The Christmas in July Luau

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Hey readers, Holly here. For my entry into the 2020 Summer Lovin’ contest, I wanted to compose my epic ode to the Incest / Taboo genre, specifically one very particular, tried-and-true branch of it, and I think I really nailed what I was going for. I am really proud of this story. It’s a long one, I’m sorry—I was unable to halt the parade of unkillable darlings.

Let me know in the comments what you think either way, and feel free to hit me up on the bulletin board! Enjoy!

*****

I never would have wanted it—my god, fucking needed it—if I hadn’t seen it happen right in front of me with my own eyes. That Christmas in July luau show—the miracle and the curse. After that show, that sex show, I couldn’t get what I had seen out of my mind, and I had to experience it for myself, whatever the cost to my family. Whatever it did to my relationship with my dad.

My name is Colleen. I’m 23 now in the most bullshit year of all time—2020—but this story takes place over two summers a few years ago, in 2016 and 2017. The summers when I was 19 and 20. Those summers. Shit.

Welp. Covid, right? I have a lot of free time, so I’ve decided to do this. I’ve decided to try to process what happened through writing, and then post it here on Literotica, which I surprisingly just discovered during this quarantine. There’s no way anyone will ever believe it, so the only thing I’ve done is leave out last names, and change the name of the shop.

Originally, I set out to write this as a kind of diary. Something just for me. I don’t usually keep a diary or a journal or anything, but I felt like I needed to write this all down—I made a huge mistake not keeping one throughout those years. Anyway, I sat down and typed out a page or two of rambling feelings and thoughts, and then I realized that I just want to re-tell everything, every relevant detail I can remember. For posterity, or something like that.

I want to get it right. I want to re-live the whole fucking story, and I want people to read about what happened. I want people who love ‘incest erotica’ to live vicariously through my fucked up, selfish actions. I want them to get off on it, I really do. I’ll say it clearly—if you are reading this, I want you to bring yourself to orgasm reading and thinking about what I fucking honest-to-god did.

Jesus.

Okay. Here’s mud in your eye, or something.

*****

Part 1: Before July 25th, 2016

I grew up in a strange place.

I was born in California, but we moved to New Jersey when I was 5. New Jersey is where both of my parents’ families are and where they had both grown up. We were happy. On special occasions, we took the train to New York City. On autumn weekends, we went camping in state parks not far from us.

My mom died from inoperable cancer when I was 11, and after that things were just kind of empty and quiet at home. The talk died down in the house—I lived with my younger brother Dan and my dad. It wasn’t a terrible place, but without the joyful, normal life stuff that the rest of our nearby extended family offered us pretty regularly, Dan and I probably would have been pretty fucked up, I think. I don’t know. Dan’s 22 now, but we’re not close. Those years, my early teenage years, we grew far apart somehow.

In our house, the three of us all sort of kept to ourselves after she died. It hadn’t been sudden, we had known it was coming for six months or so, but once it finally happened it sucked something out of daily living. Dad cared about us, sure, but he was clearly depressed for a few years, and while I wouldn’t say we were neglected, we were very much unsupervised. At too young of an age, I discovered the infinite rabbit hole of something I shouldn’t have found on the internet.

At first, it was frightening. I went looking for it, I guess, as a curious kid. I’m pretty sure that’s just a rite of youth now, as shitty as that is. When I found it, I freaked out and became paranoid for a week or so. Surely someone would figure out that I was looking at stuff only adults are supposed to see, right? They’ll just know, just by looking at me! I’m guilty! Aaah!

But then I went back. I miss the exploration of those days. I miss the dumb exhilaration.

I miss a lot of things. I miss my dad just… being my dad. Maybe I should just stick to writing stories from before I did what I did. The ‘good’ times.

No. I can already feel how cathartic this is going to be. I have to finish what I started.

Anyway, I had a lot of time to myself, complete privacy, and unfettered access to the internet. By 9th grade, my inhibitions were breaking down pretty fast, though none of my friends or anyone else could possibly know that. I was introverted at school, but not socially crippled. I was in the color guard, got good grades and had a bunch of okay friends, but no true best friend. People probably thought I was just normal. People probably thought I was just doing my own thing.

