I figured it all out in a painful flash. We had made an enormous circle and we were back in my home county. The reason the suburbs surrounding the bank had been so familiar was that they, were undoubtedly the ones I used to live in.
"Which side do you think it is?" Chinga whispered to me from under the other bed.
"The cops," I glumly replied without even thinking about any alternative. "Roy Parker's the one with the bull-horn."
"That doesn't mean anything," Chinga insisted.
"What are you talking about?" I hissed impatiently. "The last seconds of our lives may be ticking away and you're arguing about whether Roy Parker is a cop."
"I know he's a cop," Chinga hissed back, "but he could also be moonlighting."
"You're getting paranoid," I dismissed his contention, unwilling to ponder such incongruities when I was on the verge of being ventilated by bullets. "Come on, stop fantasizing, and let's decide what we're going to do. We don't have much time yet before we give up or die."
"Makes no difference to me," he breezily flipped, "I was born dead."
"Put a lid on that psycho bullshit," I snapped. "There are innocent kids and a schoolteacher in this death-chamber along with us, and I'm sure they're not impressed with your outlaw fatalism."
"What difference does it make?" Miss Turner undermined me. "Let the big gorilla do his macho thing in peace. We're all going to be killed, anyway."
"Then I plan being the last to die," I retaliated at their apathy.
"Then you're going to wave the white flag at the pigs just to save your skin?" Chinga asked incredulously.
"No, you jerk!" I spat. "But I'm not going to just lie here waiting to become a Swiss cheese either."
"We could shoot our way out!" he enthusiastically suggested, his voice brimming with characteristic instability.
"I like your spirit, hon, but right now what we need on our side is brains not bullets," I gently put him down. "I'm going to try and make a deal."
"You've got just over ten seconds left," Roy Parker droned over the loudspeaker. "I'm going to go into the final countdown. If we don't hear from you, you're dead."
Jesus, the bastard actually sounded bored. Could it be that our bloody demise was such an inevitability?
"Ten…" Roy began to count, "nine… eight…"
I was beginning to wonder if there was any use in even making the effort. Parker sounded like he already had us buried.
But, then, when ten-year-old Robin became so frightened that she called for her mommy; I recaptured my resolve to do something. Paradoxically, I would have to save the lives of Miss Turner and the children by pretending to threaten them.
Scooting out from under the bed, I interrupted Roy Parker at two; two seconds from oblivion.
"Stop!" I screamed. "Don't shoot!"
"Are you giving up?"
"No, I want to talk. Give us some time."
There was a long pause as they apparently conferred. Finally he agreed. "But," he warned, "it better be good."
"We'll murder these kids and their teacher if you don't let us go," I took the boldest of gambles.
"Who're they?" he asked with obvious sincerity.
Jesus, just how dumb were the cops, anyway?
Then, of course, it occurred to me they weren't cops at all – just like Chinga had said. But why would Parker be contracting his services to the very people who'd started all this by paying to have him kidnapped in the first place?
I didn't have time to answer that question because now Roy was using the bullhorn again. Most belligerently.
"We don't care about anybody else you've got in there. This is a vendetta not a courtroom."
Vendetta! Mob talk. The son of a bitch was in with the gangsters. Whatever his price was, they'd met it.
Then our time ran out and the shots started to fly. The cold-hearted mother fucker didn't even warn us.
I was standing right in the middle of the room so I was the prime candidate to get blasted. Miraculously, I wasn't hit – but I seemed the only thing in the room with this distinction.
As fusillade after fusillade of bullets penetrated the building, the motel room became a splintering trash pile. The mirror, the knick-knacks, the skeleton of the television set everything – became rubble.
To make it all worse, the kids and Miss Turner were screaming at the tops of their lungs. As for Chinga, he could have been shitting in his pants for all I knew.
In the meantime, I had somehow made it safely to the bathroom, where I cowered in the tub. The precious seconds of comparative safety the porcelain fortress gave me seemed like a blessed eternity after the fire power I'd just weathered.
Gradually the bullets stopped zinging around, and then stopped altogether. So had the screaming of the teacher and the children. Had they been hit? And Chinga was nowhere in evidence. Meanwhile, the beds were charred with bullet holes.
I didn't have to be too smart to know what was going to happen next. They assumed we were all dead or wounded. In moments they'd come in to finish off the survivors.
I had to keep them out.
Recalling the holocaust of the original hideout, I decided to start a fire as a diversion. Leaving the bathtub and running into the main room. I discovered the quickest way was to put cigarette lighter to the chintzy drapes.
