Shawntel's sexual heat makes my blood boil; her perfect body drives me mad with lust. Especially when she is randy and in need of a good, hearty fuck, and let me tell you one and all, she needs lots of good, hearty fucks.
Saying her name, breaking it apart into several sharply defined syllables reminds me of ripe, tasty and forbidden fruit, the kind of tasty, sweet nugget you bite, sends you straight to hell. Hell yes, you still bite down, suck its tart flesh, toy with it playfully, delight in its flavor, fill your mouth with it succulent nectar, let it drip from between your lips and hell you even want to rip into the rind, gulp down the seeds, gnaw the pits into mush, slurp on the stem. Consume it all. Full up with sensation, bursting with bloated completion, caught up the mechanics of its digestion. Damn that cursed, vile snake.
Thinking of fucking her, my cock hardens; heaviness settles in my loins, heat suffuses my skin, my eyes cloud over. We fuck like two young, breathtakingly beautiful animals. I, the buccaneer dallying with a luscious wench, feel like such a rogue immersed in Shawntel's lithe body. The wickedness of our compact makes my body tingle. Shawntel's cock hungry excess spurs me on. Enemies may be at the gate, bombs bursting overhead, and do Shawntel and I care. No, not at all let me tell you.
At a recent cocktail party, a full hipped, big breasted woman in shiny nylons named Gwen stood near me. Sporting a closely cropped, easily maintained shag of shiny black hair, she was a delectable creature with rouged high cheek bones, delicate mouth and a svelte long neck, a paralegal in a near to nothing low cut black sheath showing off her assets so spectacularly she took my breath away. Gwen motioned toward Shawntel, mentioned how thrilled she was being this near to Shawntel's alluring body, wanting her pug nose down in her crack. Can we arrange that you think?
"Honey doll, we are a matched set." I said showing my most becoming smile.
"More the better. You two are so wicked, I like that." Gwen said.
Shawntel was standing next to Gwen arching her eyebrows, cocking her head and from the way she licked her lips I knew what she wished, felt her energy. She was eager and her body wanted attention. She was decked out in a pale blue silk concoction that left little to the imagination. Gwen glanced down; saw my inflated cock jockeying about in my pants, the three of us, each one of us armed with a drink stood in the middle of a room filled with palaver, raucous laughter and back slapping smacks. My eyes signaled an invitation for our happy trio to slip away for a more private encounter. Five minutes later we clustered in one of the many immense and opulent guest bathrooms on the mansion's second floor. Gwen resting on a cool marble countertop, her dress squeezed into a narrow band around her small waist; her feet clad in open toed black pumps, expensive, fashionable ones pressed into my back as I rammed her to the sound of White Snake chewing up the walls with its raucous, pitilessly grinding sound.
Gwen's husband, was maybe thirty-five feet away, sucking up to another gorgeous woman no doubt and that made our congress that much more wicked and delicious even if he was not bothered to be left out in the cold. As I fucked Gwen, her ass hanging out over the pink oval basin, her backside was bumping into the polished bronze faucets. Shawntel was behind me pitched on her knees, her head angled up between my wide spread legs, her mouth sucking my balls while her tongue probed around the exterior rim of Gwen's slash.
Before leaving the bathroom smelling of Yardley lavender soap and squeaky clean guest towels and rose petals in a tiny silver filigree tray on the top of the toilet, Gwen and Shawntel never meeting a male cock they did not like sucking sucked me. My member partitioned between their greedy mouths like it was a disputed country up for grabs, Shawntel licking its eastern realm while Gwen lapped away at its western approach. And in a finale Gwen went down on Shawntel as I watched. My ass back bumped around the commode's porcelain throne. I plucked a few rose petals from the silver tray behind me and rubbed the cool silky leaves against my cock and felt them quickly disintegrate under my furious friction.
After our fuckfest, giddy from drinking bubbly champagne cocktails, way too much pate, Shawntel and I went home, left Gwen and hubby to their own devices, fell into our sumptuous sleigh bed and fucked all night and into the next day.
What makes this so remarkable?
Shawntel and I are twins. Since our eighteenth birthday, we have shared the same bed, slept together contentedly and copulated as thought there was no tomorrow.
Some nights after she climbs into bed, I reach between her creamy smooth thighs, know Dad had fucked her, fucked her beyond any measure of restraint.
In the Hulcer clan incest is no taboo, not considered a vice by any means. The women in our tribe and this includes grandmother, mother and my twin sister, all are blessed with beauty, lithe bodies, a roundness of form and then packed with insatiable needs. The men in our brood are dark; most of us with crisp black hair, our faces smudged with five o'clock shadow, remarkably high foreheads, sharply defined jaws, cock meat not more then average in length and girth but to our women folk these tools still fit the bill. All of us hungry, besotted with our females, endowed with a surfeit of need and want, we partook of each other on the wine cellar's dark racks, in the shallow end of the swimming pool, under the yellow and white striped cabana, in the breakfast nook with a margarine sun sweeping through the leaded windows. How often I have drizzled sugar on Shawntel's snatch sitting at the simple pine table near those leaded windows.
So far our family has not produced any addle brained miscreants. And as you like it, we pride ourselves on taking our pleasure as we see fit to take it.
Shawntel, my slut, my whore she remains to this day. I dab cigars into her twat ala Mr. President and big dildos are thrust in there too. Did he did do that too, I wondered. With Shawntel he most assuredly would and be all the better for it.
Shawntel loves nothing better then a spray of hot sperm across her demure, pretty face. She particularly likes the facials I give her. She adores facials from any cock thrust into her face if truth be known. If I had any gift for poetry, I'd write a sonnet on Shawntel's astonishing capability sucking cock. Few women give head as adeptly as my sexy sister.
Born just a few moments after me, Shawntel is never as beautiful as when she is sprawled in this very boudoir, looking up at me with her pink face covered in my spent semen.
