The Laundry Room Pt. 02

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The Laundry Room (Part 2)

Kathryn M. Burke

The one thing you need to know about my sister Maureen is that she’s really keen on sex. Nothing wrong with that, I suppose, but it was definitely the case that Maureen never met a cock she didn’t like. I’ve said that my college years were pretty wild; but Maureen’s were totally crazy. Two years younger than me, she went to the same institution of higher learning that I did, and it wasn’t long before the stories of her insatiable fondness for the male anatomy got around. On more than one occasion she went to a particular frat house with a pretty bad reputation for shenanigans, and basically said, “Here I am, guys!” to all comers (oops, bad pun). And there were plenty of men who came in her and on her–one at a time, two at a time, three at a time, and so on. She claimed to find such an onslaught of masculine flesh revitalizing–and, to be honest, she didn’t seem to suffer any ill effects from it.

This kind of activity was all well and good, but there were drawbacks. Mostly it was the fact that she ended up not having any real relationship with anyone. Some of that may have been the guys’ fault. So many men approach women with the idea that they’re virgins who find their lovers the be-all and end-all of creation, and they get annoyed when the women fail to conform to that ridiculous wish-fulfillment fantasy. But Maureen made the problem worse by making it quite obvious in word and deed that the guy in question should have no expectation of being the only one to occupy her bed at any given moment. Pretty soon her “reputation” was so bad that even men who just wanted her body gave her a wide berth.

She was now twenty-four, and her habits had changed only a bit now that she was a working girl (and no, she wasn’t that sort of working girl–although sometimes she presented a pretty good facsimile of one). She still hadn’t really had a meaningful involvement with anyone. I’d had at least a few of those, even though I was at the moment bereft.

So now, as I looked down at my sister vigorously sucking a cock that had been in my pussy and butt only a little while ago, I had to ask her: “What exactly are you doing, Maureen?”

She didn’t seem to want to take the succulent toy out of her mouth, but finally she did so she could say: “My date for the evening got cold feet and ditched me, so I’m all by my lonesome–but not anymore!”

And she happily stuck that cock back in her mouth.

Meanwhile, my new friend was looking frantically at me, mouthing the words, “Why is this woman sucking my dick?”

I sighed and rolled my eyes. It wasn’t exactly as if he was strenuously objecting to what was being done to him. “This is my sister Maureen. Maureen, this is–“

And then I realized I still didn’t know this guy’s name.

Maureen noticed my problem. Again taking the cock out of her mouth, she said, “Who is he? I didn’t know you were going with anyone.”

“I’m not–not exactly, anyway.”

“You’re telling me you don’t even know this guy’s name?” She looked up at him, and, after giving the tip of his cock a quick little kiss, said, “What’s your name?”

My guy, as if hypnotized, said mechanically, “Jonathan. Jonathan McAndrew.”

A Scotsman! Or at least of Scottish ancestry. Maybe our families were related way back in the mists of time.

“There,” Maureen said to me smugly, “that wasn’t so hard, was it? How is it you didn’t know who he was?”

“Well,” I said awkwardly, “he kind of, um, forced the issue. I guess he’s a neighbor of mine.”

Maureen looked up at Jonathan with a new interest–and admiration. “Look at you! A good job of taking the initiative! My sister can be a bit on the prudish side, so sometimes she needs a little–encouragement.”

“I am not prudish,” I said wearily.

“She’s fabulous!” Jonathan said desperately, as Maureen had resumed her work on his member. He was now hard as rock, and I wondered if he was going to explode in her mouth. Not that that would have bothered Maureen: she was one of those rare women who actually like the taste of come.

“But you’re fabulous too!” Jonathan went on, not wanting to offend the woman who was servicing him. Ever the gentleman.

“You’re sweet,” Maureen said. Then, looking up at me: “You don’t mind if I borrow him for a bit? I really need some action right now.”

I sighed again. “Look, you guys can have all the fun you want. I’m going to sleep.”

I really was tired. It was obvious that Jonathan wasn’t done with poking a woman, but I for one didn’t want to be poked anymore. If Maureen wanted to take over, well, she could be my guest.

That seemed to be exactly what she had in mind. She wasn’t one to have “quickies”: she insisted on the guy lasting as long as he could so that she was satisfied as well. Another unusual thing about her was that she could get off just on intercourse, although of course she wouldn’t say no if a guy wanted to ankarada sakso çeken escortlar finger her or lick her to climax.

