In the Nest with Christie Ch. 03

I lay stunned on accommodatingly bendy branches for what seemed a long time.

Christie recovered before I did. Leaves rustled around me as she stirred.

When she slapped my foot away, I dimly surmised it had been wedged between her boobs. I didn't perv over it.

Damn. We could've died.

Her efforts to untangle herself intensified. She wriggled and twisted. The branches shook as if the bush was now fighting to keep hold of her, then swoosh--she broke free and thumped to the mulch.

"Fuck," she grunted.

Her vulgar outburst pleased me, pervily enough. Unlike her mother, Christie swore sometimes if the situation called for it, but 'fuck' was strictly an early morning word for her, used only when padding through the house in a grumpy, half-awake haze before her first cup of coffee. Where's the fucking creamer? Where's my fucking phone? How much fucking longer will you be in the bathroom?

I smiled at the memories. Grumpy Christie was as sexy as Perky Christie, just in a different way.

My inertia dissipating, I shifted on the branches and swoosh--dropped straight to the ground in the back of the bush.

At the front of the bush, Christie groaned and scrabbled in the mulch, struggling to stand. Though still shaky, I got to my feet before she did, arranging my face to show no amusement while I watched her cute, clumsy progression to verticality.

Once upright, she stumbled from side to side, swatting hair from her face, swatting air, swatting more hair. She plucked a needle-shaped leaf from her head, held it to her face, and stared at it in puzzled annoyance.

I tilted an eyebrow. "Are you okay?"

She swiped a twig from her boob. "What the fuck happened?"

I chuckled softly. "You fainted," I said, shaking my head in bemused wonderment.

She regarded me with a blank expression. Then she swung her gaze to the bush, frowned, and looked at me again, waiting for more.

I shrugged. "I was trying to help."

"By killing me?"

She sounded bewildered. Or maybe pissed off. It was difficult to glean nuance from her listless tone. I blew out a sigh and endeavored upon a more exacting account of the past few minutes, but cut it short as her eyes crossed and she swayed like a dancing balloon in a windy car lot.

"Hey!" My raised voice snapped her to attention. "Are you okay?" I asked again.

She scowled abstractedly. "I'm fine," she said. Then her head lolled on her slackening neck and she tipped sideways, dropping to the grass in a fuck-everything flop.

"Christie!" I whisked around the bush, hoping she'd only lost her balance, but as I drew near her inert figure, I knew otherwise.

Crap. She'd stood up too soon. Stand too soon after you faint and you'll faint again, I'd heard that, everybody has heard that. I should have stopped her. But before today, nobody had fainted around me once, much less twice, so it never occurred to me.

I stepped closer, then backed away. She looked so helpless, sprawled on the ground with her eyes closed, mouth hanging slightly open, arms and legs akimbo. The impulse to pick her up and carry her inside was strong. But considering my disastrous prior attempt at heroism, I kept my chivalry in check.

As I waited for her to wake again, I noticed a niggling sensation at the top of my head--a tingle. It was the sense of being watched from behind... and above.

I turned toward the Japanese maple.

Though I couldn't see the robin behind her cover of blood-red leaves, I felt her gaze.

In the surrounding trees, other birds whooped and whistled as if cheering her latest victory in the war against nest-threateners.

My attention shifted from the trees to the neighboring houses. Their stillness disturbed me. Why hadn't anyone run outside during all the commotion? This wasn't some crime-infested ghetto--it was a respectable, middle-class suburb. Had nobody heard this young woman screaming at the top of her lungs? Were they all deaf?

Well, it was Easter morning. Maybe everyone was at church. I shrugged and turned back to Christie.

She hadn't budged. Her belly button ring rose and fell with her deep, relaxed breaths. From the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a flicker of movement in her right foot, but when I zeroed in, it remained motionless. As I concentrated on that foot, willing it to flicker again, I remembered something else everybody's heard about tending to the fainted: You're supposed to elevate their legs to get the blood flowing back to their heads. Reluctant though I was to touch her again, it seemed like a harmless enough hack.

I approached her with caution, keeping my eyes on her face for the slightest sign of an impending freakout while I eased her loosely bent legs into a straightened position. Then I lifted her feet an inch or two from the ground.

To my surprise, the effect was immediate. She moaned, knitted her brow, and settled back into oblivion with an airy sigh.

Encouraged, I raised her feet higher, bracing them against my hips.

Color rose to her cheeks. A lazy smile rippled across her lips. She squirmed and writhed, moaning low in her throat.

Holy crap. Did people dream when they fainted? Because it sounded like she was having a nice one. A really nice one. I was mesmerized by those sultry, languorous moans...

Until I realized she wasn't making them anymore.

When I snapped out of my reverie, she was wide awake and gaping at me. Her emerald eyes bulged.

She wasn't looking at my face.

Oh, God.

Even before I lowered my head to follow her gaze, I knew what I'd see.

Please, God, no.

Lulled by her moans, my cock had risen from the hole in my boxers like a cobra entranced by the music of a snake-charmer.

This can't be happening.

Slack-jawed and frozen with panic, I mentally ran through excuses for my egregious erection that did not involve perverted stepsister lust.

