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.
