She smiled, patted my not-quite-hard but no-longer-soft dick, and said, "You DO want to see more, don't you?"
"Is my sister in any of them?" I asked.
She giggled.
"No, Honey," she said and then giggled, "Honestly, I think Lindsey is probably still a virgin. She was never able to come to grips with her size like Chelsea did," and, again, I had to stop and think to translate "Chelsea" into "Mom."
"I saw Mom and Dad, Don, you," I said, thinking, "Who else in the family?"
She smiled and turned back to the computer.
She scrolled, stopped, scrolled some more, and double-clicked.
Once again, the pure quality of production struck me as the camera moved slowly along the aisle beside a series of booths at what was obviously a dark, intimate bar. The lights were low, the soft babble of voices in the background was subdued, and a woman was singing in the background, a passable rendition of Julie London's
Cry Me A River
.
The man across the table, as the camera focused, was, well, "substantial," is a good word. He looked about 50 with the iron-grey hair that men hope they get since it just screams "MATURITY AND WISDOM." He was handsome in a rugged cowboy way. His voice when he spoke was deep and coarse, sort of like Sam Elliot in his younger days. Christ,
I
had a crush on him.
"You blew a fifty million dollar deal," he was saying to the blonde woman sitting across the table from him, "and there are consequences for an error like that. You understand, don't you?"
The screen flashed to the blonde as the director used the "shot/reverse shot" technique to follow a conversation.
My breath caught.
My cousin Marji was my first crush. When I was 13, a large hormone in tennis shoes as my grandmother described puberty, and spending part of my summers in a small town in the Colorado Rockies, Marji had her driver's license and, unlike most 16-year-old girls didn't mind my 13-year-old self tagging along. She is tall, a natural blonde with that honey-blonde hair that makes you think of Amanda Seyfried or Connie Britton. And she is gorgeous. She's by far the prettiest woman I have ever known personally with that great mane of hair, a generous mouth, straight teeth, piercing, wide-set blue eyes, a heart-shaped face, tiny ears, and a button nose.
In the summer, we swam a lot and in her two-piece suit, not a string bikini or a buttfloss thong but a two-piece, I had seen that she had small, high breasts, broad shoulders, a ridiculously small wasp waist, flaring hips, and an athlete's legs.
I was in lust, in love, smitten, taken, head-over-heels, crazy, stupid over her.
And she reciprocated not at all. I think she had to be aware, but she never showed any interest.
And now here she was, looking into the camera, a young woman of 22. She was still as pretty and with makeup, something she hadn't worn that summer, I wouldn't have been surprised to see her on the big screen instead of in this untitled video on a computer monitor.
"I understand," she said, her eyes looking directly into the camera and, therefore, into mine.
Aunt Rita chuckled and patted my cock where it suddenly came erect.
"Give me your panties," the man said.
She said nothing, just scooted over on the booth seat.
"Where do you think you're going?" the man asked, a bit of a snap in his voice.
"To the bathroom?" she said, the upward tone at the end of the sentence turning it into a question.
"Sit. the. fuck. right. there. and. give. me. your. fucking. panties," he said, his tone making each word a separate sentence.
Her eyes got big.
When she didn't move for a couple of seconds he snapped, "NOW!"
Her shoulders slumped in surrender and I thought,
"Damn, that's some good acting."
And then I had a follow-on thought,
"If it IS acting."
She scooted back, centering on the seat, and bent over, her hands disappearing under the table. It was almost painful to watch as she squirmed and struggled. At one point her chin actually touched the table top while she tried to comply with his demand.
I realized that part of the "consequences" she was paying was the humiliation of what she was doing, there in a public restaurant. The booth sat against the wall so there was a degree of privacy that she wouldn't have had if they had been sitting at a four-top table in the middle of the floor.
Finally, she sat back up straight and handed her panties across the table to him.
He smiled and held them up, inspecting them as if they were some rare art item he was considering buying. They were a pinkish beige color and most of them was a kind of fishnet of very fine threads, The opaque crotch was the only part that had any substance.
Finished with his inspection he folded them and tucked them into his shirt pocket.
"Now your bra," he said, the camera focusing on him now, his eyes holding mine. Hell, I was ready to try that double-jointed thing women seem to know and unhook my OWN bra. He had that kind of presence.
I saw her eyes getting red and wondered for an instant what crying would do to her makeup. Part of me wanted to rush to her aid, to get her out of this. But part of me wanted to see her tits if I'm being honest here.
She reached down and started tugging her blouse, untucking it from the business skirt of her business suit.
The camera panned and caught other customers at the table across the aisle, sitting below the raised area where the booths were lined up, and one matronly woman was watching Marji, her eyes wide and her lips parted slightly as she watched.
I heard my phone ring but ignored it.
