Chapter 14

Friday Evening

Breaking Bread

Candlelight flickered on the dining room table, the remains of the woven Challah bread in a basket in the center of the table. Two candles flickered on either end, casting their yellow light over the darkened living room. Miriam smiled in my direction as she handed dirty plates to Devorah to take back to the kitchen, a few steps away. The cabin’s living area is nicely furnished, a tight fit, with modern functional furnishings. The Shabbat dinner of roasted chicken and veggies had hit the spot, the wine a kosher Cabernet from Israel, tasty. My family and Ben’s, breaking bread. Jo, whose Jewish roots were known, was invited to share the evening meal. Tommy at the Johnsons’ cabin for the night.

After dinner, Ben had ushered us to the living room, our two families splitting, swapping, getting comfortable. I took off my shirt and unhooked Rebecca’s bra, cupping each firm, teen breast as we sat and made small talk. Ben and Hiram took charge of my girls.

Legs open, lying back against the couch cushion, I guided Rebecca’s mouth onto my cock. The same olive skin tone as Miriam, her long brown hair gathered in a hairclip, a silver Star of David in the hollow of her neck, the pretty teen was a few months older than my son Tommy. One reason their trial marriage last summer lasted less than a week, according to Heidi, our son’s age or immaturity and wandering eye. I chuckled at the thought as classical music played quietly from hidden speakers.

“Yes, like that, lift my nuts,” I say as Rebecca takes my cockhead in her lips and reaches for my hairy balls. “No need to go deep,” I glanced at the naked woman on my right, Jo. Legs crossed as she sipped a glass of the kosher wine, she winked at me.

I felt a hand on the back of my neck as Jo reached for me. Across from us on a different futon couch, my wife and daughters were already cuddling with Ben and Hiram. The Shabbat meal was served at sundown. Candles lit, and Hiram recited a few lines of the Kiddush (blessing) over the Challah bread and wine before we ate. The women wore bras or tank tops to cover themselves, while the men wore shirts. To dinner I wore a lightweight short-sleeve polo shirt, all of us sitting our naked butts on towel-covered chairs, as floor fans hummed trying to cool the room. The conversation interesting. Hiram, a distinguished history professor, enlightened us as to the purpose and history of the Shabbat meal.

Devorah sat on the cushion on my left, folding a leg under her, wine glass in hand. The fourteen-year-old flushed from wine and heat, the wide pink tips of her conical breasts brushing my arm as she leaned in, placing a kiss on my cheek.

“I’m glad you’re here.” The fourteen-year-old said she’d have her birthday soon.

I watched as Hiram ran his hands over Grace’s small boobies, teasing and pinching, while Ben groped at Sydney’s chest, my wife on her knees in front of him. Not the first time I’d seen Ben, a balding scientist, with Sydney, and not the first time I’d sat by as Grace got groped. Feelings of guilt, some, the kinky nature of watching, raised my blood pressure.

I took the wine glass from Devorah and had a sip, then kissed the teenager, a rough, quick kiss. Her mom’s Rubenesque body passed between the candlelight to kneel next to Rebecca.

“My turn,” Miriam said, taking my slick cock in her hand.

As her mother sucked, I pulled Devorah closer, lifting her tits to my mouth, pushing aside her dangling silver necklace. Jo’s hand massaging my neck. Rebecca and Miriam are trading off. I slid to the edge of the couch. On the futon, I winced on seeing Grace’s slender body sprawled across the men, Hiram’s fingers in her butt, her face in Ben’s lap, Heidi stroking Ben’s cock as he kissed Sydney. The sight fueled my fire as I nipped at one of Devorah’s nipples. “Ouch,” she said, pressing her flesh into my face. My cock was well-lubed as Miriam stood and straddled me, sliding my cock home in her wet pussy.

“I’ll see about Grace,” Jo said, standing and moving across the other side. I was fully occupied with Ben’s wife and girls, the classical music rising and falling, providing a beat to our lovemaking.

I lay back against the cushion, Miriam’s wide ass rising and falling slowly as she sat on my cock, her full soft breasts in my face, her dark hair a veil, the smell of fresh-baked bread faint on her skin. The cabin’s music shifted the full orchestra thinning to a single violin, the notes Ashrei (Psalm 145), a melody seared into my soul, the same haunting melody the Bosnian girl had played. A cold, dormant wire tripped a memory buried deep. I pulled Miriam down hard, her hips flexing, mouth sucking mine, as my balls released, trying to push the images away.