What makes this all the more extraordinary is Shawntel fucking daddy since her 18th birthday and me fucking mommy from the same date. Is that a rite of passage or what?
On our eighteenth birthday pop smeared butter on Shawntel's nose, then mine, in remembrance of an ancient Druid ritual. We each opened a little white tissue wrapped box, hers festooned in pink ribbon, and mine girded by a blue ribbon. Inside resting on white cotton Shawntel found silver car keys as did I. Fast, sexy, rip snorting automobiles with high end CD players, leather cockpits and convertible tops. Hers being yellow and mine a nifty fire engine red. We then ate birthday cake and later when quiet settled over the house I was in bed stroking my cock thinking of Mom in all her voluptuous and sensuous splendor giving me some great head while I steered my car through a distant neighborhood of mansions built way back from the road behind winding drive-ways. I imagined the back of her head bumping the steering column. We'd stop somewhere and I eat her on the car hood while she clasped her thighs about my noggin and the heat from the hood seeped into the fabric of her next to nothing dress. In the dream Mom's luscious mouth was drowning my cock in her mouth, her tongue swirling about its head, her lips tickled by my pubic hair.
My imagination not content to fuck Mom on the front of my car I then fixated on her in a white mesh teddy, her bosoms thrusting from their balconet ribbing. I seemed to remember being in bed with her all that night fucking her moist cunt. "Jesus Mom, what a delicious slut you are. Dad is one lucky cock hound."
The bedroom door opened with a blast of air from the hallway, Shawntel entered in a black Brazilian lace teddy slit down the front, her bare feet curving enticingly as she approached the bed, her thighs shined as though appliquéd in moonbeams. She hoisted herself onto the gargantuan bed and I feasted my eyes on her naked snatch peeking from under its tenuously fine line of fabric bedecked with ribbon and feminine mystique.
Shawntel's pubes were unshaved and scented with jasmine.
"Ritchie, let's have a birthday fuck. It is time lover."
"I'm game. First, leave that sexy thing on and come over here and give me some sweet head. I have always imagined your mouth on my cock and now I want it for real."
"Of course I will." She walked around the bed, bent forward a bit.
"Honey, do you like the way these high heels make my legs look. Aren't they just dazzling? It took me nearly an hour to find the perfect pair."
Sis had chosen wisely. They were made of Lucite, had five inch heels and corded her legs and thrust out her ass, made her look like a wet dream made real.
"Ritchie we are going to be so wicked and do everything that a man and woman can do sexually. I want to suck your cock, you'll eat my pussy, fuck me in my ass and one day I want to be gang banged. I crave to have sperm covering my face, dripping off my tits, running out of my cunt. Would you like to see that lover? I itch to be naughty."
"What does this tell you?" I pointed at my cock. Hard, I feared its end might burst long before Sis clamped her lips around it.
"Leave the heels on you delicious slut and get over here and suck me off. I want to give you a facial baby sister."
"Baby sister. You know you are not more then two minutes older then me."
"Well, big brother wants to be sucked off and then I am going to fuck the shit out of you."
"I have no problem with that at all."
Shawntel opened my legs and commenced sucking me off. It felt so deliciously wicked being this way with Shawntel.
Shawntel's mouth slid over my cock until her lips were brushing deeply into my pubic hair. Talk about deep throat. She had it down cold.
Sucking ardently her cheeks puckered, she'd stop, lift me up and stop licking my shaft for a moment and then quickly return to blowing me. She was in a feeding frenzy now. Had Mom schooled her in the arts of lovemaking? I think so.
That was the last night I slept alone. Naturally, the bed ended up looking like a World War I battlefield. The springs kept creaking under our battering ram of bodies and I moaned deep down in my throat as Shawntel's mouth was noisy sucking me.
She stopped for once more; I sprang from the range of her hot mouth.
"Well, big brother are you going to fuck the shit out of me after I get you off with my mouth?"
"Of course I am."
She engaged me again.
"Just before you are ready to come, let me know. I want your sperm to squirt my face. I know you want to see your spooge dripping down my cheeks."
"Slow down a bit, I want this to last. It feels so good. I can tell you have sucked a few cocks Sis."
"A few. Dad knows his stuff."
She returned her attentions to my member. Speeded up for a time and then got a slow rhythm going. Shawntel the master fellatrix. I had read of a woman in Paris during the 1920s namedLa Bouche, the Mouth. She charged a king's ransom for 15 minutes of head. I imagined Shawntel could give La Bouche a run for her money.
"Suck me baby, suckka my cock," the words eked from my mouth.
Her mouth could be the secret weapon to end all secret weapons, an impetus to get anything you wanted from a man addicted to having his cock blown.
While she delighted me with the wonders of her mouth, I reached down stroked the firm columns of her thighs, touched her tits and my fingers found their way into her moist twat.
Shawntel's pussy was flooded with liquid gold; awash in nectar and I swiftly pushed my cock deeper into her mouth.
Then she did the most delightful thing. She gave the head of my cock a series of little nicks with her pearly white teeth and I yelled "damn, damn, damn."
"You like." She somehow managed to articulate with her mouth full of me.
"I am going to come."
Shawntel's lips popped off my cock and a microsecond later my sperm shot into her lustrous hair while and more of my semen dribbled down her face.
"God, I wish I had a camera right now to see my shiny sperm dripping off your face Sis."
"Now, you will fuck me lover boy."
Now we fuck at every opportunity. She is without inhibition, is willing to try anything.
Other then the privacy of this bedroom and numerous locations about the house and the occasional outdoor trysting spot our favorite place is Rocking Horse Farms, Grandpa Dooley's horse place in the valley where he raises Appaloosas. Grandpa resembles Randolph Scott when he slips his legs up over a saddle and canters Big Blue about the ranch. What a machismo sight the man is. Riding chaps, bow-legged, a big sweaty Stetson cocked on his head, horse flesh under him he is one of the lusty weather-beaten men who ranged all over the West in its heyday.
