Jerry Milner: Vacation swap

His aunt recovered more quickly. She sat up and brushed back her hair, leaned down and kissed him, and said, "I'm going to take a little nap now. You take a nice shower, go out to the freezer and get some steaks thawing, and clean the barbecue so we can use it for dinner tonight."

"I can't move. I think I broke something inside."

"Oh, nonsense. There's nothing at all wrong with you," she said, and taking him by his cock, she led him loudly protesting into his bathroom, thrust him inside his shower stall and turned on the cold water. He was squealing and leaping about when she went smiling and yawning to her borrowed bed.

By the time dinner was started on the East Coast, dinner was done with and the dishes were washed and put away in Oregon. Howard and Marge sat looking at Jayne's TV. When he could no longer stand it, Howard yawned with studied carelessness and said, "Guess I'll take the pickup into town and teach these yokels the fine points of shootin' pool. It's really a sleazy liar they got there, really rough, not very clean, but you're sure welcome to come with me, Marge."

"No, you go on and have a good time. I'll just sit here and look at the late show," she said, smiling sweetly at her husband, stroking the ears of the big black dog lying beside the couch.

Alone in the house with the dog then, Marge found she was unable to draw a deep breath or form a clear thought in her head. The television might just as well have been turned off. Not only her cunt, but her thighs and her tits and her buttocks all felt swollen and sweaty and hot. She couldn't stand it. "I might have picked up a rash," she said, and got up from the couch and went into her sister-in-law's bedroom, glancing back over her shoulder, scurrying faster as she saw the big dog lumbering along at her heels.

In front of Jayne's full length mirror, she shook her finger at the dog, saying, "You just sit there while I see how bad this rash is."

He obediently stayed where he was. Unable to draw a decent breath, Marge hiked up her skirt and took off her panties, then held her skirt up high while she made several slow turns, inspecting herself as she stood between the dog and the mirror. Her skin was slightly, attractively flushed, but not broken out in a rash. The roseate glow was most pronounced around her cunt, which she closely inspected as she stood before the dog with her skirt held up by her elbows and her trembling hands spreading her thighs.

"Does it look like I've got poison ivy, Trigger? Or some kind of a rash?"

Howard sped through the night in the pickup, and stopped at the Iron Door. The place was populated by a dozen or so Oregonian red-necks, whom Howard scornfully disdained, and by a woman so spectacular that he hadn't at all appreciated her when he'd seen her the night before.

She had to be five foot ten in her stocking feet, though that was hard to tell, for she was wearing stilt-heeled black shoes. She was always on the move, in her languid, voluptuous way. Her mesh-covered legs alone looked five feet tall. They looked wonderfully firm though slightly heavy, but legs such as those needed some girth to contain so many sculptured curves.

She had on another little doily of a skirt, on this night a black one, and under it she wore scarlet panties that were all abulge with fantastic goodies to be glimpsed each time she moved. Her tits were not to be glimpsed. They were to be stared at, lusted for, as they strained at the low-cut peasant blouse she had on. Perhaps the narrowness of her waist made her tits and her hips look so impressively, beautifully large, but whatever it was, Howard stared.

Her hair was flame-red, piled up in a tower of curls cascading down around her long, oval face. Her face was richly, almost professionally made up with glossy crimson lipstick and deep purple eye shadow, jet black eye liner and sharply drawn, arching eyebrow pencil. The long fingers that carried beer to bucolic pigs were tipped with red-lacquered fingernails that sent chills up and down Howard's spine each time he looked at them.

There was a lot to look at. Howard saw as much as he could from the vantage point of the end of the bar, nursing beer after beer, increasingly scornful of the regular patrons who paid her so little attention, coolly massaging his cock to keep it thick and ready for any possibility that might arise.

He learned her name was Dottie, and that she owned the place. He saw for himself she was quite good at eight-ball, though of course not as good as himself, known as the Plymouth Plunker in his home town.

Beer drinkers came and went, as did pool shooters. Experienced, sophisticated admirers of feminine beauty, such as Howard, stayed on. Sooner or later she had to notice his quiet appreciation of her many charms, and sure enough, at about eleven o'clock, she did.

There were only a couple of Oregonian rednecks left at the bar by then, and they were awash with the local brew and had been taken by Dottie for all their residual funds at either eight-ball or poker dice. She yawned and looked Howard over, thickening an erection that had dwindled some in the past half hour. She breathed a deep, longing sigh, and Howard's cock kept pace with the pneumatic swelling of her tits. When she started sauntering, hip-swinging over to him, his cock was as hard as a rock and was oozing wetness again.

"Want to play with me?" she said.

He looked straight at her tits. He put on his crooked, Errol Flynn grin and said, "I, uh-h-h, sure! Pool? Eight-ball? Anything you like."

She decided on dice. It wasn't your ordinary poker-dice. It was some weird game they played only in Oregon, it seemed, perhaps only very locally. Howard steadily lost, though he scarcely noticed that, so fascinated was he by watching the jigglings of Dottie's tits every time she shook the dice. By closing time he was down over sixty dollars.

"I got more," he said. "I got a pocketful of traveler's checks. I'll kick those drunks out for you and we'll lock up and play pool for… for…" he couldn't keep from looking at her tits, "… for any stakes you like."

She pursed her hot, crimson lips, and she yawned. She inspected his traveler's checks and tossed them back on the bar, saying, "I'd sure like to take you for all you have, Howard, but I'd have a hard time explaining it to your old lady, who's prob'ly pacing around your motel waiting for you. Go home to her. You're not about to get anything from me."

"Shit, I'm not out here on vacation!" Howard hotly said. "I'm out here gettin' my sister's business in shape while she's screwin' off back East. Maybe you know her, Jayne Bowers. And I didn't come out here with a wife! I'm free, white and twenty-one and then some, and if you think you can beat me in a man's game, get your gold-plated ass up on the pool table and let's go!"

"Jayne Bowers? She's your sister?"

"Betcher sweet platinum-plated butt she is! Now I'm gonna ask those two gentlemen to leave, and then we're gonna play, my traveler's checks against… against whatever you say."

"Ooo," she said, and hugged herself, vastly deepening the cleavage between her tits, and then she visibly shuddered and smoothed her red taloned hands down over her magnificently voluptuous hourglass shape.

Howard watched, panting, cock throbbing hot through the pocket of his pants, while Dottie grabbed the closest of the two drunks and threw him out. One paused at the door to leer at Howard and say, "You'll be sor-r-ry!"

The door clanged closed and was bolted. The displaced Las Vegas showgirl came over to Howard and clasped his cheeks in her hands. "Are you sure you're Jayne's brother?" she said.

"Hell, yes! I used to change her diapers! I started her off in the flower business! I taught her all she knows!"

"Then let's go upstairs to my apartment, and have a real nice little private game."