Regular Family - nothing strange about it

"Mom, you are dripping, again." her daughter sighed, rolling her eyes as she tossed a dish towel at Olivia, who stood at the stove stirring a pot of marinara. The red sauce bubbled lazily, its rich aroma mingling with the scent of garlic bread in the oven, but Olivia knew it is not the red of the sauce her daughter was talking about.

"Thanks, love." Olivia caught the towel and dabbed at the sticky trails on her inner thighs, her skin still warm from Kyle’s vigorous good morning just half an hour earlier. The thin fabric of her apron clung to her thighs, damp where she hadn’t wiped thoroughly enough.

"So," she said, stirring the sauce with deliberate nonchalance, "are we officially over that boy from your poli-sci class? The one with the tragic eyebrows?" her daughter leaned against the counter, popping a stray cherry tomato into her mouth. "Please. It’s hard to pine when I’m full of boy every other afternoon," she said, licking juice from her thumb with exaggerated satisfaction.

Olivia gasped, wooden spoon poised mid-stir, feigning scandalized maternal outrage, though the twitch at the corner of her lips betrayed her. "Silvia Marie! That mouth of yours!" she chided, swatting at her daughter's wrist with the spoon. Silvia just grinned, licking the sauce off with a slow, deliberate swipe of her tongue.

"Oh, come on, mom," she teased, hip-checking her away from the stove, "as if you're not still full of him right now." Before Olivia could protest, her daughter's fingers darted beneath the apron's edge, skimming the sticky warmth between her lower lips, making her squeak with surprise. The spoon clattered against the pot, splattering sauce onto the stovetop.

Olivia swatted her hand away, cheeks flushing, but her little minx just laughed, licking fingers clean off the white juice. "Tastes better than your marinara," she murmured, plucking another tomato from the bowl.

"Mom, sis... Can you please not?" Marc muttered, trying to avoid his mom's ass and his siter's perky tits, and failing time and time again. "Marc, baby," she began, voice softening as she turned toward him. His shoulders were hunched, textbook clenched in white-knuckled frustration, and she couldn’t help but notice the way his sweatpants tented obscenely. Again. It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen it, hadn’t felt it pressed against her thigh when he hugged her, but the frequency was starting to gnaw at her. Was it normal for a boy to be this... wound up? Especially over his own mother, and sister?

Although, looking at her daughter and seen how she curved up in all the right places, she couldn't really blame her son for staring. Her daughter, her Silvia, had a slender waist flaring into generous hips, the kind that made her high-waisted shorts ride up just enough to tease the lower curve of her ass. The choker around her neck, a delicate black lace, emphasized the graceful column of her throat, drawing attention down to the swell of her small but perk breasts, with her cute pink little nipples. Her socks, thigh-high and black, only accentuated the toned length of her legs, a detail Kyle had insisted on for their wardrobe.

"What is it to you, punk?" Silvia shot back, arching one eyebrow as she deliberately put her fingers wet with tomato juice on her left nipple. For a moment, Olivia wanted to tell her daughter off - no. Her son needs to stand up to himself. Besides, the memory of the last night, of her daughter's sweet pink hard nipples between her lips, all while Kyle's cock entered them...

"Mom, MOM!" Marc slammed his textbook shut, the sound sharp enough to startle Olivia mid-stir. His face was flushed, his fingers gripping the edge of the table like he might flip it. "Why do you let her do this? Even Kyle told her to knock it off!" His voice cracked, betraying the frustration simmering beneath the surface. Olivia sighed, glancing at Silvia, who had the decency to look momentarily chastised before shrugging, her fingers still toying lazily with her nipple.

She only needed a look at her unruly little minx for her to get in line, Silvia's lips puckered in defiance, but she lowered her hand, flicking the tomato juice onto the counter instead. Olivia turned back to the stove, stirring the sauce one last time before lifting the pot. The apron strings strained against the swell of her hips, the thin fabric doing little to conceal the curve of her ass as she bent slightly to pour the marinara over the waiting pasta. Steam rose in lazy curls, carrying the scent of basil and simmered tomatoes.