Last Friday Shawntel, dressed in a thin, tight red dress that showed her tits. On her diminutive feet she wore red pumps with four inch spike heels. Me, I wore chinos and a soft blue shirt, a gold belt buckle and stylish aviator sunglasses. We attended a soiree at Rocking Horse Farms hosted by Grand Dad, Muriel his mistress and Millie, our sweet natured Grand Ma. Mom and Dad naturally and multiple cousins, aunts and uncles aplenty were also attending. Most of us flew into the private airstrip on the northeast edge of the ranch.
Just before we departed our bedroom I pushed Shawntel's dress up around her hips and fucked her to take the edge off, to get her ready for the flight. I took my time and balanced her deftly on my prick; let her get my pearly glow on her pubes so she'd squish on the airplane for our flight to Wyoming.
On the plane heading to the ranch Shawntel had blown Dad while he piloted the plane east. He kept his eyes on the instrument gauges, flew straight and level and all the time his daughter bumped the back of her head against the steering yoke.
"Shawntel, keep your beanie off the throttle for God's sake", I said.
To Dad the only thing better was sitting in his immense bathtub, reading the Wall Street Journal while Shawntel sucked him off. In the back seat Mom sucked me off. She is extraordinarily competent in getting me off.
Up early on Saturday and after eating a fruit and yogurt breakfast and big bowls of bran cereal on the terrace, Shawntel and I headed over to the hay barn where she got her ashes hauled in a fully tricked out gypsy wagon straight out of a Rumanian forest. Sitting on bright yellow wheels and painted a headache inducing garish red, the sides of the wagon advertised what gypsies do when not shaking tambourines. Inside on the right side was a bed where Shawntel was fucked by eight men in the morning and nine in the afternoon after a light lunch of smoked salmon and cheese.
Grand Dad watched it closely like sage brush auteur and took his pleasures in his inimitable way while each man took his turn fucking Shawntel. He always videotapes these productions. He is quite the cinematographer too in his use of light, shadow, color, finding the drama of the moment. We may be laying pipe to Shawntel but it never seems coarse or rough hewn. He gets lots of close ups of Shawntel giving head, big cocks plowing into her. He too is an aficionado of facials. She starts with number one and does not stop until each man has shot his sperm into a sector of her face. The glistening come shines under the lights.
After she drank a jug of sparkling water and used the bathroom, Shawntel returned to the wagon and reclined once more on the mussed bed. Our little group broke into teams. Each man team fucks her, one in her mouth, one fucking her pussy and one jamming himself in her ass.
Each man is not done until he creams Shawntel's face with come. Each man stays on top of her until his sperm fills her pussy.
Grand Dad sits in a black wing back chair looking too big for this space. He sips brandy from a snifter and Muriel deftly sucked Grand Dad's cock and took huge rubber dildos up her twat. She is all big tits, a slash of red mouth, flaming red hair, a former model, then a stripper, several high quality porn flicks to her credit, she is always available to me if I am so inclined and I am often so inclined. She is in the family don't you know and I love doing it with her. She is a woman to be reckoned with.
Shawntel once spent a three day weekend in this gypsy wagon being fucked by a troop of men.
Shawntel, sweet Sis, loves these epic gang bangs. Such a giving woman getting her wanton needs met by man after man fucking her and she has yet to say "No more."
On this particular weekend she satisfied herself with 17 hard cocks. Such a mess she was and so tasty too.
Naked, eager to play, cocks squirming into all her orifices, these baying hounds humping and hollering, a chaotic jumble of cunt licking, cock sucking and all players at one time or another digging into her ass.
Shawntel often told me the delight of these gang bangs was the hodgepodge of textures, the tactile sensations of such a variety of cock flesh plowing into her from all angles, all the different smells of aftershave, lotions and postures turned her on. Some men were so aggressive, others more passive, one man seeming to always be in her mouth, another content to fuck her ass.
Sweet, tart, bitter, the semen seemed never to stop flowing. She swallowed it all.
On her knees and elbows, mouth wide open, we doggedly doggy fucked her, she'd Sixty-nine.
On this particular occasion after having a turn in her orifices, I squatted on the floor and watched Shawntel. Nearby Grand Dad was being sucked by Muriel. Shawntel's head spilled over the side of the bed and Grand Dad took the opportunity to push Muriel from his mouth long enough to shift his member into his grand daughter's mouth.
Most of the time I could not help but remain between Shawntel's slim legs fucking her, saying the words common to fuckdom the world over. At the same time I knew Mom was in the bunk house at this very moment getting fucked by a cadre of ranch hands. Where might Dad be? Probably doing one of the upstairs maids in a linen closet or on the sumptuous bedstead he shared with Mom.
Shawntel responded by saying, "God damn it, Ritchie, I dearly love to fuck you. Give it to me honey." Then I flooded her with some more come.
Now, six months later in the midst of what is a blistering heat wave for this part of the country, Shawntel and I had returned to the ranch for the annual family reunion.
Kevin Dooley our Grand Dad loved his status as lord of the manor. In honor of our arrival at his sprawling ranch in the shadows of the Grand Tetons, he had some ranch hands hitch two gray horses to the buckboard refurbished by the Louper Brothers years ago. Painted bright green, its wheel spokes blood red, the buggy always caused a stir when seen in town or wheeling about the vast ranch.
This year Shawntel and I had taken the train from Seattle, arrived in the tiny village of Lawndale, a pocket of humanity where the air smelled of spruce and was generally chilly in the shadow of the mountain, a one horse town if there ever was one. When we arrived Kevin was our driver. He was wearing forest green jodhpurs, straight black boots and a green denim shirt. His gray hair was brushed back and he looked as hard as flint. Green eyes turned toward us, face cracked with crevices, a hawk's nose what an impressive sight he was perched on the single seat, his left leg resting on the buggy's brake, the reins laced through his paws. He smiled and motioned for us to climb on the bench next to him.I helped Shawntel climb aboard. I saw her perfect legs from one angle, Kevin saw them from another. We also saw she had no panties under her skirt. On the train she sat next to me with her jacket draped across her lap, we watched the Pacific Northwest slipping by our window, I had finger fucked her, pretended to be reading a Dean Koontz paperback. I imagined Grand Pa might insert several of his fingers in her twat while we made our way to the ranch. That was his inclination.