I was.

In keçiören escort June of 9th grade, right before the end of school, I had been 15 for three months. As a sign of what was to come, there was something that I simply had to experience for myself that I couldn’t let go of. Something I had seen in that secret hobby of mine.

Spoiler alert: nothing even remotely happens.

After school one Wednesday, I rode my dad’s old ten-speed 20 minutes away to meet up with a guy from a Yahoo chat room at a shitty motel near some industrial area. He was a skinny, shorter guy in his 40s, but I was a skinny, really short kid. As soon as he saw me, we made some awkward small talk, then he shook my hand, apologized, ran back to his car and drove off. After a confusing couple of minutes, I was relieved. I realized I was very much okay with that. It had been enough that we met up—thinking about it now, I’m so, so glad that’s as far as it went.

I could go on and on about so many things, but where I want to start is the summer after 11th grade. That summer, my Aunt Mo and Uncle Mike invited me to stay for the summer at their big place in Cape May, New Jersey. Like I said, our extended family all did what they could for us.

I grew up in far north New Jersey—beyond New York City—and Cape May is all the way at the southern tip of the state. I could get away from nearly everyone I knew, get a summer job, and go to the beach all the time. Their own kids were grown up now, so I might see my cousins once in a while but probably not every day.

It was an easy decision. Beneath all the excitement, I remember being very, very excited for a different reason. I could use this as an excuse to try things. I was going far away from my high school social circle, and I could maybe do things with people who might not ever see me again.

I quit color guard, spent a few days doing whatever with some friends, said my goodbyes, took the train from Mahwah to Secaucus, and got picked up at the station by my then-28-year-old boisterous cousin Lindsay with her futuristic haircut in her green Nissan pickup truck. The two of us drove south to Cape May talking, laughing, listening to cool music, singing Katy Perry, and eating fast food. Lindsay lives in Brooklyn, and she rules. She kicks ass, if you’ll pardon my French. I just visited her last fall, dammit. We ate vegan food on her balcony. Fucking Covid.

That summer was fantastic, magical, endless, all of those things, but sort of a disappointment, too. I got a job sitting under an umbrella in a parking lot collecting money for rental bikes and surreys, making sure the tires were all ready to go, stuff like that. It was an easy job, and I got to meet a lot of people. Our lanky, 25-year-old boss Todd was pretty hilarious at all times and made fun of our job / made our job fun. He was a role model for me. Miss him.

At that point, I was still kind of introverted, and definitely not flirty, but a few guys talked to me, and I hung out with some of them. They were typical teenagers, though, and just wanted to have that great summer romance. They wanted to connect with someone, hold hands and walk around, listen to music and look into their girlfriend’s eyes, make out on the beach at sunset, all that stuff. That was all fine, it was, but what I really wanted—but couldn’t possibly tell these guys, or anybody else—was something they just couldn’t give me.

Towards the very end of the summer, I heard a rumor from one of the other girls who I worked with—Nicky. We had been hanging out pretty often, and one night we had a sleepover with Mel, another friend of hers. They were both 18, and I was 17. The three of us got along great, none of that stupid power stuff some girls will try in groups of three.

Including that rumor, it was such an awesome night. I reminisce about that night from time to time. We watched horror movies, ate pizza and cake, and Nicky drank too much to our great amusement. At one point kind of late, we were hysterical with laughter at Mel doing impressions of her boyfriend, and right in the middle of it he called her out of the blue. When she picked up, her attempts at pretending she had not just been making fun of him were so funny, Nicky threw up.

Her parents had gone back to their regular house for the weekend, and we made our way to her beach house’s third floor roof deck around midnight, before the boyfriend thing. We each had a Flying Fish beer, which I sort of liked I guess, and Mel broke out a pack of Camel cigarettes. I was scared to try one—hilarious, if you think back to how I wasn’t as scared to meet up with some rando guy in his 40s at a shitty motel when I was fucking 15.

At first, of course, I coughed my lungs up trying to inhale the cigarette smoke. We all laughed and they taught me how to do it. That first cigarette was like smoking some kind of drug—I felt pretty high. I’ve only smoked a few more since then.

