Chapter 71: Family Feast
The sun was a hammer on the bleached concrete, its heat softened only by the cool breath of the ocean and the glittering expanse of the infinity pool. The air shimmered with the scent of charcoal, sizzling fat from the grill, coconut sunscreen, and the clean, chlorinated bite of the water. Empty bottles—some beer, some from Lena’s viciously strong mojitos—lined a wobbly table like casualties of a pleasant war.
Bruce leaned back in a lounger, Rafael balanced on his broad chest, the six-month-old gumming happily on a teething ring. Roland, his tiny twin with those startling, gold-flecked hazel eyes, was cradled in Susannah’s arms nearby, fascinated by Oy. The bumbler, having accepted a shred of burger with solemn grace, now performed gentle rolls on the warm stone, his gold eyes blinking slowly, making the baby coo with delight.
Jake sat at the pool’s edge, his legs dangling in the water. He was quiet, watching the chaos with Roland’s old gunslinger eyes in a young man’s face. Freya cannonballed into the deep end, dousing Ketut and Isabella who shrieked and laughed, their sleek bodies glistening. Jasmine, stretched out on a floating lounger, her legendary curves oiled and magnificent, lifted a bronzed arm in lazy protest.
“You splash me, girl, I’m tipping you in,” Jasmine called, her Jamaican accent a warm melody over the splash and giggle.
Anya emerged from the water near Jake, slicking her long black hair back. She watched him for a moment, water beading on her goddess-perfect features. “You’re thinking too loud,” she said, her voice carrying over the din.
Jake glanced at her, a faint smile touching his lips. “Just watching.”
“It’s a lot to take in,” she said, understanding in her violet eyes. She hoisted herself out, the water sluicing down her small, perky breasts and the breathtaking curve of her ass. She didn’t cover up; modesty was a ghost in this place. She settled beside him, their shoulders almost touching. “It never stops being a lot.”
Camille, wearing a vibrant wrap sarong over her curvy figure, presided over the grill with a spatula in one hand and a mojito in the other. Lena, her shadow, was beside her, chattering about the merits of different barbecue sauces while simultaneously adjusting the strap of her bikini top. Sophia and Julianna were playing a vigorous, laughing game of water volleyball with Freya and Isabella, their athletic bodies cutting through the blue.
Bruce watched it all. The sheer, loud, messy life of it. Rafael fisted a hand in Bruce’s shirt, babbling. The weight of his son, the shrieks from the pool, the smell of Camille’s perfect garlic-herb butter melting over the steaks—it coalesced into a pressure behind his sternum, a sweet, almost painful fullness.
He stood, carefully passing Rafael to Ketut, whose dark, knowing eyes softened as she took the baby. Bruce picked up a bottle of cold lager, the glass wet in his hand. He tapped the spatula against the grill’s lid.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
The noise died down. Jasmine paddled her lounger to the edge. Sophia and Julianna paused, treading water. Susannah looked up from Roland. Lena stopped talking, a smile already on her face. All eyes turned to him.
Bruce cleared his throat, the sudden attention a physical weight. He looked at each face, these women who had chosen him, saved him, fought for him, bound him, loved him. He saw Jake, the adopted son who carried a universe of pain and wisdom in his young eyes, and Oy, who blinked back at him with animal loyalty.
“I just…” Bruce began, his voice gruff. He took a swig of the beer, buying a second. “Look at this.”
A soft laugh rippled through them.
“I know,” Camille said softly, her eyes shining.
“I love you all,” Bruce said, the words feeling both inadequate and absolutely necessary. “So much it sometimes feels like my heart’s gonna crack my ribs open.” He took another breath. “I can’t believe… this. The trust. After everything. You believed in this. In me. In us. I couldn’t make any of it work without every single one of you.”
He raised the bottle. “To our family. My sons.” He looked at Rafael and Roland. “My adopted son,” he said, his gaze locking with Jake’s. Jake held it, his face unreadable for a moment, then gave a slow, solemn nod. “And yes,” Bruce added, a grin breaking through, “the best little guy a family can hope for. Oy.”
