Winter Mix Ch. 06: Deceived

tagIncest/TabooWinter Mix Ch. 06: Deceived

All Characters In This Story Are 18+ Years Old
Friday 12/21/1962
In Westport, Connecticut, in his neighbor's foyer, with her husband out of town, young Barney Barnes leaned dreamily against the wall-to-ceiling ripple glass window by her front door, as he robotically pulled on his rubber boots and zipped up his parka. He still could not believe he had just lost his virginity to Roberta Maxon, who he thought looked just like Maureen O'Hara, only prettier. She had blown him, then fucked him, then taken him into her marital bed and come wildly, over and over, while he fucked her again and got off himself a miraculous third time. All of that after he had simply asked her if he could shovel the snow from her walks and driveway for a buck.
Barefoot on the waxed parquet floor, thirty-seven-year-old Roberta Maxon stood quietly in her pink chiffon negligee. In her own state of wonder, she watched as the eighteen-year-old boy-next-door got dressed after their romp and nap. Exhilarated, and deeply sexually satisfied, she thought, "This was wrong. This was bad. I should feel guilty for cheating on Phil. Why don't I?" But, no matter how many self-recriminations she tried to conjure, she could not dismiss how good the teenage man-child's cock felt as it scrubbed her G-spot.
When Barney was battened down and booted up, Roberta stepped close and said, "It's going on midnight. You need to scoot home before you turn into a pumpkin!" She kissed him sweetly on his left cheek, then added, "But, before you go, I want you to know I might need more help in the future. Maybe, even tomorrow, before Mr. Maxon and Trixie get back from The City. Would you like to help me? Do you think you could, umm, come again? In the morning?"
Barney blushed and shook his head. "Gee, Mrs. M.," he said, lowering his eyes to avoid looking at her luscious body and inviting lips. "I'd, uh, like to, sure. But there's my mom, and hockey practice, and I, uh, don't know…" His voice trailed wistfully off and he edged closer to the front door.
Unflappably understanding, Roberta replied, "Okay, BeeBee. Well, you think on it. I'd love it if you came. I'll have cocoa and marshmallows ready by eight, just in case." Putting her warm soft hand over his on the doorknob, she turned it while kissing him again, this time on his mouth, with an extra ounce of pressure; leaving her Revlon Fifth Avenue Red lipstick imprinted there.
Barney slipped through the front door into the cold night air as soon as the crack was large enough for his six-foot-two, hundred-and-ninety pound, athletic frame. The storm had passed, leaving a clear starry sky and an ice-glazed walkway with treacherous footing. He moved carefully, grateful for the sparkling snow's magnification of the waning crescent moon's light. At his house, following his mother's instruction, he let himself into the kitchen through the back door as quietly as possible.
Meanwhile, Roberta, alone in her entry hall, suddenly felt chilly. Shivering, she briskly rubbed her bare arms and muttered aloud, "I wonder if there's any fire left?" If front of the family room's flagstone hearth, she held out her hands toward the glowing charred birch logs on its andiron. As she appreciated the immediate warmth the embers provided, she closed her eyes and blanked her mind.
With free rein to drift, Roberta's wandering thoughts returned her to Ayer, Massachusetts and paused happily. It was Friday, February 12, 1944 and most of the rest of the Commonwealth was celebrating Lincoln's Birthday, or anticipating planned St. Valentine's Day activities. She, however, anxiously awaited her betrothed, Paul Maxon. In training at Fort Devens since the previous May, he had gotten a three-day pass before the Army was to send him overseas to fight; they would marry this weekend.
Roberta was eighteen-and-a-half years old and Paul a month shy of turning twenty. She knew, as she sat in the diner, dunking her teabag and nervously fidgeting with her fork with her free hand, that her parents would be upset when they read the note she left them on the kitchen table before she sneaked out from the O'Connor home in Westport for the early morning train north. "They'll think were too young," she thought for the umpteenth time. Then, as she had already done so often, she rebutted, "But, Paul is right: This is wartime. It'll be hard to explain eloping, but Mom and Pop will just have to understand."
Roberta was startled by brakes screeching outside on Park Street. Looking through the diner's plate glass front window she watched two G.I.s in Class A uniform jump out. One yelled at the driver, "Thanks, Sarge! Don't worry, we'll be back for reveille!"
The Staff Sergeant behind the wheel growled, "You better be, Maxon! I don't care if y'are gettin' married. Desertion in time of war is a hangin' offense."
The second soldier out of the jeep squawked, "Aw, c'mon, Sarge! You know I'll get him back! For gosh sakes!"