Nicky keçiören escort bayan said that she had heard a rumor about one of the ice cream parlors on the Washington Street promenade (Cape May’s answer to a boardwalk). She had heard that the ice cream parlor, which was staffed with young eastern European girls every year, was a front for a brothel. She had heard that all of the girls who worked there—all of them between the ages of 18 and 21—were prostitutes. We all giggled and ruminated out loud on what that would be like, how disgusting it was that they were serving ice cream, a whole bunch of nonsense like that.

Way, way back, in my secret imagination, well, a light bulb clicked on.

The next summer, I was 18. I had very recently, weeks after my 18th birthday in March, lost my virginity to a guy who I guess you could say had been my boyfriend. He was a delivery driver for the local pizza place, and we ordered out too much—he and I just started talking, and texting, and it was nice. It was cute. I’m glad I had that, and I’m glad I lost my virginity that way.

We spent a few weeks doing the typical teenage makeout stuff, slowly making our way to what would be typical teenage sex. It wasn’t a terrible first time. He wasn’t a virgin, but I gradually realized after that first time that he wasn’t going to be comfortable with all of the things my stunted mind had fixated on doing, and our thing together didn’t last long after that.

This is a comment I’m adding during my last once-over of this piece. Going back through everything that happened, and due to some outside influences in my current life, I need to kind of comment more on how that relationship, and so many of my relationships, have fallen apart. I’ve started to realize only recently that I have some kind of, I don’t know, problem when it comes to emotional connections. I just don’t exactly look for or need them. Is that a problem? Am I wired that way? Does it have to do with my mom? I’ll have to tell you a few years down the road. Back to the story.

I guess I should describe my own body before diving into anything further. I haven’t changed much at all since then. I’m 5’4, and back then I weighed about 100 lbs. I tan lightly, I have blue eyes, and I have dark brown lower-back length hair with a touch of curls. I can say it without feeling braggy—I’m very pretty, and young-looking. At 23, I still look like I’m a senior in high school, which has its advantages as well as its disadvantages, I can tell you.

I am a strict runner. I have run about five miles a day, three to five days a week, since 10th grade, and when I can fit it in I swim. I’ve recently been going to LA Fitness to gain some actual strength, but I didn’t back then. My fitness has always shown. I’m lean and hot, my legs are long and strong, and I have back dimples. My tits are a good size, not huge or anything, and I’ve never had much body hair. I’ve kept my pussy pretty trim since I can remember having my little brown bush. My greatest asset (1,000 cliche points) is my butt. I have a great, bubbly—may I say jaw-dropping?—runner’s ass with some extra unghhh that legit sticks out from my thin body. It looks like you might be able to set a drink on it.

Dad had taught me how to drive the prior fall with only a few scary moments, and I got my driver’s license in April. I drove us both to Cape May in his newer Sebring convertible with the top down. He stayed with us for a few days before heading back north. Uncle Mike let me drive his old Ford Taurus around that summer, but it overheated all the time.

I started going to that ice cream parlor after Dad left. May’s Cones and Cups. I would try to go when it was really busy, on Friday and Saturday nights. Waiting in line, I would stare at all of the beautiful girls behind the counter—every single one of them looked like a mini-supermodel. I would stare at them and lose myself in a fantasy that felt both sinister and unbelievably hot. That’s probably when I should have started seeing a therapist, but you never start seeing a therapist at the exact time you need to. That’s what I’ve learned.

It was all just a fantasy for me that year, until one day a few weeks before college started. Once in a while, I would see the owners of the shop working behind the counter, too—a white couple in their 40s or early 50s. Their faces were on a big goofy painting on one of the walls, showing that they had been owners since 2007.

That day, I came in when the shop was particularly dead—I guess the misting rain had kept a lot of people home—and the woman did a double take and noticed me. She said she had seen me in the shop pretty often, which was weird because I didn’t remember seeing her that many times. We struck up a casual conversation, and then I left.

We talked a few more times in the next few weeks—I started going almost every day. I was building up the courage to ask her something. The Saturday before I would escort keçiören leave to go back north for the winter, I finally did.

