Sheela: Visitor of Mischief

But what really and truly got Sheela under Grant's skin was the intriguing necklace she was wearing -- a thin gold chain, from which hung a nickle-sized mirror in the shape of a heart, its border exquisitely lined with fine little diamonds that lent a spectral allure to all the different shafts of light that were attracted to it and then reflected off, to a create an incredibly distracting, randomly blinking little pendant that was so compelling to look at, increasingly making Grant chomping at the bit, more and more, to anticipate when it will catch the light again, what colour will it be, the intensity of brightness, the length of time of light-flash.

Debbie was looking a lot at Sheela's twinkling pendant, too, but during the wicked show that Sheela was presently putting on for her, the little mirror was strategically placed on her backpack against the far wall by the window. With her back to her bedroom door, Sheela simply had to look straight ahead -- to her pendant on her backpack in front of her -- to see anything behind her, especially horny visitors, and when she saw Debbie eventually do her first of several stupefied knee-bucklings during the temptress's performance, Sheela's nether regions roiled with musty, heady excitement, and Debbie, in turn, smelling it, making HER cum even more than she already was.

Sheela's arsenal of amazingly limber stretchings -- every one of the from the splits position -- was too much for Debbie to put up a defense against. She knew that staring and staring at the agile eye candy was probably not in her best interests, but Debbie had never seen before seen such enticing physicality, insidiously throwing a wrench in her gears of sober resolve, her mind softening up to the idea of savouring a moment (or two) of such mesmerizing perfection.

It seemed to Debbie that Sheela could almost read her mind -- whenever Debbie showed signs of stirring (possibly leaving?), Sheela's sudden change in exercise definitely kept Debbie rooted to the doorway. After two? five? ten? minutes of rhythmic ass gyrations at different speeds with impossible-to-predict reversals in direction, Sheela changed to a different manoeuvre, which at first distressed Debbie, who got caught up in Sheela's game of Guess How Long My Ass Will Rotate In One Direction, Then Back The Other Way, but when the acrobatic dervish put her her arms straight out to her sides, so that they were parallel to her legs, Debbie felt like she had just made a joyous new discovery, the floodgates down below probably showing through her pants soon, but strangely not caring about it -- almost welcoming it.

In this position, her arms were now held out to invite an embrace, hands and fingers moving sensuously, while her torso -- moving like a snake to the music -- was somehow able to lean slightly backwards, luring her invisible lover down upon her, those gigantic tits hypnotically heaving, bouncing and rolling upwards the more she leaned back.

"Oh YES, Charusheela" she said as she gently shook her tits back and forth and held this seemingly impossible position for a while, as Debbie kept on mentally pinching herself, as if to say "Holy fucking shit how can she hold that fucking position?!?! And those mammoth fucking tits!!!! Am I really seeing what I'm fucking seeing?" The way Sheela could create the illusion of balancing her enormous melons on such a slender, short abdomen for.....how long?......made Debbie's knnes buckle again, her focus so greedily zero'ed in on Sheela's unbelievably large hooters, bouncing back and forth, or in an easy up and down motion, or swaying in graceful "U" formations, or quick little seductive jigglings, or burlesque, lolling circles. Sheela's long-nailed hands moved in that revolving, undulating way that belly-dancers do, on open, inviting arms, the tip of her middle fingers touching her thumbs (the long, gleaming nails slightly criss-crossed to each other to allow actual contact of the fingertips, the other fingers fanned out enticingly, the light reflecting off the tip of a pinky-nail that somehow made Debbie think of a scorpion's tail), or sometimes her fingers were beckoning come-hither, the middle finger curling the most, or wiggling them vigorously as if to invoke a force that only Sheela's kundalini could bring out. The sinuous writhing of her upper body kept perfect time with the pulsating music.

One of the most powerful forces known to man, barely contained in a stretched-out bikini top.

Meanwhile, back on the toilet, Grant's scrotum was getting sore from the beating it took from his fist, so gloriously pumping the fuck out of his hard-as-fucking-steel seven inches, with diligent, cupped rubbings over the purplish mushroom head -- slick with precum -- as his hand came up to the top of the shaft, as well as when it started to come down again. It had been WAY too long since his 54-year-old cock "represented" like this. He didn't care how much of his rut-stink Debbie will smell when she uses the loo next. He didn't care about "covet not thy boarder". He especially didn't care about the "Martin Factor".

