I saw my stepdaughter, Ashleigh, off through security on the Sunday morning following Thanksgiving. My wife and her ex-husband share joint custody of the adorable little thirteen-year old, and as they live in different states these days, Ashleigh lives with her father and his wife during the school year, and stays with her mother – my wife – and me during every holiday and vacation. The long summer vacation provides us all an ample opportunity to relax and develop a family routine, but the holiday breaks are always such a rush. During those, Ashleigh lives out of her suitcase.
With Thanksgiving behind us, I had begun to feel the pressure of preparing for the Christmas holiday. Thanksgiving had fallen on the 24th this year, today was the 27th, leaving me twenty eight days till Christmas Eve, inclusive. Barely enough time, if I was to reach my goal. But with diligence, it would be time enough.
Considering this sense of time pressure, you might wonder why I volunteered to take two hours on a holiday-season Sunday to get Ashleigh to the airport, rather than leaving the time-consuming chore to her own mother. You might also wonder why I lingered outside security, as the cute little seventh-grader wended her way slowly but surely through the rope-maze leading up to the security checkpoint, along with about a hundred other holiday travelers.
Well, the answers to both these questions lie in the fact that neither decision was likely to hinder my project; my time pressure was self-imposed, and both choices would in fact support my endeavors immensely.
First, I had volunteered to drive Ashleigh to the regional airport so that I would have time alone with her suitcase when I put it in the trunk. While she dawdled inside, saying goodbye to her mother, her aunt, and other relatives, I had rummaged through the bag and secured a treasure indeed: a pair of just-worn panties, which the abbreviated vacation had not allowed my wife to launder, and which sported a yellowing, drying crust where yesterday the gusset had been pressed into her adolescent crease.
Alone in the garage with my prize, I re-zipped her suitcase, pocketed the panties, and slammed the trunk shut. Then, unable to resist, I extracted the cute little cotton skivvies from their hiding place to press them into my face, and inhale. Exquisite: musky, tangy, erotic. And if the tip of my nose, which was buried in the pubic panel, didn't deceive me, they were still moist with the mucous of yesterday's juvenile discharge.
I was tempted, of course, to lick that ambrosia right off the fabric, as I had on so many occasions during her three-month stay last summer, but today I mastered myself. Those leavings were too precious, and too important to the cause, to squander in such a short-sighted (but delightful) self-indulgence.
So now you understand why I volunteered to take Ashleigh to the airport – it was the only way, given the hectic household, to secure her poon-infused underpants before she left for the next several weeks. But why, you might still ask, was I also wasting time at the airport, after Ashleigh was already on her way?
The answer to this second question lay in the sweet little outfit Ashleigh wore. She had changed right before handing over the suitcase and commencing her good-byes, so although my digital camera was already loaded with imagery, both in still shots and video, of the 80-pound darling's weekend (some taken with her knowledge, others not so much), this additional chapter was just too sexy to leave out. Therefore, as she slowly moved through the line, I surreptitiously operated the camera strung around my neck on its long strap, taking several dozen photos and several minute's worth of video, all without Ashleigh or anyone else being any the wiser. Thank goodness for those rotate-able view-screens!
First, I captured the young teen smiling sweetly at me, and waving goodbye. Her curly, honey-brown hair cascaded over her shoulders, but left visible her budding breasts, which poked coyly out against the ribbed material of her light top – a top, incidentally, that she had chosen to wear on this brisk November day, despite the fact that it left her midriff exposed. Her tanned, tiny waist flared gently into pre-woman hips, themselves made partially bare by her low-riding pants; the waistband of baby-blue panties peeked out above these, decorating her protruding hipbones and accentuating the flatness of her nearly-concave thirteen-year old tummy.
By now, I was covertly using the camera's powerful zoom capability to focus in on her nubile midsection, just in time to capture the turn that presented her buttocks to my lens. I mentioned that her pants were low-riding. I don't really know what to call those pants. From the material, a fleecy sort of thing, I would say that they were sweatpants, but not from the cut, which was tight enough to separate her cute, spherical buns into competing globes. The material was pink, and her light blue panties peeked out even further in this rear view. But the most interesting thing about those pink pants to me was their message, described in appliqué lettering across the rise of her rump. "FLIRT!" was spelled out in a two-inch high, sparkling, cartoonish font that would have drawn my eye were it used on a mortgage company's billboard; imagine its attention-grabbing lure when scrawled across my sexy stepdaughter's sweet little bottom!
I got an excellent 30-second video clip, focused right on her astonishing little ass, as she impatiently shifted her weight from side to side. This motion caused her buns – and their coquettish caption – to undulate up and down, back and forth, side to side. This clip would definitely help me succeed in my project, and it was for its sake that I lingered at airport security, no matter how long it might delay me.
Once home, I postponed my pleasure, in order to make some progress on my more public Christmas preparations. I am happy to say that I was able to string all of our outdoor lights that afternoon.
That evening my wife, exhausted from her Thanksgiving labors and numerous guests, retired early. I retired to my study, to continue my Christmas preparations, now of the more personal sort.
Downloading the massive data card I had filled over the weekend, I proceeded to sort, edit, crop, and save the family history. First, I divided the photos into an "official" and a decidedly "unofficial" folder. The first included the entire clan at the Thursday feast, a variety of candid and set-shot images of all of our guests, including young Ashleigh. This folder was stored on the family network server, so that my wife could enjoy them, too.
The second folder included only "special" shots of my stepdaughter Ashleigh, and it was hidden, password-encoded, and kept on my personal hard drive.
I spent the next two hours sorting, selecting, resizing, and cropping these to my heart's content. I also worked on the video files, editing nice little segments to save separately. I have gotten pretty good at this, and my "Ashleigh folder," initiated only this past summer, has swelled to almost forty gigabytes of photos and videos, some of them quite breathtaking. It's amazing how much you can collect, secretly, when you get to live with an adorable moppet for an entire summer, especially when you happen to have a swimming pool. It also helps when, like me, you are already well-known as a shutterbug vis-à-vis more legitimate subjects and purposes. That way, your ever-present camera arouses no suspicion.
Among other things, I had documented the growth of my stepdaughter's breasts, from walnuts to apricots, over the course of the summer. Now, I added a November update, which unfortunately did not include bikini shots for a perfect comparison; nonetheless, it was clear that they had by now grown into mouthwatering peaches. What a miraculous age thirteen is!
Further, I had an assortment of excellently cropped images of Ashleigh's fat little mons, swelling within shorts, bikinis, and even underpants (we're an informal family, after all, during the summer months.) These are hard to capture perfectly, of course, while maintaining your cover, but given the hundreds of photos I had taken over the warm months, I was able to glean several that exhibited that ideal, split-bulb shape so aptly called a "camel-toe." Those masterpieces were segregated into their own special subfolder, for I found them "handy" whenever I wanted to give myself some relief.
Speaking of hands, while one of mine had spent the past two hours working my mouse and keyboard, sorting, sifting and editing my collection before my avid gaze, the other had spent the same period slowly stroking at my cock, which was by now a dark, angry red and seeping pre-cum. I had prolonged my pleasure long enough. It was time to move forward.
Taking a few seconds to ensure I had everything I needed for my "project," I selected the "film of the day." I had prepared an excellent twelve-second video loop, taken from that afternoon's shooting, and it was with this that I decided to resolve my need. When I double-clicked the file, it filled my 19-inch flat panel screen and began to play. With my right hand, I proceeded to steadily stroke my prick, from base to tip, running my thumb across the piss-slit at the end of every pull.
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