Maryon Swelt - He seduced his little sister

In a dream Maryon turned slowly about, ending up facing him, inwardly proud that her breasts needed no support, standing out full and white and round and firm from her. "Yeah, like I thought. Y'got a good pair of tits on you there, baby." As he spoke he tapped the underside of one and nodded approvingly as it quivered. Maryon flushed deeply from her forehead to her tingling nipples' tips. There was something… unsexual in his examination, as though she were a prize cow in the market. Wes noticed her blush.

"Hey, baby!" he said, with a grin that lit his eyes. "Don't get uptight on me, huh? Look… this is, like the man says, show-biz, and y'have to get used to people doing their thing without bothering much about, uh, conventional mo-ral-i-ty. Say now, Maryon, you surely ain't no virgin baby, hah!?"

"No," she said, shortly, continuing to stand there, annoyed by his amusement, highly conscious of her near nudity.

"Didn't think so," he said, turning away to light a cigarette. "Not the way you used to screw around after school with old Genital Jenner. Was he a good fuck?"

"What d'you mean?" she demanded, angry.

"Aw, c'mon, baby, don't kid old Uncle Wes, now. Maybe th'other kids didn't get the word about you two, but I always make a point of finding out what the good bright chicks are doing. You two was making it like it was going outa style, less I miss my guess. Now, wasn't that about the size of it, sweetie? And get into that thing, huh? You don't have to keep on standing there with your knockers hanging out. I've seen worse and better."

Maryon's head was in a whirl as she dumbly struggled to pull the contume blouse on. He was so casual about the whole thing! And she bridled at the reference to her breasts. Seen better, indeed! She bet she could show him a thing or two if she put her mind to it! She decided to play it cool and sophisticated. The blouse was tight, too tight, and it was with difficulty that she was able to thrust her breasts down under the thin material so that her nipples were covered. It felt uncomfortable because the tightness pressed her breasts together at the front, despite the shaping of the blouse that should have made it cup her. At last she tucked the hem under the already strained-to-bursting belt-line of the skirt and, hands on hips, presented herself for his inspection again.

"C'mon over to the mirror," he said, laconically, and ambled to one side, leaving her in the light. Impersonally he turned her about, patted her here and there, tugged at a skirt edge, pulled down the shoulder line. "Yeah," he said, after a while. "Looks okay 'cept for the front, there. Take it off again, baby, and I'll fix it."

Maryon was getting mad as she stretched, pulling out the hem and wrestling the thing over her head with crossed arms, acutely aware of the splendid display of her firm fleshed beauties as they escaped their prison and bounded free. She was used to being handled, but always it had been for the purpose of mutual arousal. Now, she was getting turned on by this dressing and undressing, but Wes treated her like a dress-store dummy. Was he queer or something? Maybe that was it. Well, she'd have her fun with him, now, the cool bastard. But he was talking to her again even as his strong long black fingers played with the neckline of the blouse. "At least you've got the right kind of hair," he said. "Won't need no wig. Reckon I can fix you up as you are. Sit down here, huh, and let's see what Wes can do."

He dropped the blouse to the dressing table top and, as she docilely sat down, came behind her. Teasing him, she lifted up her breasts and massaged them, as though they'd gotten crushed by the blouse. His fingers went to her hair and quickly took out the pins there, then began to fluff and mold the curl and comb, gradually creating a rough version of the curly, wavy yellow-golden Daisy Mae hair style. Despite her thoughts of him… contemptuous… Maryon let herself be thrilled by the sight of his black hands working in her hair, contrasting her creamy-white nakedness as seen in the mirror to his shiny darkness. Flirting with him, she cupped her breasts and raised them toward the glass, curving her back in, herself admiring the way she neatly tapered into the tight waist. "Don't you like them, Wes?" she asked his reflection, fluttering her long fair lashes over her big blue eyes.

He paused, and settled his strong hands on her shoulders, leaning over her. "Yeah," he said. "Why? You want to sell 'em or something?"

As he spoke he began to stroke her shoulders and moved in against her. With a shock she felt something against her bare back and realized that, beneath his pants, Wes' cock was as hard as iron. He was no queer! Fascinated now, she watched her image as his stroking, gentle hands symmetrically moved on her white body, each finger moving separately in a light massage, smoothing her neck, the curves down, her shoulders, her upper arms, back to her shoulders and then, at last, down to the upper slopes of her breasts, suddenly down through the valley that separated them and up underneath, supporting their weight, with thumbs now beginning to circle around her roughened areolas, spiraling in to the fast-growing dull-red nipples, not quite touching them, teasing her… and most of all she was conscious of the blackness of those caressing hands against the cream of her silken skin. She was hypnotized by her image… watching it happen to someone else… barely perceptive of his eyes studying her face.

His steady handling continued, paced to her needs, with only an infrequent scrape of thumbnail over nipple-tip to make her gasp. Little muscles twitched with familiar signals in her thigh-guarded citadel and she knew her briefs must be moist with her inner oils. She was lost to desire. She knew well enough that now she could not go back. She would do anything to have this loving fondling continue. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back to rest it against his hard flat belly. She placed her hands over his and uncrossed her legs.

"Don't stop, Wes," she pleaded. "Oh, please don't stop."

"You want a little loving, Daisy Mae?" he asked, and she nodded, a flash of amusement going through her at his misnomer of her for her role in the play. His hands moved lightly down over her ribcage and for a while stroked her flanks with a touch that was not quite a tickle but which in any case centered its circling about the twin magic spots that always added to her body's wants. She arched herself out like a cat fresh in from the cold and moved her shoulders about on his hardness, imagining it in her hands. Soon he spanned her waist and urged her to stand. She obeyed him like a doll, knowing he would not disappoint her. He turned her about and, holding her in his arms, embraced her with never-still hands that covered every last tingling inch of her bare back, then moved again to her belly and breasts till she hung from him weakly, a vessel of want. Now he began to kiss her, nipping her earlobes, spooning his tongue into her orifices until each warm laving sent a wave of heady warmth through her. He gently kissed her closed eyelids, the curve of neck and shoulder, her throat, the dimples of her cheeks and chin, the sides of her nose. His hot and steady breath thrilled her with its own caress and she let herself hang laxly, borne up only by the flexing flow of lusting life he was molding into her with his kneading hands. She floated in a sea of sensuality, lived only a now-life of longing. Presently she felt her bare foot being raised and placed upon the soft worn-cushioned top of the dressing table stool, and then his warm large hands clasped her ass and lifted until she stood on it. Tremblingly eager for the return of his touch, she waited as he carefully slid the ragged skirt down her legs then inched her briefs down until the back of them slipped beneath her curving buttocks and the front excitingly pressed its tight edge across the strong columns of her upper thighs and the protruding muscled mound between them.