Aunt Rose Returns
Chapter 1: The Arrival

Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Consensual, Romantic, Reluctant, BiSexual, Cheating, Incest, Aunt, Nephew, Anal Sex, Masturbation, Size, Big Breasts, Transformation,

Desc: Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1: The Arrival - Rose comes home after many years to find that her nephew has grown into a man. After her ex-husband unlocks her inhibitions, she opens herself up to new sexual adventures -- with her nephew and someone close to him.

As the taxi sped through the downtown streets of Northridge, the blonde woman leaned forward anxiously in the rear seat, kneading her handbag with nervous fingers. She stared out at the familiar and yet strange streets and buildings of Northridge—a town in which she had been born thirty-eight years before, and which she had not seen in eight years.

The taxi driver glanced furtively at her from time to time in his rear view mirror. He had caught a glimpse of her lush body as she'd entered the taxi, and was anxious to see more. This male interest was not unusual. Rose Clark was a beautiful, poised woman with the ripe figure of a young girl: her breasts were large, firm and perfectly rounded, and her thighs, visible where the hem of her short, ice-blue dress hiked up, were firm and tanned, tapering into dimpled knees and slender ankles. Her hips curved provocatively and her rounded buttocks moved involuntarily on the seat in her agitated state, and she kept moistening full, naturally pink lips with the tip of her small, wet tongue. Her face was soft and lovely, and yet it contained a certain gaunt quality that was mirrored by her large, expressive blue eyes; once filled with laughter and gaiety, those eyes now contained a hidden pain and torment that was deeply rooted.

Rose wondered again—as she had done for perhaps the hundredth time in the past week—if she wasn't making another mistake, an even bigger mistake than the one she had made eight years ago, in coming home again. Maybe it would have been better if she had remained in Chicago, if she had simply abandoned all hope for a return to normalcy and spent the rest of her life living alone with her guilt and her shame. But that was not the answer, she knew that—any more than suicide, of which she had thought on more than one occasion, was an answer. No, she owed it to Paul and to Art – her former husband — as well as to herself, to try to make amends for what she had done, for her weakness.

Rose's mind wandered back those eight years as it had during so many waking hours recently, to the night she learned of the death of her sister and husband, killed simultaneously in a hideous auto accident; to the state of deep depression she had entered, unable to offer solace to her nephew – their only nephew – whom they had taken in following the death of his parents. It was the worst experience of her life – more terrible even than the death of her sister and brother-in-law. She was ashamed to admit that her depression felt worse than those deaths but it was true. She was in a state that bore no resemblance to anything she had experienced before — not just feeling very low, depressed in the commonly used sense of the word – she was seriously ill. She was totally self-involved, negative and thought about suicide most of the time. She just wanted to remain curled up in bed all day. Sleep was impossible without sleeping pills.

Her husband, Art, didn't know what to make of her being depressed and told colleagues and friends instead that she was exhausted from a minor heart condition. He was worried that if the truth were known, it would affect the way people viewed her, knowing the stigma still associated with any mental disorders. On the advice of her psychologist, he took her out often, forcing her sometimes to deal socially with other people, something she had no interest in. It all seemed hopeless.

Then she met Hank.

Hank Greenwald was her fourth psychologist. They had chosen him based upon various recommendations after the first three had failed to lift her out of her state. He was a good psychologist, attentive and discerning, and she felt very comfortable telling him her innermost thoughts and secrets. He was also extremely attractive.

At first the attraction was no more than one of a physical nature – a pull toward fine-looking things. And it was mutual. She couldn't really, even now, explain what had been the cause of her growing desire for Hank Greenwald: the doctor/patient relationship, the confiding of secrets, the concern he expressed for her condition, his warm voice, his charm were all a part of it, she supposed. And yet, it was more than that. It was as if she had been slowly changing, becoming something other than a faithful wife and a substitute aunt to her eleven year old nephew Paul; it was as if she knew, intuitively, that there needed to be something wild, thrilling, dangerous, to break her out of her depressive state.

As their attraction mounted, their conversation moved to other subjects – Hank's life, his past, his hopes for the future – and their relationship changed. The attraction was palpable. She couldn't wait for the next session with him. When Greenwald casually suggested they go to lunch one day, her heart had pounded wildly in her breast, because she knew that signaled the break – the transition from psychologist and patient to man and woman; and even though she knew it was wrong, she had said yes to his proposal. She didn't want to go, because she knew where it could lead, yet she did, desperately. They had a wonderful lunch, after which they hugged as they said goodbye – another step.

They began to lunch regularly, going to different places, discreet ones chosen by Hank. Sometimes they went out of town. Occasionally, they took a different route to pass by a lake or other picturesque sight. And then one day Hank suggested they stop to enjoy the view. They stopped on a promontory overlooking the lake, a lonely and deserted spot, beautiful, warm, and calm. And it seemed so natural, so right, when they locked eyes and leaned toward each other. When Hank pulled her into his arms, she had no will to resist.

They kissed for over an hour, their excitement building, their physical contact increasing. His lips and tongue sent passion spiraling in demanding waves through her body, causing her nipples to swell into rigid arousal, her vagina to secrete droplets of her building excitement, and her arms had clung to him as if she never wanted to let him go. She knew they should stop, but she didn't want to, wasn't capable of doing so. But then he had lifted his head and looked deeply into her eyes.

"We should stop," he said. "Or we're going to get carried away."

She wanted to get carried away. But she knew he was right, and within a few minutes they were driving back to town, still a little dazed with excitement.

The car rides became a regular feature – actually substituting for the counseling sessions. Hank scheduled them on afternoons when his secretary was off. Their touches and caresses became bolder, more overtly sexual. She would return from these trips in a state of almost unbearable excitement, often rushing to the bathroom to bury her fingers between her slick labia and bring herself to an exquisite release. Once, her husband Art had been home when she returned – just back from a trip – and she had pulled him onto the couch, her hand reaching down to caress him into hardness, desperate to get something hard into her. They had made love with wildly, her first orgasm coming quickly after he entered her, followed by two more, the second, exquisitely, as he was pumping his seed into her.

And then the day finally came – the day she had yearned for – as she and Hank kissed in the back seat, hands moving over each other's bodies, pressing against each other. And then Hank was drawing her down on the seat, his hands caressing her big, ripe breasts through her flimsy bra, her thighs, further intensifying her arousal, and she had known with a dim part of her mind that there could be no denying him—that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

And then they were lying on the seat, her legs open around him, his hard cock pressing against her aching labia. Greenwald had opened her blouse, unhooked her bra, gasped as her lush breasts came into view, and bent to take her big, erect nipple in his mouth. His right middle finger had teased her through her wet panties, and then pushed them aside, finding her clitoris and then sliding lower and into her hot wet cavern. He pulled back and quickly undid his belt, unhooking his trousers and pulling them off with his underpants, his huge, erect shaft coming into view. Then he was back between her legs, and his penis was in her hand, so hard and thick, filling her with wild delight at its touch, and the prospect of it buried deep up inside her. Rose had been half out of her mind with desire as she guided the palpitating shaft between her aching labia.

