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Table of Contents
"Why can't we?" Brock Morrison stopped kissing her long enough to ask. "The girls wont be home for hours yet."
Betty forcefully jerked Brock's right hand from between her thighs and clamped her dimpled knees together. "I told you," she reminded him petulantly. "I told you when you came in that Carl would be calling soon-he might call any minute now."
"Fuck Carl," Brock argued, trying vainly to force her thighs apart, "he's halfway across the country, in Chicago. He sure as hell can't see what we're doing over the telephone. Come on, baby, please, I've been dying for your sweet snatch all day. You told me to wait until the girls went back to school from lunch, and we'd fuck for the rest of the afternoon. Come on, I promise to stop when the telephone rings."
"No, darling. I'm just as hot as you are; my pussy is on fire. But we can't-we can't-you know how crazy you make me. You know how fast and hard you make me come. There's no way I could pull myself together to answer the telephone. It's 3:00 p.m., Chicago time, and Carl said they would wind up the reading of the will shortly after noon. He's going to call me immediately when they leave the lawyers' office. That money is too important to both of us to blow it just because you can't wait a few minutes to get your nuts off."
Whatever Brock might have answered was cut off by the shrilling jangling telephone.
"See there," Betty cried, jumping up and running to the phone on the corner bar, "that's him now-I told you."
"Carl, honey, how did things go?" Betty asked into the mouthpiece without any preliminary greeting.
"Good, if we can get the girls pregnant," her husband's voice came back to her, "otherwise, zilch-zero-nothing."
"This connection must be bad, Carl," she shouted into the mouthpiece, "I can't understand you. I would have sworn that you said 'get one of the girls pregnant!'"
"That's exactly what I said," Carl shouted back. "Pregnant-big-with child-knocked up! Not just one of them, all three of them. We've got to be sure it's a boy, and we've got to beat Chet and Scott out. We've got the best chance, because we've got three girls-all old enough. Chet's got two, but Thea's only-how old-twelve, eighteen?
Scott hasn't got any, and he's out of the running, because Sylvia can't even have kids."
"What on earth are you talking about, Carl Felton?" Betty cried. "Are you drunk? You're supposed to be in Chicago for the reading of your father's will. I thought you were going to call to tell me how much he left us, but what you're saying doesn't make sense. Start at the beginning and tell me exactly what you're trying to say."
"Not just the girls, you're in this, tool" Carl shouted, confusing his dumbfounded wife even more. "That puts us way ahead of the others-that money is as good as ours. Just one of you has to get pregnant and come up with a boy-that's the terms of the will-the oldest Felton male, every second generation, comes into the Felton estate in Scotland-100,000 acres with a forty-eight-room castle on it. That's the only thing inheritable in the old man's will. He'd made so many bad investments that he didn't leave enough for the lawyers' fees-he was wiped out-had nothing but debts. That estate in Scotland has been in the Felton family for centuries, and that's all that's left.
"Every other generation it is passed down to the oldest son. Neither Chet, Scott, nor I are eligible, because Dad inherited it, and it has to skip us. If none of us has a son, the estate reverts back to the Crown. If we had sons, the land would automatically go to the oldest, but we haven't, so we've got to produce a natural-born Felton son. Since none of our girls is married, their kids will be Feltons, and that's okay, because Dad was illegitimate himself. Grandma Felton never married, but she was a Felton, in fact, the last Felton, and Dad got her name and the property. Do you understand now what we've got to do? We can't take any chances-everybody has got to get into the act."
"But Carl, Jan is only eighteen, and a virgin. Pat is eighteen, but I'm sure she's a virgin, too. Liz is eighteen and has been dating for over a year, so I can't swear to her virginity-but-but even so, I wouldn't know how to begin going about. . ."
"You don't have to go about a goddamned thing," Carl interrupted. "Just be sure to have all three of them there when I get home tonight, and I'll make it crystal clear to them what they've got to do. You be ready to start fucking as soon as I get there, and don't plan to stop until morning sickness sets in. I can't talk anymore-gotta catch a plane-see you in a few hours."