We stopped in the valley where the pines grew close, little sunlight penetrated and we doubled teamed her. Kevin ate her while she sucked my cock. All the while the several dumb animals hobbled and hitched to the buggy watched us from a distance.
Off the road with Shawntel pushed against the trunk of a tree, she'd spread her legs wide, Kevin down on his knees licking her between her legs while I stood over her and nudged my cock into her mouth while the back of her slapped against the tree's hard bark. Grand Dad had worn the green jodhpurs so as not to show the grass stains. He was one to think ahead.
In the distance the jagged purple glazed summits of the Tetons were brushed in streaks of packed snow and cloaked in stands of cottonwood. Overhead through the bonnet of trees, I leaned back as Shawntel sucked me and saw the flash of a bald eagle's white head in the vault of a dense blue sky. It swept and soared in a majestic arc back and forth, seemed to be focusing its sharp eyes on our little tableau.
The craggy rock, the soaring big ass bird, and the towering sentinels of trees made it so ecologically pristine and in a word: wonderful.
We mounted the buggy. I lifted Sis up on to the bench and then took my place next to her. We continued to follow the two-lane blacktop road south, crossed several ridges covered with wild flowers and yellow mustard seed and then wound our way down into a valley of neat square parcels of rich black earth skirted by white picket fences planted with strawberries and perfectly aligned conifers marking our way.
Horses grazed everywhere as did one or two legation of cows. In hunting season this ground was home for free ranging elk, bison and the occasional moose. No doubt sometime this coming week Grand Pa Dooley would fix his delicious elk stew.
The buggy's red spokes groaned a bit settling on the finely graveled lane as we meandered around the knuckle of a finger lake and came close to a moss covered dock where a beef jerky eating man in a sturdy lime green poncho, his boy in black wadding boots, the most luscious red curls flowing over his solidly built forehead were fishing for mountain-sized catfish.
We rounded another bend on the circuitous road and there in all its glory were Rocking Horse Farms.
Nine hundred twelve acres of pasture, several ponds, two riding stables, and a water tower made of corrugated tin with the Rocking Horse Farms logo printed high on its outboard side. Next to the water tower was a bunk house crammed with filthy brown men wearing broadcloth britches and Stetsons. Drunkards many of them may be take their pleasures as they find them. These heroes and half-wits, earnest Steinbeckian men tended to sit around on crates singing cowboy ballads slightly off key and keeping the coffee going full tilt on their pathetic old cook stove while serving up roasting ears seasoned in smoke and five alarm chili beans. All the while they were spitting gobs of chaw into copper lined cuspidors.
What a life these bleached out old sod busting men must have had with no indoor plumbing, no pots and pans, no Indian blankets, way too much Tabasco sauce, too many refried beans. Yes, I relished this place's romantic ambiance, the glory of a forgotten age, their Bronco Bill mentality blazing with such incandescence so near to Buffalo Bill's Wild West show.
The house, pitched in adobe and slate, has a yellowing Copper tinted roof, big porches shaded by several immense elm trees and an assortment of flowering bushes planted about the house's perimeter.
The entire house was abuzz with family fucking too.
Uncle Mort was going down on his niece Cecelia. Frank was looking at a lavender cock ring on Jason's dong. Aunt Sharon, a long time porno actress who grew up here was sucking off Deke. Grand Mother was in the kitchen rolling across the center island counter top, her pink panties twisted about her waist, while Bill her favorite grandson ate her out.
Over the house's high pitched roof, the occasional white cloud scudded by as did a ceaseless parade of honking geese.
Shawntel and I decided on a short nap in our shared bedroom after our trip, then we sat on the veranda ate fresh pineapple, mango and sliced apples, granola, plain yogurt and downed several tumblers of cinnamon splashed apple juice.
Then Shawntel and I were off to play. I was wearing Levis, a coarse russet colored cowboy shirt and naturally a ten gallon hat. Shawntel had changed into a polka dot dress with the spaghetti straps.
Near the center of the property was a horse barn. Horse racing memorabilia, horse collars and polished saddles hung on the walls while a boom box played in the background. Shawntel sprawled in the center of the gravity drained floor, her body keeping beat with the music and she sucked Grandpa Dooley's cock amidst piles of yellow hay, a sprinkling of dandelion fluff and rat turds.
Me John, Dad's wizened older brother down to the shimmering black eye patch, the leering smirk, the short prison term no one talked about was successful in pronging Shawntel while my lantern-sized cock busily did her mouth with some gusto.
I yelled at her to "Rock On." I wished to stand on my hind legs and roar my approval. Damn, I loved fucking this ferociously endowed young woman, I adored having my brothers, cousins, nieces, nephews, uncles, aunts; grandparents fuck her until she could not stand or do much of anything else except maybe duck walk out of this joint dripping a steady stream of sperm along the way.
"Fuck me, you whore," I commanded and she complied.
Near the solid Dutch door leading into the tack room with all its assembled paraphernalia for riding and such, Uncle Jack was jerking off. Jack looks like he has a hunk of cedar betwixt his thighs. He managed to spill his semen into the grove of Shawntel's rollicking ass by leaping forward a bit and then watching his spooge drip down its silken incline to its lowest point where Aunt Millicent then dived into the sodden mess, letting her tongue channel its way into Shawntel in a d spirited manner. Fuck me whore baby Aunt Molly roars into the left ear of Uncle Me John.
At least three more cock hounds could be found trysting in the barn ready to feast on Shawntel this afternoon. Mark, a first cousin was over there sucking on a moist yellow lemon, shaking like a leaf but raring to go. Duncan, his brother was reclining near Mark's knobby knee and sweet adorable Ginger was along for the ride. All of them ready to play some heated games of Wurstverstecken (hide-the wiener).