It was an inspired scheme. The place seemed to suddenly erupt in flames – fortunately, right at the window where Parker and his goons could get a good look.
"Shit, the dump is on fire!" I heard somebody cry from outdoors. "I'm not goin' in there."
"You don't have to," I overheard Parker's voice inadvertently carry over the bullhorn as he snapped at the man. "The fire will do your cleaning up for you. We don't have to do anything but let it keep us warm and watch it burn. By the time the fire department shows up, everybody inside will be dead."
I scooted down between the beds and rapidly whispered, "Come on, this is our only chance. They're sitting around on their asses waiting for us to burn up."
Then I took a better look at the people I was supposed to be talking to and shut up. All four of them were without signs of life. There were rivers of blood. All of a sudden I realized I was kneeling in it.
It was no use. Even if some of them were alive, they were wounded so gravely I'd never be able to haul them out before the fire got us. At this moment the blaze I'd set had spread across the front of the room and was enclosing its way around the sides. The air was engorged with acrid smoke.
Reluctantly I concluded that the only one I could save was myself. It was like abandoning my own family, but I had no choice.
Returning to the bathroom, where the fire had not yet reached, I went to work on the small window. Fortunately it was of the usual shlocky construction you find in such places, and the whole frame came out like a piece of a cheap puzzle.
Standing up on the toilet, I hoisted myself through the opening. As I fell to the ground outside, I hadn't any illusions about being home free.
However, luck was with me, because the fire was acting hypnotically on the gunmen. Apparently, there was nothing like a human barbecue to grab their attention.
The torpedoes supposedly guarding the back had drifted around to the front to witness the action. Slipping right between their deserted flanks, I sprinted in a crouching gait to an extension of the parking lot away from the fire. I ran right into the Camaro.
Since Chinga had hot-wired it in the first place, there was no key to worry about. By now I was enough of a thief to start it myself.
With the motor purring, I stole as inconspicuously as I could toward the furthest exit from Parker and his men. It was only when I saw the street that I slammed the accelerator and took off like a bat out of hell.
Switching onto the nearest freeway, I drove until I found an exit I recognized. Wheeling into a residential area, I was only a couple of miles from home.
"My kids – I've got to see my kids," I suddenly broke down and admitted to myself. Too much had happened lately to remind me of them to pretend any more that they weren't a part of my life.
Damn the risk! I wanted to see them – hold them – feel their young bodies next to mine. As I pointed the car toward our house, I'd never felt so completely a mother.
Our house was the same as I'd left it. As I pulled into the driveway, I knew that nothing could ever change the suburbs.
Stealing inside with the key from under the doormat, I immediately tiptoed upstairs to the bedrooms. The house was dark and Anita and Bobby were sleeping – I'd surprise them.
Without even bothering to check on Tom, who was about the furthest thing from my mind, I slipped into Bobby's room first. Yes, there the little darling was, sound asleep.
Gently pulling the covers off to get a better look at him, I noticed how small his pajamas were for him. He seemed to have grown since I'd last seen him.
The buttons seemed to pop. But, most interestingly, the fly was stretched too tautly to completely close. Bobby's eleven-year-old cock and balls were hanging out.
I was fascinated. Especially when I noticed the wispy fringe of curly hair poking out from the top. My little boy was growing hair on his crotch.
I couldn't help feeling as I had when he taken his first step. My son was growing up.
"Your prick is beautiful," I congratulated my slumbering man-child. Then, I couldn't resist stroking it.
It was like touching silk. The skin of his cock was as soft as his bottom had been when he was a baby.
Overpowered by maternal instincts, I leaned forward and kissed it. Once I'd tasted it, I couldn't stop sucking.
Suddenly my sleeping son's prick was beginning to swell inside my mouth. Every inch he stiffened made my pussy wetter.
There was no longer any doubt that one of the reasons I'd come back was to get it on with my son. The minute I had his dick in my mouth I knew it. After all I had been through, I now desperately needed the love of my children.
And I would go to any lengths to get it.
Sucking Bobby's cock more and more seemed the most natural thing for a loving mother to do to her son. I guess the fact that it kept getting harder accounted for a lot of that.
Even at eleven the kid was made to fuck. He'd been built with a prick that penetrated like a knife through butter. By the time his hard-on was complete the throbbing head was engorging my windpipe.
Playing with his hairless balls, I began suctioning my oral cavity around his cock to make him come. My anticipation was that that would wake him up, and then we could get down to the business of fucking. God, how I wanted my son's smooth cock in my hairy pussy.