Betty stood looking at the receiver as though she were holding a loaded gun in her hand. Long after Carl had hung up, she stood staring at it, shaking her head from side to side.
Brock Morrison, Carl's employee, and Betty's lover for the past two years, sat on the couch looking as puzzled as his mistress. From hearing Betty's side of the conversation he had no idea what was going on. What could the girls' virginity-or lack of same-have to do with the inheritance that they all had been waiting for for so long? Since Betty still hadn't hung up, he was afraid to speak for fear Carl was still on the line.
He looked at the woman he loved, and groaned aloud at her ungodly sexiness. She was leaning on the bar with her magnificent ass jutted out against the thin material of the light, summer dress that she wore. Brock was an ass man, and Betty possessed the most voluptuous, perfectly shaped ass that Brock had seen in all of his thirty-four years.
The thirty-eight-year-old woman was pretty, what with her golden blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and cupid's bow lips. At five feet, nine inches, she was only two inches shorter than her handsome, dark-haired lover. Her long legs were superb in their heavy-thighed, fat-calved curvaceousness, and her huge, big-nippled breasts sagged only as much as such giant orbs were supposed to sag. Still it was her ass that set Brock's teeth on edge, kept his cock achingly hard, and kept him coming back for more.
"38-26-40," Brock whispered her , measurements softly to himself. "All that fantastic sex wasted on a slob like Carl Felton. What's going on? What's he saying to her? When he left here he was bragging about inheriting upwards of $1,-000,000, but now she looks like he's been cut off without a cent."
Betty finally hung up and turned to Brock with a look of perplexity and despair clouding her clear blue eyes.
"What happened, Betty? What went wrong?"
"Everything,'' Betty said, holding her head in both hands. "Carl's father was broke-had nothing but debts-didn't leave any of the boys a nickel."
"Oh my God," Brock moaned, "there goes all of our plans out the window-everything that we've waited for. What are we going to do now?"
"Do you think you can get me pregnant?" Betty asked with a wry smile, coming back to flop down on the couch beside Brock.
"With pleasure!" Brock cried happily. "Does that mean you'll divorce him anyway, and marry me?"
"Maybe we can marry with money, after all," Betty said, in Brock's arms now, "He didn't explain it completely, and I'm still trying to get it straight in my own mind. Anyway, it seems that the first son born to any Felton woman is in line for about 100,000 acres of land and lots of other stuff in Scotland. The estate has been in the Felton family for centuries, and it goes to the eldest Felton son every two generations. Carl said that we all will have to get pregnant to make sure we get it instead of Chet or Scott."
"We all, who?"
"Me and the girls-Janette, Patricia, and Elizabeth."
"Wait-wait," Brock said. "Let's get this straight; tell me everything he said to you."
Betty repeated the telephone conversation.
"Do you mean to tell me that that greedy, unscrupulous sonofabitch is going through with that?" Brock roared when Betty was finished. "How could he let his daughters-force his daughters to get pregnant for any amount of money? What kind of monster are you married to, Betty?"
"He's no worse than the rest of us," Betty replied tiredly. "I married him for his money-I never loved him. I had three babies for him that I didn't want, just waiting for his dad to die so I could divorce him and hit him for a big settlement. How was I to know the tough old sonofabitch would live to be almost ninety?
"Let's face it, Brock, had you not thought that I could get enough money from Carl to support us in luxury for the rest of our lives, you would have been long gone, and you know it. You came here courting Liz-I got the hots for you-you got the hots for me-and the fire that we started just got out of control. Sure we click like all get-out sexually, but you know you wouldn't have considered marrying me without the money."
"That-that's just not true, Betty-I love you-I don't give a damn about the money-I'd marry you tomorrow-but-but I can see your point. No use giving up all that property if we can get it. So all I've got to do is get you pregnant-right?"
"That's not all. It's got to be a boy, and I seem to be a girl getter. We've got to beat Chet's wife, Marsha, and their daughter, Susan, out. Thea is only about eighteen, so she doesn't count, but I'll bet Susan and Marsha are fucking right this minute, and praying for Bingo.