Then he was sliding into her, filling her, the head of his burgeoning penis reaching her cervix, and she went wild with the sensations coursing through her flesh. God, his cock had felt so fabulous, so huge and hard, filling her, fucking her hard and deep, driving into her in dizzying strokes that filled the very core of her with ecstasy. Never had it been this good, never, never! Rose locked her thighs around his sweating mid-section, her heels on his driving buttocks as her delight spiraled higher and higher as she moaned out her delight and urged him on to greater strokes into her hot moist cavern.

And then she was there. She was cumming!

She had never cum like that, with such spiraling dizzying waves of bliss as those that washed over her now. She moaned and clutched Hank tighter to her, her hands sliding behind to grasp his buttocks and pull him deeper into her, and then her second climax triggered Hank's own orgasm. His pistoning cock began to ejaculate great hot spurts of cum into her, prolonging her orgasm until she thought she would go insane with rapture.

Then finally, it was over, and their driving bodies were still. Hank's penis pulled from her reluctant passage, and she could feel the deflating member leave a thin trail of thick, hot moisture along the nakedness of her thigh and belly as he rolled off her, pulled her close to him as they lay now on their sides. She could feel his cum dripping down between her buttocks and squeezed them together in delicious anticipation of more to come.

"Oh Hank!" she whispered. "Oh darling, that was wonderful! I never knew it could be like that!"

Their affair had gone on for six blissful weeks, and Rose had never known such happiness, such rapture. A part of her knew that their adulterous affair couldn't go on forever, that she would one day soon have to make a choice between Hank Greenwald and Art and Paul, but she was so giddyingly caught up in the ecstasy and excitement of her secret love affair that she was unable to think rationally. She snapped at Art when he came home and snuck out every opportunity to meet Greenwald. Nothing else mattered, not her home, not her family—nothing except Hank Greenwald deep inside her, his hard penis ejaculating his hot seed deep into her belly again and again and again.

Art found out about the affair at the beginning of the sixth week.

Rose had not been nearly as discreet as she had thought. Many of her meetings with Greenwald had taken place in his hotel on the outskirts of Northridge, but it was a small town. Word had gotten around, and Art had heard it. Shocked and disbelieving, he had confronted Rose with the knowledge in their bedroom as she was slipping on her coat preparing to go out to meet Hank.

At first she hadn't known what to do. Admit her guilt or deny it. Confusion reigned in her. But then even though she did not want to hurt Art, ignoring the pain in his eyes, she had become defiant. Nothing else in this world seemed at that moment to mean as much to her as keeping Hank Greenwald, as prolonging their blissful affair. Yes, she was having an affair, she had told Art. Yes, yes – it had brought her back from the edge and out of her misery. And she loved him.

Art's face had contorted with pain. She had begun to cry, but the defiance remained strong within her, for she had finally admitted to herself as well as to her husband a fact that she had known was true each of the previous six months; she was in love, madly, crazily, blindly in love with Hank Greenwald.

Rose had run out of the house, gotten into her car and called Greenwald. They met at the hotel. She told him everything, about Art finding out, how much she loved him, how much she wanted to be with him and the rest of the world be damned. Greenwald had taken her into his arms, holding her close, calming her, and then he had said, "Don't worry, Rose, we'll be together. We'll figure it out."

Art, in his anger, told Rose to get out. She had obeyed, and moved in with Hank, a deep, perverse glow of happiness within her that far overshadowed the wrongness of what she was doing to Art and to Paul. Art had been drunk when she entered the house and told him she was going away with Hank Greenwald, and he had been maudlin, crying, pleading with her to stay, for Paul's sake and his. She had been oblivious to his entreaties, thinking of Hank, only of Hank, and she had packed everything she wanted to take with her into three suitcases. When she was ready to go, Art was so drunk that he had passed out on the couch.

And then she had picked Paul up, early, from his Boy Scout meeting and taken him home. She explained what was happening, leaving out most of the details, shading the truth. She and Art had grown apart, she explained, and she needed to leave, at least for a while. His young face had clouded with confusion. Her heart had gone out to him. In spite of her feelings for Hank, she still loved her nephew, and she had taken him into her arms and held him tightly, trying to explain to him that she was in love with another man, that it was impossible for her to stay there feeling as she did. But he had been so young then, and he hadn't understood. Anger had flared in him, and he had run sobbing from the room. Rose had taken several steps toward his bedroom, crying a little herself, wanting to go to him, to explain further, but then she remembered Hank Greenwald waiting for her, and she had pivoted abruptly, picked up her bags and left the home she had helped to create for the last time.

Hank took her to Chicago at the end of that week, and her first three months in the huge metropolis had been a merry-go-round of expensive nightclubs and restaurants, parties, wild lovemaking, delirious happiness. She had thought of Art and Paul often in the very beginning, but as her blissful existence with Hank continued, she thought less of her former life, blotting it out of her mind. When she received the notification from Art's lawyer that he had filed for divorce, she experienced a mild pang of regret and guilt, then nothing. The past was behind her; there was only the future now, exhilarating and exciting, the adventure she had always craved and now was embracing completely.

When the divorce was final, she married Hank in a lavish ceremony, attended by dozens of his friends, and they bought a house in Oak Park there. Time seemed to fly by, and Rose had never been happier, more effusive, in her life. Hank had inherited a considerable amount of money when he was younger, and that, coupled with his income as a psychologist, enabled them to live in monumental luxury—to take an extended trip to Europe, to become an integral part of the hectic social whirl of metropolitan Chicago. It was a dream come true for Rose, a Cinderella story.

And then suddenly, it had become instead a nightmare.

She had sensed a cooling of Hank's ardor for her in recent months, but she had attributed this to, simply, the passage of time; after all, they had been together for six years, and the honeymoon couldn't be expected to last forever. She was soon to discover, however, that there was far more to it than that.

Hank began to spend more and more time away from home, to take unexplained trips to distant places without her. Rose refused to believe that he was being unfaithful to her, willfully avoiding the obvious signs. But finally she had confronted him, and he had freely admitted it.