"This boy..." If she was honest with herself, Olivia knew this was not healthy. Marc's gaze, heavy and unblinking, tracked the way her breasts swayed beneath the apron, the tops of them just barely concealed by the scalloped edge, until finally the sauce was in the plates and cooking was done. As well as the need for the apron.

"Here you go." She could not tell now what exactly she meant by that, the plate full of pasta or her tits now spilled in the open as she leaned down to place the fork beside Marc's hand. His breath hitched, fingers twitching against the textbook's edge, and Olivia felt a ridiculous flicker of pride that her son's gaze stayed locked on her chest rather than darting to Silvia's perky hills.

"Th-thanks, mom," Marc mumbled, shoveling pasta into his mouth with the urgency of a boy trying to outrun his own pulse. Olivia watched, amused, as marinara dribbled down his chin, his Adam's apple bobbing with each too-large bite. "Slow down, baby," she chided, reaching out to dab his chin with her hand, the movement making her breasts sway lightly. "The library doesn't open for another hour, and Daddy wanted to, " she paused, catching the way Marc's jaw clenched at the word, "Kyle wanted to talk to you before you go."

Marc's fork clattered against his plate. "He's not my dad," he muttered, eyes flicking to the empty chair at the head of the table, Peter's chair, then back to his lap, where his erection strained visibly against his sweats. Olivia sighed, adjusting her tits to nestle more comfortably against the table's edge. "I know, Marc," she said softly, "but he's here now, and..." she hesitated, watching Silvia putting an obscene amount of parmesan cheese on her pasta, "... and he takes care of us."

"Takes care of you two, you mean," Marc snapped, pushing his plate away. The pasta wobbled precariously, sauce sloshing onto the tablecloth. Olivia didn't miss the way his fingers trembled, or how his knuckles whitened around the fork. "It's disgusting," he spat, voice cracking.

"Oh, is it? Now you call your mom's body disgusting? That's rich, coming from the boy who can't keep his eyes, or his dick, to himself," Silvia shot back, twirling pasta around her fork with deliberate slowness, her bare thighs pressing together as she smirked at her brother. Marc's chair scraped violently against the floor as he stood, his sweats tenting obscenely, his face flushed crimson. Olivia sighed, running a hand through her hair, her own bare breasts shifting with the motion. "Marc, sweetheart, sit down," she murmured, her voice soft but firm. "Silvia, you will not open your mouth, unless to get some food in it! Is that clear?"

Silvia nodded, before getting back to her food. Olivia turned to her little boy. He now looked properly sorry, if not for the tent in his pants. He looked her in the eyes. "I'm sorry, mom." Olivia nodded to his sister. "I'm sorry, sis. You both are beautiful. It's not what I meant..."

Olivia stopped her son's speech with the raise of her hand. "Marc," she said evenly, fingers tightening around each other, "you don't have to like Daddy." She didn't miss the way his shoulders jerked at the word, but did not correct herself this time. "But you have to respect him." The kitchen suddenly felt too warm, the scent of garlic bread turning cloying as she watched her son's throat bob. "He makes the decisions here, and that includes whether you get to borrow the car, how much cash you get, and I am sorry, but he also decides if you stay in the house at all."

Marc's fork scraped against his plate, his fingers flexing as he stared at his half-eaten pasta. He remembered the last time his dad had been home. That had been two weeks after his eighteenth birthday, before the trip, before everything changed. Now, Kyle sat in his dad's chair, slept in his dad's bed, fucked his mom, his sister. His stomach rolled, but not entirely with disgust. Not when he could see his mom's giant tits go up and down when she cealned and his sis's wet glistening pussy whenever she did morning yoga.

"Marc?" Olivia asked, her voice soft but firm.

"Yes, mom. Sorry, I just thought about how fast everything changed," Marc muttered, causing Olivia to lean in, and hug her little boy tight. She felt his face redden and burn as she nested him deeper between her soft chest muffling his groan. "Oh, baby," she sighed, stroking his hair. "Your dad will be back soon, but Kyle is here now, and we have to make the best of it."