A Cut of the Cards

by

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Mult, Reluctant, Heterosexual, Incest, InLaws, Rough, Gang Bang, Lactation, Voyeurism, .

Desc: Erotica Sex Story: His daughter-in-law learns a new card game

This story contains explicit descriptions of sexual activity. While posted under the genre of group sex, it also contains themes that could be defined as incest, though no biological relatives are featured. While consensual in every respect, some scenes and dialogue could be construed as being "rough" in nature.

If such themes or material offend you, please do not read on. All depicted characters are over 18 years of age, some well over 18. I hope you enjoy this tale and, as always, appreciate your votes and your comments.

Thanks, Bob

"Yeah, I understand what a virus is. What I don't get is how I got it."

"You know that little red "M" that comes up on the bottom of your screen, the one that means McAfee, as in McAfee anti-virus protection. The one that..."

"The one that's supposed to stop this crap from screwing up my computer so I don't have to be standing here having this conversation with you, that one?"

The kid grinned up at me with nicotine-yellowed teeth, twenty years old tops, fucking spider-web tattoo crawling up from beneath his buttoned white polo.

"Yes, that's the one," he replied smugly, pleased with my ignorance. " ... The one which you failed to properly renew seven months ago."

"Christ," I muttered under my breath.

"All the anti-virus systems constantly update themselves for fresh threats. A year or two of the updates are included when you buy them, but then they shake you down for some more coin ... You remember a little box coming up reminding you that you needed to..."

"Yeah," I cut in brusquely, shaking my head, recalling the annoying message coming up on my screen day after day, that and the endless stream of e-mails that would generate every other day in my box.

... you are not fully protected ... you are not fully protected...

This pencil-neck clown was waiting for me to go on, to confess my stupidity in greater detail. He's lucky I didn't crack him right in the mouth.

"Can you fix it?"

"Already done."

"Seriously?" I replied, smiling despite myself as I glanced down at the tower I'd disconnected and hauled over here yesterday, crashed and frozen with half my account data not currently backed up.

"Got it cleaned it up real nice for you. All the files recovered, the McAfee updated and current."

"Thank you."

"No problemo," he answered, tapping over the keyboard in a blur.

"What was the virus?" I asked, fishing a tight roll of bills from my trouser pocket.

"Something new."

"And how'd I catch it?"

The kid eyed the cash with distaste and nodded across to the overweight blond at the reception desk. "You can settle up with her."

"Okay," I nodded absently, curious now as to what set my computer into its own Ice Age. "So can you put a finger on it or not. Was it an e-mail somebody sent me, or..."

"Abby pays up on poker night," he answered slyly, cocking an eyebrow as he met my gaze.

"Huh?"

"Hey, it's cool, man."

I leaned forward an inch or so, a palm flattened on his cluttered work station, my voice drawn down a couple octaves: " ... What the fuck are you talking about?"

"The story," he whispered warily, pointing at the screen, shifting away as I came behind him to look at what he was talking about. I read down for a few lines—a damned stroke story.

"I didn't download that."

"Hey, we're..."

"Don't say we're discreet kid, fucking please. If I was down-loading jack-off stuff, I think I'd know it."

"Well somebody did," he shrugged, again his fingers fanning across the keys. "Who's Mar-solo101?"

I shook my head in disbelief, half-knowing, not dead-on-sure.

"Here's the ... last Thursday, just after noon ... Your system crashed out when?"

" ... Thursday night."

"Res ipsa loquitur, man. The thing..."

"The thing speaks for itself, yeah, I know."

"You wanna find out who this Mar-solo101 is?"

"Yes, I think I do."

"They clear their history. It's a free account."

I read a few more lines of the story, pissed off with this whole deal, the inconvenience, the childishness of it all.

"Unclear it and print out a listing of all this crap they've been looking at, okay?"

"I'm really not supposed to..."

I peeled to the center of my roll and freed an extra crisp c-note, deft as I slid it beneath the kid's mouse pad, my other resting palm on his bony shoulder. "Go on kid, take it. Treat yourself to a couple new I-tunes ... or a Chinese hooker, whatever floats your boat." —I gave that shoulder an encouraging squeeze— "I'll be in later for my computer and our ancillary information."