Rose had been crushed at first, refusing to accept the truth, knowing that she had to. Then the bitter irony of it all struck her, for this was the same situation she had placed Art in those years past; now she was the one being cheated on. She tried to go on, nonetheless, to salvage her second marriage.

But it was a disastrous period for her. The change in Hank from a happy carefree lover to a cool, distant stranger frightened her. She had tried reaching out to some of her friends only to discover that she had no real friends at all—that the acquaintances she had made while living with and married to Hank were his friends, his people. She was suddenly completely alone with no one to turn to, nowhere to go.

Completely demoralized, her world collapsed at her feet, Rose had moved out and into a small Chicago apartment five months ago and had remained there until two days ago. Hank had sent her generous checks in the mail, one accompanied with divorce papers. Crying, she had filled them out and returned them immediately. The terms of the divorce included a large payment. She had wanted to refuse, and when the check came, to send the money back to him, to not allow him this one final slap at her pride. But she had no funds of her own, no means of support, and so she had swallowed what was left of her feelings and had cashed the check.

Living alone, seldom going out, she had plenty of time to think—and to repent. She realized that she had made a mistake in destroying the home she and Art had made, in denying his love and that of their nephew Paul, that she had been a fool to think that Hank loved her so much as to want her with him for the rest of their lives. She knew that there had been other women, too, before the one he had admitted to—a long line of women that she had been blind to the existence of during their marriage; and she knew that the only reason Hank had kept her around as long as he had was that he had not found a suitable replacement among those women, not until the redhead came into his life. Oh God! What a terrible romantic, naive fool she had been! She had given up happiness for excitement and adventure, and now that there was no more excitement and adventure, what did she have? Nothing—no husband, no home, not even a nephew any more.

Finally, Rose had reached her decision. She had known that her only hope for salvation for even a glimmer of renewed happiness lay in returning to Northridge. But could she go home? Did she dare face Art again? And Paul? Yes, she dared—she had to dare. It was the only way.

She had written to Art, not able to face the pain of a telephone call, and he had responded immediately with a long-distance call of his own. Rose knew that Art had always loved her, and she had always been able to talk to him. She was still able to talk to him, she discovered, and on the telephone that day she had poured out the entire sad, sordid story, begging at the end of it for forgiveness, begging him to let her come for a visit to see if she could find herself again. Art had been sympathetic and understanding; too many years had passed, he said, for grudges to be held. People made mistakes every day, huge mistakes, and as long as they were willing to admit those mistakes, to seek amends for them, then they should be forgiven.

Paul had been less forgiving when he heard of his aunt's plea to come home. He hadn't wanted her home; he still held firm to a vow he had made never to see her again; this was what Art had reluctantly told Rose in another phone call. But Art had gently worked on the youth's resistance, while Rose waited expectantly in Chicago, not wanting to come unless Paul wanted her, knowing that she wouldn't be able to face him otherwise, and finally Paul had relented. Yes, his aunt could come for a visit. After all, it was his uncle's house, wasn't it? If he wanted her there, then Paul guessed he did too.

Ecstatic, Rose had made all the arrangements and had left yesterday afternoon for Northridge.

Now, as the speeding taxi entered Northridge, nearing Art's home, Rose was once more assailed with doubts, and her nervousness increased. If only Art will forgive me, truly forgive me, she thought fervently, if only he'll accept me again as his love then I'll be able to stay in Northridge and try to put together the shattered pieces of my life. But if he won't, I'll have no choice but to leave again, return to Chicago and never see Art or Paul or Northridge again. There'll be no hope then, no happiness, no future at all for Rose Clark.

In the huge beam-ceilinged living room, Art Jameson paced nervously, casting glances at his watch. He was a tall, muscular man with dark brown hair; his skin was brown from many hours in the sun, and his dark eyes contained traces of humor and good nature, and now, worry and apprehension. His lean, corded body was encased in a white polo shirt and beige slacks and tennis shoes on this day.

Sitting on the couch before the stone and mortar fireplace at one end of the room, his nephew Paul tried to act nonchalant. He was taller than his uncle but with the same general build, and his facial structure favored his father's side of the family so that there was a superficial resemblance between him and Art. His dark hair was worn similarly as well, though longer, and his eyes were an intense greenish-brown under thick brows that made him took older than his eighteen years. His handsomeness, however, was more boyish than distinguished as was Art Jameson's.

Art paced nervously. He had thought of Rose continually for the past eight years since she had left, and while his feelings toward her at first had been extremely bitter — and had later changed to sadness and curiosity and perhaps a little pity — he knew that there was more to it than that, that deep-down he was still in love with her, just as he had been from the first time he'd met her those many years ago. Art still felt that strong emotional and physical desire for Rose. There had not been many women in his life since Rose had left. Only occasionally, when the need became too great would he seek out a bed-partner for an evening, and when that happened, it was only for a single evening. No other woman, with the exception of Rose, had ever had a deep meaningful effect on Art.

The thoughts revolving in young Paul Jameson's mind were those of doubt and youthfully irrational hatred which had had eight years to grow and become firmly implanted — and yet, ambivalently, there was also a remembrance of the love he'd once felt for his aunt, the adoration of her beauty and her gentleness which had never been totally destroyed by the hatred. Now, with the passage of eight years' time, Paul recalled many of the good things of his relationship with his aunt — things which he had automatically blocked out of his mind as he had heaped the full blame for the destruction of his home — and then for his father's death — on her shoulders.

Paul twisted uncomfortably on the couch, finally got to his feet and went to the window and looked out. The street, visible through the front yard shrubbery, was deserted. He turned away, facing his uncle.

Art looked at him kindly and smiled. "Nervous, Paul?" he asked.

Paul started to deny it then shrugged and sighed. "Yeah, I guess I am, Uncle Art."

"It will be all right, you'll see."

"I don't know," Paul said. "I hope so."

"Just remember that she's your aunt and that in spite of everything, she loves you. She told me that more than once on the telephone, Paul."

"She sure has a funny way of proving her love," Paul said bitterly.

The handsome youth worried his lower lip, turning back to the window. There was movement on the street now, a car — a taxicab — was drawing up in front of the house. Paul felt a knot form in his throat, and he choked it down. "She's here," he whispered.

Art looked out of the window then put a reassuring hand on his nephew's shoulder, his own anxiousness thinly concealed on his face. "Let's go out and meet her, shall we?"


Art opened the door and the two of them stepped out onto the flagstone porch area in front. They saw the blonde woman emerge from the taxi, saw the vehicle drive away, and then she was coming through the front gate carrying a single suitcase in her hand, her steps slow and hesitant. As she approached, Art felt his heart thudding in his chest at the initial sight of Rose after eight years' time. She was still beautiful, the years had been kind to her firm ripe body, and her long legs were gorgeous beneath the blue dress she wore. Art's throat was dry, and there was a curious fluttering sensation in the pit of his stomach.