“Oy!” the bumbler said, clearly and proudly, eliciting a burst of laughter and happy tears.
“To our family,” Camille echoed, raising her mojito.
“To family!” The chorus went up, a mixture of shouts and soft affirmations. Bottles and glasses clinked. Jasmine blew a kiss from the pool. Anya leaned her head against Jake’s shoulder briefly.
The moment hung, suspended in the honeyed afternoon light, perfect and fragile as a bubble.
Then the bubble popped with the sound of Rafael’s hungry cry and Freya shouting, “The burgers are burning!”
Chaos reclaimed its throne with a comfortable, welcome warmth.
The sun bled into the ocean, painting the sky in violent streaks of orange and purple. The pool lights clicked on, casting a turquoise glow on the tired, happy bodies littering the patio. Full of meat and drink and laughter, a deep contentment settled over the group. Jake had retired to his room with Oy. The babies were fed and asleep in their cribs, monitored by a quietly humming baby monitor on the table.
The babies were fed and asleep in their cribs, monitored by a quietly humming baby monitor on the table. Bruce watched Jake trail towards the house, Oy trotting faithfully at his heels, the boy’s shoulders bowed under an invisible weight. The patio’s festive noise seemed to recede, funneling after him into a sudden pocket of quiet.
“He’s upset about something,” Bruce said, not taking his eyes from the empty doorway. “Been off all day.”
Ketut shifted Rafael in her arms, her dark eyes seeing beyond the physical space. “He thinks deeply. He’s still just a boy in a lot of ways.” She paused, reading the currents in Bruce’s gaze. “He’s thinking about Roland. If he’s doing well rebuilding Gilead. He’s thinking about Eddie, wondering if he’s still alive in that world, if anyone will ever see him again.” She met Bruce’s look. “He feels deeply, Bruce. Like you do.”
Bruce turned to her, his face etched with concern. “Can we do anything to help him?”
“I can talk to him,” Ketut offered softly. “But I don’t think it will help much. He needs time.” She glanced at Susannah, who was listening, her expression tight. “He loves you, Bruce. But he also is resentful, a little. You took Eddie’s wife.” Her gaze lingered on Susannah. “And now he won’t ever see his friend again.”
Susannah set her wine glass down with a sharp click. “He didn’t take me,” she said, her voice low and firm. “I told Eddie to come. I came on my own. Bruce didn’t steal me.”
“I know that, Suze,” Ketut replied, her tone gentle but unwavering. “But Jake’s a boy. He sees things in a simple way. Nuance and complicated love is beyond where he’s at right now.”
The truth of it settled over them, a somber blanket over the evening’s warmth. Camille moved then, placing a hand on Bruce’s taut shoulder. “He has a room here. Food. People who care. That’s more than most get.” She squeezed. “Come on. Let the night be lighter.”
Her touch was a circuit breaker. The heavy mood lifted, dispersed by the practical certainty in her voice. One by one, the women drifted inside, carrying plates, laughter slowly filtering back as they moved to the kitchen. Soon, only Bruce and Camille remained on the darkened patio, lit by the eerie turquoise glow of the pool lights and the single, guttering candle.
Camille stood before him, her curvy silhouette outlined against the luminous water. She untied her sarong, letting it pool at her feet. Her body, a testament to her heritage and her confidence, was suddenly there in the subtle light—the generous swell of her hips, the proud, perky breasts. She reached behind her back and unhooked her bikini top, freeing herself with a soft sigh.
“You gave a beautiful toast,” she said, stepping closer. Her fingers found the buckle of his shorts.
“It was the truth,” he muttered, watching her hands work.
“I know.” She pushed his shorts and boxers down in one motion, his cock already hardening in the cool night air. She took him in her hand, her grip familiar and sure. “Now let me taste it.”
She sank to her knees on the warm concrete. There was no ceremony, only a hungry, practiced need. She engulfed him, taking his full length into her mouth in one deep, smooth slide. Her tongue pressed flat against the veined underside as her head began to bob, her lips forming a perfect, tight seal. The wet, rhythmic sounds were obscene and beautiful in the quiet night.