The more he thought about that "factor", the more violently and persistently and BURNINGLY his manmeat throbbed and bobbed, and he wondered if Sheela actually did have what it takes to pull off such shenanigans, and if he was able to stand up to whatever she had under her sleeve, or, under ANY article of her skimpy clothing. All he had to do was blow off steam in the can whenever Sheela's company got too much for him to take. The exhilaration of the rejuvenation of mojo was worth the inconvenience. Debbie worked out of the home as a seamstress, so if Sheela was around the house, Debbie would very likely be nearby, rendering the chance for fooling around next to impossible. And the access codes to his research were indeed in the impenetrable vault of his brain.

Content with those rationalizations, Grant gleefully kept up his wanking, hard-wired into the beat of Sheela's music, and obsessing, the more and more he thought about them, over certain .....snapshots.....mementos, that his cerebral cortex was working in overdrive to remember, to archive, picture by picture, treasures like Sheela slowly removing her back-pack, running her hands through her hair and then whipping it around (two pictures), tugging up her shorts down the hall, and her classic pin-up pose at the window after she brought the cyclist to his destruction (Norman Rockwell gone bad. Evil.)

This last image set off that churning tickle in his loins for a much-needed ejaculation, and not just because of Sheela's incredibly appetizing profile, but also how she managed, within moments of setting foot in their house, to exert enough power of her stunning sexuality (through gratuitous tit-shaking) to bring peril to others. He looked forward to an enormous treasure trove of mementoes and snapshots to come, much as he looked forward to just sitting there on that toilet and continue choking that chicken, which turned out to be a need much stronger than the relief of coming -- the torture of prolonged, addictive pleasure.

That pleasure was soon to come to a head again when he thought about Sheela's pesky little pendant. The light-flickering thing drove him crazy -- how easy it was to get distracted by it, especially when it's perched on one of the nicest pairs of tits he'd ever seen in his entire life. He especially looked forward to catching whatever glimpses of it he could in the future, and gave definite indications to Sheela -- quietly, when Debbie wasn't looking -- that the pendant was appreciated. This appreciation, of course, was ignited by the provocative way Sheela directed those untrustworthy cat-eyes of hers down to the pendant -- then back up to him -- as he stood there at the door when he first laid eyes on her.

His balls, cock and fist were drenched and sticky from precum that seeped, unending, from his cock, and as he kneaded and cupped his bag with his left hand and stroked his shaft with his right, a distant voice in the back of his mind told him that this was all completely wrong, but that was soon obliterated by a combination of her lingering scent and images of her in his mind. The more he stroked, the more blessed he felt, as though, by some divine providence, the Harris household was anointed with an entity so beyond Grant's sexual desires and fantasies, that all that really mattered was Sheela, and simply......to look at her. Or maybe have her straddling right down on top of him, right there on the toilet. As long as he didn't outwardly let on to either of them that he would kill to pin Sheela up against the wall with her legs wrapped around him.......

Like a distant lighthouse light barely piercing through darkness, the idea crept into Debbie's mind that their 17-year-old son, Ray, might be home soon from after-school basketball practice, and for the first time since Debbie first laid eyes on Sheela's performance, she gathered herself enough to actually look away from her to look down both ends of the hall. Grant was probably in front of the TV by now, and when her thoughts returned to Ray, it finally dawned on her, sickeningly, that he would eventually have some part in an equation that now included this slightly crazy, beautiful Indian girl.

Acting on a spontaneous flight impulse Debbie had turned away from the door when Sheela went, "Oh yes, Grant! I knew it all along! YYYYES!" Or at least that's what Debbie thought she heard, and of course -- even realizing as she was doing it -- she took the bait and re-investigated to see Sheela, no longer doing her splits but now on her knees, her left hand up in front of her, miming fluid, circular hand-job strokes, her right hand just underneath, those long, light-reflecting fingernails making a tickling/strumming motion, and then a slow, flat-handed, palm-up, rubbing-with-fingertips motion. Whipping her hair from her face, she changed her stroking hand from a circular motion to just straight up and down rapid-fire machine gun pumpings, her mouth and teeth an open snarl (or so Debbie could discern, with Sheela facing the other way.) as her other hand was now doing slapping gestures -- a couple hard forehands, a couple hard backhands, then single slaps back and forth.