Paul seemed to be frozen immobile by the figure of his aunt. The teenage youth was torn between a sudden impulsive urge to turn and rush back into the house — and an equally strong impulse to step forward, greet his aunt, rush into her arms as he used to do as a child. Suddenly, with crystal clarity, he knew that he couldn't, wouldn't reject his aunt — that she had been hurt enough, that she did need help and understanding.

Rose saw the two men standing on the porch ahead, and her step faltered, slowed even more. Then she regained her stride, her eyes wide and shining, and moved toward them. As she drew closer her eyes fell on Paul, and she was startled. Paul? she thought. Oh my God, Paul? Is that really you? You were such an awkward little boy when I left, and now you're grown up, a man, a tall and handsome man. You look like Art, like Art and Art. Oh Paul, Paul.

When Rose reached the porch, she stopped, looking up at the two men there, and she could feel tears forming in her eyes. Then Art stepped forward and took the suitcase gently out of Rose's fingers. Then softly he said, "Hello Rose, it's good to have you back."

It was as if those words were a switch reactivating machines that had abruptly come to a standstill. Rose stepped forward, and as she did, Paul also moved toward her. Then, with a rush, Rose had flung herself into the arms of Art and Paul, crying openly and unashamedly, holding to both of them as if she never wanted to let them go, saying, "Art, Paul," over and over again. And they held her, both of them, and over her soft blonde hair, Art met Paul's eyes, saw the compassion in them, the glimmer of returning love, and he knew that everything was going to be all right.

Rose whispered softly then, lifting her head and looking at each of them in turn, "I'm glad I came, I'm so glad I came home."

Once Rose's things had been put away in the spare bedroom, and she had freshened up after her long journey, the three of them sat on the patio, where it was cooler, and drank iced lemonade, which Art made in two large pitchers. There had not been much said since the tearful reunion on the porch, for a shy awkwardness still existed between the three; but there was no more tension, and each knew that it was only a matter of time before they could be easy and natural with one another.

Rose found herself looking again and again at the handsome face of her nephew, and she felt a deep ache of pride and love and hope each time. Rose sipped at her lemonade, truly at peace for the first time in long, torturous months, and let her gaze wander over the rear yard of their home. She had forgotten just how pleasant and comfortable it was. In addition to the large kidney — shaped pool, the patio, and a good-sized dressing cabana on the far side, there was a large expanse of cushiony green lawn, a landscaped rock garden, even a small fountain which seemed to draw birds of several different varieties, their chattering and fluttering filling the quiet afternoon air. The porch behind them was large, with windows facing out on the pool that were covered by rattan curtains, and off on their left was an impressive stone-and-mortar barbecue which Art had built himself and of which he was inordinately proud.

Art barbecued some steaks for dinner. He had opened some wine and they sipped it as they got dinner together. Standing by the barbecue, watching Rose move to the table with the salad, Art was struck by her beauty — a beauty that pain and anguish could never truly mar. The sight of her, the sinuous way her hips and breasts and thighs moved beneath her dress when she walked, stirred embers in him which had been too long cold, desires that were at once deeply emotional and definitely physical. He was touched at the very core of him by her unaffected sensuality, and there was a building fire in his loins, the fire of burning need. God, he wanted Rose! He wanted to possess her body, to hold her close, to whisper soft words into her ear, to caress her and to love her.

After dinner, they moved to the living room. Paul built a crackling fire with pine logs in the stone-and-mortar fireplace, and when it was warm and cheery in the large room, he turned the lights down. They sat in quiet contentment before the blaze for a time, not speaking, thinking their own thoughts as darkness blanketed the house outside and crickets and tree frogs began singing in the shrubbery and grasses.

The days passed quickly, and they settled into a routine. Art had shown Rose into the spare bedroom, and there she had remained. Neither of them had raised the subject of their future relationship – were they to be friends? Lovers? Would they get married again? All these questions lingered. But neither of them wanted to rush things. There was a real sensitivity to Paul's feelings, as well as a desire to avoid hasty decisions that could doom the still-fragile reconciliation.

Every evening after dinner the three of them gathered in the living room, around the fire, Art and Rose with their wine. They discussed a wide variety of subjects, but mostly each other, catching up after so many years. Paul told his aunt about his plans to enter the State University next fall, hopefully on a scholarship, and to study Engineering; that he had a girlfriend named Michelle Manson, who was beautiful, and that things were serious between them.

One Saturday evening, as they sat talking, the doorbell rang.

Art frowned, glanced at his watch; it was almost eight-thirty. He sighed, excused himself, and went to the door, opening it. Standing on the flagstone porch outside was Michelle. She wore very short pants – hot pants, in effect — revealing slim, tanned legs, and a summer blouse without sleeves, and her jet black hair was worn long, caressing her shoulders, wisps curling down to touch the full, pear-shaped globes of her breasts. She had an hourglass waist and a round, smooth face, with high cheekbones and a pixyish nose; her eyes were a hot, frank brown, very large, containing a smoldering intensity that told of thoughts and emotions far exceeding her eighteen years — a look that was enhanced by the richness of her full breasts and the tautness of her buttocks beneath the thin material of the hot pants.

Art did not particularly like the beautiful teenage girl — he thought she was conniving and cared about nothing and no one but herself and her own pleasures and happiness, and he wished that Paul had not begun to talk of a permanent attachment to her. She would hurt him in the long run, Art felt that instinctively — but he had not tried to interfere, knowing that Paul would have resented any intrusion into his private life; still, he hoped that his nephew would find out the truth about Michelle one of these days, and soon before it was too late.

In spite of his dislike for Michelle, Art still felt an involuntary quickening of his breath, a pounding of his blood, at the sheer sensuality the young girl exuded. He couldn't keep his eyes from straying over her breasts, over the clearly-defined cleft of her pussy displayed by the too-tight shorts as she thrust her hips forward provocatively. Then he shook his head slightly, feeling his neck flush with embarrassment, and snuffed out the impossibly lewd ideas which had leapt unbidden into his brain.

He put on a reluctant smile of welcome, said, "Hello, Michelle. How are you tonight?"

"Just fine, Art," she replied, and he knew that she was laughing at him, mocking him, by calling him by his first name.

"Did you want to see Paul?" he asked her coolly.

"Yes, I did. If it's all right," Michelle answered, and her even white teeth flashed in a knowing smile, for she was well aware of the effect that she had on Paul's; she was a girl who needed, coveted, the attention of all men. And he was handsome, she thought, even more handsome than Paul.