So now, she led Jonathan over to the couch and, making him sit down on it, she began to undress.

I have to admit that what she revealed of herself was pretty stunning.

I hadn’t seen her naked in a long time, and I’d forgotten how unbearably cute she could be–at least from the male perspective. She was quite petite (no taller than five foot two), and endowed with flaming red hair that set off her dark green eyes very nicely. She also had these huge breasts (I wouldn’t be surprised if they were DD’s) that were so firm and high and close together that they made a natural cleavage, without any need for something so artificial as a push-up bra. And when she peeled off her skirt and panties, she exposed an apple-cheeked butt to die for.

As Jonathan gaped at her nudity, she took that big cock of his and sat on it. As I was watching from Maureen’s backside, I saw it slowly disappear, inch by inch, into her vagina. She took it all in without the slightest difficulty. And then she pressed Jonathan’s face against those big breasts of hers. Pretty soon she was bouncing cheerfully up and down on his organ, like a good old-fashioned cowgirl riding a wild colt. I could even see Jonathan’s cock getting all slick from her juices.

And when he came, she let out a whoop of ecstasy that was either a triumphal cry that she’d made “my” man come in her, or it was a resounding sign of her own climax, or both. She kept bouncing on that aching member (it must be aching by now, after having shot out three loads of come in just over an hour) until she’d drained him of every last drop. Only then did she pry herself off of it–and as soon as she did so, a big wad of his emission (probably mingled with some of her juices) dribbled out of her and trickled down the insides of her thighs.

I couldn’t believe I’d stood around like a dope watching this lascivious episode. Sticking my tongue out in disgust, I wheeled around, went back to my bedroom, and tried to go to sleep.

I didn’t know what further adventures Jonathan and Maureen were going to be engaged in, but I had a feeling they weren’t done. At some point the two of them shoved me to the edge of my own bed and lay down on it themselves. There was no other bed in the place, and they didn’t want to sleep on the couch or the floor. Somehow the three of us all got to sleep, Jonathan lying between the two women he’d met–and fucked–for the first time only that evening.

So that’s how it started. Jonathan–who, I eventually discovered, was a year younger than myself, which made him a year older than Maureen–seemed to have no particular difficulty dealing with two women at the same time. Well, not at the same time; usually it was one at a time. He’d mosey on over to my place every so often–weeknights, weekend afternoons, and so on and so forth–sometimes spending the night, other times not. His stamina seemed inexhaustible, and he never worked me over fewer than three times, sometimes as many as five.

But I could tell that Maureen was poaching him whenever the mood struck her, which was often. Most of the time she would collar him at his apartment–and I got to the point of being able to smell (and taste) the remnants of my sister’s pussy juice on his cock even after he’d washed it. She even had the nerve of barging into my apartment if she didn’t find Jonathan at home in his own place. She seemed to like riding him on the sofa, since Jonathan had developed (not surprisingly) a fatal attraction to those huge boobs of hers. Sometimes, as I watched them go at it, I wondered how the guy could breathe with those knockers pressed against his face. But he never made any complaint.

And then, after a while, things became a bit more brazen.

In other words, Maureen persuaded us to engage in threesomes. She just loved to have Jonathan lie on my bed, flat on his back, while she sat on his face and watched me squat over his cock and stuff it in myself. Once again I felt bad for the guy, because he really had trouble breathing with Maureen’s pussy covering his nose and mouth and her fleshy thighs surrounding his face. Every so often she would reach over and squeeze my own tits; and I couldn’t help doing the same to hers, marveling at their firmness and rotundity. They really were spectacular!

On her abrupt command, she would have me switch positions with her. That’s because she seemed to develop an inexhaustible thirst to have her vagina bathed with his come. Sometimes she would squat over him facing his feet and stick his cock into her ass, giving both Jonathan and me an unobstructed view of her anal penetration. She came pretty easily, and I’ve seen her go through two or even three sets of shivery orgasms before she finally got Jonathan to send his wad into her various holes.

We actually didn’t go out very much. Jonathan worked at a hardware store that didn’t ankara prezervatifsiz sikişen escortlar pay him very well, so going to restaurants, clubs, or even movies was not in the cards. Anyway, we all got pretty fond of our home entertainment. I couldn’t really figure out what I felt for the guy: I liked him well enough, and perhaps it was even more than that. As for Maureen, I guess she just wanted him for sex.