Slowing down her stroking, Sheela looked upwards -- where a face would be -- and over the loud music Debbie was flabbergastedly positive she heard Sheela say, projecting with a slightly less bird-like voice, to be heard, "Oh I know, Grant, yes, I know. I knew it when you first looked at me, you wanted me. It was so cute seeing your hands in that bathrobe the whole time! Nice to give it some air, hm? And a little bit of my tenderloving care, hm?"

Aware that Debbie would most likely act on this, Sheela deftly reached behind and undid the string to her bikini top. She stretched both ends taut, out to the sides, her body suddenly stock still. Looking upwards, she slowly shook her tits, a nice, easy rhythm that kept perfect half-time with the catchy hybrid electronic music. The way Sheela's breasts laaaaaz-ily swung side to side made Debbie focus on the perfect figure-eight motion they achieved -- two great, lolling forces of enormous, pert tit-flesh, probably generating their own centrifugal force to power enough electricity required to run (Debbie speculated, in spite of her more rational, inner voice saying wtf?) a multi-entry vibrator -- kept in their safe in the basement -- that Grant secretly bought for Debbie on their fifteenth anniversary, her hair dryer, alarm clock, massage pads, and then the list came to an abrupt halt when Sheela's figure-eight boobie formation changed -- to tiny little jiggles back and forth, her index fingers slowly twirling both ends of the string around them until they reached the triangles of the bikini, each forefinger evenly covered with string, right to the tips. The nails poked out comically.

"Oh Grant, look at these as HARD and STIFF as you can," said the dark jezebel, as she lifted up her skimpy top with an exaggerated gasp of sexual abandon, her face slightly turned so Debbie could see those sweet, upturned, glossy lips going "OH". Looking back at the imaginary face of Grant, Sheela nodded, slowly. Her hands, still holding up the top, were tucked under her chin, forcing her forearms to squeeze those gigantic, gravity-defying hooters together, and for a couple moments, held this position, and then jiggled them coyly, with hesitant, little shakes.

The fact alone that Sheela's breasts were huge enough to stick out from the sides of her thin waist (for Debbie to monitor their movements, closely) was enough for the 45-year-old seamstress to be profoundly grateful for the bounty of sweet, irresistible lusciousness that had befallen the household. Sure, Sheela was coming on to her husband (albeit very indirectly), but the perfection of the Indian temptress's beauty and movements took wicked precedence over any qualms Debbie might have had.

"Hey mom," said Ray, at the kitchen end of the hall, putting his knapsack on a wall hook. The power in Debbie's knees were suddenly restored by this jolt of reality. Confused what to do next, Debbie closed Sheela's door, and was on the verge of turning to Ray and walking that way when she noticed -- just in the nick of time -- a huge mess in the front of her blue spandex shorts. She waved to Ray, and walked the other way to the master bedroom, her heart beating, praying she wouldn't bump into Grant. Sanctuary would be her top dresser drawer (panties), then two drawers down, for jeans, and then a bee-line to the washroom.

The washroom door, to Debbie's horror, was still closed, however, and instead decided to just bite the bullet and do a quick clothing change and throw the offending material into the laundry basket all before Grant comes out of their bathroom. Listening for any stirrings that might indicate Grant coming out, Debbie frantically (and QUIETLY) tried to complete her mission while coming to the dreadful conclusion as to why he'd be in the can for so long. Whipping her belt on, the buckle smacked into an open drawer, much to Debbie's chagrin.

Hearing this, Grant pricked his ears further. With Sheela's door closed, he could hear things more closely, and was able to make out the sound of a zipper getting slowly zipped up, and the light, metal tinkling of a belt buckle getting hooked up. Turning to stone with complete mortification, (while his erection doing the opposite in intent), Grant tried to reach over and lock the door without her hearing (unsuccessfully), and then turned on the sink taps -- while remaining on the throne, adjacent -- and wrung out a hot soapy cloth. The noise of the sink he didn't care about, but the turning of the lock was a sound that he didn't want Debbie to hear, considering that he'd never used it before. He was relieved it was only precum to clean off, and not the whole load, given that he was already going to get busted, and so he figured -- might as well smell up the place only half-strength "wild boar" instead of full-strength. He was also somewhat relieved there was nothing on his clothes or anywhere else other than his hands and loins.

