My father was an active businessman when a road accident killed him. I knew that he and my mother had an active sexual life, but I did not know a small detail thereof -- or better, a couple of them which increased over the years.
Even though my father suffered of lactose intolerance, he loved sucking my mother's milk, and therefore my mother's breasts increased their size and sensitivity with time. Once my right elbow inadvertently rubbed her left nipple, as I was washing the dishes after dinner, and she shrieked of pleasure.
I was a good-mannered guy at the time, and did not do anything more to her; but our father was away, and I saw her blouse wet with a white stain. She unfastened it, so I could notice how big her breasts had become with time, she sprinkled it with water, doused some soap powder, and thoroughly rinsed it.
I could not help my leering at her cleavage; my mother noticed it and smiled, as if it was the compliment of a male who could never make her, and then hung the blouse up by the stove.
"Your bra needs washing too, mom," I blurted out; she looked at it, kept smiling, she put the tip of her forefinger on my nosetip, and went to her room to replace it.
Normal maternal behaviour with a grown-up male son, obviously. But after dishwashing, I went out with my fiancé of the time, and she got more pleasure than ever, as I was obsessed with my mother's breasts that evening, my penis was harder, and I craved for more orgasms than ever.
When I came home, my elder sister Rina was still awake, studying medicine in the dining room -- it had the only table in our home which could carry all the books she needed. She was wearing a dressing gown with a wide neckline, and I noticed that she was wearing the same bra my mother was wearing before.
Rina felt my stare and asked me: "Joe, what's the matter with my breasts?"
"Are you wearing one of mom's bras'?" I asked, and she answered:
"Yes. We have the same size, so we swap bras from time to time."
That night I could not sleep evenly -- I could not help thinking about my mother and my sister going to a lingerie shop, choosing each other's bras, and getting so excited by looking and touching each other, that at home they could not help kissing, fondling, lovemaking.
It was an one night's folly, and my life resumed as usual the following day, until my father died. He apparently was the victim of his fetish -- while driving he vomited the milk he had just drunk from mom, inadvertently passed a red light, and a truck smashed his car.
Mom was desperate, as she felt she had killed him. Even my sister felt guilty, and I soon found why.
While I was completely unaware of my parents' fetish, my sister Rina knew that as soon as she turned 21. The birthday pie was sweeter than expected, and Rina knew why: mom had forced dad to abstain for a whole month, and patiently expressed and collected the milk whose cream had to be used for the pie.
When I got 21 too, I got a similar, but bigger pie, and now I know what had happened: after tasting her sweet birthday's pie, Rina convinced my mother to help her induce lactation.
As her hands could not express much milk from Rina, she had to suckle her nipples to improve her lactation. Soon Rina began getting excited as soon as mom leered at her breasts at suckling time, and she reaped several orgasms every day as she was milked.
I was studying abroad, so I could be kept unaware of all this; but dad soon crept into the picture.