"Hi, Dad," came Martha's voice.

"Hey," I answered, stepping out into the early evening, my darkly pretty daughter-in-law leaning back in a chase lounge with my grandson perched on her lap.

"How was your day?"

"Good," I replied, pulling up a chair besides them, wagging a finger in front of Anthony's fat little face, his tiny hand clamping onto it. Four months old and already strong as all hell. " ... Got the computer fixed."

"What was wrong with it?"

"Some bug," I shrugged, not meeting her eyes, concentrating on her tone. "How was your day?"

"Same old, same old," she said flatly.

Martha and my kid, Jack, had been staying with me for just shy of three months, just weeks after she'd had Anthony. Jack was a chemical engineer with a pharmaceutical house, a terrific job, but had been faced with a downsize or transfer—a transfer put him out here in LA, same pay, no loss of seniority, but with a home they couldn't move back in Virginia. My solution was simple; move in with me until you get rid of the Virginia house at a decent price. No rent, no nothing. My place was more than big enough, and it was only me out here in five rooms with a pool and an often smoggy view of Bunker Hill.

I have to admit that I liked the activity, the noise of a baby, a lot of times having dinner with him and Martha on nights when Jackie would be pulling late hours.

But this baloney with the computer had thrown me. I instantly knew Mar-solo was our Martha, my boy's wife, Anthony's mom. The timing was right—last Thursday I was doing one of the accounts I still audited, out until after eight that night, and Jack had pulled in a half hour after me.

Only one person home that afternoon ... well, to be exact, there were two persons, but only one who could access the internet, pop onto "Abby pays up on poker night", and clear off the history log. I'd looked over the sheet the kid had printed out for me before I got home; two websites, erotic stories, a few hits on one day, then the same a couple days later, just like that. I looked at my calendar; she'd be logged on when I was out, two days a week usually, just in the past month. Their laptop had been going to work with Jack for a couple weeks now, a project he was working on off the company books, something that he hoped could pull in some serious money for them.

I finally glanced over at Martha ... a tall girl, long auburn hair that she habitually wore tied up. The baby had filled out her normally thin frame just a bit; a serious expression, my ex dubbing her "Marion the Librarian" after their first encounter. How old was she now, twenty-nine, maybe thirty. She'd always been rather shy around us, though in these last month's we'd developed an easy rapport, joking and teasing each other, a lively girlish sense of humor that she simply didn't let many people see. I sensed she was bored out here, lonely in a new town, the kid taking almost all of her time. She had to miss her friends back in Virginia, her sister, the girls she'd worked with.

"You eat yet?"

"No, I'll have something with Jack ... You want me to fix you something?

"I have some work to finish up," I said...

... work.

I went to the small bedroom that sufficed for my office and spent over three hours with the listing the computer kid had worked up. By the end of it I was literally shaking my head, absolutely waylaid with the stories Martha had been reading. For the most part they were all of a like theme; innocent wives entertaining their husband's friends in one manner or another, poker games, football parties, fishing trips, the action always starting off mildly enough, maybe the wife wearing something racy on a dare, some guy touching her, then always some serious gang-fuck action, nasty stuff; it wasn't exactly Hemingway, I'll tell you that ... hell, it wasn't even a sweet-n-low version of Henry Miller.

What stoked me the most was the image of our demure Martha reading this stuff, furtive, embarrassed, trying to cover her tracks. The "Abby" tale in particular held me rapt, a young wife urged on by her husband to serve as hostess to his weekly poker party, his daring her to take it further, a shorter skirt one night, a bit more cleavage, a climax of him betting her wedding ring on a "sure hand" and of course, losing. You can imagine the end-run to that particular scenario. I shut my eyes and fantasized about her masturbating as she read along ... had she been nude as she sat here at my desk, topless?

The anger I'd felt initially was gone by then. I sat there trying to fix my mind right, telling myself that I shouldn't be thinking like this, that I shouldn't be thinking of my kid's wife in terms like this. That was sick shit, the weird stuff that perverts thought of, dirty old fucking men. I should be pissed at her for doing it behind my son's back, for doing it on my computer, for sending my Dell over a cyber cliff.

.... There is more of this story ...

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