Bruce groaned, his hands tangling in her dark hair. He looked down at the shadowed curve of her back, the full, glorious ass he worshipped, now raised in offering as she serviced him. He fucked her mouth gently, then with more force, feeling the head of his cock nudge the back of her throat. She took it, her eyes watering but open, locked on his.
“Christ, Camille,” he breathed.
She pulled off with a lewd pop, saliva glistening on them both. “I want you inside me,” she said, her voice husky. “But not just you.” She got to her feet, pulling him towards a wide, padded lounger. “Get the black one. The thick one.”
Bruce retrieved the large, obsidian-hued dildo from the waterproof box beside the grill. It was cold and heavy in his hand, a ridged, intimidating shape. Camille lay back on the lounger, her legs spread wide, her cunt already gleaming in the low light. She took the toy from him, lubing it with a slick squeeze from a bottle she’d produced from somewhere.
“Watch,” she commanded, her eyes dark with intent.
She pressed the flared head against her opening. She was wet, but the toy was massive. She pushed, her face screwing up in a mix of strain and ecstasy as the thick silicone began to stretch her. A low, guttural moan tore from her throat as the widest part breached her, her body accepting the incredible invasion.
“Fuck yes,” she panted, working it deeper. “God, it’s so fucking big.”
Bruce watched, mesmerized, his own cock throbbing. She fucked herself with it, her arm pumping, the wet, squelching sounds loud in the night. Her other hand flew to her clit, rubbing frantic circles. “Now you,” she gasped, her rhythm faltering. “I want your cock in my ass while this thing wrecks my pussy.”
He needed no further instruction. He lubed himself quickly, then positioned himself behind her, the head of his cock pressing against her tight, untouched rosette. He pushed slowly, the exquisite, burning tightness a sharp counterpoint to the obscene sight of the black dildo plunging in and out of her cunt.
“Oh fuck, Bruce, fuck!” she screamed as he seated himself fully in her ass, his hips flush against her ass cheeks.
He held still, letting her adjust, watching her fuck her dripping pussy with the thick toy. Then he began to move. He set a deep, slow rhythm, driving into her ass while she slammed the dildo into her cunt. The twin sensations, the raw, filthy fullness, overwhelmed her. Her moans became shattered, wordless cries, punctuated by the slap of flesh on flesh and the slick, rhythmic noise of the toy.
“Harder,” she begged, her voice shredded. “Oh god, fill me up, bruise my fucking insides!”
Bruce obliged, his thrusts becoming powerful, piston-like drives. He reached around her, his hand replacing hers on the dildo, fucking her with it in time with his own penetrations. The coordination was brutal, magnificent. She was split open, impaled, utterly claimed.
“I’m gonna come,” she wailed, her body tightening around both intrusions. “Don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop!”
Her climax was a violent, shaking explosion. Her cunt clenched rhythmically around the silicone, her ass convulsing around his cock. The intense, milking pressure pulled his own orgasm from him. With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself and erupted, hot pulses flooding her depths as she continued to shudder and sob beneath him.
They collapsed together on the lounger, a tangled, sweaty, spent heap. The black dildo slipped from her, landing on the concrete with a soft thud. Bruce slowly pulled out of her, both of them gasping at the sensation.
For a long time, they just breathed, the night air cooling their heated skin. The baby monitor hummed peacefully. From the house, a distant burst of laughter echoed.
Camille turned her head, nuzzling into his neck. “He’ll be okay,” she whispered, as if reading the thought that had returned to him in the quiet. “He has us.”
Bruce held her tighter, the solid, wonderful weight of her in his arms. He looked up at the stars, countless and cold above their warm, messy, imperfect world, and chose to believe her.
He looked up at the stars, countless and cold above their warm, messy, imperfect world, and chose to believe her.
The sound of the sliding glass door broke the stillness. Lena peered out, a silhouette against the warm kitchen light. “You two planning to fossilize out here?” she called, her voice carrying a smile. “We’re opening another bottle. And the bugs are starting to bite my ass.”