If such a thing is possible this side of Never Never Land, Shawntel was temporarily sated by the gang bang held at the ranch. God knows she got her fill of facials squeezed out of so many male members in the confines of that flashy gypsy wagon, regardless of the implications of the Mann Act, that it was a nasty federal rap to be sure.
After our relaxing sojourn in the wicked wilds of Wyoming, the four of us returned to our comfortable house looking out on Puget Sound from a raised spit of sandy soil. Past the front lawn, down a series of iron railed steps to the beach, a conveniently situated slip secured our blue and white boat to several tacky sawed in half rubber tire bumpers plastered with algae and plump masses of seaweed. This splendid pleasure craft helmed from a cockpit with a great circular chrome wheel in the stern much like a racing shell was ready for tacking into the wind at a moment's notice. The word FREEDOM in raised brass letters was just below the chrome taffrail and situated along the transom where it often found itself awash in sea spray. The bow angled so for slicing through the water was elegance in motion. A pipsqueak saluting cannon stood ready to repel all boarding parties, tell us when the evening sun was high enough over the yardarm to commence happy hour. This was some of dad's playful whimsy.
In the back yard were planted blazing rhododendron, an intricate maze of shrubbery, the cool cloister of conifers as well as a swimming pool and a tennis court littered all too often with pine cones. It was pitch dark; a milky white full moon shined in the night sky, a necklace of diamond lights twinkled on the distant shore. Far off to the right as the crow flies Emerald City's soaring spiked sentinels of steel and straight shots of glass stood close to several stadiums as did a long procession of scruffy ferry terminals and one of the oldest office buildings in town, a three-sided edifice of limestone with an Irish pub on the first floor terrace. Ribbons of pavement carried traffic along the shore as did an overpass leading to interstate byways pointed south or toward Victoria and Vancouver up north. You could almost smell the fresh fish market near the harbor's mouth not to mention all that coffee the town so famously roasted.
On this pleasantly warm Sunday night, we all felt a bit run down, done in from travel, wanted nothing more then to rest and relax. I felt on top of the world and even my ghastly draining sinuses could not keep me down nor did the headache simmering in my forehead like a pent up storm. Mom and Dad pushed off to their bedroom, no doubt commanded a nightcap of tea, a bowl of melon balls and shortbread cookies.
Shawntel removed her spiked red heels inside the beveled front door, hooked them on several knuckles of her small, slender left hand. We climbed the stairs arm in arm, plodded down the hallway toward our bedroom. I was painfully erect watching her shapely legs scissor back and forth as she glided like a dream up the carpeted stairs, across the deep pile floor, swept past the turquoise Navajo urns veiled in shadows, the brass wall sconces casting their restrained glow along the way. Shawntel's sexy red sheath riding up her swaying hips gave me pause. Sniffling, my sinuses still draining, my headache slightly waning, I was captivated by her nylon covered feet, their high instep, short toes; nails painted garish red and dimly overcast under the binding of smoky nude mesh.
Looking hot, still jazzing from the draining demands and pleasant diversions of this past weekend. Her hips remained vividly liquid, her gait no less wanton, she strutted with a whore's slavish ambivalence, the stolid mask of ennui. On display, she kept it engaged all the way into our cathedral ceilinged bedroom. Proud of her stuff, knowing how good she looked she moved with a panther's lithe grace.
She elected to shower first, came ambling back into the bedroom, naked, breasts bouncing ever so slightly, skin flushed pink, perky nipples onward and upward, damp hair down on her long neck, several curls licking her moist forehead, and quickly fell into our soft, cool bed.
Still wearing my tan Orvis corduroy sports jacket with the leather patches on the sleeves, soft yellow cotton plaid shirt and hand sewn mocs guaranteed to bring out the klutz in me whenever I bumped into something with my bare ankles which I seemed to do regularly.
I had watched my sister climb into our sumptuous bed, arch her back like a cat, then turn over on her flat tummy and give herself up to the embrace of the luxurious bedding. Delicately, precisely, she smoothed her flowing tumbled down hair outside the polar blue sheets like an old man shakes out his beard, closed her eyes and sighed.
I trotted into the bathroom fitted out with sage-colored marble, polished brass faucets and soothing pastel walls. Shawntel had left sodden towels piled on the waterlogged carpet. In the fogged over mirror she had written the following: WHEN YOU FINISH COME BACK TO BED AND FUCK ME. Then in a final flourish, a Smiley Face to show her carnal readiness. All about the room uncapped bottles, opened canisters and tubes firmly squeezed in their middle, all these perfumes, unguents and emollients in such disarray signaled the imprimatur of a carefree and careless young female animal wanting to be taken. She is quite vicious that way.
Into the shower I jumped, a slave to my lust, stood still on the rubber mat under the pummeling stream of four immensely powerful hot water jets, made sure the hot water hit the scrapes and scratches soon to be yellow, purple and blue bruise on my ankles and soaped myself with blue-green shower gel, a dollop of Head and Shoulders shampoo before drying off and finishing my ablutions at the sink in a crescendo of teeth brushing and under arm deodorant rubbing.
I returned to the shadowy bedroom fondly thinking of grand dad's ranch where the hay barn was hell bent on foisting the smell of animal husbandry into my nostrils. Fertilizer and feed grain was dumped in wooden bins and damp straw seemed to be underfoot everywhere. In this hodge-podge of aromas, the scent of Shawntel's gang bang smelled different. It was muskier, reminiscent of animals in heat, a pleading fragrance in alliance with perspiration. Spent semen slopped over on her stomach, her breasts and her face. To me this aroma of sperm was hedonism at its finest. Shawntel is totally free of any constraints, relentlessly uninhibited, the perfect one to flaunt her wiles and find sustenance in the intemperate lifestyle of the swinger.