But I got the strong impression that Jonathan was falling for me–and also for Maureen. I remember one time when my sister was riding him on the couch as usual, and the poor guy seemed to get so worked up that he clutched her tight and (believe it or not) broke into tears. Maureen gazed down at him with a sort of horror, then looked over to me as if to say, Why is this guy crying on my tits? I don’t think it was because Jonathan was madly in love with her; it was simply that she, even more than me, represented what might be called the quintessence of femininity. He was just amazed (and appreciative) that he’d been granted the sudden (and, to his mind, undeserved) gift of having not one but two females available for his every need. It was a wondrous puzzle beyond his understanding.

Things became even more interesting when Maureen made an announcement to me about two months into our involvement with Jonathan.

“Mom wants us to come over,” she said casually.

“Oh, yeah?” I said, without much interest. “What for?”

Maureen peered at me as if I was an idiot. “I meant all three of us. She wants to meet our guy.”

A shiver went through me. “You–you didn’t tell her about what we do?”

“Of course I did!”

“Oh, Maureen, how could you? She must have had a fit! She’s not exactly the most understanding person where such things are concerned.”

“I didn’t get the impression she was upset. She was just curious, that’s all.”

I sighed, but pretty soon we arranged to go over to Mom’s house.

Our mother, Kathleen Ryan, wasn’t doing so well. She was getting close to fifty, but looked a bit younger–and I won’t deny that for her age she was quite attractive. Jet-black hair (maybe dyed), a round face with green eyes not quite as piercing as Maureen’s but still nice, a darling little Cupid’s-bow mouth, and (although I probably shouldn’t say such things) nice big tits and a shapely ass that made more than one man’s head turn. But lately she’d been down in the dumps, with this confused or spooked expression constantly on her face.

And my dad was largely responsible for that.

About a year ago, Patrick Ryan had bolted from the house for reasons no one clearly understood–certainly not his wife. All he said was that he just couldn’t stay with Kathleen anymore. They weren’t officially divorced (we’re Catholic, after all, even though we’re pretty lapsed), but we weren’t even sure where our dad was at the moment, or why he’d left. To Maureen and me, our parents seemed to have the ideal marriage, all lovey-dovey and with very few arguments of any kind. No wonder Mom was flummoxed!

I really didn’t relish going over to the house, not only because she was (I hate to say it) kind of a drag to be around in her present condition, but because I couldn’t believe she would approve of the unusual arrangement her daughters had fallen into. It’s not that Mom was a prude; from various things she’d said I got the impression she liked sex well enough, even more than most women. But she couldn’t possibly sanction the informal ménage à trois we’d fallen into, could she?

But she turned out to be kind and gracious to Jonathan, who’d been nervous as a cat at the prospect of meeting the mother of the two women he was banging. Their initial meeting was a bit awkward, though. As I introduced him to Mom, he first held out a hand as if to take the hand she was extending to him; but on impulse he swept her up into his arms and almost lifted her up off the floor, holding her tight for a good little interval. I saw her head stick up over his shoulder, her expression saying: Well, this man sure is affectionate! She wasn’t complaining: the poor woman hadn’t been embraced by a man in a year or more, and after more than twenty-five years of having a male presence to hug (and do more than hug) her whenever she liked, I’m sure she appreciated his cuddling.

Even though Mom lived on the other side of town, only a few miles from where Maureen and I lived, we were going to stay the weekend, since that way we’d be able to spend a good amount of time with her. The plan was for Jonathan to stay in my bed Friday night, and in Maureen’s bed on Saturday night. I just hoped to heaven that she would be quiet if they engaged in any shenanigans, as I suspected they would. I myself was too embarrassed at my mom’s presence–even if it was in her own bedroom down the hall–for anything but some mild cuddling with my man.

I got the feeling, though, that Jonathan wanted more. He usually slept in his underwear (assuming sincan gece kalan escortlar it stayed on all night, which was rare), but as we bedded down he took his briefs off and was making it clear I should remove my nightgown–when something made him stop short.

It was a sound coming from my mother’s bedroom.

“What’s that?” he said, looking as spooked as Mom sometimes did.