Using my trump, I slid my hand under his nuts and plugged his asshole with my forefinger. Inside his tight shit-pit, I found the lump of his prostate and gave it a shove. When his prick grew another inch down my throat, I knew he was ready to come.
"Oooooooooh, Jimmy Crickets!" he boyishly moaned one of his favorite sayings in his sleep.
His sweet jizz swept down my throat in a torrent. It was intoxicating, making me drunk with passion. If I'd had any doubts about having sex with my son up until now, the divine reality of Bobby's cum had dashed them.
Finally he started to groggily awaken. Nobody could have stayed asleep with the center of their body exploding as his was. After several seconds, the spunk was still shooting from his cock.
"Wha-what's happening?" he mumbled, rubbing his eyes even as his prick still oozed in my mouth.
I looked up from his lap at him. His first sight of the mom he had probably assumed was dead was her ghost sucking his cock.
"I'm seein' things!" he blurted. Now he was wide awake.
"No, I'm real," I assured him, pulling away from his prick so the cum ran down my face, "if you don't believe me, ask your cock. It wasn't a phantom that fucked you with its mouth and then swallowed every drop of your sperm. It was your mother."
"I don't b-believe this is happening," he muttered uncertainly.
"Then don't," I said. "Just pretend you're still dreaming if it'll make it easier for you to do it."
"Do what?"
"Fuck me," I laid my desires on the line to my flesh and blood. "I want you to fuck your mother with your beautiful young cock. And I won't take no for an answer."
I was, of course, still nude from my frantic escape. Before Bobby could be overcome by bewilderment, I got on the bed and spread my legs in his face. "That's my cunt," I pointed to the drooling cleft at the gaping crux of my thighs. "That's where I want you to shove your prick."
I knew my lewd pose and gutter language were getting to him, despite the boyish astonishment that still distorted his freckled face. For one thing, his dick had never gone down since I'd mouth-fucked it. For another, he was sweating like a pig. A million dirty thoughts were going through his head.
"Now!" I put on the pressure. "Fuck Mama with your man-sized cock. Get between my legs and fuck my hairy cunt."
He couldn't stand it any more. Even though he was crying, Bobby was led inexorably by his burgeoning male instincts to my succulent honey-pot.
"Stick it in, son," I firmly directed him. In a second he had automatically penetrated and we were fucking. With his youthful hard-on slipping up my fuck-hole, I decided there was something worth coming home to, after all.
"Mommy, your cunt is so tight," he gasped as he slid inside all the way to his balls. "I always thought it was loose."
"Then you've thought about fucking me?" I maternally inferred.
"Only in my dreams," he confessed. "For the past year or so – since the hair started to grow around my thing – I've had these nasty dreams."
"And I'm in them?" I queried excitedly.
"Yes," he declared. "I'm fucking you in most of them. But your cunt is loose. No matter how hard I try, my prick isn't big enough to feel anything."
"What happens?" I asked with fascination about this side of my little boy.
The side that lusted after his mother wanted to fuck her. But felt so guilty about his desires that he was psychologically blocked from creaming in her pussy.
"You get me off in your mouth," he told me. "You take my hard dick in your mouth and fuck it like you were doing with your cunt. Only you're really sucking, so it's tighter."
"Does it work?"
"Yes," he admitted. "But when I wake up I'm always jerking off. I never thought I'd wake up and actually find you sucking my cock."
"It's a pleasure to make your dreams come true," I gently teased. "That's what mothers are for."
"I wish your cunt had been this tight when I was having those dreams," he swelled my heart with pride.
Between our legs, he was showing his appreciation by pumping faster and faster in my spasming twat. His balls were slapping against my labia in the accelerating fucking action.
"Is Mommy's pussy as tight as your sister's?" I led him into a new area of eroticism. I was breathless waiting for his answer.
"I don't know," he replied, while squirming on top of me. "I spied on her undressing one day, but all I saw was some curly brown hair between her skinny legs."
For some reason my heart sang, knowing my little girl had pussy hair.
"Then you've never fucked her," I concluded.
He quickly shook his head on my chest, letting go of the nipple he had been sucking like a hungry baby. The heat of his cheeks against my sensitive tit-flesh told me that he was blushing with embarrassment.
"Would you like to, Bobby?" I helped him through the crisis. "Would you like to fuck your sister – with Mommy helping?"
"Could I?" he gasped in wonder.
"After you finish creaming in my pussy, young man, and not before," I affectionately mocked sternness. "I don't want to turn you loose on your sister's delicate little snatch without being sure first you know how to work the standard model."