Bruce helped Camille to her feet. They gathered their discarded clothes, moving with the slow, satiated grace of shared exhaustion. He draped her sarong over her shoulders, his hand lingering on the back of her neck. Inside, the kitchen was a cave of warmth and low laughter. The debris from the barbecue was mostly cleared, replaced with wine glasses and a plate of cheeses. Jasmine was showing Freya a complex knot with a length of rope. Isabella and Sophia debated a medical journal article. Anya sketched on a napkin, her violet eyes distant.
Susannah watched it all from a stool at the counter, swirling her wine. Her eyes, however, kept drifting towards the hallway that led to the bedrooms. She finished her glass in one decisive swallow and stood up.
“Be back,” she murmured to no one in particular.
She walked down the quiet hall, the noise of the kitchen fading behind her. She stopped at Jake’s door. From within, she could hear the low murmur of a television, some old movie. She knocked, twice.
A pause. Then, “Yeah?”
She opened the door. Jake was on his bed, back against the headboard, Oy curled at his feet. The blue light of the screen washed over his young, serious face.
“Hey,” Susannah said, leaning against the doorframe.
“Hey.”
“Can we talk?”
He muted the TV with a click of the remote. “Sure.”
She came in, closing the door softly behind her. She didn’t sit, preferring to stand, her arms crossed. The room smelled of boy – clean laundry, the outdoors, a faint hint of the gun oil he still used on Roland’s old weapons.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she began, her voice low and direct. “I see it in your eyes, every time you look at Bruce and then at me. You think he stole me. Like I was a piece of gear Eddie lost.”
Jake didn’t deny it. He looked at his hands.
“He didn’t,” Susannah said, the words firm. “Bruce isn’t to blame for the choices I made. Not a single one.”
“He’s here. Eddie’s not,” Jake said, the words sharp with a child’s logic.
“I know.” She uncrossed her arms, took a step closer. “And if you’re going to be upset with anyone, it should be me. I made the choice to stay. I made the choice to love him.” Her voice caught, just for a second. “I never stopped loving Eddie. Not for one minute, Jake. But I couldn’t lie to him, or to myself, about loving Bruce too. It happened. I didn’t want it to, but it did.”
Jake finally looked up at her, his gunslinger eyes old in his young face. “Do you think he’s dead?”
The question hung in the air, stark and terrible. Susannah closed her eyes. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I hope not. I hope, with everything I have, that he’ll find a door, a thinny, something. That he’ll show up here one day, dusty and cussing, and be with us again.” She opened her eyes, and they were glistening. “I just don’t know, Jake.”
She knelt before the bed, putting herself at his eye level. “What I do know is that Bruce loves you. Like a son. You’re a part of this family, this whole strange, wonderful, messed-up family. He’d do anything for you.” She reached out, took his hand. It was large, already a man’s hand, but it felt cold in hers. “Don’t hate him for what I chose.”
Oy whined softly, nuzzling Jake’s leg. Jake looked down at their joined hands, then out the window at the dark sea. A long moment passed, filled only with the distant crash of waves.
“I don’t hate him,” Jake said finally, his voice thick. “I just miss my friend.”
“I know, sugar,” Susannah said, her own tears falling now. “I miss him too. Every day.”
Down the hall, in the master bedroom, Bruce was showering off the scent of chlorine and sex. The hot water needled his skin, washing away the salt and sweat. He stepped out, toweled himself roughly, and pulled on a pair of soft cotton pants. The house hummed with a settled, night-time energy.
He found Jasmine alone in the den, a room of deep couches and bookshelves. She was standing by the large window, staring out at the moonlit ocean, a glass of dark rum in her hand. She wore only a long, silk kimono, untied, hanging open. Her magnificent body was a sculpture of shadow and silver light.
“Penny for them,” Bruce said, leaning against the doorframe.
She didn’t turn. “Just thinking about flying. Missing the pull of a stick in my hands, the clouds below.” She took a sip. “This is better. This is peace. But a part of me still needs the roar of engines.”
He walked up behind her, not touching her, just sharing the view. Her scent, coconut oil and something uniquely Jasmine, filled the space between them.
“Could take the Cessna up tomorrow,” he said. “Just you and the sky.”