On the screen, my beautiful cousin had leaned forward and her hands were behind her in that double-jointed way women seem to learn with their first training bras to unhook her bra.
"Hello," I heard Aunt Rita say as Marji started doing that other thing women learn as part of their breasts coming in, that magic as one arm disappeared under her blouse and she squirmed around a little before pulling her bra out from under the blouse.
"Oh my God, that's wonderful," Rita said, distracting me just as the bra was starting to emerge.
"Of course," she said, "we'll be over in a little while."
"Okay, Pervert," she said, grabbing the mouse and turning off the video, "we need to get moving."
I was so captivated by what I was watching that I literally shook my head, pulling myself away from what my cousin was doing to pay attention to what my aunt was saying.
"What?" I snapped.
"Your sister is awake," she said.
"Oh," I said and I'm a little ashamed to admit that my first thought was,
"Well, I guess she'll be in charge of the money now."
"David," Rita said, and for the first time since the accident she seemed angry, "at least pretend you are happy."
"You're right," I said, and I meant it, "I'm an asshole. What did they say?"
"Only that she's awake and we should go to the hospital later this afternoon. They need some time to get her cleaned up and, I imagine, run about a zillion tests," she said.
She held my eyes for a long ten-count, I could almost see her evaluating me.
She smiled.
"Don't worry, Honey," she said and patted where I was still hard after my aborted viewing of the video with Marji in it, "we have time to take care of you."
She stood and I stood and she took hold of my hard dick. Then, in a foreshadowing of my future, she literally led me by the cock into the bedroom.
"You know," she said, turning to face me as we entered the bedroom, wrapping both arms around my neck and pulling me down for a kiss, "a man should spend at least as much time on his knees as he asks his woman to."
I laughed softly, said, "Not exactly subtle, aunt-o-mine," and eased to my knees.
She did the little sidestep, getting her feet a little more than shoulder-width apart, her hips pushed forward a little.
"My days of subtlety are behind me," she said, her fingers in my hair, pulling me to her.
I gave her what she wanted.
Okay, I gave her what I very much wanted to give her.
We hadn't showered yet, and her normal womanscent had a hint of body-needing-a-shower under it, an earthy scent I liked.
My face was buried in the lush thicket of her pubic hair and something about the scent of her body, needing a shower, hit me right at the brain stem. My hands on her ass squeezed and I pulled her to me, burying my face in her. I could taste the saltiness of her excitement and hear the pattern of her breathing change as her hips started rocking against my face.
"Oh yeah," she said, bending her knees, pushing herself against me as her fingers in my hair pulled, hard, pressing my mouth to her, "this is going to be a good marriage."
I was sucking now, almost nursing, enjoying the swelling of her labia in my mouth, the feel of the hard little button of her clitoris against the tip of my tongue, the feel of her thick natural lubricant on my tongue. I swallowed, noisily, making her giggle a little as she pressed me even harder against her.
Her orgasm filled my mouth, her release changing from warm and thick to thin and watery when she came. I swallowed and then just bathed in her pleasure until she was spent.
She was laughing breathily as she crawled up onto the bed, holding her position on all fours, and making soft "woof woof" sounds.
I took her doggie fashion from behind, pumping hard at first and then setting up a slow rhythm. With each thrust, as I pulled out I would slap her ass, not a hard spanking but enough to leave pink handprints before I came, pumping deep into her and then laying across her back when I finished, making her carry my weight.
I reached around and squeezed her breasts, tugged her nipples, as I slowly softened and eventually slipped out.
"Damn," she said, rolling onto her side, giggling softly, "we're getting pretty good at this."
I laughed and said, "Maybe we should get married."
"Welllllll," she said, and the predatory grin on her face made it hard to tell if she was joking, "let's see how your sister is. Marrying a rich man is one thing, marrying a poor student while his sister takes care of everything is another."
I looked into her eyes, searching for a clue.
She giggled and said, "Oh, don't pout. In any case, I'm going to keep you around." She gave my now soft cock a squeeze and rolled out of bed.
"Now come on, lazy," she said, offering her hand, "let's clean up and check in on the lovely Lindsey."
We showered, dried, combed, and shaved as needed, and headed for the hospital.
At the reception desk, I identified myself and the grandmotherly lady consulted a handwritten note.
"Have a seat," she said, "Dr. Johnson will be right with you."
"What happened to Dr. Phillips?" I asked and Rita filled in my ignorance.
"He was the ER doc," she said.
"ER?" I asked.
She chuckled softly.
"He was the Emergency Room doctor," she said, "his job was over when she was stable."
We sat then in those uncomfortable chairs anyone who has ever been in a hospital waiting room recognizes. I looked around at the insipid art on the walls, passed on a six-month-old
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