With the incentive of following up with his sister's twelve-year-old pussy for dessert, Bobby tore into me with his cock like a two-hundred pound truck driver rather than a mere boy. His hard-on constantly surprised me with how deeply it could bury its knotty head in the pit of my fuck-hole.
"Is this your first time?" I gasped, just as the end of his cock seemed to enter my womb – the womb in which I'd carried him for nine months.
"Yes," he admitted after a pause, then blurted: "Do I fuck good!"
"Like a stallion," I reassured him, smoothing his brow while, below, he machine-gunned me with his young cock. "I'm so glad I came back home to get your cherry."
"So am I, Mom," he broke down and blubbered. "I missed you something awful while you were gone. I guess I realized I love you lots."
"Then come in my cunt, you little darling," I kissed his cheek. "Show Mommy you love her by filling her pussy with your hot boy-cream."
"I love you, Mommy!" he reiterated in a wheezing verbal surge. Then his prick jerked in the tunnel of my twat and its head seemed to fly into a million pieces.
It was wonderful. I couldn't believe it. My own son was discharging millions of sperm cells into the same canal that had brought him into the world. It was an event that could not help but cause me to question all of my previous assumptions about life.
The instant Bobby's jism had hit my pussy tissue, I started to come apart with blinding sexual release. All of a sudden, I was having the most intense orgasm of my life, courtesy of my eleven-year-old son's prick.
What all this meant was clear. Love transcended everything.
All of my problems seemed infinitesimal compared to the magnitude of this revelation. As long as I had love, I knew I could somehow survive, no matter how tough the going.
"Come on, darling," I said when we had both drifted down from our orgasmic highs. "Let's go fuck your sister. From the hardness of your prick there's no reason why she should have to wait any longer to share our love." Anita was sleeping with her arms around her teddy bear. She looked as precious as she had when I'd brought her home from the hospital.
"Take the covers off," Bobby urged at my side. "I want to see her body."
"So do I," I chuckled, and pulled back the bedding. A delightful sight awaited our eyes.
Anita must have had trouble getting to sleep. Sometime during her restless tossing and turning, her flannel Snoopy nightgown had ridden all the way up to her chest. From her budding breasts on down we could see everything – including her fuzzy little cunt.
"I'll pull her legs apart and you get on the bed," I suggested. "I can't wait to see your prick inside your sister's beautiful young pussy."
As I pried, he clambered up. Her cunt was literally yawning begging for a fuck.
Then I had an inspiration. "Wait," I restrained the randy Bobby at the last instant. "I want to get her ready in case she's cherry."
Leaning down between the slender legs I had so thoroughly splayed, I began to prepare my daughter's cunt for fucking with my wet tongue. Then, after I had bathed her twat with spit, I poked inside.
My daughter's pussy was sweeter than anything I had ever tasted. And wet with more than my saliva.
Anita's honey-pot was dripping. My lubrication was irrelevant, but I wouldn't have missed applying it for the world.
"Okay, now you can fuck her," I pulled out of her crotch and gave my son the green light. "Her little pussy's greased up like a whore's."
Getting out of the way, I watched him go at it. The kid was a tiger, ramming inch after inch of his solid rod into his sister on the first thrust. Two surges more and he was fucking her to the hilt.
Now that Bobby was solidly screwing Anita, I got down on my knees and began whispering in her ear. "Wake up," I urged. "Your brother is fucking you. You don't want to miss it when he fills your cunt with his hot cum."
My words didn't wake her up, but they apparently triggered a wet dream that perfectly mirrored life. "Oh, Bobby," Anita moaned, her eyes still closed, "your cock is so big in my cunt. How did you know I wanted you to fuck me?"
Bobby was too busy screwing to talk, so I acted as his surrogate. "Your brother saw your cunt when you were undressing," I told her. "He's been thinking about fucking you ever since."
She seemed satisfied with that explanation for a moment, then, without warning, blurted, "Mom, what are you doing here?" However, she still was not awake.
"I'm helping Bobby fuck you, dear," I soothed, running my lips along her smooth cheek. "It's a mother's duty to see that you aren't hurt the first time."
Okay, so I was fishing. But I just couldn't help finding out before we were all covered with blood whether my little girl was a virgin.
It didn't work, though. Instead of responding to my comment, Anita turned her head and moaned about the size of her brother's big cock in her tight pussy. Even in her sleep, she was too enamored with Bobby's hard-on to be worried about her virginity.
