Sandra must have spent forty minutes in the shower shaving herself to a smooth, silken finish. Her tan legs were done, and she was touching up her bikini line with extra care. Her clit was plump from the sensual attention; she was imagining what she'd wear on that Rio beach during spring break--perhaps her black lace microbikini, maybe the cheetah two piece, "and what the fuck, I'll go topless too," she thought. Her ass wasn't going to go diminish any, despite the marathon training to which she'd dedicated herself for months--though this was not a problem (in fact, such an ass was a Brazilian asset), since she was headed to the booty-loving capital of the world. Besides, "real men love a thick piece of meat. They know home when they see it," she thought, feeling a tingle shoot down her spine and warmly saturate her second chakra. She observed her wetness with light taps to her pubis before she dipped an index into the warm lube her body so copiously produced by a single, sexy idea. She draped some nectar on her pleasure button and spread her labia, lifting a leg high in the shower to explore herself at different angles and with a stretch that intensified everything. She diddled both ends, playing the rich harmony of the two regions. Then she turned her back to the shower door and pressed her big round cheeks against the clear glass.
Did she know he was watching her? Of course she did. And who was he? Her stepbrother Kyle, peaking in through the steam-billowing crack in the door as he wanked his stubby, large-headed prick vigorously--ever more so now that her back was turned and that beautifully large bum seemed almost deliberately presented for his viewing. His jeans rustled at his clumsy ankles. He'd never witnessed a real naked girl before; had only jerked off to hosiery ads in catalogs, ripped-up porn magazines, the hundreds of sultry looks he'd imagined from girls; had shuddered in lonely evenings wondering what he could do to the mysterious body of a female. While Kyle stood there, gangly-muscled and hunched over, he was shoving his stepsister's dirty panties in his face, inhaling the musty perfume of aroused pussy. These were his favorite pair, which he'd wanked before, a rainbow-striped thong which he proceeded to hike up on himself once he'd freed himself from his pants.
And then it happened. The moment one valve stopped, another opened. When Sandra turned off the water, Kyle's body triggered the semen sluice gate to open. He tried to hold it in, to clench his muscles back, but he was at the point of no return. He felt an animalistic sense of viciousness as he let himself go in the taboo triangle of those panties. Drunk from the fumes of cunt-scent and visions of that theater of an ass, he let out an irrepressible squeal as he spunked the multicolored panties with a load that wouldn't stop flowing. Each semen shot was as powerful as the first stream. The thick white cream boiled into the velvet, feminine patch, penetrating every fiber, and reluctantly dribbled down his inner thighs. "Fuck!" he mumbled, carefully but quickly removing the cummed underwear and tossing it in the hamper.
Sandra knew her horny little sibling would need a minute or two to clean up without her "discovering" him, so she stayed in the sauna-like shower and massaged jojoba oil into her curves and her tenderly shaved parts. Her almost-three-inch-diameter light-colored areolas were goosebumped from the humid exhibitionism, and the rich oil hardened her nipples until they were ready for hard nibbling. She longed to self-suck.
Kyle scurried out of the bedroom like a matted dog. He felt a rush, having caked her thong in salty stickiness. He ran to his bedroom and pretended to search for his clothes for that evening's family reunion. Then his door opened, and his other stepsister, Kim, walked in.
"Where the fuck've you been, Kyle? Dinner's in twenty and you don't even have a shirt on." She noticed the cum stain on his belly hair but thought nothing of it. "Get dressed soon or my mom and your dad 'll be pissed. It's fifteen minutes to the Italian restaurant, so you have five minutes."
Kyle was utterly relieved that it wasn't Sandra who opened the door. He was still red-handed as far as he could tell, literally and figuratively. He threw on a nice striped shirt and winkled dress pants and splashed on an overdose of a cologne advertised by a famous basketball player. There was no time to wash up, as disheveled as he was.
* * *
At dinner that evening, the families mingled cordially but without intimacy. The seven stepkids were still fairly knew to each other, but got along fine. Their parents were only worried about the eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds: Kyle, Kim, and Sandra. The children played; the teenagers sulked, sneered and sarcastically smiled. Kim and Sandra were close to each other and never left the table. Kyle was shy, and though embarrassed about his semi-secret masturbation just forty minutes before, sat directly across from the sibling he wanted to discover.
"You know, you ought to learn to iron your own pants, Kyle," Kim smugly said.
Kyle shrugged at the frowning one and continued to devour his lasagna. Sandra giggled and got up to sit beside Kyle, having finished her meal. She wiped her mouth and threw the napkin on the table with a feigned confidence.
"Don't listen to Kim. She's just upset that our mom made us overdress for this shithole pizza place. Sandra gave him a jovial noogie and everyone at the table laughed, the parents especially.
Under the table, Sandra had secret plans. When she read that everyone was busy with another social focus, she put his hand on her bare knee. Naturally, he jerked initially but she pressed it in assurance, thence moving it up her thigh. Kyle's heart thumped and he took a deep breath to compose himself, looking around the table to make sure no one noticed. Only Kim made suspicious eye contact, but she soon walked off to hang out with her boyfriend outside. Then Kyle felt the inside of her dress, and finally her very wet crotch.