Art followed Michelle into the living room, and introduced her, again reluctantly, to Rose. The lovely blonde aunt shook hands with the girl, and as she did so she felt a sudden dampening of her spirits. So this was the girl Paul had talked so glowingly of. Why, she seemed a little slutty in those tight shorts and big breasts straining against her blouse, the nipples clearly visible, acting cool but certainly not fooling Rose with her attitude; the blonde aunt had seen a lot of girls like Michelle Manson in Chicago and environs, and they used their youthfully sensuous bodies and their allure to get whatever they wanted. Michelle fitted perfectly into that category, and even though Rose tried to tell herself that she was over-reacting, she experienced a growing tide of dislike nonetheless.

"How do you do, Mrs. Jameson?" Michelle said.

"Fine, thank you," Rose answered.

"I imagine you're very happy to be home after well, after everything."

Even though Michelle was smiling sweetly, Rose sensed a hidden undercurrent of malice in the girl's voice. She kept her own voice even as she replied, "Yes, I'm very happy to be home."

Paul crossed to the black-haired teenager and put an arm possessively about her shoulders, kissing her cheek. He grinned happily, looking at Michelle with the love he obviously felt for the girl plainly mirrored on his big handsome young face — a look that made Rose turn away. "What brings you here tonight, honey?"

She smiled up at him. "Well, I don't think your cell phone's on, but I talked to Dan Krauter a little while ago and he asked if we wanted to go to the dance at the Booker — and I kind of wanted to go myself. So I thought I'd come by and see if you wanted to go."

"Oh, yeah, I forgot about the dance," Paul said. "Well, I... " He looked at his aunt. "Well, I don't know – we were just sort of talking and..."

"Oh please, Paul," Rose said quickly, wanting to please him, wanting him to know that she was on his side. "If you want to go to the dance, please go ahead. I understand perfectly."

"I don't know..."

""Oh, sure," said Art. "Go ahead."

Michelle said sweetly: "Well, Paul, shall we go?"

"I guess so," Paul replied.

"Yes, absolutely," Art said, for he wanted, suddenly and acutely, to be alone with Rose. He felt a sense of impending excitement that he couldn't exactly define, a need to explore redefinition of their relationship, a need to be close to her with no one else around. It was a physical need as much as it was an emotional one.

They walked Michelle and Paul to the door and said goodbye. Art sighed and took Rose's arm, the touch of her flesh sending a little surge of delight through him, and guided her back into the living room.

"How about some more wine?" he suggested as they sat down facing the fire again.

"All right," Rose answered, and Art poured their glasses full. They drank, then she said, "Art, I don't really like that girl that Michelle. I don't sense she's right for Paul."

"Neither do I," Art admitted.

"Is he really serious about her?"

"I'm afraid he's getting that way."

"Isn't there anything we – or you — can do to dissuade him?"

"I don't think so. He's a pretty stubborn boy when he thinks something is right, and at the moment he thinks Michelle is right."

"She's well, she's pretty obvious, Art. Do you know what I mean?"

"All too well," Art answered.

Abruptly, Rose laughed — a soft, bitter, painful laugh. "Look who's calling the kettle black," she whispered. "What right do I have to judge other people, after the mess I've made of my own life."

"Honey, that's in the past," Art comforted her. "There's the future to look forward to now, and that will all be different."

"Oh, I hope so, Art. I hope so desperately."

"It will be," he said positively. He raised his glass. "To the future, Rose to your future, and to Paul's, and to mine."

"To the future," she replied, and they touched glasses and drank.

They had two more glasses of the fine wine, and Art opened another. He could feel his entire body growing warm with heat that had nothing whatsoever to do with the crackling fire before him. His breathing grew somewhat irregular, and he moved closer to Rose on the couch. There was a deep tingling in the pit of his stomach, down low in his groin, and no amount of mental urging would dispel it. He could no longer deny the obvious: he wanted his former wife, he wanted her now, tonight; it was almost as if he had to have her or else he would explode with the seething passions spiraling through his flesh.

The more Rose drank of the wine, the more warmly contented she began to become, putting thoughts of Michelle Manson completely out of her mind, reveling in the feeling of being wanted, cared for, at last after all the months of desperate loneliness. Rose moistened her lips, finishing the rest of her wine. She was completely aware of Art's proximity to her — handsome, quiet, virile Art, with his lean, hard-muscled body.

Suddenly, Rose felt the pressure of Art's warm, masculine thigh against her own as he moved closer to her on the couch, and she turned to face him. His eyes were shining, his cheeks flushed and sheened lightly with perspiration, and his gaze locked and held with her own.

"Rose, oh Rose," he whispered huskily.

"Art," she responded, and she said his name with a kind of awed incredulousness, as she realized that the same thoughts and feelings she had just been thinking were mirrored on his face, had been in Art's mind as well. He wanted her! He wanted Rose as much as she wanted him!

Simultaneously, they both leaned forward to place their empty wine glasses on the coffee table. Then they leaned back against the couch again, their bodies turned toward one another, and continued to lock their eyes together. Rose squeezed hers tightly shut then, wetly parted her lips, and Art could hold himself in check no longer. His arms lifted and pulled her to him, his mouth covered hers, completely engulfing her lips with his warm, moist ones. Rose's tongue flicked forward immediately to slip past his teeth and into his mouth, and she was moaning now, her hand encircling his neck, pressing his head tightly, molding their mouths together like the fusing of molten ore into an alloy. His fingers caressed her shoulder, moved down as if they were entities of their own that he had no command over, moved lightly over the trembling hot swell of her breast. Their tongues were sawing mercilessly in and out of one another's mouth now in an attitude of excited copulation, and Rose made tiny, mewling sounds in her throat.

Art felt his cock stir into full, turgid hardness, and he pulled her tighter to him, reveling in the feel of her body, her mouth, for the first time, thinking wildly that she was everything he had remembered, that he had loved her all along, that nothing else mattered but her — all of her, every cell of her. His fingers closed over her soft, resilient breast, kneaded the warmly trembling flesh, his cock throbbing painfully now, his breath shuddering hotly into the beautiful blonde woman's mouth as hers was thundering into his, deep moans of desire purling from the very core of Rose's being.

She wanted Art to make love to her as she had wanted no man since ... that one in the early days of their relationship.

They kissed deeply, pressing against each other, Art sliding his fingers through her hair. As their passion built, Art guided her down onto the soft couch, and now his right hand was sliding upward along her bare thigh, sliding along the hot skin up under the hem of the dress she wore. Higher and higher it moved, causing Rose to shiver with her mounting passion, and then the tips of his fingers were touching the smooth nylon crotchband covering her vagina, slipping up and down the hotly moistening furrow as she widened her legs to assist his ministrations.

