by COE 3. 1. 0
BEND OVER FOR MY FAMILY
(BOOK TWO OF THE INITIATION 2 SERIES)
By Aphrodite Hunt
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright 2012 by Aphrodite Hunt
Cover art by Aphrodite Hunt
WORKS BY APHRODITE HUNT
The ‘Initiation’ series
Open Your Legs for Me
Blindfolded and Spread-eagled
Thighs Wide Apart
Teacher, Please Spread my Pussy
The Final Initiation
The Initiation: A Bundle of 5 Stories
The ‘Initiation 2’ series
Open Your Legs for my Family
Bend Over for my Family
‘The Royal Captive’ series
Prince Miro’s Capture
Prince Miro’s Submission
Prince Miro’s Enslavement
Prince Miro’s Punishment
Prince Miro’s Escape
Prince Miro’s Final Confrontation
The ‘Naughty Nymphomaniac’ series
I was a Naughty Nymphomaniac
Officer, Please Spread and Cuff Me
Gang Banged by the Chain Gang
Hot, Wet and Steamy (individual stories)
When He’s Inside You
My Stepson is a Naughty Stripper
The Gorgeous Naked Man in my Storm Shelter
Dear reader, as this list is not always comprehensive due to more stories being churned out after this point in publishing, please visit http://aphroditehunt.blogspot.com/ for more stories and updates BEND OVER FOR MY FAMILY
1
I’ve done it again.
I have carelessly agreed to be a sexual submissive to three gorgeous brothers with rock hard bodies and majorly hungry cocks. And I’m in love with the eldest one – the blond Adonis, Max Devlin.
At least, I think I’ve convinced myself that this heady abandonment that fills my head with a fugue is love.
If I am in love with Max Devlin, and he wants to share me with his entire family in a burst of sexual liberation and generosity, does it mean that I have to do everything he tells me to?
I still possess a tiny rebellious streak. It manifests itself now and again in my reluctance to completely submit. But I will admit that the very act of submission excites me and fills me with a deep sense of endangerment.
I have submitted before. Enjoyed it tremendously at times.
I have and can do it again.
In any event, I still have my ‘get out of jail’ safe word: ‘yellow’. Maybe I’ll rebel and insist it to be changed to ‘blue’. That will show them, ha ha.
I’m in the guest bedroom, and it feels like a holiday in every sense of the word. After last night’s orgy, I’m sleeping in my own bed . . . alone. Max has passed out from too much beer in his own bedroom and he’s probably dead to the world till afternoon.
The morning sunshine streams through the softly tenting curtains. I have left the windows open because of the heat, though I suspect it to be more a heat of my own making than the actual temperature outside.
My body feels like a truck has run over it.
A soft rap on the door sends all my senses on alert.
My door whines open. One of the twins pads into my room. He is completely naked. He clutches something in his hand, but I can’t see what it is from my vantage.
I sit up.
“Brad?”
He grins as he mounts my bed, indenting the mattress with his knees. His dark hair sets off his marvelous blue eyes. They are such a beautiful family – the Devlins. Strong limbed and tanned and shapely, every one of them. His fully erect cock sticks straight up in the air, ready for the action he so obviously came for.
“I won’t tell you which one I am,” he says. “I’ll leave you guessing.”
“Where’s Max?”
“Asleep.”
I suppose it’s useless to ask him if Max knows he’s here . . . as Max would certainly condone anything his twin brothers do to me.
I’m wearing a nightdress. It’s satiny and frilly and pretty. I’m wearing it simply because I feel like having something against my bare skin. My cotton panties are snug around my hips, but that’s virtually all I am wearing.
He places his hand under the covers and gropes for my knee.
“I realized I didn’t get to fuck you in the ass. I’m kind of horny thinking about it, and so I came here.”
Oh well, that was direct.
“What if I said no?” I say.
“You’re not going to say no.”
“What if I say ‘yellow’?”
“You’re not going to say ‘yellow’. I know you like this. You like being a sub, no matter how vehemently your pretty mouth protests.”
He grins as he shows me the object in his hand. It’s a studded dog collar attached to a black leash.
“You want me to put this on?” I say in dismay.
“No, I’ll put it on you. Get on all fours, Gina.” His voice takes on a commanding timbre.
This is it. The moment of truth. I can choose to disobey and call ‘yellow’. I can plead a headache.
Or a pussy ache. It won’t be far off. My pussy is still sore from being so roughly used yesterday by all three of them.
But the familiar need – to be used and used again – flowers in my groin like a roiling stomach which has not been fed.
“Get on your hands and knees, Gina. I will not repeat this.” His tone is stentorian this time.
I find myself obeying and cursing myself under my breath as I rush to position my body the way he wants it. I’m still in my nightclothes. He lifts the hem of my dress to reveal my panties and the buttocks which jut out so prominently.
“Nice.” He caresses the rounded mounds of my buttocks. His hand is warm and hard through the thin cotton. I like the sensation of his palms on my flesh. It sure and it promises of tantalizing things to come.
His fingers dip to my pussy. He feels for the tubular strip of my clit through the fabric.
