Chapter 1

Dorothy Morgan glared at her stepson with angry green eyes as she listened to the Lawyer's cracked voice destroy the hope she had nursed for the past five years.

Damn it! It just wasn't fair! Bruce Morgan had been ages older than her twenty-four years, and his children were already into their teens when she married him. He wasn't a bad looking man, and he had been proficient, if not inventive in the bedroom. But Dorothy was convinced that she could have done a lot better with a minimum of effort. The only reason she married Bruce Morgan was his clearly stated promise that the three hundred acre farm would be hers when he died.

For five years, she had played Mother to Ted and Linda, while dutifully offering her young body to Bruce's nightly assaults. Now, Ted was eighteen and Linda was sixteen, and Bruce was dead.

Dorothy did not pretend a grief she could not discover among her emotions. Even the youngsters received the news of the auto accident with suppressed sighs of relief. Bruce had never been close to either of them, and his authoritarian attitude would be missed but little.

"So," the Lawyer concluded, folding the document and removing his glasses, "I Morgan left the bulk of his estate to his sole male heir, Ted Morgan. The others will receive sums up to ten thousand dollars."

Ted's dark eyes mocked her as Dorothy exclaimed, "He couldn't do this to me! I'll contest the will!"

The attorney sighed. "That is your privileges of course. But I assure you, this will cannot be broken. Mr. Morgan was very specific in his demands that it be made unbreakable." He folded his bony hands on the desk. "I'm sure you can work something out among yourselves without all the expense and embarrassment of prolonged litigation."

"Sure," Ted's deep baritone drew another glare from his Stepmother. "We can work something out. We'll talk it over when we get home."

"Your home," the woman exclaimed angrily. "Not mine! Your Father saw to that."

The Lawyer stood up, his narrow shoulders supplying a shrug of finality. Ted rose to his feet, tall and muscular, offering an arm to Dorothy and receiving another furious frown of refusal.

Linda Morgan, Ted's younger sister, followed her brother and Stepmother from the office, down the narrow hallway, and out the side door into the parking area where they had left the Chrysler.

The contents of the will had failed to surprise the girl. It seemed logical that Ted should assume control of the farm. He was, after all, a man, and farming was no job for a woman, especially one like Dorothy. Linda didn't dislike her Stepmother. It was just that she had never been able to accept her as Bruce's wife. Her Father had been a stern and cold man, while Dorothy, with her flaming red hair and generously curved body, was--Linda found it difficult to shape the word, even in the privacy of her mind--sexy.

"I'll drive," Ted announced when they reached the car. He held out his hand for the keys, and Oorothy's normally full lips became a tight red slash above a quivering dainty chin. She placed them on his palm with unnecessary force, then stalked to the rear door and climbed into the back seat.

"You can ride up front with me, Linda." Ted grinned, and the girl trotted happily around the car, her skirt climbing over her slender thighs as she settled herself in the comfortable seat, watching her brother insert the key with an air of authority.

"Are things going to be different, Ted?" Linda asked as they pulled out into the light afternoon traffic." At home, I mean."

Ted gave her a quick smile, his eyes dropping to caress the tanned flesh above her dimpled knees. His right hand lifted from the wheel to curve warm fingers about her thigh, gentle, yet bold, moving upward just enough to suggest more than a casual touch.

Linda's body tensed as she felt the warm tingling between her legs. Then, just as suddenly, the muscles relaxed and she let her thighs roll on the seat, widening the angle between them. She was mistaken about Ted's intention. She had to be. It was unthinkable that her own brother would actually do the thing that flitted through her mind.

"Things will be better, Sis." His voice was soft, conveying the same thrilling warmth that radiated from his fingers, still sliding over the smoothness of her skin, dangerously near the forbidden zone. Linda wondered what she would do if he actually touched her there.

"What are you doing?" Dorothy's voice came harshly from the back seat. She was leaning forward, staring at Ted's hand, her own gripping the leather upholstery.

Ted's eyes were insolent, meeting hers in the rectangular mirror. His fingers tightened about the young flesh, possessively and boldly. His voice bore a trace of harshness that made the woman sit back, her face a lovely mask of confusion.

"I'm doing what I want to do," he said tensely. "She's my sister. Or have you forgotten that?"

Linda wondered why Dorothy had objected to her brother's touch. He wasn't hurting her. On the contrary, the most pleasant sensations were pulsating through her lower belly, concentrating their tingling thrills in the plump mound beneath her thin panties.