Ooooh, my God, his fingers feel so good, they feel so good between my legs! Oh, I want him inside me.

Art's probing fingers, as though anticipating her thoughts, pushed aside the flimsy elastic legband of her panties, extending his middle finger to slip it teasingly up into the wet, trembling passage of her pussy, exulting in the fevered thought that she would soon be his, that he would be putting his cock where his finger was right now very, very soon. He brought the finger up, up along the burning slickness of her cunt to the hardened bud of her clitoris, playing with it, reveling in the vibrating arousal of her firm, perfectly curved body as he did.

Then Art removed his working finger from her warm channel, and his fingers were feverish as he sought to make her naked, to remove the dress and undergarments which clothed the hot flesh that he lusted so desperately to see and touch. The dress unbuttoned easily, and Rose dazedly helped him pull it over her head, drop it onto the floor at the foot of the couch. Her bra was next, cascading onto the puddled dress, revealing the hard-nippled mounds of her full, whitely rounded breasts; then her panties, drawn slowly, slowly down over her smooth curved hips and thighs by Art's eager fingers, while Rose obediently raised her buttocks from the couch to help him. At last her soft, fleecy blonde pubic triangle came into view, wet with the juices of her arousal, then the petal-like, softly blonde-fringed expanse of her moist hot cunt was in full view of his passion-fired eyes.

The sensuously aroused woman felt little jolts of pleasure ripple through her flesh as Art's hands closed over her taut, firm breasts. She heard him gasp in further delight as his thumbs rolled over the large, distended, pink-tinged nipples, making them hard — and then she felt his head lower onto her chest, felt his hot, wet mouth encompass one of the aching peaks, flicking and rolling it maddeningly with his fiery tongue. She groaned in sheer delight, and her hips began an intense, undulating rhythm on the couch as Art continued to suck wetly at her nipple while he moved on the couch beside her, groaning out his excitement.

His hands and mouth left her flesh then, and Rose, with mounting fervor, knew that he was making himself as naked as she was, that she would soon feel Art inside her, that she would soon be loved again, loved again, needed again.

Her eyes fluttered open in that moment and she looked at him, saw him kneeling on the floor beside her, saw him naked for the first time. Her gaze moved down his lean body and came to rest on his loins — on his thick, turgid penis standing out proudly from his dark-haired lower abdomen. Oh, it was so big! Yes, she had always loved that huge, pleasure-giving shaft. She wanted it slicing hotly up between her wet labia and deep into her cunt.

"Rose," Art whispered, "my darling, Rose, oh Rose, I love you, I want you so much!"

"I love you, too, Art!"

He raised himself up onto the couch, settled his body beside hers, and his head dipped down once again to her whitely quivering breasts. She moaned softly with lewdly unleashed desire as she watched him take first one nipple, then the other into his warmly salivating mouth, licking and sucking the rigid fruit until she wanted to scream from the waves of pleasure washing through her fevered body. Her hand searched down between their tightly clasped nakedness, located the hardness of his cock. He gasped as the hot, searing tips of her fingers closed over his shaft, and then his mouth lifted and closed over hers and their tongues lashed and twirled one another, as if trying to blend into one. She pressed the full length of her body against his and ground her pelvis hard into him.

They lay side by side, barely fitting on the narrow couch seat. Breathing raggedly, his brain aflame with lusting desire, Art pushed his hands farther down beneath her, cupping the fullness of her buttocks in the palms of his sweat-slick hands, pulling her dampened furrow hard against his masculinity. Her hips began a more desperate rotation up against his loins.

Then, without warning, she swiveled and pulled herself up and turned, kneeling on the couch. She arched her back, presenting her buttocks and open, wet cunt to him. She wanted him to enter her – from behind.

This had always been their favorite position, one that had given him maximum pleasure. She had thought carefully about this moment, and wanted it to be as perfect as possible, to set the stage for a reawakening of their long-dormant sexual relationship. He quickly rose and stood behind her, his big cock brushing against her buttocks. As his hands grasped her hips, her hand was already reaching back between her legs for him, circling his palpitating shaft to guide it between the moist lips of her wet, waiting pussy. Art gave and animal groan as he felt his ex-wife's hand move his hardened between her slick labia. The pressure in his testicles was excruciating now, and he knew he couldn't hold back another second. He had to ram it, deep and hard inside her hotly waiting cunt, just as she wanted him to do! He had to fuck her!

Art flexed his hips with a sudden driving thrust that drove his huge, rock-hard penis deep into her warm, slippery cunt.

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhh!" Rose cried out in a moan of pure ecstasy.

Art felt the smooth walls slip wetly, hotly, around his rod as it raced to the full depths of her cunt. Now, the full length of his immense hardness was buried inside her, the swollen head pressed against her cervix, his balls resting against her. Then, having conquered her with every thick inch of his maleness, he began immediately to fuck her, feeling her body attuning itself to his as she pushed back against him in rhythm with his thrusts, urging him on harder and faster with tiny passionate sounds.

And she thought, It's beautiful, it's so beautiful, this is the best it's ever been, oh Art, I love you, I love you, I love you it's so perfect, so perfect, nothing can spoil it now, I feel alive again, truly alive, and nothing can spoil it now.

Paul drove swiftly, as he liked to do. The dance had been a disappointment, and he was oddly anxious to get home, hoping Rose and Art had not gone to bed. He had sensed a coolness in Rose about Michelle and he had an urge to try to get things off to a better start. Michelle leaned close to him, pressing her thigh against his across the console, pressing her big swelling breast against his arm, and he could smell the fragrance of her hair as she snuggled her head onto his shoulder. The handsome teenage youth felt his breath catch in his throat at the proximity of the beautiful, provocative girl, and he felt a fresh surge of the love and desire he had come to feel for her.

Michelle whispered, "Paul, sweet?"


"Let's go up to Lookout Peak and park for a while." Her voice was husky and soft, and she rubbed her breast against his arm like a cat.

"Mmm, I don't know. I kinda want to get home tonight."

"Oh, all right," she pouted.

"We'll go out tomorrow, ok?"

"Yeah, but only if you promise we can get it on."

Paul laughed. "I promise."

They reached Northridge and drove through the quiet dark streets. When they neared Art Jameson's home, Paul said, "Listen, Michelle, why don't you come in for a few minutes before I take you home? You can have a glass of wine, and get to know my aunt a little. I think she and Uncle Art will still be up; we haven't been gone very long."