“Let’s take this off you.”
I allow him to slide my panties off my ass and thighs. I lift my knees to disengage the little scrap of cotton. He drapes the hem of my nightdress across my back so that my entire bottom half is revealed, but not my breasts. I’m in a very vulnerable position once again – bare ass out, thighs apart, pussy hole gaping to the elements.
Somehow, I feel more naked with half my nightdress on than if I were to be fully naked. My current state only emphasizes how open I am down there.
He lifts my long mahogany hair off the back of my neck and lets it fall to one side.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs appreciatively.
My cheeks tingle with his praise.
Rubbing the contours of my neck as if he is a vampire readying me for the kill, he fastens the dog collar around me. It snaps shut with a click. The leather feels rough against my fragile skin and the metal studs are cold and unyielding. The leash trails from my collar to the bed, and he takes this up and ties the other end of it to the gilded railing.
“Nice,” he says. I like you this way. You should always be collared and chained.”
I swallow a lump in my throat. The leather feels tight against my voice box.
He moves behind me. He pushes my legs wider and delves two fingers into my vulva, which is already starting to cream. The very vulva that has been stretched so copiously last night with everything they chose to put into it.
“I’m not going to fuck this today,” he says in a hoarse voice. His breathing has already started to quicken.
I know. I close my eye
s, anticipating his rough entry.
His penis head nudges my clit and pussy lips, as if he’s toying with me before he penetrates his chosen hole. He purposefully rubs his rounded knob up and down my clit, triggering a spasm of erotic sensation that floods my entire groin.
“Ohhhhh,” I moan.
“You’re such a heated bitch,” he whispers.
His usage of that word jars me. Is it because of the dog collar around my neck?
His wonderful cock continues to stroke my clit like a large, swollen finger. His pendulous movement reaches all the way to the topmost part of my wrinkled nub, which is blessedly uncovered by any pubic hair. It goes down again to the moist mouth of my pussy hole, which pulses and aches for his schlong to enter.
Then it’s up. Down. Up. Down. Back. Forth. Upstroke. Downstroke.
The pressure of his glans on my most sensitive zones increases. My juices are flowing and trickling out, wetting his hard flesh as he continues his merciless teasing of my clit. I moan again and undulate my hips to meet his stroking rhythm.
The sensations blossoming in my clit are exquisite. They threaten to bring me to the brink of orgasm.
“That’s it. Good girl.”
Upstroke. Downstroke.
The pleasure in my clit swings like a metronome, sending me more and more into my climactic fever. I moan and moan again.
“Ohhhh, don’t stop.”
“Only if you say ‘please’,” he teases.
“Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please fuck me.”
“Only when I’m ready.”
For my reward, he dips his mushroom head into my soaking vulva. Only the tip of it enters, enough to tease me into making an explosive, unintelligible sound. The cock immediately withdraws. I utter an “Uhhh” as the vacuum of its absence sends the bottom segment of my vaginal tunnel collapsing.
Up goes the maddening cock to the crest of my screaming clitoris. And down it goes again. Not only does he further intensify his pressure on me, but his frequency amplifies as well. I’m finding it hard to maintain my doggy-style position as my fingers claw at the bed sheets.
I squirm. I writhe. I rotate my ass. But the leash upon my collar is taut and it keeps my head pulled up, if nothing else.
Finally, he slides his entire cock into my pussy.
I squeal with the sudden flood of expansible pleasure.
And out it goes again, as if it only meant to dip a toe into my voluminously pouring waters.
“I only wanted some natural lubrication,” he tells me.
I open my mouth to remark on this, but he penetrates my quivering anus so suddenly that all I can do is drop my jaw in surprise.
“Ohhhhhh.” A gurgle forms in my throat.
His invasion of my rectum is swift and merciless. He allows his rod to fully stretch me, testing me for size and depth. My rectal walls close in on his broad tool – so hard and long and tubular.
“Does that feel good, bitch?”
“Yes,” I whimper.
His hand goes to my collar and tugs at the leash.
“You be a good bitch and keep still.”
Pinioned and impaled like this, I don’t think I have a choice. My breath is coming out in short pants.
He begins to work his cock into my ass. His movements are rough and discordant, with no regard for my tender flesh or wellbeing. Tears come into my eyes. The pain is raw, and yet exquisite – a melding of torture and pleasure that has become the hallmark of my enjoyment as a sub. His cock slides in and out. The ‘natural’ lubrication he received from dipping his meat into my pussy has been rubbed off now. My own pre-cum smears the heated walls of my rectum, and I can feel my G-spot being pummeled from the other side – like a knock on a door.
He is so jerky and heavy that my buttocks can’t help but be thumped and pushed forward by his pounding. My knees begin to slide on the bed, gathering bunches of sheet as he pounds me forth. The slap-slap-slap of his testicles on my ass drives home his purpose. His cock thrusts into me as deep as it can go, and then withdraws to begin the nailing all over again.
As he fucks my ass, his hands roam all over my lower body.