The other, guilty, soiled party was gathering an early laundry -- including its newest, rolled-up addition -- when she heard a doorknock down the hall (Ray at Sheela's door?), wheeled out of the bedroom, into the hall, and just in time to see the light from Sheela's room wash over Ray as her door opened. Something else washed over Ray as his eyes took in Sheela, head to toe -- a softening glow that was a red flag to Debbie for intervention. The expression of awe that washed over Ray deepened the longer he looked at her.

"Ray!" his mother found herself almost shouting, prompting a brief, irritated look from him before he looked again at their first (and sweet, "tight") boarder. In what looked like car-accident-slow-motion to Debbie, Sheela's hand came into view. Debbie wanted to call out to her son again, but instead watched -- with that otherworldly mix of blood-freezing dread and overwhelming lust -- when Ray took Sheela's hand, and then, her other hand covered his, just like the "vagina handshake" that she used on Debbie earlier. Ray's eyes drifted down and back up again , his face a study in restrained appreciation. Jutting her big tits at him, Sheela sensuously withdrew her soft, smooth clasp that lingered way too long for Debbie's comfort.

"Laundry room's the other way."

"Thanks, Ray, .um, Sheela...." Debbie started to say, but then noticed there was something different about Sheela. She had put her white cut-off top and cut-off jeans back on again......but something........"can you make sure to have your music down a lot lower please and also keep the door closed....just to....you know.....for privacy, and things."

"Oh for privacy, of course! Heaven forbid some stranger sneak in on helpless me in the middle of the night when everyone else is sound, sound asleep, and me, I'm wide, wide awake, sometimes just tossing and turning, until my whole body is sticking to the sheets with my sweat......maybe......(looking at Ray).....waiting?"

"Don't you worry, any home invaders or wierdos comin in after ya will have to say hi to my brass knuckles I made in shop after school, heh."

Debbie's "You what?!?" got overtaken by Sheela's "Mmmmmm, that sounds soooo nice of you. A woman can be very grateful for a man's.....willingness, and devotion, Ray, to make her feel......attended to.....looked over.....A gratitude, Ray, that a woman will never make you forget."

Losing patience and ready to slap Sheela, Debbie defused at the sight of the bemused expression on her son's face, despite his eventual lingering look at Sheela a moment later. Scratching his nose, Ray was suddenly blasted with a good whiff of the essence her hands bequeathed unto his own with her "pussy handshake", which were the exact words Ray called it. Debbie saw the fingers remain there as he took a furtive yet very deep breath, his eyes drawn to Sheela's again, who in turn took note of Debbie's change of pants and gave her a knowing, slit-eyed smile, her right eyebrow slightly cocked, before looking back again at her newest admirer.

Relieved that a sober mind was prevailing over spread-eagled lust, Debbie said, "anyway bucko I'm sure there's better things you can do with yourself than make weapons that'll prrrrrrrobably get you into trouble......"

"And I'll keep my music down, Mrs, Harris."

"You can call me Debbie," and with that, Debbie hesitantly parted ways, her mind desperately reeling for some kind of chore or directive to issue to Ray to get him away from the Indian flirt, but remained on her course down the hall, and listened to their quiet voices, and Sheela's soft laughter. Each step further away from them felt like a further relinquishing of her hold on her son, and painfully realized the impossibility of trying to quarantine him from someone in such close quarters. As she loaded the washer, she finally realized what it was about Sheela that seemed different about her -- just then, with Ray -- than when she first arrived: she was no longer wearing that mesmerizing heart-shaped necklace that caught the light in flickering, eye-catching flashes. Debbie's loins rekindled that delicious heat when she thought about the way Sheela slyly looked down at her necklace and then snuck a look at Debbie, always "busted" each time, yet relishing in escaping Grant's notice, creating a "just us two" thing that Debbie had the foresight to think twice about as she threw her drenched panties in the washer.

And while Debbie attended to her laundry, Ray got further acquainted with Sheela.

"My goodness Ray, you must have soooooo many girls all over you, no?"

"........Well, there's someone I've been mackin' for a while, and-"

"-what was that? Mackin'?