Shawntel Ch. 02

Literotic asexstories – Shawntel Ch. 02 by steamer5139,steamer5139 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.