Standing at the foot of the bed, snug in my blue terrycloth robe, my cock peering from between the cloth folds, not feeling sated at all, if I brayed like a jack ass I could not be more obvious. I pulled down on the sheet covering my lovely sister; drug the material down to the foot of the bed, its demarcation her smooth, shapely rounded heels which were just as tanned and toned as the rest of her spirited young body.
I looked at her. My eyes filled with a hungry intensity. Her pretty, sexy, demure feet pointing down, no scrapes on these slim ankles and my God what incredibly divine legs this splendid woman has.
She flipped over, scissored her legs up and down, her body slack, waiting the onrushing tide to slap into her ass and pool in her twat. This is what Shawntel looks like on a beach, slick with Coppertone, stamped with damp granules of sand, covered with nothing more substantial then a string of dental tape called a yellow thong. The garment peeks through her cleaved pink cheeks and magnetizes every male eye lucky enough to be near by. Her ass projects such hardness in its aggressive leering curves and has the subtly of a poke in the eye. This is what I love to do on this very bed. I bend her forward just a bit; ply her crack open like it is a moist nut. My cock purchased in her shaved slash, she opens like a clam, her toes hardly touching the floor. Thrusting upward and forward much like a jockey she straddles my pelvis. I sometimes take more pleasure in the caressing then the penetration of her twat. Sliding down on my shaft I may chose to stroke her nipples or play with her tits. Whatever is my inclination makes me come.
She inhaled, raised up. Her hair formed a shadowy nimbus on the starched pillow case and I could see a dark shadow above her lip, a muted line of darkness ran from her navel to her triangle. Like a seam it disappeared between her wide spread legs. I wished to trace it with my fingernail.
Shawntel sighed, squirmed and guided my left index finger between her legs, held it firmly there. She loved having my cocked finger deep inside. Space owned and operated by me, Shawntel's twin brother, her senior by a mere two minutes according to whatever clock they were using in the delivery room. My manicured digit with its shiny buffed nail so soundly registered in her womb proved the point beyond any doubts.
"That is all for you baby," Shawntel said breathlessly as though I did not already grasp this point.
My cock was on fire, I wanted to give Shawntel a good pounding as a welcome home salutation. I did and did and did it some more. Shawntel responded in kind. Reluctantly, I removed my finger to ease my shaft into her. I think she swooned when I found my way into her.
Such energy and enthusiasm my sister has. My manhood was centered in her. She bucked and moaned, lifted herself to shift my angle of attack and catch me on the down stroke. I drove in as deeply as I could manage. In fucking Shawntel's intuition is breathtaking. So in tune with her body she is ceaselessly calibrating and considering this motion, these movements to intensify, to sustain her pleasure. She wrapped her heels about my back, her tits came forward against my chest and she manages to bite my ear lobe, nuzzle my cheek. Sensation compounded by sensation roars through me. I fuck her.
Sis licked my eye lids. I lap my way across her throat. To say I adore Shawntel's body is to damn her with faint praise. The sensations springing forth from her, the passion she tills up, all that quivering and quaking flesh under me I wonder who has the true jurisdiction here. I am a man who likes his women to keep their thighs spread wide so I have the most to view. With such an impetus I am capable of penetrating that much more deeply into the depths of her vagina.
"Let me show you what I call the Shanghai gesture." Shawntel said with her lips pressed against my ear.
"Lover, slide your balls down over my mouth. That is the way."
My sack made contact with her moist lips, she swallowed them in one swooping gulp, used her front teeth to tug at the tender flesh formed in the cradle of her mouth.
"Jesus Christ Shawntel." By and by my balls felt the constriction of her wet, warm oval mouth. By using her front teeth she did nothing and everything. All of her actions predicated on the simple notion of making me erupt across the length and breadth of her pretty face. Shawntel wanted warm ribbons of semen played out across her face. She seemed to crave it matter of fact. God knows I was eager to comply even if I had no idea where such a want came from. It was enough that she wanted it.
"Why do you call it the Shanghai gesture?"
"Silly, I have to call it something."
With my trusty digital camera from Office Max, during her most recent gang bang, I focused its shutter on Shawntel's shiny face oiled with spooge. She looks directly into the camera lens, a tight close-up, semen glistens on her lips, drips from the end of her nose. She smiles, a big walloping grin illuminates her face and I am in a fever of lust. This is sport fucking at its best.
After I come in her face my balls slip from her mouth and my cock wants to slip in but in getting head from this woman, I wish to reciprocate the favor. That is how sensible I am to her wishes.
"Honey, now I am going to eat that sweet pussy. What a sweet fuck you are. Eating your muff always reminds me of beluga caviar."
"I love it when you talk that way Ritchie."
After her shower she is smooth as silk and soft as satin. I aim to dazzle her with my tongue. On her back with her hips outthrust, the camel toe lost in the sheets, Shawntel pins her legs around my head, ankles resting against my ears. I dive into her delta and lick away, lick away and use my tongue to spell her name on the nubbin of her clit. From down here with only the top of head poking out I know quite well she is smiling that Cheshire cat smile of hers. This is Alice in Wonderland in that famous looking glass. She has such purpose in achieving her aims, is so boundlessly energetic and enthusiastic too.
She squeezes my head between her legs. Her sexy feet are so ferociously cool against my skin. There is dining at the Y and there is dining at the Y. One is as different as Chinese grub and Italian pasta. One is filling and one is not so. This is a mouthful.
If I could piston my tongue any farther into Shawntel's twat, I'd do so. I'd wade so far in; immerse myself so deeply I would be a contented child of her cunt.
Shawntel forced her opening against my face. My nose was embedded in her and not once did my sinuses impede my way. I kissed her; she shifted, found a way to be closer, the index of how much she wants it.
While I ate her, my hands touched her long sexy legs in the concavity behind her knees. Then my fingers lightly brushed her calves and roved along the firm column of her thighs. They rushed headlong toward the splendor of her ankles. Finally, I'd have been remiss, down right insulting not to stroke her heels, tickle the bottom of her feet.