“It’s probably just Mom crying,” I said. I didn’t mean to sound uncaring, but she did that a lot.

“Why is she crying?” Jonathan said, his face crumpling up as if in pain.

“Why do you think, guy?” I said impatiently. He’d gotten me a bit worked up, so I wanted to get down to some action even if it meant that Mom would give me the stink-eye the next morning for polluting the house with such brazen fornication. “She’s been lonely since my Dad left her. It’s been pretty traumatic for her.”

Jonathan looked at me as if he was hearing the sorrows of the whole world. “This is awful!” he cried. “I can’t stand it!”

“Just put it out of your mind. The best thing to do is to let her have her cry and be done with it.”

But, with his extreme sensitivity to everything female, he wasn’t about to take this lying down. With a whiny little whisper (“I gotta help her!”) he leaped up from the bed and began making his way out of the room.

“Jonathan!” I exclaimed–but he paid no attention.

I was going to point out the simple fact (which he had apparently forgotten) that he didn’t have any clothes on.

He left the door to my room open as he padded his way toward Mom’s room. Without any delay he marched right in. I could hear Mom gasp and say, “What are you doing here? Why are you naked?”

After that there was a bit of silence, as Jonathan was no doubt making efforts to turn off the waterworks. And then there were certain other sounds whose significance was all too obvious.

The next morning I came downstairs to the kitchen first. Making on a pot of coffee, I sat at the little table in the breakfast nook and sipped some coffee while staring out the window.

Mom was the next to arrive.

She stopped short when she saw me, but then made a valiant attempt to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary had happened. But I wasn’t about to let her off the hook. It wasn’t really that I was angry or jealous at what she’d done with my (and Maureen’s) boyfriend the night before. I was just curious why she had let it happen. I knew that Jonathan could be very, um, persuasive in such matters, even when dealing with a woman who wasn’t a sex maniac like my sister–as Mom certainly wasn’t.

“So, Mom,” I said, as she poured herself a cup of coffee and grudgingly sat down next to me, “how was it?”

“How was what, dear?” she said primly.

“How was Jonathan? I take it he kept you company all night.”

She blushed as crimson as I’d ever seen her. “He was very–nice.”

“Nice? Is that all you have to say?”

She suddenly got agitated. “Well, what do you want me to say? That he’s a wonderful lover? You already know that–and so does Maureen.” That last phrase was quite inspired. Touché, Mom!

“But,” I said, “how could you let him–?”

“Don’t you think I’ve missed it? Women miss it too, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ve gone through some droughts myself. But you’re still married to Dad.”

“Yes, well, tell him that! He’s not here. I don’t even know where he is–but he’s certainly not in my bed!”

“Okay, okay. I’m not really mad. But this whole situation’s a little odd, isn’t it?”

“I can’t help that.”

“No, I guess you can’t. Are you going to tell me what you two did?”

Mom was aghast. “Of course not! That’s private.”

“I kinda thought you’d say that. Lemme just ask: did he do you multiple times?”

She colored again. “That’s what he seems to do with you two, doesn’t he?”

“Yes. He has a lot of stamina. Exactly how many times?”

With extreme reluctance she said, “Four times.”

“Four? That’s pretty good! He must really like you.”

“I don’t know about that. He was just trying to make me feel better.”

“Sort of like sex therapy, would you say?”

“You don’t have to be so sarcastic about it.”

“Sorry. I assume he poked you in a number of different ways? He usually does that.”

“Yes.” More blushing.

“In your vagina?”

“Of course.”

“In your mouth?”

“Once. We did that thing they call sixty-nine.”

“I know all about sixty-nine. He likes that a lot. He’s pretty good at licking, isn’t he?”

“I’ll say he is!” she said with unexpected enthusiasm.

“Oh, so he made you come that way?”

“He made me c-come several ways.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Then, after a heavy pause: “Did he go into your butt?”

Mom suddenly got up and began pacing around the kitchen. I guess that was her answer to my question. As I looked at Mom’s backside, I tried to envision Jonathan tunneling into that nether orifice.

“Have you done that before?” I said half-incredulously.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“You and Dad?”

“Yes.”

I don’t know why I was dumbfounded by this revelation, but I was. “So you like it?”

“I can’t say I really like it. But your father did. I wanted to please him. At first I didn’t like it at all, but after a while it kind of grows on you.”

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