Ron Taylor: The hot niece

It was a warm night, maybe a trace of mountain cool in the air, and the bedroom window was open, curtains flitting in the breeze. I went to the window, stood there, feeling the slight chill come in with the wind. It felt good, and I stood looking out the window at the moon floating in the sky. Soon, I thought, I'd explore the mountain.

There were some neighbors, if you could call them neighbors – they lived two or three miles away – who had some kids my age. Aunt Cheryl had said that they had a boy and a girl. The girl was adopted, a Vietnamese orphan, Aunt Cheryl had told me, and she was certain the two of us would hit it off splendidly. In fact, tomorrow the girl, Kim, was supposed to come by and take, me horseback riding. I'd done a little riding, and I'd gone through a bit of the horse-crazy stage that some girls get infected with, but I hadn't been on a horse in years. It might be fun. Maybe Kim could alert me to the local scene. I wasn't exactly counting on living the life of a nun. There had to be boys somewhere, and if Kim was as pretty as Aunt Cheryl told me, Kim would know where to find them. "Sounds okay," I said, unbuttoning my shirt and dropping it to the floor.

I stripped out of my bra and jeans and stood a long time bathing in the moonlight that came through the window. "Mmmm," I said, running my hands over my tits. The nipples stiffened against my fingers and little excited tingles shot through me.

In case you're wondering. I'm built pretty nicely. My tits are really a little bigger than they ought to be for a girl with my slender frame, but that only means they get a lot of envious stars. I'm a 36-C on top, and the stiffening nipple I was caressing are coral red, really fetching next to my pale skin. I'm blonde, very blonde, and I even have a puff of golden hair around my pussy so you can be assured I don't rely on Lady Clairol. My skin is delicate, so I just try to get a thin coat of tan, enough to keep from burning. I looked down at my nips. They were so red in the triangular patches of white where my bikini top had kept the ends of my tits from getting tanned. The tips of the red bubbles were sticking out further and further every time my fingers slid across them. I sighed and pinched them between my fingers, and it felt even better. Sidling toward the bed, I flopped down hard. How better to break in a new bed than with a passionate hand-job, I asked myself?

Well, I thought in silent response, I can think of two or three much better ways. Those means weren't at hand, but the hands were there, if you follow my reasoning. I rolled onto the bed, onto my back, and I lifted my knees. My hands began to slide slowly down my tummy, into the waistband of my pants. My ass lifted from the bed as I got nearer and nearer. Then, my fingers were inside the panties, stroking lower and lower across the puffy, golden-swirled mound of my cunt. I could feel the tight little pussy, and I didn't have to look at it to know it was pink and delectable. My finger traced it up and down and I felt the slow ooze of moisture from inside me.

I loved to play with myself. There are better things to do with a pussy than stick your finger in it, but when you don't have anything but a finger, a finger feels Goddamned good. Working inside my panties, I opened my cunt and slipped my fingertip in, let it rub my vulva from erecting clitty nub to the sticky-mouthed hole of my cunt.

My pussy was hungry. I felt the lips try to close around the fingertip and pull it inside me, but no, I told myself, don't be so fucking greedy, you little snatch! We have all night. I was fresh as a daisy, in spite of the long flight from Cleveland, and I was horny, too. I hadn't been fucked in forty-seven hours, which had to be a record for Elizabeth Ashcraft. Again, my finger pushed at the sticky mouth of my hole, and again I felt the sucking gulp of my pussy trying to eat the finger. This time I said what the fuck? I let my nimble and well-trained digit slip inside.

"Ooohhh, that's it," I panted, feeling go deep and wiggly, right up my sticky tube. I was juicing heavily. When hadn't I been juicing heavily, lately? My tits began to ache and throb, and my head felt chilly-cold. The rest of me was hot, red hot, and got hotter with each plunge of that finger up my tube. I'm tight, and even a finger felt nice and comfortingly big inside me. There's no reason I should be tight, in view of what my snatch had been eating since I entered woman's estate with a vengeance, but my cuntal walls closed, and I had to stab harder and harder. I couldn't go Goddamn near as deeply as I wanted, but I could go plenty deep enough to make my armpits fill up with sweat and the skin crawl around the coral nips of my titties.

Slow down, Elizabeth, I told myself. There's no hurry. You can make it last all night. You dig it when it goes on all night, remember? Jesus, God, I remembered! My knees lifted higher and touched. There was this pressing tightness in my pussy. My finger felt as if a vise were closing in around it, but my cunt was so sticky and lubed up that there was no pain, just this fantastic sweet tight sensation. It made my belly growl in delight.

I got my finger loose, somehow, and I sat up. My stash was in my purse. I reached in, got the pipe and baggie, and filled the pipe. You have to be careful when you buy Mexican dope nowadays, what with that paraquat poison or whatever they call it; I hear the stuff can kill you. I grow my own, on my windowsill back home in Cleveland Heights, so I know it's good stuff. I'd brought a couple of pounds with me, just in case local supplies were slack – something else I'd have to check out with this Kim. I lit the pipe, took a deep toke, and felt the smoke flow through my body. It was mellow. As I smoked, I put my hand on the crotch of my panties and fondled my cunt from the outside. I wanted to let my puss know that it was still beloved, and the juicy little thing responded by wetting the flower-spotted fabric of my panties. I blew smoke out the window, just in case Aunt Cheryl and Uncle Bill were awake, but even above the smell of burning week I could smell the arousal of my body, the pungent muskiness of my cunt, the sex-sweat in my armpits and behind my knees.

My fist closed over my crotch and I squeezed, finishing the pipe as I did, and then lying back sighing and purring like a kitten. I'd hardly begun to tickle my snatch. There was so much more to do and, with a little grass filtered into my body, I was in an even better mood to do it.

My belly growled again, and I felt another kind of hunger in me. I knew that once again I was falling victim to the munchies. Grass does it to most people, to me more than others. As much as I smoked, it was a wonder I hadn't put 300 pounds on my five-six frame instead of the 105 I clocked in at. I put the pipe down on the nightstand and slid off the bed. There was cheese left – some wine, too. My throat was a bit dry after smoking. Maybe, I'd just tiptoe down the stairs like a little mouse and scoop up the leftovers of our evening brunch. Maybe I'd put a piece of cheese up my cunt, work it round and round till it was saturated with my juice, and then eat it. No, that was old hat. I should really try to think of something unusual.

Still holding my pussy, I slid off the bed, and stretched in the cool breeze that was coming through the window. I found my shirt where I'd dropped it, slipped into it, but only hooked one button. I tiptoed out the door, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. The fridge was full of goodies. I began to explore, snacking here and there, and drinking cold red Burgundy. While I was filling my mouth with cheese and snippets, left over from dinner, I heard… sounds in the living room, and I stopped short, as if I'd been caught doing something naughty.

When I heard the guitar strumming, I thought at first that it was a record, because it was so sharp and well-done, but then I realized that it was live music, not recorded. I heard Uncle Bill's husky, slightly lowered voice, begin to sing along with the rippling strings – something about snow and Bossier City, wherever Bossier City was, and rather stand in Mother Nature's anger than spend another lonely night with you. I remembered hearing the song sometime earlier this evening, done by a guy with a deep, growly outlaw voice, but the way Uncle Bill was saying the words, they seemed to be so much more filled with feeling, you know? As if he was living them while he sang?