Bio War 3 by Fishgullet Mf,anal, mc, sf


The real estate broker met us at the junction of the State and
County roads. I introduced Tara as my wife and Marissa as her
sister. Tara blushed from head to toe; the agent assumed that she
was a blushing bride and said as much. When we climbed back into
the van to follow the car, Tara reached over and laid a
toe-curling, lung-sucking french kiss on me that I still remember
to this day.

Lewiston was better than I expected. A hundred and fifty or so
houses, a fire hall, a school and a small factory that
specialized in basic compounds for the chemical industry. Alex
had done his homework. Small farms spread out below the town with
orchards, vineyards and fields. Two houses were available; one
was a fixer-upper that was more 'fix' than 'up' and the other was
a probate sale of a spinster who had died some six months ago.
The bank was happy to oblige especially when I had cash, and we
became proud owners of a two story clapboard house, with a big
front porch.

And a church. That church became the first flashpoint of our new
life in Lewiston.

The spinster left a fully furnished house for us. There was a
small mystery though, upstairs were four bedrooms and two baths.
Not a mystery by itself but the fact that there was only one
bedroom with a bed in it was. If she had lived alone her entire
life, that would be obvious but everyone remembers her brother
who came back a widower to live with his sister. I came to learn
that small towns can hide many secrets.

The folks of Lewiston greeted us with wonderful hospitality,
bringing food and small gifts. When they heard that we came from
Los Angeles, our porch would fill up the first evenings with the
curious and concerned who wanted to learn the latest first-hand
news. On the second night as a bottle of whiskey made the rounds
I drank a little too much and forgot my caution. The local police
chief stepped up to introduce himself and when we shook hands, I
almost crushed his. I apologized as we stood alone in the kitchen
while he flexed feeling back into his fingers with a cold
compress.

"Military?" he asked.

I nodded, "honorable discharge about three weeks ago."

"Weapons?" I wondered if he knew more than one word questions. I
admitted "yes" but did not specify what I had.

"Do you think you'll need them?"

I looked at the empty doorway and then full into his face. "If I
were a cautious man, I would post a watch at either end of the
county road where it hits the state highway and establish a
perimeter around the entire area. It's worse than you can
imagine."

He fished a cigarette out of his pocket, lit it and took a long
drag. "How much worse?"

So I told him the details of the mutant attacks in Oakland. My
mind flashed through a series of possible vignettes as I spoke,
dismissing many and retaining a few as convincing stories. I
found myself studying his facial muscles and his eye movements as
I shifted between tactical details and gory observations. I
looked for clues of skepticism and acceptance. We were taught all
of this shit in advanced training but I had never focused so
tightly on a face I was interviewing.

It had to be Alex's IQ cocktail. A shiver went down my spine as I
contemplated this first conscious observation of its effects.

When I finished the police chief told me I had just tied up his
asshole in worse knots than his wedding day. He thought for a
moment and told me that he would be speaking with some others
about my concerns. I thanked him, apologized again and saw him
off.

As I stood at the end of my driveway, a man emerged from down the
street, and taking my hand, introduced himself as Horace Greeley,
the lay preacher at the church. He had just gotten home from that
holy place and asked me if he could stop by tomorrw for a visit.

Afternoon rolled around and Horace Greeley, his lovely wife
Ophelia, and their daughter Anna greeted us not with food, but
with a fresh copy of the Good Word. I tried to maintain my
patience as Horace launched into an oration of how Jesus saved
their lives but it was a struggle. My thoughts wandered as the
false smile on my face stood still until Horace caught my
attention again. It was nothing that the bloviating ass said but
the observation that he couldn't keep his beady eyes on me slowly
drained the smile from my face. His eyes kept drifting to
Marissa; she was dressed in jeans and a low cut shirt that had
challenged  my resolve. I knew that look, it wasn't something in
the Good Word.

Having seen and heard enough, I ushered them out the door with
pleasantries but undisguised distain. Truthfully I wanted to take
his scrawny neck in my hand and bang his pathetic combover into
the railpost but I held back my shaking hand.

Marissa walked them out however and struck up a conversation with
Anna. Anna was a year older, but as they stood in profile on the
porch, I compared their equal heights noting Anna's larger
breasts and richer figure as well. Marissa gave Anna's arm a
squeeze as she turned to follow her father's barked order to
follow.

Marissa came in and gave me a hug managing to grab my cock as she
let go. She had been doing that often of late. I shook my head as
Marissa headed up to her room singing some little tune. Tara saw
everything and came to my rescue, gently releasing my slightly
inflated cock from my pants and stroking it gently to hardness.

"I'm baking something in the kitchen" Tara announced as she led
me by the cock to the kitchen table.

She took up the half stick of butter and handed it to me with an
evil smile on her face.

"Why don't you butter my ass and we can take care of your big
problem" she teased with a squeeze on my erection. She turned and
dropped her jeans, planted her elbows on the table and wiggled
her ass in the air.

With my fingers I crammed scoops of butter through her rosebud
into her asshole. As the butter melted in the heat, I swirled it
around her cavity until my fingers could not reach up any
farther. I rubbed some of the remaining stick on my cock like it
was an ear of corn and aimed for her asshole.

Tara let out a yelp as I pushed through into her back hole. She
told me to keep going and my cock eased up her greased hole until
I reached bottom. Slowly I pulled back and then pushed in again.
I felt Tara's hand reach back and grab my balls and carefully cup
them. That got my attention.

"Fuck me slow, and make it last," she begged me. I may be a
well-trained killer but a woman in heat with my balls in her hand
just melts my resolve. I thrust my cock to the hilt with force
and then slowly withdrew savoring every ring of muscle as the
head of my cock rubbed against it. Again and again I kept up our
game until Tara shifted her hand from my balls to her clit. I
knew then that she was close and I began lunging in and out of
her tight ass. Her mewling cries only spurred me to thrust faster
until I couldn't stop myself and spurted in three blasts into the
pit of her colon.

I sagged on top of her as she rubbed herself into oblivion. When
she was finally spent we lay panting side by side when the timer
on the oven went off making us both jump up. We laughed and I
walked away to shower thinking that this is what they mean by
domestic bliss.

As the water cascaded down my body, I re-lived the heated reaming
on the kitchen table. I idly wondered what happened to the rest
of the butter when an idea popped into my head. Baking required
butter, yeast, baking soda and baking powder. I don't where she
got her ingredients, but there couldn't be much left in town. We
were going into the chemical business after all.