A faint pink glow spread upward from her small breasts to paint her cheeks. She desperately hoped that Ted would not notice the dampness that was beginning to seep through her panties.

Linda hated it when his hand returned to the wheel, and she hated herself for thinking that it had been anything more than a gesture of affection. Ted would never dream of doing those awful things that were pictured hazily on the rim of her consciousness.

All three were silent as the powerful car swallowed the miles with its throaty purr. At the farm, Dorothy was first out, stalking into the multi-columned house with an exaggerated twisting of her lush bottom.

She climbed the stairs to her second-story bedroom, closing the door behind her before dropping the mask of haughty defiance and yielding to the gut-wrenching sobs of disappointment. Before the mirror of the heavy oak dresser, she stared at the convulsive heaving of her prominent breasts, the big mounds shoving their outlined tips against the black dress.

"Mourn, bitch," she whispered in a fierce tone. Pretend you're sorry! The only thing you're sorry about is getting cut out of his will."

The lips snarled, quivered, then curved in a strained smile. Her head went back, the red hair swirling and reflecting the lift from the tall windows of the bedroom. She laughed, beginning with a sobbing chuckle, and climbing dangerously toward hysteria.

"He fucked you, Dots!" she hissed at her swaying reflection. "The son of a bitch fucked you after he was dead and buried!"

Her fingers tore at the neckline of the dress, ripping it down the front and tugging the split until it hung like a ragged black smock, gaping to expose her nakedness. Her tits poked meaty nipples at the mirror, and her pubic thatch flamed its redness.

"He got the prime years," she whispered, the angry tone surrendering to a wistful softness. "And what did you get? You got fucked! That's what! He promised you the whole damn pie, and you end up with the crumbs!"

Gracefully, even in anger, she shrugged the torn dress down over the firm breasts, wiggling her voluptuous hips until the cloth puddled about her feet, and she stood naked except for the sheer hose, garter belt and slippers.

Unsnapping, peeling her thighs tensing and quivering, she removed the last item to stand, long legs spread wide, devouring her mirrored nakedness with half-closed eyes. The spongy nipples began a visible engorgement, swelling and tightening in their pinkish brown circles.

She shot her pelvis forward, pushing the plump cuntal mound into greater prominence, bending her knees and widening the angle of her thighs until the lips of her pussy were tugged apart to reveal the delicate slit of the vaginal entrance, pink, moist and shivering with suppressed excitement.

"God!" she breathed. "If I'd only had a real man during those years!"

She bent her head forward, one hand cupping a pliant mound and contorting its roundness to lift the succulent nipple to where her wet tongue could caress its rounded tip. The other hand splayed slender fingers over the red hairs of her bush, the middle digit disappearing into her red corridor. Her neck arched, and her red lips fastened about the swollen nipple, sucking avidly. Her finger probed and wiggled, and her luscious ass bucked excitedly.

Pleasure welled in her grinding belly, becoming a hot slippery flow that coated the dancing finger and spread to the other digits, enabling her thumb to slide delightfully over the throbbing bud of her expanding clit.

It was never necessary for Dorothy to fantasize during her masturbatory sessions. Her own body was the only image required to create a swirling desire in her easily aroused loins and she could quench that surging lust with skillful fingers and a knowing mouth.

Her hand and wrist were wet from the flood of vaginal nectar, and it trickled sluggishly down the inner curves of her quivering thighs as her finger plunged and retreated, frictioning the labial lips and the pulsating walls of her convulsing pussy.

The saliva-covered tit slipped from her mouth as the ecstatic shivers of climax tightened her muscles, pulling her grinding hips forward, and arching her torso backward. The tendons in her slender neck rose to become writhing blue worms beneath the flawless skin, throbbing to the accelerated rhythm of her pulse and the repeated stains of orgasmic pleasure.

For a few fleeting moments, Dorothy was able to forget the injustice of her late husband's will. As her vagina contracted with a force that made her whole body jerk and tremble, she gave herself over to the familiar, yet always incredible pleasure. It was one thing that Bruce had been unable to take away from her.

Her legs were still weak when, showered and dressed in a white blouse and skirt that accentuated her breasts and hips, she went downstairs to talk with her stepson.