Morning wood--no. Gust of wind--no. Leaves in my underwear--no. Thinking about porn--no. Accidentally took my dad's Viagra--no. Wait, hmm, maybe. But I'd have to figure out how it --

"Oh my goodness!"

My deliberations shattered into mindless horror as a voice called from behind.

"Is everything all right?!"

It was an old lady's voice, accompanied by the rattling squeaks of a walker's wheels banging and rolling toward us with rickety determination.

"I heard screams!" Bang! Squeak! "I thought it was the television!" Bang! Squeak! "But Frank said it came from outside!" Bang! Squeak! Bang! Squeak! Bang! Squeak!

Mrs. Tokarski--the next-door neighbor.

Christie tilted her head and darted her eyes past my legs, then glared up at me, jerking her chin at my crotch as if I didn't understand the problem. But she was the one who didn't understand. My dick was too stiff to tuck in gracefully. Even if I stuffed it in my boxers before Mrs. Tokarski reached us, it would tent-pole. My spur-of-the-moment plan was to keep my back to her until I deflated, then adjust in a subtle movement that wouldn't draw attention. Right now, I was rock hard, but I expected to soften within seconds.

"Is she hurt?" From the sound of Mrs. Tokarski's voice, I estimated she was thirty feet away--but moving fast for an octogenarian with a walker. "Should I call nine-one-one?"

She was approaching on my right. As I angled left, pointing toward the house, I spotted a beige blob among the bright red tulips in front of the porch. It took a moment to recognize this blob as Christie's shoulder bag, which she must've dropped when the robin first attacked.

Suddenly, the solution to my problem was obvious.

Run to bag. Pick up bag. Cover cock with bag.

I released Christie's ankles to execute my new plan. But instead of letting her legs fall to the ground, she swooped them in front of me. "I'm fine, Mrs. Tokarski!" she shouted--and slapped her feet over my dick.

My vision dimmed. My hearing faded.

"Are you sure... are you sure... are you sure..."

"Yes I'm fine... yes I'm fine... yes I'm fine..."

Bang, bang, bang... Squeak, squeak, squeak...

The soft flesh of my stepsister's soles curling and flexing around my cock eclipsed all other sensations.

Christie propped herself up on her elbows and frowned with concentration as she worked on my increasingly swollen organ. Her right toes tugged at the flap in my boxers while her left toes tried to nudge my shaft through the hole. Flexible as her feet were, the task was impossible without thumbs, and, realizing this, she gritted her teeth at me in a silent command: Help me!

I shook off my paralysis and obeyed. But when my hands joined her feet around my throbbing prick, pre-cum burbled out, drizzling over her pretty pink toenails.

Her gasp--and the surprised look on her face--triggered my orgasm.

I rushed to shove myself into my boxers, but I wasn't quick enough to contain the first blast. A liquid lightning bolt of thick white jizz shot up, shimmied in the air, and hurtled downward.

Splat.

I jammed my exploding cock through the hole, soaking my shorts while staring at my semen on Christie's shocked face. It glistened on her forehead and zig-zagged down her nose. It dribbled from her lips and chin.

Mrs. Tokarski spoke from directly behind me.

"What happened, dear? Did you fall off the porch?"

In a convulsive flurry of movement, Christie flipped herself over to conceal her cum-covered countenance, and I almost tripped over her as I flung myself toward the tulips. "She's okay!" I grabbed the shoulder bag and slammed it against myself. "Bird nesting in the light fixture! It attacked her! Got me yesterday! That thing's scary! But everything's fine!"

Mrs. Tokarski jutted her blue-haired head at me and squinted, her pale gray eyes enlarged behind thick tortoiseshell glasses. Then she clucked with sympathy at Christie, who was rising to her knees while rubbing her face with her hands. "Oh, my," the old woman said. "Yes, I saw that darn bird attack the poor mailman last week. I told Therese she should buy some bird repellant." She raised her eyebrows at me as if imagining I'd asked her to elaborate. "It's a gel. You smear it on surfaces where birds might nest. Eaves, windowsills, light fixtures, what have you. It doesn't hurt them--just irritates them because it's sticky, you know, when they step in it." She scrunched her face. "Birds don't like sticky feet."

Christie, who had crept unnoticed to the far side of the bush, called out with exaggerated cheerfulness. "Hunter? Have you seen my other--? Oh, here it is!" She ducked behind the bush, then jumped up and waved her flip-flops in the air. "Thanks, Mrs. Tokarski! Happy Easter! I have to get inside!" Before her startled neighbor could respond, she dashed off and disappeared behind the house.

Mrs. Tokarski frowned after her, hunching over her walker in thought. Her magnified eyes traveled from the porch to the section of ground where Christie had lain. Finally, she shook her head, straightened, gripped her walker, and regarded me with a wistful smile.

"Well, Hunter, I know you young folks bounce back better from falls than us oldsters, but I suggest you keep an eye on that girl." She patted her hip and grimaced. "Sometimes you don't feel signs of an injury until much later. She might want to get looked at."

I clutched Christie's bag to my sopping wet crotch and stepped out of the tulips. "Thank you for your concern, Mrs. Tokarski, but I think she's fine." With a heavy sigh, I turned toward the house. "And I'm pretty sure she won't want to get looked at."