Brad Harris - Warming up for brother

"Easy, little girl," he soothed in her ear. "Your ass can take it!"

He held her against his cock with his hand over her pussy, one finger reaching deep inside her. She tried to pull her ass from his prick without success. The hard rod continued its steady drive deeper and deeper into her. Cammy tried to relax her ass.

"That's better," Dustin assured her as his cock was buried between her buttocks. "That does it. Relax, baby. I'm in there now. Time for fun!"

His finger pumped in her pussy, knuckles dragging across her clit until she was again shuddering. Her cunt contracted around the taunting finger. Her tits swelled into his hand which fondled them so firmly, so thoroughly. She felt him slowly begin to pump his cock. Cammy held her breath, surprised that she had adjusted so well. She gave in to his taunting, teasing caresses.

She rode with him as he increased the tempo of his fuck.

"Ooooooeeee!" she shrieked when his cock finally began to shudder inside her. "Let it go! Fill me up! Come on! Fuck me! Fuck me!"

She felt briefly again that he was about to tear her ass apart. She felt it when he finally unloaded his cock in her. The warm cum spurted into her asshole and she shuddered, then exploded into her own powerful orgasm.

"Ooooooeeee!" she cried. "Fuck me! That's great! Give it to me! Fuck me till my ass falls off!"

"I can trust you to stay out of trouble, can't I?" Yvonne asked Cammy as they walked down Chartres Street. Around them the noisy crowds of tourists and French Quarter types moved along the narrow street, in and out of the shops. Cammy looked up at the beautiful woman and smiled. Trouble? After yesterday afternoon? Hell, yes. The last thing in the world that interested her right now was a hard piece of cock. Her body was still sore from that gang-fuck. Her ass, especially, was still sore from the reaming Dustin gave it.

"I'LI be all right," the girl assured her. "You worry about yourself, the way you look today." She was right. Yvonne had never seemed more beautiful. Her hot pink dress showed off her black hair, her dark brown eyes, her fabulous body. It was Yvonne who could get in trouble the way she was dressed. Especially in the French Quarter.

This was the first time Cammy had come with her sister-in-law to New Orleans. She'd gone any number of limes, maybe two or three trips a month, with Antoine Gilbert. There was a special magic, though, in coming with Yvonne. The dark-haired beauty seemed to belong in New Orleans. She had lived there for several years before she married Gilbert. Yvonne knew all about the quarter, knew many of the shop owners and artists. Cammy felt important as she walked beside Yvonne and watched the men eye them both.

"It will take me a couple of hours to finish my business," the older girl said. "Have, fun, then, and meet me in the coffee shop later."

The luscious woman turned down Toulouse Street and walked away briskly. Cammy watched her long, slender legs, her softly swinging ass, her long, beautiful black hair. Damn, she was beautiful! What business did she have? No one ever said. Yvonne made her periodic trips to New Orleans on business, but the exact nature of the business was always kept secret. Cammy had sometimes imagined that the lovely woman was a spy, a CIA agent, something like that. She sure as hell knew everybody of importance in Louisiana.

That's her business, Cammy insisted to herself. She walked on toward Jackson Square, thinking of watching some of the artists hawking their paintings along the fence. She'd watched one before who painted with both hands at once. He would take a large board and paint a bayou scene with both hands, then cut it up and sell it piecemeal.

She paused at the corner of the Pontalba Apartments where Yvonne had lived. That always seemed a little strange to the young woman. She'd heard that the apartments were expensive, that they were generally reserved for important political people. How had Yvonne managed to get in the middle of that?

Yvonne again! Cammy insisted to herself that she wasn't going to think any more of her sister-in-law until time to meet her. She walked around the square, looking idly at the constantly repeated scenes of the French Quarter. It seemed as though all the artists painted the same thing. They might be different sizes, in different frames, but they were all of maybe a dozen different scenes. They must paint them aver and over, too. She recognized one gray-haired painter from another visit. He was displaying the same eight paintings she had seen before.

"Portrait?" a cheerful voice called out to her. "Do your portrait?"

She looked up at the huge man. He was bald, but had a full red beard. His blue eyes sparkled down at her. He smiled warmly at her. With his hands spread in an attitude of helplessness, he pleaded with her.

"You made me fall in love with you," he told her. "So you have to let me paint your portrait. You walked right into my life just then. You can't walk right out again, not without letting me paint you."

Cammy laughed at him. Their eyes met in a sparkle of good humor. He looked up and down her body in total appreciation. The girl shivered in delight at the way he looked her over. She was just a bit sorry she hadn't worn some outfit like Yvonne's. She had on a simple blouse and slacks and still he looked at her like she was the most gorgeous woman he'd ever seen.

"Na money," she laughed, spreading her hands as helplessly as he had spread his. "Sorry."

"So what's money?" he asked. "I didn't ask you to buy a portrait, did I? I asked you to let me paint your portrait. That way I have something to remember you by."

Cammy looked over at the display of paintings along the fence. He wasn't bad, to be honest. He wasn't really good, either. His portraits looked like they were copied from photographs in movie magazines. They had no real flair, but they were crisp, clear likenesses. She hesitated, then turned to go.

"It's just too hot to sit here for an hour," she told him and began walking from him. He walked along with her as she left, his eyes still twinkling at her.

"It's cool in my apartment," he told her. "And you can have a glass of wine while you sit."

Afterwards, Cammy was never sure exactly why she agreed. She had promised Yvonne to stay out of trouble, even though the older girl was probably kidding. Still, she would never have normally speed to go to his apartment. Perhaps it was the twinkle in his blue eyes. Perhaps it was the intriguing incongruity between his bald head and the full beard. Perhaps it was just a hidden desire to do something different. For whatever reason, Cammy looked at him a moment, then speed.

"Roger," he smiled, extending his hand. "I'm Roger Braxton."

"Camille Dusseaux," she responded, then walked with him as he led her down St. Ann Street to his apartment in a building between Chartres and Rue Royale. They walked through the gate and entered a small courtyard. Several couples were sitting there sketching. They nodded at Roger and looked Cammy over with approving smiles. She felt their warm gazes as she climbed the stairs with Roger and was ushered into his small, sparsely furnished apartment.

The red-bearded man immediately brought out a bottle of wine and opened it. He gave her a glass and took one himself and stood looking her over with intense study. His eyes towed honest appreciation as they raved over her curves. He didn't seem to be lusting after her, just frankly approving every inch of her. It gave Cammy a delicious feeling to meet with such a gaze from an artist. Roger should know what was beautiful in a woman. He made her foci exquisitely beautiful just the way he looked at her.

"What I'd really like to do," he said, "is to paint you in the nude. You know, do some figure studies on you. I don't get many chances to sketch a body as perfect as yours. You wouldn't mind, would you?"