So come on inside and watch me scratch a dinner together. What kind of burritos do you like?” Uncle Stan really needed to expand his menu.

“You need to learn more recipes,” Anathea said. “But first, I am going to dunk the grime off me. Want to get rid of your sweat, Megan?”

She had lost her vest before she reached the soaking tub. Sandals followed, and skirt — nothing underneath. Her ass looked great as she climbed the stumpy steps and slid into the water.

“Come on, get wet,” she said. “The heated pool in the dome isn’t done but the tank has hot clean water now.” She glared at my uncle. “You’re such a slob.”

“Don’t let the exhibitionist corrupt you, hon. You don’t smell too bad. Come on in, get settled, have some cheap wine, and watch me do my stuff. I may try chile rellenos and chicken enchiladas tonight.”

“Don’t you dare,” said my mom from the kitchen door. “I’ll make paella.”

“Mom!” I yelled. I dropped my bag and ran over for a long, tight hug.

“Yes, I’m resurrected. I’m so glad you’re here, baby!” She kissed my face.

I held her at arms’ length and stared at her. At her face, not her denim jeans, or the reddish flannel shirt tied to bare her midriff bump. “You look so tired.”

She was indeed haggard. “This last one was… Oh, forget that. But I think I’m nearing a burnout. They don’t really have enough paramedics for the holidays. But my boss told me to go away for two weeks, that I would be more trouble than I’m worth, and she’s probably right.” She held me again.

“Burritos it is, then.” My uncle was insistent. “Turkey, mushrooms, and guacamole. And the best boxed white wine. Lots of it. Except for Anny. She gets prune juice.”

“You’re a turd,” Anathea called from the tank. “I’ll take hashish.”

A car bumped up the crunchy drive. “Sounds like Jeri,” Mom said.

Cousin Jeri’s only slightly bulging figure in a blue denim skirt-suit and a red silk scarf trotted to us from her car.

“Stan!” She kissed him. “Pam!” She kissed Mom. “Megan! It’s been so long!” She hugged and kissed me. “Forget the damn burritos. I bahis şirketleri brought pizzas and Anchor Steam beer. Give me a hand, slave-boy.”

She toted wide boxes from her car. He followed with a bottle case. Mom and I, arms around waists and my fat bag on my shoulder, trailed into the kitchen as Anathea called from the tank, “Don’t wait for me. Not too long, anyway.”

The ‘cabin’ interior looked familiar. The long table and island bounded the kitchen area from the greatroom and its scattered soft furniture. Bookcases, hangings, and odd objects covered the stone and acoustic brick walls. I knew the music, atlas, and folklore sections. Thin clerestory-type windows under a high ceiling of cedar vigas and oak planks overlooked terracotta tile floors spread with Persian and Indian rugs. It has a comfortable feeling.

Plus, a seasonal addition: a holiday tree in a far corner, a skeletal steel tree frame hung with spiky silver ornaments — painted chestnut tree seed pods! This was lit from below by a highway warning flasher light surrounded by wrapped packages. It was… very Stan, I guess.

“I harvested those ornaments from a tree in Jeri’s old yard in San Berdoo,” Stan said as I inspected the display. “Finished them myself with silver spray paint from Wal-Mart. They’re heritage now.” He popped a beer bottle’s lid.

Stan and Jeri had dinner laid out — tableware, open pizza boxes, a basket of breadsticks, dark beer bottles, glasses for boxed wine and that ugly jug of prune juice, plenty of napkins — all around the centerpiece, a tall skeletal Katarina vase flowing with the red and green of poinsettias.

“Uncle Stan, this all looks great,” I said.

“I’m just Stan,” he said. “Forget the titles. We’re friends.”

I could handle that. But Mom would still be Mom to me, not Pam.

Anathea left her sandals at the kitchen door, as had we all — no outside footwear indoors, please. She carried her clothes and wore a towel turban. Her naked freckled body glowed with pregnancy.

“Start now,” she said, stumbling down the hall. “I’ll be right there.”

She returned a minute later barefoot in a paisley caftan and her long hair tied into a flaming ponytail. “What, you didn’t start?”

“We haven’t said grace yet. Grace!” He kissed her mouth. “Grace! Grace!” He kissed Jeri and Mom’s mouths. “Grace!” He kissed my mouth. No tongue.

“Grace!” Mom said, and kissed Jeri, and Anathea, and me. “Grace!” Jeri said, and kissed Anathea and me. “Grace fucking grace!” Anathea said, and kissed our mouths, one by one, me last. With tongue. Her kiss was spicy.

Stan held a chair for her. “You get just one glass of wine to wash down the prune juice. And beware the pepperoni. You know what it does to you.”

“You don’t own me,” she scowled. “And I get two beers. Pop one for me.”

I also had two steam beers with my pizza. So I am not of legal drinking age yet. So what? Who is going to bust us here? Anyway, I am under direct parental supervision — even if Mom absorbed a couple glasses of wine.

Dinner chatter was dinner chatter — tales, questions, gossip, jokes. Dessert was custard and puffs on a passed joint, a long one. Nobody coughed. After the quick cleanup was an evening in the greatroom and more drinks, joints, and chatter, broken by Stan plucking his baritone mandola. I pulled my melodica from my bag and joined him. We knew some Bach, Gershwin, and Zappa. We sounded good but we had no magic voices so we were only good.

The witching hour approached. Some of us had left a long day behind. We kissed goodnight. I had the last guest room down the hall. We all took to our rooms. Anathea went with Stan. I should have expected that.

My sleep was deep but I don’t know how long and I needed to dispose of an evening’s beer and wine. The shared bath was up the hall past Stan’s office. I peed and cleaned and then decided I could use a half-glass of wine. And Stan and the girls’ magic music ran through my head. I tiptoed toward the kitchen.

Stan’s bedroom corner door was not closed. I could see inside as I passed. Nightlights etched the scene in my brain.

Mom was on top of Stan in a 69, pumping her mouth up and down on her brother’s dick. Jeri was between his legs, sucking her cousin’s balls and sharing dick-kisses with Mom. Mom moved her head up and groaned; Jeri mouthed Stan’s dick until Mom took him back and sucked harder.

Anathea masturbated in a soft chair nearby. She fingered harder when Stan obviously ejaculated into Mom’s mouth and she obviously swallowed it all.

Mom rolled off Stan. Anathea left the chair and lay on the bed. Stan moved between her legs, his face in her muff. Jeri sat on Anathea’s mouth, facing away from Stan; Anathea’s hands stroked Jeri. Mom kissed pregnant nipples while Stan tongued a pregnant pussy and rubbed long, freckled legs.

My mother, her brother, their cousin, and their guest were having sex.

I tiptoed away. I needed a full glass of wine after watching that. And a roach survived in an ashtray; I lit and toked. But nothing obliterated the images. I masturbated for quite awhile, seeing them, and my boyfriend, and an old girlfriend, then the four again, and then… unknown. I eventually slept.

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