J. Bradley: Raped by brother

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J. Bradley Raped by brother
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    Raped by brother
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    Эротика, Секс / на английском языке
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J. S. Bradley

Raped by brother


Monica Sanderhoff walked barefoot over the springy runners of St. Augustine grass toward the edge of the big yard. She paused in front of the bougainvillea arbor that nearly concealed the presence of the high school wall behind it.

She wore her white bikini. The little triangles of clinging material snugged against the weight of her full tits, holding the ripe balls of flesh high and wide and letting the rubbery bumps of her nipples show plainly.

The panties were molded around her firm, rounded asscheeks and smooth flanks. They were damp from her dip in the Gulf just a few moments ago, and the material dipped into her deep asscrack. It pulled snugly at the lips of her puffy, virginal pussy, and the sensations against her cunt as she walked made the dampness at her crotch increase shamefully.

A sexual throb went through her flat tummy at the thought of what she was about to do, just the way it always happened, and she felt another charge of warm, slippery cunt honey seep from her pussy mouth into the crotchband.

She shivered slightly and stopped in front of the arbor, hugging her breasts in a furtive way. She turned around and shaded her eyes from the afternoon sun, which was over the Gulf now. She held small pruning scissors in her hand, and it should be clear to anyone watching that she'd come to clip some of the bougainvillea blooms.

The stucco wall at the edge of the yard went in a straight line toward the Gulf. It became a nearly solid barrier of thick timbers bolted to treated pilings driven solidly into the beach.

The massive jetty reached nearly two hundred yards into the shallow water. It provided a perch for pelicans and seagulls, a haven for small fish, a barrier to beach erosion, and an effective deterrent to anyone who tried to enter within the limits of her grandfather's estate.

The other side of the large yard was also wailed. The front was walled against the quiet street. There was a gate of iron grillwork across the driveway, but the little guardhouse to the side was unoccupied, now that the lock and the motors that opened the gate were operated by remote control.

The grounds were immaculate and planted with lush islands of palms and tropical exotics. One island made a visual barrier between the street and the entire interior of the Sanderhoff estate.

The straight lines of the stucco walls were cleverly camouflaged by the sinuous borders of the thick tropical growth. The atmosphere of insulation from the outside world was complete – except for the open stretch of beach on the Gulf, where passing boaters could gape and gawk into the private domain of long-retired oil magnate, Galt Sanderhoff.

Monica stood erectly in the slanting rays of the sun. Her smooth skin was tanned to a golden toast. Her auburn hair was sun-bleached and showed hints of coppery highlights.

Her lips were full and sensual, her cheekbones high, her eyes large and of a startling indigo. When she posed in front of the mirror at a certain angle, she looked just like the pictures of her mother, even though Monica was only fifteen and the pictures had been taken eleven years ago, the month before her mother was murdered.

Monica let her eyes scan over the big yard and the big house. She searched the veranda, the perimeter of the building and the triple garage to the side. She searched each window, but she saw no one watching her, keeping guard over her.

Just in case, however, she began clipping blooms from the showy vine and laying them in the grass. When she had entered into the screen of growth far enough to feel hidden, she dropped the pruning scissors into the sandy soil and squirmed fully behind the cover of the dense foliage.

She looked straight up along the massive solidity of the eight-foot wall and felt her heart begin pounding again. A rush of tingling heat swept through her and made the tips of her tits tingle and throb inside her halter.

She felt her pussy lips swell and pulse and grow fatter inside her panties. She could feel the whole length of her silky, virginal pussy tunnel squirm and writhe wetly. She pressed the soft length of her full body against the coolness of the stucco and let out a small moan.

The breathtaking tingles were getting worse and worse. It was as if some dread force had crept into her being and was taking control of her.

It made her do irrational, unheard-of things, such as she was about to do now. It made her feel emotions she knew in some way that her grandfather was quietly in fear of. And she knew the strange, scary, wondrous sensations rippling through her young body were responsible for the way he'd practically tripled the guard over her in the past year.

She wasn't exactly sure why she wasn't allowed away from the estate except to go to school. She had the feeling the restrictions had something to do with the way her mother had been murdered so long ago, but she didn't even know the full story of that, yet.

Whit knew, but he wouldn't tell her. Her brother was a brat. A trouble-making, nineteen-year-old brat. He got to go out alone. He even had his own car to drive around.

One of them took her everywhere. She wasn't allowed to go from the estate with Christine, even – Chester's wife, who did the cooking and cleaning and who had become her surrogate mother over the years.

Always one of the men. Sometimes Whit, but only in the daytime with him, and only after very close questioning by their grandfather, which always made Whit rant around like a brat and back-talk the old man in a way she wouldn't dare do.

The hassle they had to go through to get permission to go to a movie or somewhere just wasn't worth it any more, and she hadn't been out with Whit for a long time.

She'd thought of rebelling and carrying on the way Whit did. But that wasn't her. And she felt it wouldn't do any good anyway – because she was a girl. She knew in her heart that was part of the reason Whit had some freedom and she had none, that it wasn't all just because of the difference in their ages.

She was a girl, all right. The throbbing in her firm breasts and the tingling of her leaking pussy told her that.

The way Burke Hammond looked at her in school told her that, too.

Monica closed her eyes and drew forth an image of him. He had sandy hair, a good build, a tanned, outdoorsy way about him that was clean and good. When he smiled at her and talked to hem she felt as if she would melt all over, and she'd have to change her panties when she got home because of the slippery wetness that leaked from her thrilled pussy.

She moaned softly again and cupped her twat tightly with her hand, feeling it throb and tinge unbearably. Then she heard a soft whistle come over the stucco wall, and her heard pounded like a jackhammer.

She whistled back, softly and furtively, and she nearly leaped onto the arbor, curling her toes around the cypress, strips, climbing it swiftly. Her round buttocks flattened and slid against the wall as she went up and turned and bellied cautiously over the top of the wall, and her full tits nearly spilled from the halter.

She looked down and saw him standing there behind a thick clump of big-leaved seagrapes. He smiled in his handsome way and lifted his arms, urging her over the wall.

Monica scanned the vacant lot first. Louis sometimes cleaned up the vegetative litter, and it would never do to have him see her escaping the estate this way.

There was a waving stand of sea oats at the high tide mark, solitary palms curving gracefully against the Gulf and sky. There were dense clumps of seagrapes, palmettos, sturdy hibiscus shrubs, and feathery Australian pines. There were No Trespassing signs on the fences facing the street to discourage bathers, but they were not totally effective. Her grandfather owned this lot and the one on the other side of the mansion. He'd bought them long ago to keep anyone from building next to him.

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