He spoons my flat stomach and runs his hands down my mons, stopping short of rubbing the top of my clitoris again. He’s increasing his speed. Getting ready to climax inside me. The ragged friction is intense. I pant as the heat in my rectum escalates. I can almost imagine the smoke coming out of my asshole.
The door swings open just as he explodes with a shout and shoots his load into me.
“What the fuck are you doing?” comes a familiar screech.
Uh oh. Coitus interruptus.
The semen continues to gush into me like water from high pressure hose. I savor the heat and frothiness of it even as my chest quails at the singular presence which barges into the room.
The twin who has just sodomized me catches his breath.
“What does it look like, sis?”
Alice marches up to the side of the bed. I daren’t look into her face because I know I will just see scorn and derision.
“Then get your cock out of her ass, you imbecile. Dad’s unexpectedly come home.”
Dad?
My spirits take a sudden tumble.
2
As my morning lover (who he is, Alex or Brad, I’m still unsure) runs off to take a cold shower, I dress hurriedly. My boyfriend’s father . . . home. And I’m rutting around with his three sons every surface I can go horizontal on.
A nervous flutter flip-flops in my tummy. I have never met famous philanthropists/chairmen of multinational companies before. I have certainly never met a billionaire before. Will he know I am in love with his son? And that I have fornicated with all three of his sons? What will he think of me – a freshman from a middle-class family who only owns one home and takes vacations in the Grand Canyon, not Paris?
Like Alice, he might even think I’m grubbing after his son’s inheritance. God forbid. The ‘money’
part never even crossed my mind.
I don’t even know what to wear. All the clothes I brought to impress Max Devlin’s family suddenly seem so tawdry and cheap, like the girl whose body they are meant to conceal.
A knock on the door unhinges me.
“Hey.” Max comes in. His hair is tousled and he wears a sleepy grin on his heavenly face. He’s in his usual wife-beater and jeans. “Can I come in?”
“Max!” I run like a thunderbolt into his arms.
He drops the paper bag he is carrying. “Hey, hey, hey, hey, why are you crying?”
I wipe off tears that I didn’t know were present on my cheeks. The alarm and excitement of it all is draining me physically and emotionally.
“I don’t have anything to wear.”
More tears squeeze out of my eyes. I’m behaving like a hyper-expressive mental patient, I know, but I’m in such a shambles right now that I don’t care.
For answer, he lifts my chin. His grin turns into something else – the knowing smile of a dominant.
“You’ll look beautiful in anything, Gina. And my father, after all . . . is family.”
His emphasis on the word does not go unrecognized.
My mouth goes dry.
“You wish me to – ”
“I’ve brought you something to wear.” He gestures to the paper bag. “Go on. Try it.”
*
I walk nervously into the study, accompanied by Max and his twin brothers. It is a large chamber whose walls are lined with shelves of books, files and curios found only in rich people’s studies.
Artifacts from all over the world – Mayan jars, Chinese snuff bottles, Masai shields – decorate it. These are in turn interspersed with oil paintings.
I almost gasp at the paintings. I recognize the artistic imprint of a Monet, a Caravaggio. The paintings in this room must be worth a fortune.
Laughter issues from behind the large mahogany desk. Alice is sitting upon the lap of a man who resembles Ma
x.
She scowls as soon as she sees me.
But what a man her father is!
He is blond and broad-shouldered from what I can see of him above the desk. His eyes are a piercing blue, and he doesn’t look a day above forty. He resembles a movie star – a leading man who is used to sucking up all the energy in a room. His charisma radiates across to me, and in a room full of gorgeous, studly young men – all replicas in one way or another of him – my gaze is riveted to his face.
He’s wickedly and powerfully handsome.
Alice glares at me while her father favors me with a bemused look.
I’m wearing what Max instructed me to. It’s a flower girl’s dress in lilac tulle, with a skirt full of flounces. A pretty black sash cinches the waist, and it’s decorated by a huge black silk flower. The dress is made to fit me, of course, but the sash is very high at my waist, just below my breasts. I’m not wearing a bra, and so my nipples strain at the thin material.
“He likes little girl party dresses,” Max tells me.
So this is where Max gets his little girl fetish from.
“And does he like little girls?” I ask, my skin paling at the thought.
“Only when they are grown up and dressed like you.”
The philanthropist who likes little grown-up girls now smiles at me
“What’s she doing here?” Alice demands. “This is a private family room.”
Her father says, “Come now, sweetheart. Max tells me Gina is practically family by now. Isn’t that right, Max?”
He has a deep voice. One that would not be out of place in an opera.
“Certainly.” There’s a stiff formality to Max’s tone when he addresses his father. He puts his hand behind my back to shepherd me to the desk. “Dad, this is Gina Wesley. Gina, this is my father, Russell Devlin.”
A frisson of nervousness passes through me. I can hardly walk, especially when Alice is glaring at me out of hateful eyes. My hair is done up in two ponytails, both sprouting from the sides of my head.
My feet are shod in black Mary Jane shoes and my white beribboned stockings are up to my knees.
I believe I might have worn an outfit like this when I was eight.
In church.
When I was a better person.
“You’re very, very pretty, Gina,” Russell observes as I approach.