She tilted her head back, resting it against his bare chest. “Maybe.”
She turned then, her brown eyes with their flecks of gold searching his face. Without a word, she untied the belt of her kimono and let it slide from her shoulders. It pooled at her feet like a liquid shadow. The moonlight caressed the legendary curves he knew so well—the full, heavy breasts, the dramatic sweep of her waist, the powerful thighs. She was a goddess carved from mahogany and desire.
“I need a different kind of roar tonight,” she said, her voice a low hum.
She pushed his cotton pants down past his hips. His cock, already stirring, sprang free. She wrapped her strong, pilot’s hand around him, her grip firm and knowing. She began to stroke him, her thumb swiping over the leaking head, spreading the moisture.
“You gave a nice speech today,” she murmured, her eyes locked on his. “Made all your wives feel special.” She tightened her grip, a delicious pressure. “Now it’s my turn.”
She led him to the wide, low-backed couch. She pushed him down onto it, his back against the cushions. Then she knelt on the floor before him, her intent clear. But instead of taking him in her mouth, she held his gaze and said, “Make it big for me, Bruce. I want to feel that famous power. I want all of it.”
He focused, a low pulse of energy emanating from his core. He watched her eyes widen as his cock began to swell, thickening, lengthening, until he was fully erect at a staggering fourteen inches, as thick as his wrist, a heavy, veined monument of flesh.
“Jesus Christ,” Jasmine breathed, a genuine awe in her voice. She leaned forward, not to suck, but to worship. She kissed the swollen head, then ran her tongue along the massive vein on the underside. “It’s a fucking masterpiece.”
She took him into her mouth then, but she could only manage the first few inches. She worked the head with her lips and tongue, her hands stroking the impossible shaft she couldn’t fit. Spit dripped from her chin, slicking him further. The obscene, wet sounds filled the quiet den.
“I need you inside me,” she gasped, pulling off, her lips swollen. “I need this monster splitting me open.”
She climbed onto the couch, straddling him, facing him. She reached between her legs, guiding the broad, flushed head to her entrance. She was soaking wet, her slickness glistening in the moonlight. She lowered herself slowly, an excruciating inch at a time.
A sharp, guttural cry was torn from her throat as the massive crown stretched her beyond anything she’d known. Her eyes rolled back, her body shuddering. “Fuck! Fuck, Bruce, it’s so goddamn big!”
She forced herself down further, her inner muscles fluttering in a chaotic rhythm of protest and bliss. She took half of him, her body stretched taut, her breath coming in ragged pants. “I can’t… I can’t take it all,” she whimpered, but her hips were grinding, trying to force more.
“You can,” Bruce growled, his hands on her hips, helping her. “You’re the strongest woman I know. Take it.”
With a desperate, broken scream, she impaled herself completely, her ass meeting his thighs. She was full to the point of pain, stretched to an unimaginable limit. She sat there, speared, her body convulsing around the intrusive girth. “Oh my god,” she chanted, “oh my god, oh my god.”
Then she began to move. It was a brutal, grinding rock of her hips, each small movement sending seismic shocks through her. She fucked herself on him, her nails digging into his shoulders, her head thrown back. The sounds were raw and visceral—the slap of skin, her choked cries, the wet squelch of her overstretched cunt accepting him.
“Harder,” she demanded, her voice raw. “Fuck me harder with this beast!”
He obliged, thrusting up into her from below, driving the impossible length deeper. She screamed, a sound of pure, unadulterated rapture. Her orgasm hit her suddenly, a violent, wrenching contraction that clamped around his shaft like a vice. Her cunt milked him, spasm after spasm, as she shook and sobbed above him.
The intense pressure, the sight of her magnificent body contorted in pleasure, pushed him over the edge. He held her hips down and poured himself into her, a hot, endless flood that seemed to have no end. She collapsed forward onto his chest, both of them slick with sweat, breathing in shattered gasps.
They stayed like that for a long time, joined, spent. The moon had moved across the window. From down the hall, very faintly, Bruce could hear the sound of a baby stirring, then settling. The house, and its world, held its breath.