All this time in the trench, I felt like one of grand dad's great Appaloosa studs digging its horse cock into a frisky mare out in the paddock.
Shawntel, my mare, me the bold, reckless stallion we fuck as if there is no tomorrow. Eating her is only the opening act of our incestuous communion.
Tonight, my cock has not penetrated her yet, but it will. She dominates me with such vigor I have no problem with being in her clutches. How could it be with me in this cat bird seat?
Dad may be a workaholic at the top of his game but he regularly partakes of Shawntel. He is tucked into bed with our luscious mother dreaming of mergers and acquisitions. Full of tea, shortbread cookies and melon balls he awakens and strokes his cock thinking of his progeny going at it a few feet away. I have known him to climb out of bed in the middle of the night; plod to his sumptuous bathroom, making enough noise you can hear him in Canada. He fills the white tub and grabs a book in lieu of his Wall Street Journal and waits for Shawntel to show up. The book is a stroke book no doubt. It brims over with that purple prose that sizzles in its description of nubile young women going down on daddy. If the sticky paged, paper covered tome happened to fall in the tub it would surely steam and crack open like lava cooking off hitting water.
Pops sits under soothing yellow light in this bathtub vast enough to float a battleship. He patiently waits. Black hair plastered against his forehead, five o'clock shadow covering his firm square jaw. Water is past his flat stomach, the boast of a man in love with his fit body. His pubic hair, black sea weed, streams above his loins. I imagine while waiting he is stroking his cock, a big, spoiled rich boy playing with his rubber ducky.
Shawntel in bed next to me, her hand clutching my cock, hears Dad. She releases me, stands and without a stitch between her and the darkness slinks off for a command performance in our father's bathroom.
Does it matter to Mom that Shawntel passes through the bedroom? No. Not even Sis cracking open the bathroom door and sticking her head in to see Dad in his glory is remarkable to mother. Shawntel slips in and slides down into the tub on top of Dad. All that curling seaweed between Dad's muscular legs reaches up to meet her as she flops down on him.
"Sweet mother of God," Dad says. Shawntel has been pronged and cannot get enough. I can hear her moaning as she settles on Pop, her skin suddenly slick as latex rubber. Remember, this might happen later tonight. That is the benchmark of just how hot my sister is, how insatiable, what a delectable vixen she is making tracks to her father's lair.
The real buzz in the bathroom is when Shawntel sits on the tub's side and takes dad's shaft in her mouth. Takes it all, sucks it between her lips with impressive finality. Her eyes so inflamed, she must see red, the water appearing as sanguine as a shark's feeding ground. Her nostrils flare open over lips beaded with water. Her entire face is drenched and drippy.
Sitting on the side of tub like one of the brass fixtures streaming water Shawntel is a squeaky clean movable feast. She wants dad off his haunches and deep in her. In the mist, amidst all this steam Shawntel wants a hot facial from her our father, a copious stream of white goop, not as a trickle but a veritable cream pie. She does like her facials. Shawntel is simply mad for semen, to be sperm laden. Be it from a drawn out condom, a medicine dropper, a teaspoon, from a ladle. I have seen her with so much spooge covering her face I wondered if she had been immersed in a vat of crystal-clear syrup. A sight to behold the way the substance cloaks her eyelids and shines over her lips and makes mirrors of her cheeks and eventually cracks under the strain of her countenance.
Naturally I pander to Shawntel's favorite fetish. It fires me up. How could it not. Look homeward angel is what I say. Striding by a limo with all its windows fogged over, a shadowy man in the backseat with several hardened chunks of chewing gum in the ashtrays is coming in her face, shooting ribbons of semen across her make-up. Out of the littered back seat, she meekly follows me home. Or honey, ease yourself off that high rise ladder where you are posed on the balls of your bare feet, your slim legs angled to excite this workman's attention and of course you are wearing something sexy, a pink throng strung through your cleaved ass. Your mouth is balancing on this fellow's raging hard on and you want him to come in your face. The best place to placate your fetish is in our sodden bed where you make me come and I wallow in the messy flood you are so fond of.
Shawntel takes daddy's cock in her mouth while sitting on the side of the tub. Her pink breasts firm and resilient are cloaked in the room's vented steam. These are the pert, pesky mounds of a child-woman not quite buxom but they are definitely built for speed and unrivaled in their seriously sloping inclination. She is a greyhound who knows her way around the track.
Shawntel's coup de maitre, her masterstroke, is to finally fuck her daddy after he finishes giving her a facial. Then she returns to our bed. End of discussion until we get frisky again.
Tonight I imagine our father will want to spend time with his sexy daughter. Who can blame him? I cannot since I am a chip off the old block.
I am not prescient but there is a good chance such events will take place later. I know she will surely return to our bedstead swimming in Jean Nate after bath splash. That is a given. If I had that psychic bent the government experiments with where a person spies with his mind, I'd definitely use that little talent to watch my sister getting her ashes hauled.
At the foot of our bed in a recessed alcove a plasma screen television is suspended on the wall. Six feet across it often features in our fantasy world. We lie in bed, I use dildos on Shawntel, give her facials, she sucks cock and we fuck. With her leg crossed over mine, her nipples pressing against my hairy chest we can watch Shawntel getting gang banged, lots of bukkake action. At other times we relax with an assortment of triple X videos, a good many of them featuring us playing in this very bed.
Didn't I say my baby sister is insatiable? Yep, she is and I am the better for it.
Monday through Friday Shawntel works at Truitt and Trueblood as an executive assistant to several important men in a thriving bio tech concern. In a six story tower of steel and stone in a cul-de-sac of an industrial park, Sis has her own parking slot, works out in the executive gym where she gets her colleagues all hot and bothered watching her stretch and sweat in her work out togs. These clothes consist of short, hot pink running shorts rubbing the musculature of her thighs, an equally hot pink tank top formed over her breasts, expensive white trainers on her feet and bright white anklets underneath. Her hair the color of burnt coffee is looped on her head. In her ear lobes tiny orbs of gold and in her umbilical is another gold stud.
