Family Tradition

ever found out Bob was a hot-tub bottom, they’d fire his fat ass in two seconds. But every time Gates throws an office party, there I am with Bob. Same with Ashton. He’s paranoid that the other chef’s in town think he sucks cock. So that’s why he’s got you. I don’t mind being used as long as I get what I want.”

“Me either,” Sheree concurred. Her mind drifted a moment, back to previous slew of orgasms. “How did you meet Bob?”

Carol giggled. “At The Porthole. It’s a members-only gay club downtown. They got a ‘back room,’ if you know what I mean. The first night I saw Bob, he was back there doing an ass-bang. Had a leather bag pulled over his head and a rubber ball in his mouth, tied down to rings in the floor, spread out like a fat starfish.”

“You’re kidding!” Sheree nearly squealed at the preposterous image.

“Nope. There were ten of us back there that night, and we all helped ourselves and went back for seconds. By the time we were done, we must’ve pumped a quart of cum up his butt.”

“No way!” Sheree squealed.

“Yes way. And that’s not all. Not only is Bob a hardcore bottom, he’s also a jizz freak and a half.”

“A jizz freak?”

“Oh, yeah. He’s in the back room two, three times a week, blowing twenty guys in a row and swallowing every drop. That’s what he was doing second time I met him, just standing in line and sticking my dick down his throat. I was only about halfway done then but I still looked pretty good. But this guy was a cash machine so I put the make on him hard. After we got together, he sprung for a better set of implants and pays for all of the injections. That’s big money, and I sure can’t afford it. With Bob, I’m made in the shade. And if he ever dumps me…” Carol didn’t finish.

“What?” Sheree asked.

“Well, on one of those blow-job trains he pulled at the club?” Carol snickered. “I had a friend of mine secretly videotape it. So if Fat Boy Bobby ever sends me packing, I’m sending that tape straight to Bill Gates.”

“You’re horrible!” Sheree delightedly shrieked.

Carol grinned. “I know. I can’t help it.”

Eventually, they dragged themselves up naked from the floor. Sheree leaned against the Winnebago’s narrow kitchen counter, looking out the small window. “What’s taking them so long? It’ll be getting dark in an hour.”

Carol pressed up behind her, gently reaching around to cup Sheree’s already worn-out vagina. “Yeah,” Carol said. “In an hour.” A long finger popped in. “We can do a lot in an hour.”

Sheree’s fuse was already re-lit. “I don’t know. You pretty much fucked me out. I feel like I’ve been run over by a city bus.” She hesitated, feeling Carol’s cock grow turgid against her buttocks. “I don’t know if I can do it again.”

Carol quickly turned her around, set her ass up on the counter, and slipped her dick right up into her pussy. “Sure you can,” she said and began fucking her again. She pressed forward, kissed Sheree’s lip, sucked her tongue.

Yeah, Sheree thought in another rising wave of bliss. I think I can…

««—»»

As the darkness of dusk had just begun to stain the horizon, M. Gerald James was maintaining a solid seventy miles per hour down State Route 101 along the glittering Strait of San Juan. Canada could be seen on the other side, and its rising mountains.

Something similarly rising existed between James’ legs, but he couldn’t very well see it now. All he could see instead was the back of Rochelle’s pretty head going up and down. James’ slacks were opened, and Rochelle was sucking his cock as fastidiously as the mouth of a devil ray sucking a five-pound conch out of its shell. James had brought his little “spy” along because…well, in his current state of occupational stress, he needed comfort. And Rochelle, cute little pipsqueak that she was, had recently grown quite accustomed to the eccentric nature of James’ needs.

His foot pressed down on the gas as his heart raced. He pressed Rochelle’s tender mouth all the way down on his cock and then held it there. (A little gagging was good for a girl), and then his hips clenched in the mahogany suede-leather seat as he spent himself right down into her gullet. Even after he’d come, he held her head down, listening to the hoarse sucks of her gags.

It was good for her. Showed her the proper ways of the world, where men were dominant and women provided the wastecans of men’s pleasure.

Eventually he decelerated back down to seventy, and let her up for air.

Rochelle wheezed, a smidgen of semen dangling from her chin. Her mouth opened to rebel but then she thought better of it.

“That was…nice,” James said in a slow breath.

Rochelle kept silent, wiped her mouth off. She sat beside James in the Lincoln’s spacious front seat, dressed quite prettily in white sneakers, white shorts, and a bright white top. Such a prize, delicate and delectable as a vanilla-cream torte. Sweet as confectioner’s sugar. But—

Taking her on this trip? It was proof of his appreciation, wasn’t it?

“Yes, yes,” he exhaled. “You’ll manage my restaurant some day. This I promise…”

“Thank you,” Rochelle peeped.

Sometimes, James actually felt bad about his raging abuse of her… Sometimes. It wasn’t really his fault, though, he deemed.

It was Ashton Morrone’s.

James gripped the Lincoln’s leather-gloved wheel harder as he muttered out his stress: “Best chef in the city… Best restaurant in the city… Five-star reviews in Gourmet and the Michelin guide…”

“Stop it,” Rochelle softly bid.

“Multiple James Beard Awards!”

“Mr. James. Don’t give yourself an ulcer!”

James broke like a piece of dry egg noodle. “I already have an ulcer because of that corpulent faggot! I trained in Paris, goddamn it! At Trievan! That fat shit can’t microwave a Hot Pocket but I’ve cooked delicacies for kings! Why does he get all the great reviews? Why is his restaurant the talk of the town?” James punched the Lincoln’s center console, peeling his knuckles and cracking the Nakamichi CD player. Veins pulsed at his temples.

“What about me!” he shouted. “What about me!”

Rochelle stroked his arm, tried to console him. “Mr. James, don’t get so worked up. Everybody knows your restaurant’s better.”

James glared at her. “Everybody? Who? Not the Times, not the Post- Intelligencer! I’ve never even been mentioned in Bon Appetite! I cook Swedish Meringue Cakes and Jamaican Escolar for my diners every night! If someone comes to my restaurant and orders Spiny Lobster Cassolet with Saffron Fouille, I prepare it personally! Why? Because I am in love with the art of cooking! But that fat bastard hires hack cooks to work his kitchen so he can primp his fucking beard on his GODDAMN tv show! And now, the only victory I’ve ever scored against the pompous cocksucker—he’s trying to take that away from me too! Only I can cook the Crackjaw eel to perfection! And now Morrone’s found it!”

“Mr. James, calm down!” Rochelle implored.

“How can I calm down while that-that-that…walrus tries to cash in on my expertise?” His glare froze, flaming with hatred. Without really thinking he—

SMACK!

—landed the back of his fist right across Rochelle’s face. “Ooow!” the girl whined high and loud, pressing her face into her hands.