"I simply refuse to get pregnant by Carl anymore, and I'll still use my diaphragm when he fucks me. But I want you to start right now, and I want you to get not only me, but Liz, too, knocked up higher than a late."
"Do you mean you're asking me to fuck Liz?"
"I'm not asking you, I'm telling you," Betty snapped, irritated at the elation in Brock's voice. "I know that you were fucking Liz before I made her stop seeing you, in spite of your lies to the contrary. You were too old for Liz; she hadn't even turned eighteen then. I know she still likes you, and I know she'd fuck you in a minute, so go ahead, but don't get any ideas, Buster. This is strictly business, and it ends the moment we are sure she's pregnant. If I catch you sniffing around her ass after then, you're out of the ball game."
"It's not Liz I want, it's you," Brock insisted, pulling Betty closer and slipping his hand up to her steamy wet crotch again. "Come on, baby, let's go to bed, I've had a hard-on for you all day."
"Oh shit, yes-yes, let's go," Betty gasped as his practiced fingers began titillating her sensitive clit. "I want your wonderful cock in me so bad-so badly."
Springing up from the couch and preceding Brock into the master bedroom, Betty shrugged out of her mini-dress and hopped naked into bed. Fondling her already oozing, constantly burning cunt impatiently, she stared hungrily at her virile young lover as he ripped off his clothes.
In contrast to Carl's short, dumpy, pale white figure, Brock was tall, broad-shouldered, flat-bellied, and blessed with a smooth, even tan. Carl's sandy-colored hair was thinning almost to the point of baldness, while Brock possessed a thick, wavy mop of dark brown hair. A darker, curlier patch graced his muscular chest, and a matching mass of almost black curls tangled at the base of his belly.
The biggest physical difference between the two men who shared her sexual favors, however, was the symbol of manhood that hung between their thighs. Carl's cock size was normal, Betty assumed, since it was not appreciably larger or smaller than the dozen or so other pricks that she had sampled before latching on to this big-spending, big-talking, potential millionaire.
Betty was already twenty years old when she allowed Carl to pick her up in a bar one night, and an hour or so later, coyly allowed him to seduce her in his apartment. She had been impressed by his expensive clothes and jewelry, his thick wad of hundred-dollar bills, his Alfa Romeo and luxurious apartment. She had not been impressed by his fucking, but she had faked several orgasms that first night. Over the years she had faked more and more, and when she met Brock some eighteen years later, and he had fucked her into a state of delirium, she realized almost in shock that she hadn't had one single orgasm in all the years of copulating with Carl.
Brock was hung like the proverbial stud horse. He had a nine-inch cock with a head on it as large as Betty's closed fist. On the night that she had called him to the house to explain to him why she didn't want him to go on seeing her daughter, his masculine virility had reminded her of her own inadequate sex life. She had flirted with him brazenly, even going so far as to go into the bedroom to "slip into something more comfortable." When she came back out into the living room dressed in a see-through peignoir with nothing on underneath, he was holding the biggest cock in his hand that she had ever seen.
She had not even been sure she could take the huge meat club, but take it again and again and again, she did, loving every inch of it, dying and coming back to life with every orgasm that he plowed out of her. Now two years and several hundred fucks later, she was still as hot for Brock and his cock as she had been that first night.
"Oh God, darling, hurry," she moaned, lifting and spreading the smooth columns of her creamy thighs, "it's going to be so good without a diaphragm or rubber. I want to feel your naked cockhead pounding against my womb-I want your come in me-all of it-deep inside me. I want to feel it hot and gushing. Ohhhhh, it's going to be heavenly making a baby with you."
Brock tore off his last stitch of clothing and fairly leaped into bed on top of her. Normally, he never mounted her, never sought to enter the portals of her honey-dripping love grotto without elaborate foreplay. Sometimes they would kiss for minutes and minutes on end, sucking each other's tongue, savoring each other's sweet saliva.