Finally giving up the question-and-answer gambit, I decided to drop to the joined groins of my children and help smooth their fucking. I was certain my wet tongue could do some good down there.
As it turned out, I arrived at the junction of their loins just in time for the fireworks. I had no sooner shot my tongue out of my mouth than I was met with a torrential discharge. It seemed impossible to believe that a mere child, no matter how horny, could put out so much pussy juice.
When the flood of gunk kept coming, I decided to take a better look. Even in the dark I could see now that the discharge wasn't the creamy mucous of normal cunt-flow. Whatever was spilling from my daughter's cock-engorged snatch was dark red.
Swiping my tongue across my face, I tasted it for the first time. It was salty – nothing like pussy juice.
It was blood.
"Bobby!" I called excitedly from below. "You've popped Anita's cherry. You've popped your sister's cherry!"
"My cherry!" Anita bolted up from the waist and screamed. "It feels like I'm being torn to pieces." This time she was awake.
She started screaming so loud I was afraid she'd wake up the neighborhood. To shut her up – and do something I wanted to do anyway – I straddled her head with my knees, pushed her back, and sat on her face.
The hairy mat of my dripping pussy shut her up quick. The more she tried to scream, the more her tongue shot up my sucking slit.
Then, pretty soon, Anita stopped protesting. Instead, she was eating my twat because she wanted to.
With the acquiescence of my daughter's mouth, I was in a position to sit on my oral perch and survey the wonder of what I had wrought. I felt like a queen – a queen of sex.
My machinations had yielded a breathtaking scene. It put me more in touch with my maternal instincts than anything I had ever experienced since I'd started my own family.
There, within perfect view, my son's stiff cock coursed in and out of my daughter's pussy. Irrevocably ruptured, her maidenhead spewed a steady flood of fresh blood. Anita's crotch looked like she had sat in a crate of rotten tomatoes.
She was losing her cherry, and I was present at the deflowering to make certain everything went okay for my little girl. What better place for a mother to be than at her only daughter's first fuck?
For her first cock, I had carefully selected her younger brother's eager young specimen, as previously innocent an organ as her cunt. It was such a wise choice. God, you can't imagine how ecstatic I felt as their mother to bring my kids so beautifully together in this act of total love.
I felt like I was really part of something for the first time in my life. In the bosom of my family I felt totally free unmindful of the fact I had been dodging bullets for days.
I started to come just from sentiment. I was coming on a high of pure, sweet love.
Of course, that's not to say that the more traditional means of stimulation weren't efficiently casting their spells. Even if Bobby and Anita hadn't been my beloved offspring, the sight of his cock in her cunt and the sensation of her rigid tongue squirming inside my spasming pussy would have turned me on. It was just that the power of love made the whole event transcendent.
"Come in her cunt!" I blurted with overflowing joy. "Bobby, fill your sister's pussy with cream!"
He grunted and did just that. I could actually hear the hose of his prick hissing inside Anita's box as it spewed its sudden discharge.
With my eyes on the rims of my little girl's cunt, I watched the red secretion that had been pure blood gradually turn pink from mixing with Bobby's sperm. Eventually the flow was as white as snow; and that's when I leaned down and licked it up.
I could taste everything at once. My son's cock. My daughter's cunt. Sperm. Pussy juice. Cherry blood.
Beneath Bobby and me, Anita was writhing in the throes of her first real orgasm. She manifested her excitement by moaning, "Fuck… fuck… fuck… fuck." It seemed like the most natural thing for a twelve-year-old girl to do when her pussy was freshly dripping with her brother's spunk.
And so did Bobby's suggestion minutes later when we were all lying on the bed catching our breath. "Go see Dad," he said. "We want you back home."
Basking in the afterglow of perfect sex, I experienced none of the tension that would have led me to refuse under less extraordinary circumstances. I was so high on love that I really believed that all I had to do was walk into Tom's bedroom and all the problems that had haunted our years of marriage would be gone, just like that.
So I told the kids, yes, I would do it. I'd try and patch things up with their dad.
Tiptoeing down the hall, I imagined how I would slip naked into bed with him. Play with his cock and make it hard.
Slip it into my cunt and fuck him. Wiggle my ass and really suck the cum from his balls.
Halfway to the room I realized that my thighs were freshly wet. Looking down I saw that my twat was soaking anew.
I was horny all over again. And, incredibly, from the prospect of making it with my own husband.
If just thinking about it could make me this hot, what would happen when Tom and I finally fucked? Needless to say, I was banking on that long-sought orgasm from my husband.