"Oh I guess I could," Michelle acquiesced. "I really like wine."

"Good," Paul grinned, and squeezed her thigh possessively with his free hand.

"Mmmmmmmmm!" she crooned contentedly.

Paul turned the car onto his uncle's street, then into the driveway alongside the house, the quiet engine making a soft purring sound in the stillness — nothing more. He switched off the engine and the lights, and he and the lovely young girl slipped out of the car.

Taking her hand, Paul said, "We'll go in through the kitchen. Uncle Art always keeps the door there unlocked, and I forgot my front door key."


They started along the cinder path which hugged the side of the sprawling, modem house. It was very quiet, with just the sound of the crickets to disturb the silence. Through the partially open living room window just ahead, Paul could see the flickering light from the fireplace, which told him that his aunt and uncle were, indeed, still up. He and Michelle moved forward — and it was then that they heard the sounds coming from inside the living room.

They were low, moaning, panting sounds, co-mingled with the distinct labored squeaking of couch springs, and both teenagers stopped. Michelle leaned against Paul, whispering, "What was that?"

"I ... I don't know."

"Let's go look!"


But she was leading him off the path, over to the window; the drapes had not been fully drawn across it, and there was a foot-wide section which allowed them both to see clearly into the house, into the living room illuminated brightly by the dancing flames of the pine log fire.

Paul's eyes blinked rapidly for a moment, then focused on what was transpiring on the couch before the fireplace, on the sight of the two sweating, nakedly straining bodies plunging against one another there. His aunt and his uncle were fucking in wild, heaving abandon before his very eyes!

A startled, disbelieving gasp strangled in Paul's throat and he stood absolutely motionless for a long, breathless second. He put out his hand blindly, encountered the wall beside the window, and leaned his weight against it, his brain filled with the searing mental image of his aunt, bent over, her buttocks thrust upward and her big, ripe breasts exposed and swaying, receiving his uncle's thick, hard penis in her plainly visible pussy!

Suddenly, insanely, Paul's cock too, began to stir and throb crazily in his pants, to rise slowly into an erection as he stared at the sexual antics being performed in front of his eyes. No, no, he couldn't be getting excited, he couldn't! And yet he was he was becoming aroused watching his voluptuously built aunt being fucked by his uncle!

He wanted to turn away, but the sheer lascivious actions of the nakedly copulating couple a few feet away held him spellbound, and his cock was now at it's full hardness, straining against the front of his pants. Emotions fought and raged within him as he continued to stare with wild eyes at the scene in the living room, hearing their moans, hearing his aunt groan, obviously approaching orgasm.

Standing close to the shocked and immobile form of Paul, pressing her hot, soft body close to his, Michelle was also staring at the lust-inciting sight of the couple on the living room couch. Damn oh damn! she thought, will you look at that! I never thought I'd see anything like that in my life! Paul's uncle and aunt boy oh boy oh boy, he's really fucking her and such a big cock too, even bigger than Paul's!

Michelle could feel excited, initial droplets of lubricant fluid begin to flow from the sensitive walls of her young cunt, moistening the petal-like lips, her fleecy black pubic hair, the thin white crotch band of her panties, causing her to rub her thighs together. Her nipples hardened beneath her blouse, and the large globes of her breasts began to throb with excitement. This was the most enticing sight she had ever seen, and it was sending the juices of her insatiable passion raging out of control. She had already been hot and ready on this night, wanting Paul anyway, and now, witnessing what he was, she was half out of her mind with churning, delicious desire.

Oh God, she wanted a cock inside her, that's what she wanted! But she couldn't have that – or maybe she could. Her mind swirled with the thoughts that raced through her — she wanted him to fuck her right here, right now, while they watched his aunt and his uncle. But would he want to? He hadn't moved, he was still staring into the living room, he was breathing faster and his eyes were all glazed over.

Michelle let her eyes drift down to the front of his trousers, and exultancy swept through her. He had a hard-on! Yes, yes, she could see it sticking out the front of his pants there, his big cock was hard, he was as excited as she was at what he was seeing! He was half-wild with lust watching his aunt and his uncle fucking it was too good to be true and yet it was true, there was no denying it.

She had to take advantage of the situation before Paul came to his senses. She had to control the situation, make him want her, and soon, soon, before the wildly fucking couple inside reached their climax. Michelle pressed her body against his, rubbing her breast up and down his arm, her aching, secreting pussy against his thigh. Then her right hand was gliding down to cup and stroke his cloth-encased erection, while at the same time she put her mouth to his ear and let her hard, wet, pink little tongue dart teasingly inside.

Paul moaned softly, trying half-heartedly to twist away from her, but she held tightly to his cock and his balls, stroking them, flicking her tongue into his ear until he was quivering with excitement, his eyes staring through the window. A low, tortured, guttural sound purled from the lust-incited teenager's throat — and by that sound, Michelle knew that she had won. She whispered, "I'm going to take your cock out, sweet, I'm going to take it out right now and I want you to fuck me right here while we watch your uncle and your aunt!"

Paul just stood there while the panting young teenage girl unfastened his belt, pulled his trousers down and his undershorts down, and began to stroke his naked, bulging cock, her other extending downward to tantalize the heavy sac of his balls. Then she was unbuttoning her blouse with her free hand, shrugging it off there in the darkness and quickly removing her bra. Her pants and panties were next, drawn down together and puddled at her feet, and she was completely naked. She pressed her naked, firm breasts against Paul's bare arm, rolling the nipples back and forth through the thick hair on his forearm, reveling in the feeling that motion generated inside her, and then she began kissing him on the neck and throat with her hot, moist lips as she continued to fondle and caress his prick and testicles.

Michelle gingerly turned his body just enough so that his cock was jutting toward her but not enough to hamper his view of what was happening inside the house. Then she began rubbing his swollen, throbbing young cock up and down her secreting cuntal slit, teasing the head through the soft, wet fringes of her pussy hair, causing both of them to moan softly with spiraling delight. Against his ear she breathed, "I want you to fuck me now, Paul, fuck me while we watch."

His girlfriend broke away from him momentarily, leaning forward with her hands braced against the window sill so that she had a good, clear view of what was transpiring within. Then she arched her back downward, lifting her naked, white-sheened buttocks up to Paul, parting her legs wide so that he could see the wetly waiting opening of her pussy. She reached behind her, found Paul's hugely erect cock and grasped it tightly, guiding it to her nakedly bent buttocks, moving the wetly lubricated head over each of her hotly quivering ass-cheeks in movements that caused the fires of his passion to spiral almost to the pinnacle of release.