The crusty sergeant cracked a grin and said, "Yeah, yeah, Maxon. Two peas in a pod and never in trouble! I know." Turning his head to the first soldier, he waved his ham hand at him and laughed, "Give 'er a kiss for me, Maxon!" Then, grinding into first, he popped the clutch and lurched down the avenue.
It was only when the two G.I.s picked their small cardboard suitcases up from the sidewalk and about-faced, that Roberta realized one was Paul and the other Phil Maxon. The brothers were perfectly identical twins to begin with, but now, after nine months' absence, snappily outfitted in the same pressed olive drab barracks caps and wool greatcoats, she absolutely could not tell who was who. Leaving a dime on the table for her tea, she hurried from the café.
Outside, Roberta's awful dilemma was resolved when Paul Maxon dropped his suitcase, stretched his arms out wide and hollered, "Baby! Have I missed you!"
Rushing to him, Roberta crushed up against her fiancé and kissed him hard enough to smear her lipstick. Breathless, she sighed, "Oh, Paul, I'm so glad to see you… to hug you… to kiss you!" Proving her point, she landed another flurry on, or near, his mouth and chin.
Phil picked up his twin's dropped suitcase and said, "Let's get inside before someone calls a cop on you guys for causing a disturbance!" With a laugh, he left the entwined couple wrapped in their rapt reunion and stepped into the diner. As he moved to a booth along a wall, he called to the counterman, "Hey, Mac! Can you set us up with a couple of javas and a refill of whatever the girl out there kissing my brother was having before?"
Meanwhile, Paul finally freed himself from Roberta's onslaught. Keeping her snugged up close beside him, he followed Phil's path while he said, "Gosh, Bobbie, it's great to see you and to know you're still my girl. I was worried you wouldn't show, or you'd send some friend to 'Dear John' me, or something." He kissed the Irish-red wavy hair roll below her blue beret as he held the door for her and added, "I love you so much. You ready to get hitched?"
Roberta beamed at him and answered, "I'm here, aren't I?" Sliding into the booth next to the wall and opposite Phil, she greeted him belatedly, "Hi, Phil. So, you're going to be best man and witness for us?"
Phil chuckled, "That's right Bobbie, but of course, 'best man' is just a title. You're getting my little brother. He's really the best man!"
Roberta playfully slapped Phil's wrist with her left hand above the table as she rejoined, "You're so funny, Phil. You two are so much the same, that if you aren't dressed differently, even I can't tell you apart. I feel sorry for your sergeant. He must really have a time of it! " Sliding closer to Paul, she hooked her right arm around his back and squeezed him hard while she continued, "And he may be two minutes younger than you, but he's sure not 'little'!" Then, giving Paul another wet smooch on his left cheek, she declared, "But you're right: He is the best man!"
Paul blushed at the attention and compliment, but twisted his torso a quarter-turn in, then fake-grumped, "You missed, Baby!" Correcting Roberta's targeting error, he kissed her fully on the lips. Phil grinned at the approaching counterman and said to him, as he slid their cups and saucers onto the table, "Thanks. Don't mind them, it's been a while since they saw each other and they're getting married tomorrow!"
The older man smiled knowingly, but said nothing except, "Be right back with the teapot."
By the time the trio had finished their catch-up gabfest and drunk their fill of caffeine, they had also delegated assorted imperatives amongst themselves. Phil had agreed to arrange the official ceremony with a Justice of the Peace for the next day. He also would secure hotel rooms for them and use the fifty dollars Paul had saved for the occasion to get a wedding band set; maybe even one with a diamond, if he could swing it. Meanwhile, Paul and Roberta would get their license at the courthouse and just be moony over each other until they all rendezvoused back at the diner for supper at six o'clock. Phil decided his first task should be getting lodgings, so he could dump their three bags and move around town unencumbered.
With their various missions accomplished, Paul, Roberta and Phil enjoyed the café's meatloaf special with apple pie for dessert. Afterward, as they walked toward the Excelsior Hotel, under a sky obscured by threatening clouds, the midwinter evening was cold, with a slight wind, but the snow on the curbing was old and posed no hazard. In the lobby, Phil got the keys and handed Number 212 to Roberta while he dangled Number 214 obviously and said, "Tomorrow, after everything is official, legal and proper, Paul can move in with you. But, tonight, he's bunking with me next door. The engaged couple looked at each other and shrugged their acquiescence as if any other arrangement would never have entered their mind.