I couldn’t. The notes touched a raw spot in my head. In a flash, I saw her. Sarajevo, November 1994. The infamous Sniper Alley was cold, just below freezing. A tiny blonde girl, maybe nine, wearing a threadbare sky-blue coat to her knees, stood on the curb outside the gutted Oslobođenje newspaper building with other children playing music, hoping for a little something. She’s playing Ashre, the same Hebrew lament, on a child-sized violin, bow trembling in her cold hands. I can’t move.

My Kalashnikov is folded under my parka, as I walked back to the PTT US Embassy annex after servicing a dead-drop, my specialty HUMINT intelligence, spying. I kneel in front of her, would Heidi and I have a daughter like her one day, we’re trying. I have a couple of military ration chocolate bars and a crisp $20 USD bill I kept in my billfold, pressing them into her coat pockets.

She doesn’t stop playing. Blue eyes, old and sad, locked on mine. A single sniper rifle fires in the distance, from Grbavica heights, the round lands nearby. Alma doesn’t flinch. That was her name, Alma Hadžić, I learned.

I saw her daily for six more days - same corner, playing for a few coins, cigarettes, some bread. Then she’s gone. Just shelling, snow, and more dead. I prayed that the international NGO to which I gave her name to rescued her and was able to find Alma a safe home. That was a hard winter for us all. My first posting with DIA, I still carried scars from the Bosnian War.

Miriam brought me back. “Hey, you still there?” she said, sitting back, her weight on my thighs.

“Yes, sorry. The music triggered an old memory, from Bosnia,” I said, palming her soft, sweaty breasts, her legs quivering still, pulling her back down for a kiss. “Wow, fuck, are you okay?” I said, focusing. Rebecca stood behind her mom, hand on her shoulder. Devorah, still on my left, kissed me throughout.

“Yes, that was long overdue,” Miriam said, sliding off my lap, my cock free. “Rebecca, get Pete a beer,” she ordered. “Let’s get some air,” she said, glancing at her husband and father in the midst of coitus.

With Miriam off my lap, I could suddenly see what I had missed. Jo had Grace in her lap in a deep armchair, the two conspiring, not paying attention.

I didn’t want to see, but I did. Sydney was looking right at me, reverse cowgirl on Ben, his cock thrusting up inside her, ass jiggling, apple-sized breasts swaying. “Daddy, oh Daddy,” she huffed, hands braced on the coffee table in front of her.

I couldn’t speak, Miriam’s hand in the small of my back. Heidi, head bowed, was on the rug on all fours, old Hiram’s hips pressed against her ass, stroking away, tits jiggling. Even as Miriam urged me to move, I watched until I let her lead me outside with a cold beer in hand.

We stood on the back porch looking at the moon and gazebo. “My dad gets that same look sometimes, he’s seen a lot,” she said, standing close, taking a drink of my beer.

“Sorry, I usually keep those memories locked down,” I said, our bodies cooling. Her dad had been fighting Israel’s wars since the 1960s.

“It’s okay. Sex is a release. Sometimes it unlocks old thoughts and wounds. Not bad that it does,” she said, wisely.

“Thank you. Does it ever happen with you and your dad?” I said, feeling closer to her, fishing, teasing a little. Israelis I’d learned over the years could be rather direct.

She touched my arm. “If you must know, yes. After my mother died, he needed someone,” Miriam said. Leaving the rest of me to conclude.

I put my arm around her. I didn’t press. “I understand, you’re filling a void, a need with him.”

“Yes, you’re right,” she said. “Hey, you still have some life in you. Becca’s waiting,” she said, my cock resting against her hip.

“Are you sure?” I asked. I definitely had another go left in me. The memory of Alma would always be there, a reminder.

“I’m sure. They’re both modeling tomorrow, another hour wouldn’t hurt,” she said, leaning against me, my cocked twitched. She is a good woman, and I’m glad to have been with her tonight.

I followed Miriam back inside. Her girls were waiting for me on the couch. My wife and Sydney were filling wine glasses from a carafe in the kitchen, and we kissed. Rebecca and Devorah smiled as I sat between them.

Saturday Afternoon

Doing the Strut

I worked security at the front gate since noon. Four hours of sitting in my air-conditioned Land Cruiser watching and listening to music, as names were checked off the guest list by one of Maria’s volunteers for Black Hawk Commons’ first-ever nude fashion show. I certainly felt I earned my seat in the front row between Ben and farmer Kurt for the second show.

My beach towel draped over the folding chair, a plastic cup of cold beer in my hand, I watched as my naked mom, hips swaying, strutted down the runway in front of me, a 30-foot-long stage, to the electric sounds of the classic Scorpions song Rock You Like a Hurricane. The accessory she modeled was a gold body chain, draped around her neck, down between the valley of her breasts, and anchored on her hips. Around me, the Twin Peaks crowd, men and women a hundred at least, now standing room only at the back, applauded.