Paul was totally enslaved by lust now, no longer able to control himself of his emotions. A small part of his brain cried, Don't do this, it's wrong, that's your aunt and your uncle fucking in there! But Michelle's fingers were like fire on his naked cock, guiding the impatiently palpitating head across her whitely quivering young buttocks, and her manipulations and the intensely erotic sight of his uncle fucking his aunt from behind just a few feet away made the pressure in his young balls almost excruciating.

The black-haired teenager couldn't wait any longer. She guided Paul's prick over the warmly flexing little nether ring of her anus, causing him to jerk spasmodically, and then into the wet, furrow between her openly splayed legs. She teased the hard, rubbery tip up and down the moist cleft, over her aching clitoris, through the wet, fiery folds of her cunt lips, her thighs opening and closing in wild abandon. Then she pushed back, taking the blood-engorged head of his cock into her trembling, waiting pussy.

The pressure in the handsome teenage youth's balls climbed and soared, and the churning, velvety buttocks of the young lovely girl spread before him were an invitation that he was unable to resist. He thrust forward, out of control with desire, and the full length and girth of his cock slid into the young girl's cunt, filling her, hot and hard and thick deep in her belly. Oh God, oh God, getting fucked while watching Paul's aunt and uncle fucking inside there what a thrill, what a real kick this is incredible!

She gave a guttural moan as his great rod lay buried in the warm wet sheath of her pussy, causing her whole body to vibrate with desire. Paul pulled back from the warm walls of her tight young cunt until only the head of his shaft lay within her. He stared down at his glistening shaft, slick with her lubrication, for a moment and then thrust his full length back into her. His eyes returned to the copulating figures in the dancing firelight within the living room. He watched transfixed as his aunt's big breasts jiggled each time his uncle drove his cock into her. God, they were beautiful, capped by large, pink nipples, hardened with lust. He looked at the huge penis driving faster and faster into her pussy, his thighs slamming against her rounded buttocks each time as his orgasm built. He knew his uncle was about to pump his seed into his aunt's belly, and he had the sudden wild thought – of himself, behind his aunt, his cock deep inside her wet cunt, reaching down to cup those luscious breasts, spurting into her...

He shook the thought away and concentrated on fucking Michelle. His youthful hips drove forward with ever-increasing speed, his hands squeezing her hips. She thrust her hips back against him as waves of delicious pleasure surged through her trembling young body, further enhanced by the salacious sight she was witnessing. Then Paul leaned forward, and his hands slid under her twisting body to cup and caress her firm young breasts. Michelle moaned softly, as she felt his fingers and thumbs find her hardened nipples, increasing her pleasure as his cock continued to plunge deep into her cunt. It wouldn't be long now, Michelle knew; it wouldn't be much longer before she would cum and he would start shooting into her.

Bathed in the hot, bright glow of firelight, Rose pushed her hips and buttocks back against her ex-husband magnificent shaft deep in her quivering belly. Every time he pulled back, the lips of her pink slit pulled tantalizingly away, sliding moistly down his rod for several inches and then racing back up as he thrust forward, imbedding the full length of him deep, deep into the warm, soft recesses of her cunt.

"I'm there, oh Art, oh Art, oh Art, I'm cummmmmmmmmmming!" she cried, as her orgasm exploded within her.

Art felt the spasms of climax around his cock as her buttocks spasmed convulsively against his front. And the great swirl of heat which was building, building in his testicles again caused him to thrust twice more spasmodically into her slippery tunnel and finally the orgasm swept over him and his huge load of his semen began to pump into her still-climaxing cunt.

"I'm gonna cum too, I ... I'm cumming, aaaahhhhhh!"

Art began to spew hot jets of cum into her in a seemingly never-ending burst, emptying his very being deep, deep up into the warm inner depths of her belly.

Outside the window, Michelle watched the couple in the living room reach their climax together, watched the handsome Art Jameson spurt his semen from his huge, thick cock deep into the hot cunt of Paul's aunt. The sight was too much to bear, and she knew she was going to cum at that very instant, as they had cum! She buffeted frantically back against young Paul's thrusting body; then suddenly great flashes of light burst in back of her eyes, and overwhelming pleasure coursed through every fibre of her being. This was the best, her mind chanted as her orgasm washed wildly through her. This was the best orgasm she'd ever had, the best, the best oooohhhh, watching others fuck and being fucked herself at the same time was the most wonderful feeling she'd ever, ever known!

Behind her, his eyes glazed with lust, still driving against Michelle's upturned buttocks, Paul had watched his aunt thrust her own buttocks back and his uncle shoot his cum deep up inside her voraciously accepting belly. His aunt had just cum like a street whore right before his very eyes, and Michelle was cumming and he had to cum too.

He drove into his young girlfriend's pussy with long, hard strokes that seemed to receive power from the tips of his toes, his balls bouncing against her excitedly secreting crevice. And then, as Michelle's hot flowing juices bathed his rod as she came — as he heard her gasp and gurgle deep in her throat — Paul's own balls erupted.

A guttural sound burst from his throat as his hot cum pumped into the lovely, black-haired teenage girl's pussy. He kneaded her big breasts convulsively, and his cock continued to spurt in her cunt, filling her to the brim with his virile young sperm, causing waves of rapture and delight course through her as his juices mixed with hers deep up in her quivering young belly.

Then Paul's long, hard shaft gave one last spurt of liquid and the hard shaft began to soften. He pulled out of Michelle's tight young cunt. As he did, sanity began to push away some of the hypnotic trance of lust.

Michelle straightened up, pressing her lightly perspiring flesh to his, and whispered into his ear, "Oh sweet, sweet Paul, that was really and truly amazing! I've never been fucked like that, never, and it was wonderful!"

But the handsome teenage youth barely heard her lewd words. He was looking over the top of her glistening black-haired head, through the parted drapes into the living room. In the firelight he could clearly see his aunt and his uncle sitting up on the couch now, both of them naked; then they kissed, touching one another gently, and picked up their clothes. They were murmuring softly, words he couldn't make out from where he and Michelle were standing as they walked naked together out of the room.

Paul gathered up his discarded clothing, and put his undershorts and pants on with quick movements. Michelle also began to dress, watching him, whispering, "Oh God, that was so good baby. I'm still buzzing."

He didn't seem to hear her; he walked back to the car, with Michelle trailing him. They got in the car. Michelle stared at Paul for a moment, worrying her lower lip. Well, she thought, he'll be all right tomorrow. Things might be a little strained for awhile, but he'll realize that his aunt and his uncle were just doing what comes naturally just as we were and he'll forget all about it. I'll make him forget all about it myself, tomorrow, tonight. I'll give him something to think about, that's what I'll do plenty else to think about!

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