I grew up in a gritty former mill town in the northeast, and my first memories of women were the tough, sexy broads that worked with my mom at the church.

Yes, the church. Those nice Christian ladies who’d do stuff like cook for the priests, type the church bulletin, and occasionally go shopping for the nuns. You’d think they’d all be dowdy and mean-looking, but they were hot.

My favorite “old lady” — she must have been all of 28 at the time — was Rhonda. Rhonda was sexy but proper. She didn’t wear miniskirts like the teen girls did. Instead, she wore these form-hugging dresses to church. I had the most impossible crush on her daughter, Amy, who was three years older than me and really starting to look like her mom, who was a knockout.

When our families would go on beach vacations together, cramming into these skanky rental houses, the kids would go off and play. We had no idea what the adults were doing. It wasn’t until years later that we found out that our parents — including those proper, decent, sexy-as-fuck church ladies — were all swingers.

After I graduated high school, I went as far west as I could without falling in the ocean. I’d see my parents at Christmas, along with their friends and their friends” daughters, who all stayed back east and turned our mill town into a MILF town, but I still never suspected a thing.

That changed this past January. My father was taking down the Christmas tree, when he apparently had a heart attack. Even though Mom had passed a few years earlier, my father kept up all the traditions for the adoring handful of grandkids my dutiful sisters had made for him. I got the bad news via a call from Charlie, Rhonda’s husband. That’s how close that group was.

I flew back for the funeral which, if you know Irish funerals, was as much about drunken laughter and food and merriment as it was about tears. At one point, I invited my father’s friends back to his place for yet another toast in his honor. Rhonda gave me a big hug, and we clinked our whiskey glasses.

“May I talk with you a minute, Frank?” she asked, clutching my bicep. She guided me into my dad’s study, where he kept a beat-up but undeniably masculine leather couch. She sat down on it next to me, her body still banging at — what, 62?

“Sure, Mrs. — ” I said.

“You’d better call me Rhonda,” she interrupted, “because I’m about to blow your fucking mind.”

“Okay, Rhonda.”

“First off,” she said, “you look just like your dad.”

“Thank you.”

“He was a handsome man,” she said.

I was becoming a little uncomfortable. Can these old suit pants handle an erection?

“Thank you,” I responded somewhat nervously.

“And he had a huge cock,” she said, looking me right in the eye.

“Whoa!”

“You heard me,” she said. “Now don’t spill your drink, Frank. Your dad fucked just about every woman in this house, and he fucked them well.”

It was difficult to focus at this point for several reasons. One, I was a little drunk. Two, we’d all been crying and eating and laughing for two days, and crying some more. Three, Rhonda — my first not-so-innocent unrequited crush — had her hand in my lap and was stroking my growing dick through my pants as casually as if she were scraping food off a plate before she loaded the dishwasher. Finally, four, I happened to look up in time to lock eyes with Amy standing in the doorway. Did she see her mother giving me a handjob through my pants? I don’t know, but she came over and sat down. Amy looked exactly like her mom had, except for the tattoos that peeked out from under her tight mourning dress.

“Your dad…” Amy said.

“No way!” I said.

“Yup,” she said. “He was my 18th birthday present. Took me out to dinner, brought me back here and fucked me right on this couch. I’ve come a lot on this couch, Frank.”

“We both did,” said Rhonda, and mother and daughter slapped five over my head like a couple of frat brothers.

“But what about Charlie?” I said, incredulous. How far did this web stretch?

“I’d say he was your mom’s favorite,” Rhonda said. “He knows we’re telling you this.”

“How many — ” I began, suddenly remembering the beach house, the always present Friday-night babysitters…

“All of us friends,” Rhonda said. “Every week and summer vacation for years.”

“And eventually me,” Amy said, “and our friends: Heather, Colleen, Erin, Kathleen, Maureen, and Eileen… your dad was our first. He broke us in the best fucking way possible.”

Amy stood up and playfully brushed my face with her hip. She walked across the room to a flat-screen TV and plugged in a flash drive to the USB port.

On the screen, in their full late-70s/early-80s glory, were my parents and all their adult friends in the front room of the beach house I knew so well. Anita, the lady who lived up the street from us (and whom I’d just mixed a margarita for not a half hour ago), was naked and spread-eagled on the Ping-Pong table, deep-throating the big cock of her husband while my father — undoubtedly influenced by a very popular movie of the time — smeared a glob of butter on her asshole and pushed his huge cock through it. Anita was shrieking with delight.