Putting away his room key, Phil discreetly pulled from the same overcoat pocket just enough of a whiskey fifth to display the words 'Old Crow' on its label top. "I thought we might celebrate a little," he suggested pleasantly. "The wedding isn't going to be a formal affair, but there's no reason, as 'best man' I can't host a party for the bride-and-groom-to-be!" He looked over his shoulder at the night auditor behind the reception counter and continued, conspiratorially in a low voice, "I don't know how they feel about patrons drinking their own booze instead of going to the bar. We'll have to be clever."
Roberta piped up, "Why so? We already have rooms. Let's go upstairs. We can play cards, or something."
"That's a fine idea, Bobbie," Paul replied. "But we still need to be cautious. Some establishments think they are finer than they are and make rules against unmarried men having a woman in the room…"
Phil interrupted his brother, "…I already thought of that. I fibbed a little and registered 212 under 'Mr. and Mrs. Paul Maxon.' So we're okay there, but it never hurts to be careful." Clapping Paul on his shoulder, he said, "I'll see if they have a deck of cards at the front desk. You and Bobbie go on up and I'll follow shortly."
Roberta turned her backside to the fire as she recalled how everything had gone as planned, except that Phil showed up with a Chinese Checkers board and a bag of marbles, instead of playing cards. The evening had been fun, but the game was not what she remembered the most. Around ten o'clock, with the bourbon nearly half gone, Phil was pretty much blotto and Paul had to help him to their room. Then, much to her surprise, about thirty minutes later, there was a knock on her door.
While Roberta Maxon warmed her calves and cockles in her Westport family room, her second husband, Phil Maxon and her eighteen-year-old daughter Trixie, lay together in a king-size bed at the Plaza Hotel in New York City. Fast asleep, Trixie was curled on her left side, facing the fourteenth-floor window overlooking 58th Street under an impenetrable sky. Snow still flew against its panes as the storm, concluded fifty miles northeast, continued to hang over Manhattan. Her thirty-eight-year-old uncle and step-father was wide awake.
An hour after fucking away Patricia Maxon's virginity, Phil had awakened for no good reason and lay recumbent, unable to get back to sleep. For a while, just listening to Trixie's deep even breathing soothed his angst over his deed. But then the heat from her warm bottom, percolating through her champagne satin negligee against his naked left hip, brought to mind the last time he had deflowered an eighteen-year-old. Scooting up the bed, and propping himself on jumbo pillows against its massive lacquered hardwood headboard, he thought back to the dirtiest trick he ever played on his younger twin.
In 1944, two years after the country club's 1942 Sweetheart Ball, Phil still smarted from when Paul just up and asked beautiful young red-headed Bobbie O'Conner to dance. Paul had literally swept her off her feet without so much as even offering to flip a coin with Phil to see who would ask her first. Maybe it always would have worked out that Bobbie would fall in love with Paul, but after the band played 'Mood Indigo' and their second dance ended, Phil never had an opportunity to honorably press his case. When Paul declared he would marry her after their Army training at Fort Devens ended, Phil decided he would throw him a little curveball.
Before he and Paul left the base on their three-day pass to Ayer, Phil finagled an Amytal from a buddy he knew was so wracked with insomnia that the docs at the dispensary had prescribed him the sedative. He was sure he would find the right moment to knock out Paul on his wedding night. It might then be years before the marriage was consummated. What a laugh that would be!
In the moonlit darkness of the Plaza Hotel, Phil patted his half-erect penis with his right hand and recalled how his plan had radically changed in the diner that fateful Friday when Bobbie lightly slapped his wrist while confessing that he and Paul were so alike that even she could not tell them apart when they were identically dressed. Suddenly, he had wondered, "What about right now, when we're in uniforms? What if we were naked?" The preposterous idea had mind-boggling potential.
Later in the evening, while playing Chinese Checkers and drinking Old Crow bourbon, Phil let on that he was much more drunk than he truly was. When Paul made their excuses and helped him back to the room they would share that night at the Excelsior Hotel, Phil had made a big production out of toasting his little brother with a nightcap. For the sake of peace, Paul reluctantly agreed. After pouring shots into glasses, he about-faced and turned down the double bed.
With Paul distracted by his housekeeping task, Phil broke open the Amytal capsule and stirred its soporific powder into one of the whiskeys with his finger. When Paul stepped back to join his brother at the dresser, Phil already had the undoctored booze in his raised left hand. Bringing the glass to his lips, he smiled and fake-slurred, "Well, Paulie, we knew it woo' hap'n, someday, an' now… here it is. Here's to you, you lucky sonuvagun! I'm bes' man an' I s-… s-wear I'll get you home. I wan' lahzz 'n' lahzza neff… uh…" He paused with his eyes crossed, as if struggling for the words, then finished, "…Neff-yewzzz 'n' neeesezzz."