We were just shooting the breeze, and I asked her if—next summer—I could get a job there. I still had no idea if the rumor was true, but the fantasy was so overwhelming, and I was masturbating to it so constantly, that I had to get closer. I was very 18 and stumbling over myself when I asked. She took some time to think, then said that if I came back and talked to her at the beginning of the next summer, she would talk to her husband about it. Great, I said, and spent the next nine months at Hofstra University waiting in mild agony.

Summer finally came, and I went back down to Cape May. I was 19 years old, I had dated another freshman for a few months, and we had broken up before I left. I liked him, and we had alright sex, but he was emotional, and the idea of the ice cream shop and its unlimited sexual potential drove me away from him.

I wanted to be free. I wanted to be on my own. I wanted to have no one to answer to and no one to tell me what to do.

I wanted to get unapologetically, ruthlessly fucked.

I drove myself down to my Aunt and Uncle’s that May in the ’98 Accord I had bought that winter. I drove down one hour after my last final. The next couple of mornings I went to May’s to look for the owners, and on the fourth morning the husband was there. I sheepishly asked him if they were hiring, and he promptly said no, sorry, they were fully staffed for the summer. It felt ridiculous, but my heart broke.

Despair became anger, anger became daring, and two days later I went to the shop before they opened and waited on a bench outside. Braless, I wore a loose dark blue tank top showing side boob and cut so that if I stood in the right position I could bare my spectacular stomach—I had started doing a few core exercises that winter. I wore a pair of tight, light-blue jeans that my ass looked really great in, and just some Vans slip-ons. I was going for a particularly challenging mix of vibes—confidently slutty, professional-ish, college freshman, and… possibly just looking for a literal ice cream job. About three frustrating hours after I sat down, the wife came bustling down the promenade and I stood up to intercept her.

“Ma’am? Hi, do you remember me?” I said, flipping my hair back behind me.

“Good morning!” she said, smiling and kind. “Where should I remember—”

Her face changed and she looked me up and down, fascinated.

“You wanted a job at the end of last summer! Carly, right?”

“Colleen,” I said, laughing and smiling. “And you’re Danielle.”

“I am. You remembered.”

“Yeah, well so… you said if I came back this summer, you’d see.”

She looked at me with curiosity and shook her head a little.

“Why do you… why do you want to work here so much? I can tell you, you’ll get sick of ice cream.”

Something took over. I took a deep breath, pushed my knee out, put my hands on my hips and bit my lip. I transformed, and pulled off a look that possibly had more to do with me getting the job than what I said. It was a subtle, devious look, a little sexy but strong and kind of cocky. I don’t know how I did it. I truly fucking don’t.

“‘Cause I wanna,” I said.

She took a good long look at me, I remember that, and then invited me into the shop—I still didn’t know if I was going to get the job.

We went into a little office shut away from the busy prep going on in the shop. We had a conversation. What had I heard about the shop? Had I heard that it paid a lot of money for an ice cream shop? Did I know that most of the girls were from Ukraine? I didn’t talk much, I just kept saying that I had heard it was a lot of fun to work there, and that I really, really, really wanted to work there.

“Honey, I’m gonna need you to tell me what you really heard about this place,” she said, looking a little anxious.

I took a deep, deep breath, then said my thing. It came out in fits and spurts.

“I… heard that the girls who… work here… don’t just sell ice cream… and I really, really want to be a girl… who works here. I wanna do what they… do. I wanna…”

I looked at her and shifty-shifted my head to sort of fill in the next blank without actually using the words. She blinked, then filled in the blank out loud.

“You want to use your body to make money.”

“God yes,” I said, both relieved and exasperated. Had she really just said that? Was she really talking about prostitution? Couldn’t that technically describe working at a fucking ice cream shop?

We sat there staring at each other for what felt like an hour, but was probably more like 15 seconds.

“You can’t start right away,” she said.

Oh my god, it was happening. Holy fuck! Still, though, was it for a stupid ice cream job? Please, please just say it.

“We have to do an extensive background check on you, we have to have you get a complete physical and a few other tests, and… may I please see your driver’s license.”

I got it out, showed it to her, and she raised her eyebrows. She nodded, I put it away, and she took my hands in hers.

“Now tell me everything that you heard, honey. Everything.”

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