From her wet, hungry mouth he would drop his lips to the rigid, rubbery nipples of her heaving breasts, sucking them voraciously, licking and kissing them tenderly as he fondled and squeezed the heavy orbs in his hot, horny hands. From there he would progress downward, leaving a silvery, wet trail as he licked over her mere hint of a belly, down through the tangled, golden jungle of her cunt hair until he found the prize that he sought.
He loved her cunt, and never tired of telling her how much he loved to look at it, touch it, smell it, taste it. He would make her come again and again by fanning her thick, blood-engorged clit with his busy, wet tongue tip. He would drive her wild by letting his tireless tongue race and dance up and down her slimy slit, into her cunt hole and out, up the crack of her ass and down, into her asshole, out and in again.
By the time he would lift his head, slide up her body and clamp his mouth to hers, giving her a taste of her own sweet juices, she would already be practically out of her mind with ecstasy, and he had but to plunge his fleshy meat pole into her yearning, burning love hole for her orgasms to begin exploding again like cherry bombs.
Now, however, he had no time for foreplay. He had never fucked her before without some kind of contraceptive. Usually she wore a diaphragm, and though he had hit her womb on every pounding in-stroke, the mere knowledge that his cockhead was hitting jelly-smeared rubber instead of the bottom of her hot, juicy cunt took some of the thrill away.
Had he had to explain the difference in words now, Brock couldn't have done so, but he felt the difference, and she felt the difference, and never had either of them enjoyed the coupling of their genitals so thoroughly.
"Oh darling, fuck me-FUCK MEEEl" Betty shrieked. "I'm about to come already-it's never been this good before-OHHHH GOD-I'm COM-MMMMINNNNG!
Brock had only made a dozen or so deep, driving thrusts. Her pussy was wet, slick, clinging, better than he could remember it ever having been. Bracing his feet against the foot of the bed, he hooked his hands over her shoulders, and as he slugged his throbbing cock into her split-to-bursting love sleeve, he jerked her down to meet him, adding double force to his pile-driving plunges.
Her long, strong legs were wrapped tightly around his back, her arms locked around his neck, hardly any of her one hundred and forty pounds resting on the bed. She was hanging suspended under his dancing, hammering body, rolling, twisting, grinding her loins up to meet and engulf him as though her very life depended upon it
Their bellies smacked together with a squishy, resounding SPLAT! His egg-sized nuts swung like a bell clapper, bouncing like rubber balls off the resilient hillocks of her wildly gyrating ass. Sweat poured into their eyes, down their faces and bodies, drenching the sheets under them.
"Oh God-oh God," she moaned over and over again, "if I come one more time I'll go crazy-oh God-ohh God-AGAAAIINNNNNI"
"Me, tooooo!" Brock gasped sharply, feeling her slick vaginal muscles already milking the juice from him. "Jeeezus, this one is coming all the way up from my toes!"
"On the bottom, darling! The very bottom!" Betty cried, bucking up to trap the head of his cock firmly against the mouth of her womb. "Shoot it into my womb-all of your hot, sweet, potent cream-knock me up, Brock-make me a babyyyyyyyy!"
Marsha Felton was cute rather than pretty. She had a childishly fresh, pug-nosed vivacity that belied her thirty-four years. At five feet two inches, one hundred and ten pounds, and measurements of 36-24-34, she was exactly the same size as her eighteen-year-old daughter, Susan, and was often mistaken' for the girl's twin sister.
She wore her reddish-brown hair cropped short, just as her daughter did, and they wore each other's mini-skirts and hot pants interchangeably. Most of the time both of them had big, easygoing grins on their lush-mouthed, freckled faces. As their tall, handsome husband and father paced the floor before them now, however, neither Marsha nor Susan was grinning, nor even smiling.
"And that's the story in a nutshell," Chester Felton said, slapping both of his thighs heavily to punctuate the hopelessness of the situation. "I had depended upon Dad's leaving us enough that we could get out of this rat race, take it easy for the rest of our lives, but as you can see, he didn't leave us a cent.