Paul laughed at his stinko twin, lifted his mickey and answered, "Thank you, Phil. I know you will. I am a lucky duck; in more ways than one!" That said, he drank his poison in a single draught and put down his glass.
As Phil watched Paul swallow, he thought, "Ha! Now I've got you, you sap!" With a loud groan, he lurched forward and dropped his sloshing, untouched bourbon beside drained glass on the dresser top. Quick as could be, Paul reached out, held Phil by his shoulders and said, "Steady, now! Don't worry about your uniform. Just lay down and close your eyes. You'll feel better in the morning."
Guiding him, Paul laid Phil on the left side of the bed, nearest the door, then pulled the top sheet and blanket up over him. As Phil pretended to snore, while sneakily studying his victim through half-shuttered lids, Paul undressed to his skivvies, snapped off the room's ceiling light and got under the covers on the bed's other side. In twenty minutes, the amobarbital sodium had taken hold and Paul was down for the count. Phil waited a full ten minutes longer before quietly rising and slipping from the room into the hotel hallway.
Loud enough to be heard, but soft enough not to disturb other hotel guests, Phil knocked at Room 212 and paused. He had been just about ready to rap again when Roberta's low voice called through the door, "What is it? Who is it?"
"It's me, Bobbie," Phil answered cagily. If she opened the door and recognized he was not Paul, he was uncommitted.
The door cracked ajar and Roberta peeked out. Surprised, she exclaimed, "Paul! What are you doing? I was already in bed, for goodness sake!"
Phil thought, "Bingo!" Out loud, he whispered, "I wanted to kiss you goodnight, Baby. Let me in."
Roberta air kissed Phil and declared, "There! Now go away! Love you!"
Before the door could be closed, Phil protested, "No, Baby, I mean a proper kiss. C'mon, open up before we wake up the whole joint!"
Roberta sighed, then relented and admitted the imposter twin, saying, "Alright, but really, only for a moment… I'm not dressed!"
As Roberta stepped back, Phil crossed the threshold. While she clutched her thin silk dressing gown tightly closed about her, he scanned the room. In the open closet were hung her salt-and-pepper tweed winter coat and burgundy wool suit with her black pumps neatly laid out on the oak floor. A white wireless bra, nylon hose and an ivory garter belt lay draped over the back of the easy chair in the corner, while a folded pair of white frilly satin-and-lace French knickers rested on its cushion.
Phil swiftly closed the door behind him and pulled Roberta into a bearhug. Embracing him, she clutched his olive-drab tunic and kissed him, open-mouthed, with abandon. As her arms divided around his torso, her robe flapped. Behind her simple white rayon slip, her firm, but unsupported, thirty-six-inch C-cup breasts squashed against the coarse wool and praised her lapse in judgement.
Phil's reconnaissance of Roberta's room gave him all the intelligence he needed to assess her vulnerability. Dropping his right hand to her hip he inserted it front and center between her dressing gown's loose open folds. Then, with his wrist inverted, he slid his fingers over her slip, forced them between her legs and grabbed her pussy through the bunched flimsy material. Breaking their kiss, she cried in surprise, "No! Paul, don't!"
Phil did not back off, but rather, he pressed forward. Driving his cloth covered middle finger into her slit, whether Roberta liked it or no, he flattened his thumb pad where he knew her clit must be hiding. Disconcerted by the exciting sensations welling up inside her, she panted her continuing protest, "You, uhn, s-said, 'a prah-per kiss'! Uhn! This isn't prahhh-per, Paul!"
Phil was having none of it. Spinning around, and carrying Roberta with him, he muscled her flat onto the wall next to the room door. Overpowered, she rolled her red hair against the gold-flocked forest-green Victorian wallpaper as she desperately reasoned, "Please, Paul! We'll be married tomorrow. You can have me tomorrow night, all the ways that you want me. All night long. But please, wait tonight!"
Paul replaced his hand between her legs with his right knee while he pinned both Roberta's shoulder points to the wall with his palms. Turning his own head left and right to maintain eye contact with her, he countered, "It's wartime, Baby. Monday I ship out to kill some Jerries, or maybe get killed by them. I can't wait another twenty-four hours for some formality. I need you. Right now!" Catching her in mid-roll, he landed a mauling kiss on her soft smooth lips.

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