It is not terribly difficult or stressful work. Shawntel dresses to the nines. She is a stunning fixture sitting behind a polished walnut desk where she crosses her legs, lets a heel dangle, and is at the beck and call of two executives whose dress code is pure L.L. Bean. Roger, the software whiz brings a Dalmatian puppy to the office and lean and rangy Sid, the biology guy lives on bean sprouts and tofu and loves to run marathons.
And what do I do? I the devil may care older brother who attended the private school in Vermont and went wanting for my sexy sister. Then after traipsing off to an Ivy League school, I backpacked in Europe with Shawntel at my side. In Rome we outdid the greatest incestuous couple of the ages: Caligula and Drusilla. Oh the Trevi fountain brings back such delightful memories.
Now, what do I want to do? One option: live on my ridiculously plump trust fund, wile away my days and nights between Shawntel's legs. Why the hell not. I am thinking of scribing something on the order of the twentieth century's most licentious diary. Use Microsoft Word call it My Ribald Reflections as a STUDLY Adventurer.
At this moment before it becomes necessary to share here with Dad, long before it is necessary to send Shawntel off to her day job, I am desperate to jab my cock into her. She is ready for some doggy fucking action or some standard missionary sex. I know I am ready for both.
Still charmed with youthful exuberance and under the intractable permanence of my horned dog readiness it astonishes me, this capacity I have in replenishing lively fresh sperm so readily. Drawing out these merry little soldiers is no more difficult then leaping from a cliff. Thick as thieves, they plummet and slide and relentlessly squirm their way into Shawntel's twat and squirt copiously across her upturned visage that captivates one and all.
Red, suffused with blood, raging constantly upward, relentlessly un-bending what a bull's cock I have to pleasure Shawntel with, to enable me to rein over her like a noted Supreme Justiciar. Attired in my bulging black robes, I am persuaded from my high bench that all moral transgressions are fairy dusty with no more substance then a confection of cobwebs. That is my decision.
Being immortal, subscribing to the belief we could we burn the candle on both ends, blessed with all the time in the world to party on, I rolled Shawntel over flat on her back and stuck my shaft into the delta between her legs then bent them about my back to give her a solid and relentless fucking. All this pleasuring, the culmination of all these piston strokes was a veritable avalanche guaranteed to smother her in ecstasy. My own ecstasy was no less splendid.
We must have been doing it until three a.m., if not later. Briefly pausing from time to time, catching our breath, cooling down as need be, we continued our two buff bodies totally in sync.
Mom and Dad may have drawn straws. Early in morning Mom stood in our doorway bordered by a gray smudge of dawn.
Her hair was brushed down on her shoulders; she stood in her bare feet, a simple frothy white translucent peignoir clutching her hips and caressing her boobs.
"Ritchie darling, your momma is quite horny and needing relief. Come this way please before I burst."
"Only if you promise to slip into those come fuck me pumps I love."
"They wait your slipping them on my feet honey."
I shook Shawntel's hand off my cock, climbed out of bed and followed Mom to one of the opulent guest bedrooms.
If I may be bold enough to say I am tall, dark and suitably handsome. Naked, my cock stands out straight; my balls hang down and I march off to join Mom who is the template, the model Shawntel so closely resembles. First, she'll suck my cock, then I will eat her and finally, we will fuck. Of course Mom will demand a facial and I will gladly give her one.
Where is Dad I wonder? I cannot believe he will let Shawntel go wanting for her own share of bliss.
When Mom went to the bedroom to drop off her cum fuck me pumps next to bed, she also ignited the jets in the gas fire place. What an erotic vixen she is. I entered the room with its Persian rugs on the floor, the heavy scent of jasmine and some cut flowers in a crystal vase covered in etched vines. Shadows played on the walls and now I really could tell Mom's gown was translucent. In this bed, I'd do her. She the princess with the tiny mole on her left cheek, puckered rosebud lips getting my cock ready to be betwixt them. She wanted hugging and humping, romance and ribaldry all at one time.
In the center of the continent sized floor a flat coffee table with stumpy square legs and a parquet surface. Several times with the roaring of the fire nearby I had Mom on this table. I pushed the gown up around her hips and pushing myself into Linda, my strumpet. What a lightness of being suffuses me when my wick is buried in my dear Mom on this extremely useful table. Sometimes she'd hang her head over one side of the low-slung slab of wood and take me in her hot mouth like she swallowing a sword. Swords and mint Altoids always remind me of cock sucking as does Kathy Doheney sitting on her sofa with me in her ravenous mouth.
Mom has spent a fair share of time in the gypsy wagon at the ranch and I have mentioned her doing the cowboys in their bunkhouse. She does not abide by the Mann Act either. Can a loyal son ask for anything more.
I think Mom met Dad on a nude beach while on holiday in Rhodes. The rest is so much history. Of course she brought him back to the ranch and their honeymoon may have been somewhat of a letdown but he was still on the gravy train.
Mom at this moment was in our den snuggling my cock into her savory mouth. Her sexy, come hither gown was no less feminine then the fuck me pumps she had flung to the floor after shedding them from her delicate, irresistible feet.
"Oh Mom what a mouth you have. Please I want some more."
My perspective is never sullen or morose. I am the spitting image of Oliver, the boy Dickens is so fond of. In our lovemaking I bring such need, the luster of a boy who craves more soup from his dear and delectable hot mother.
"Ritchie, I love humming a tune on your pipe."
She resisted showing me any filial pity and was remarkably bestial with her attentive mouth.
Ritchie, let's slip down to the swimming pool.
"Mom, if we get in that pool I will drown."
"You will not drown my baby boy. I think your sweet, adorable sister is already in the swimming hole with your father."
"Damn, let's go," I said.