"Our only chance to get anything of the fabled, practically nonexistent Felton fortune would be for either you or Susan to get pregnant, and deliver a live, healthy son before one of the chicks in Carl's coop pulls the trick. That's out of the question, of course, and we won't even discuss it."
"Well, I can certainly see why you waited for Thea to go to bed before breaking the news to us," Susan said, "and since you did wait, I can only assume that you do want to discuss it."
"No, I don't," Chet replied much too hastily. "I only waited for Thea to go to bed because I knew that we would be talking about Carl's family and the fact that they would be fucking like rabbits, and I don't think that Thea should be exposed to such talk yet. Since you were eighteen, Marsha and I have had no secrets from you. You know that we swing, we know that you have a quite active sex life, so we can say anything in your presence, but I want to keep Thea out of this. She's only eighteen."
"Tomorrow's Thea's birthday," Marsha reminded him. "She'll be eighteen."
"So what," Chet snapped almost in anger, "she's still just a child. I don't want her even thinking of sex before she is eighteen."
"Oh crap, Daddy, this is 1976, not 1880. I lost my cherry when I was eighteen and so did Mommy. She told me."
"What the hell is this?" Chet cried, staring from his wife's face to his daughter's. "You two act like you want Thea in on this-like-like-you're both considering getting pregnant, and on top of that-like-like you actually want Thea in on it. I won't hear of it-case closed."
"Get serious, Chet," Marsha said flatly, "we have all been waiting for that money too long and too hard to try to pretend now that it doesn't mean that much to us now. I want another baby about as much as I want TB, but damnit, I'm game. You know I haven't been on the pill for about six months now, because the doctor told me to take a break. Just forget using rubbers for awhile, and let's get started."
Chet's entire face lit up. "All right, all right," he said, running his hands through his long, dark hair, "uhh, how about you, Susy? I mean-uh-you don't have to if you don't want to, but. . ."
"You know I will, Daddy. I'm going to have babies one of these days, anyhow, so why not now. Only problem is the dude I'm going with now is a great lay, but a loser just about every other way, and I don't want a baby by him."
"As pretty and as popular as you are, darling," Marsha said, "I'm sure you won't have any problem finding the man to do it. Just get started soon, I'm sure that Betty and all three of her girls are flat on their asses right now with men standing in line to fuck them.
"Get on the phone and call somebody right now. Thea sleeps like a log. You can fuck right out here in the living room, or take him to the family room in the basement."
"Oh Mom, I don't want to be difficult, I swear it," Susan wailed, "but I can't think of a single boy. Give me some time to think-don't rush me."
"Take all the time you want," Marsha said, getting up from the couch, and reaching for Chet's hand, "just get a man over here tonight. I'm going into the bedroom now with Chet for my first injection. Let's me and you have a race-the last one pregnant is ah old douche bag."
All Marsha had been wearing was a loose mini-dress, and as she preceded her husband into the master bedroom, she shucked the tiny garment over her head.
Chet never tired of looking at the sexy, compact little bodies of his wife and older daughter, and his massive cock sprang so hard as he gazed at her firm, bold, succulent-looking ass cheeks that he hastily unzipped his pants to give it breathing room.
As he hurried out of his clothes, he wondered who the lucky stud was who would soon be doing to Susan out on the couch the same thing that he was about to do to Marsha in bed. "Ill bet her little pussy is as hot and tight as all shit," he mused to himself as he pulled off his shorts and T-shirt and fell into bed between Marsha's spread thighs.
"This has really got me hot, honey," Marsha whispered as she reached down between them to guide Chet's long, thick, beloved cock into her moist, burning cunt. "I feel like I felt when we were trying for the girls. Remember how hot I stayed, couldn't get enough?"
"God yes," Chet groaned, marveling at Marsha's tightness, her slickness as he shoved his cock deep into her steamy love channel, "me, too. Your pussy seems to get better when you're in heat like this-Jeezz, I love to fuck you anytime, but shooting for a baby is pure heaven."