Marcia wipes down the espresso machine with slow, circular motions, her mind drifting to the weir, long summers past.
The water had been glassy and warm, her skin prickling with sun and cheap wine, and Harvey Tanner's mouth had found hers while Jonas watched from the bank with that lazy, hungry grin.
Stepbrother like her, fuckin' nineteen and super randy.
She'd taken them both that afternoon—Harvey first, then Jonas, then both again until her thighs trembled and the current carried their laughter downstream.
Now she's thirty-two, divorced, and owns this failing café on Main Street.
The Tanner brothers opened their new bakery, three days ago across the street.
Christ, would they recognise the girl in the woman!
The bells chimes. The clock 4.57 PM. Closing in three.
It's Harvey. It's Jonas.
"Be quick! I'm closing," she tries, outwardly professional.
"Girl, you ain't getting it quick," a voice drawls, and her hand stalls on the steam wand.
"And nothing's stayed closed," from the other.
Harvey leans across the counter, collects her lips.
Marcia hears Jonas slide the door bolt and close the venetians.
Her tongue tangles with Harvey's as it did, resurfacing from the depth of the weir.
She is lifted onto the counter.
Her mouth open. Her legs spread wide.
Jonas's schlong, thick and stiff, fills her mouth.
Harvey's tongue meets the velvet of her smooth, shaved mound.
Her knickers shredded.
She sucks a length of man pipe.
Cock tickles her tonsils until she gags.
Jonas manhandles her titties, pushing them up over her bra cups.
His stubble tickles her marshmallow pillows.
She coos when his tongue latches onto a cherry-pebbled teat.
Harvey is getting dirty down below.
Two fingers in her slash and one in her willing, eager crack.
"Ruin me— like at the…" she starts.
The stepbrothers were going to anyway.
Not one at a time like nineteen.
She's the filling now— in a double cock slam.
They squeeze her upright between them, her bra gone, her café dress crumpled.
The naked threesome, a flesh accordion.
Jonas in front. Harvey behind.
Her arse is fingered with a spit-drenched digit.
Her pussy mugged by two scissoring bandits.
Jonas holds her throat.
Harvey grips her boobs.
A pecker lances her bum. Another spears her pussy.
"Oof! Ah! Ahh! Uhh! Yes! Yes! Fuck! Fugh! Aahh! Aahh! Aahh!"
Sometimes the wait for the second-coming happens.
Her butt cracks open; it smarts, it burns.
But hell, the constriction of buggery is bloody good.
Her partition feels so thin and delicate, as her pussy envelopes jacking, piston-fast cock.
Double dipped. Double wicked. Her orgasm candle flares at two ends.
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"
A yell, a whimper, a cry of delight.
"You like that bitch," from Jonas.
"You crave it, wench," from Harvey.
Sometimes you are fucked as you deserve, even if you have to wait.
Her breasts bounce in the mayhem of the brutal double fill.
She's weightless.
She's flesh-heavy.
Eyes roll.
Breath comes too fast.
Her peak rolls like a frickin' avalanche.
The small tingles, the stabs of ecstasy, the crescendo of nerves releasing the bliss bomb.
"Rraaghhh!"
She's girly putty between them until they guide her to her knees.
A surfeit of jizz, splashes her cheeks, lands on her lapping, welcoming tongue, dribbles on her chin and coats her clammy boobs.
Above her, Harvey says, "Marcia, Marcia, our next date is the—"
She rises and shuts his mouth with her tongue.
She'll decide.
The bakery?
The weir?
The dudes' aging stepmother's porch!