Ted was in the study, seated behind the massive desk talking on the phone. He had pulled one of the lower drawers open and propped a foot on it, leaning back and swinging his elevated knee from side to side in a way that drew the fabric of his tan slacks tightly against the obviously large contents of the crotch.

He murmured something into the phone as Dorothy entered, then replaced it, keeping his knees spread, and sliding farther down in the swivel chair. The position shoved his bulging crotch forward. He watched her cross the floor, his eyes sliding up and down her body, insolent and appraising.

"Well," he drawled, matching voice to expression. "If it isn't my darling Stepmother. Have you decided to be more reasonable?"

Dorothy sank onto a straight-backed chair, the skirt baring dimpled knees and the beginning of perfectly rounded thighs. She took a deep breath, forcing back the anger and bitterness.

"I acted childishly Ted," she murmured. "I was blaming you for something your Father did. It isn't your fault."

The handsome face showed no expression, merely watched her, the eyes flicking down, now and then, to caress the curve of her thighs. She found his stare disconcerting.

"You haven't said what you want me to do," she continued. "I have nowhere else to go, and the money won't be available for several weeks." Her voice trembled, then steadied. "Even then, I'll have just enough to see me through the year."

Ted's voice was gentle as he said, "What makes you think I want you to leave? Linda would be lost without you."

She watched his eyes trying to read them. Failing' she said, "I've always felt you didn't approve of my marriage to your Father."

The eyes hardened, hatred flickering in their depths. "My Father is dead." The voice was flat. "Whatever I may have felt about him no longer matters." He was silent for a moment, still moving his knee in that metronomic cadence. "Do you want to stay here?"

"I have nowhere else," she repeated, unable to keep her eyes from his bulging crotch. It seemed larger than before. It suddenly dawned on her that she had never seen Ted naked. He had been almost thirteen when she married Bruce, and already showing signs of maturity.

"That wasn't the question," he reminded her, his lips curving. "Do you want to stay?"

Wordless, defeated by the prospect of near-poverty after the five years of luxury, she exclaimed, "Yes! You know I do!"

His broad shoulders rose and fell. "Why don't we discuss it tonight?" he suggested, the lashes masking his eyes. "After Linda has gone to bed."

"What is there to discuss?" she countered, failing to read anything unusual in the remark.

"There are several changes I plan to make," Ted said, lowering his foot from the drawer. "I just called Aunt Joyce, and invited her to bring the kids for an extended visit."

Dorothy tried to hide the sudden frown as she said, "She never liked me. There'll be trouble between us."

The handsome face hardened perceptibly. "You still remember that they are my relatives," he said in a flat voice. "Aunt Joyce was my Mother's sister."

"That's why she hates me," Dorothy ventured. "She felt that I was trying to take your Mother's place with [Bruce."

The slight frown faded, replaced by a curious tilting of the wide mouth. "Would it make you feel better if I called you Mother?"

It was her turn to frown, with a confused knitting of her brow. "I... I don't know. Both of you have always called me Dorothy."

"Yes." The grin broadened. "But, like I told you, there are going to be some changes made."

Linda's entrance halted their conversation, and Dorothy retreated to the kitchen, checking with the cook on the preparation of dinner. She had no chance to be alone with Ted until after ten o'clock, when Linda yawned and excused herself for the night.

Slumped in his late Father's chair, watching the news without any real interest, Ted reminded her of his previous remark. "We'll talk in your room, Mother." The last word was emphasized, Dorothy was unable to determine its meaning.

"Why can't we talk down here?" she asked.

His eyes flickered from the TV to her face, then back again. "We're going to talk," he replied coldly. "Not argue. I don't like arguments."

Dorothy felt a surge of anger, but forced it aside, keeping her voice even as she said, "Are you ready to go?"

"You go ahead," he answered, not looking at her. "Just leave your door unlocked.

Dorothy's mind sought for some explanation of the lad's conduct as she ascended the stairs, entering her room and closing the door. She had known Ted for five years. But, she realized, she didn't really know him at all.

A creature of habit, she found herself selecting a gown from the closet, carrying it into the adjoining bath and changing into it before considering the implications of Ted's presence in her bedroom. Quickly, she tugged a robe from the closet and shrugged it on over the thin gown.

She had hardly drawn the fabric about her narrow waist when Ted opened the door without knocking, stepped inside, and closed it behind him.

"You could have knocked!" she said forcefully. "I might have been dressing."