But I was looking for Rhonda, and the camera eventually swiveled over to her. She was on a beanbag with her legs in the air, getting fucked from above and below by her husband and — Oh shit, is that my old gym teacher?

“Fuck my ass, Charlie,” Rhonda was gasping, her voice about an octave lower. “And get that cock in there, Leon. Don’t be shy, you fucker.”

I was stunned. Everyone in that video had chipped in for my first car when I was 18.

The video played on and quickly lost its power to shock. I watched Colleen and Erin’s dads take turns blowing loads all over my mother’s face and neck as she gave them energetic handjobs while squatting on the pistoning cock of Kathleen’s dad, Pat. I couldn’t look away, but I was kind of numb.

“I felt Rhonda’s hand cupping my balls from behind — they were aching.”

Amy flicked off the TV.

“Let me dry your tears, Frank,” she said.

She took my hand and stood me up. My dick was rock hard in my suit pants, like that of a blue-balled bachelor at a strip club.

“Let me take care of that,” she said.

Rhonda picked up her phone and sent a quick text. I was now officially over my mourning. The only surprise I had left was who was going to respond to Rhonda’s summons and walk through the door of the study.

Amy helped me out of my pants and shoes, but I was done being shocked. I ripped open Amy’s button-down dress, scattering her cheap pearls all over the floor. I grabbed her hair and kissed her. I felt Rhonda’s hand cupping my balls from behind, and I could feel them aching. It would have been very easy to blow that first hot load of the day right then, but I held back. I wanted to see who the other players were going to be.

“A bigger cock than his dad,” Rhonda marveled.

“But can he use it?” Amy said, challenging me like the vixen she is.

I roughly pulled down Amy’s dress the rest of the way, put her face in the couch, and spread her legs. I gave her big, taut ass a couple of good slaps to let her know I meant business, noting that her glistening pussy was ready for me. But she was going to have to wait. I continued giving her little slaps, making sure my fingers connected with her swollen labia, but with my left hand I grabbed Rhonda’s pussy.

“You’re a little rough, Frank,” said Rhonda, shaking off her dress to reveal a still-fierce brick shithouse frame.

Through the door walked Charlie and Anita. Anita had the same expression on her face from her time on the Ping-Pong table. She walked over to me and squeezed my cock like she was shaking my hand.

“Better than I thought,” was all she said, and proceeded to throw her dress — and herself — at Charlie.

Then in walked my friends Heather, Kathleen, Erin, and Maureen.

“It’s about fucking time,” said Colleen as she entered, spitting her gum in the ashtray.

I turned my attention to Amy’s waiting cunt. She’d rolled over onto her back, and I plunged in. I pounded her relentlessly, my balls smacking her ass and my fingers working her clit, slowing down only when I felt like coming was inevitable. I watched the other girls have at each other, a mass of hair and long, pale legs. I saw Charlie pull Maureen’s hair and come on Anita’s face, then sit down heavily with his beer and cigarette.

“Having a good time, Frank?” he said.

Colleen and Erin were on, in, on top of each other. It was like a late-night nature documentary. Finally, Erin thrust her middle and ring fingers into Maureen and jackhammered that meaty pussy until a wailing Maureen squirted all over Rhonda’s ass. I had to get in there.

I abruptly pulled out of Amy and slid into a supine Maureen like a waterslide, her pussy sloppy and roomy.

“Make me come with your cock, fucker,” she said, sounding like the movie.

I angled up, trying to find her G-spot. I slipped a finger into her asshole and made her arch her back. There it was. I hammered and hammered, remembering the porn star credo that sometimes if you don’t want to come, you gotta fuck harder.

I felt Maureen miraculously tighten up around me and erupt in a second wave of orgasmic shudders, then I piled Erin atop Kathleen — Erin’s pussy dripping onto that of her best friend — and took turns dipping into both of their succulent pussies.

Finally, I couldn’t stand it. I tapped into Amy and Maureen’s finger-bang session and resumed my noble work, bending Amy over the couch on which my father had taken her virginity. I fucked her until I saw stars, feeling her pussy contract around me wildly. At once, I saw Rhonda’s face appear nearby, and I pulled out and let loose the load of my life on the stars of my earliest sexual fantasies.

“I’ve wanted to do that for years,” I said.

The group of us — sweaty, exhausted, and sated — toasted my dad in his study. The room was redolent of pussy and come. I didn’t realize until then how fitting a send-off it was.

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