Shawntel Ch. 02

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.