Nocturne

All Sexual Activity In This Story Occurs Between Persons 18+ Years Old.

Eighteen-year-old Dagmar Bjerke stamped her black patent leather Mary Janes on the townhouse front steps as she shoved her small ungloved hands deep into her greatcoat's slash pockets and pushed them against her tummy. Though a light snow had again begun to dust the Basel streets, and the temperature was minus two degrees centigrade, there was virtually no wind. Not cold, she tipped her face upward and stabbed the night air with her tongue. Tiny snowflakes instantly melted on her quivering taste buds.

Had Dagmar been less distracted she might have been concerned, if not fearful, about the unseen activity beneath her hands, under her clothes. She might have remembered that her last menstrual period had concluded barely a fortnight ago and thus, in the natural order of things, one or another of her ovaries had recently dispatched a ripe egg. She might have thought about the large barge that passed through her vaginal canal's virgin lock only two hours ago. More significantly, she might have worried that one of the multitude of sperm which jumped from that heavily laded ship to swim furiously toward an uncertain destiny in her uterus, would successfully board her baby craft and begin a new life.

But Dagmar considered no such potentiality. She was too happily excited by the prospect of her classmate's amazing uncle chauffeuring her to her hotel. Anticipating being alone with him again, if only for a brief time, she idly massaged her belly and cherished the general fullness she felt there. A delicious glow infused her from her toes to her nose.

Behind the townhouse, in a garage off the mews, the awaited uncle sat in his new 1936 Daimler Fifteen listening to its famously quiet running motor while he anxiously thought about the past evening and the night that was yet to come. He had not expected how easily temptations would corrupt him, or how much he would enjoy the process, but there was no denying facts. How could he have known that a seemingly accidental opportunity to peep at his orphaned teen niece and ward in her bath would turn out to be part of her plan to seduce him? A smooth baritone voice, which he only could attribute to The Devil himself, spoke in his head over the purring automobile engine, "And what did that matter, anyway, Philippe? No one but you told your hand to jerk off your cock as you watched her spray and sponge her lissome naked body."

"Peut-être, oui; peut-être, non," Philippe equivocated aloud to the dark windscreen. "But that was only a natural reaction to her surprising maturity. She has been always a child to me since the day her parents died. And then there were her schoolmates! Sacrebleu! Two perfectly matched pearls and a ruby could not compare with them!"

The voice sneered back, "Bah! Don't pretend to be so naive. You are forty-six years old! At least admit to yourself that you hoped they would have fair faces and fine figures when you selected the cloissoné trinkets for the party. Then, when you met them and learned that they, like Trang, were eighteen years old, did you not see them all as young women rather than little girls? You know you did."

Philippe tried to think of a counter-argument, but the voice went on, "And as you looked on them, your normal natural reaction testified to your manly interest. The growing evidence was as plain to them as their inspiring soft round features were to you. Certainly later, when the French twins threw themselves at you, you did not mind catching them."

Philippe groaned as he remembered Nadine and Nanine Corbin's speedy team blowjob. Meanwhile, the voice in his head continued, "And did you refrain at your first opportunity to deflower the Viking Virgin? You did not. Nor did you lose any time further assessing your niece's similar ripeness for plucking. In fact, the sooner you return from the Hotel Krafft, the sooner you may fulfill her announced ambition."

Philippe sighed, squeezed his right hand painfully tight around his aching balls and fattening hard-on, then threw the Daimler into gear. A few minutes later he pulled the sleek saloon up in front of his townhouse and watched Dagmar eagerly bounce down its porch steps to climb into the front seat beside him. As she closed the passenger door she shivered noticeably from her excitement. Misreading the cause, he pushed a wool auto-robe onto her lap and said, "Wrap up in this, the distance to the hôtel is probably too short for the heater to be much help."

Indeed, it hardly seemed that any time at all passed before the Krafft came into view, but the blanket did serve its purpose. Dagmar was comfortably cozy. Less jittery, though still not completely at ease, she overrode the fluttering butterflies in her chest and observed neutrally, "It looks like we're too late. There is no doorman."

Philippe nodded agreement and answered, "I see a spot ahead where I can park. I'll keep you company until the night man answers the bell."

When the liveried porter arrived, Philippe declared, "This young lady is registered in the name 'Bjerke'. Could you please get her key?"

As they followed their guide through the doors to the front desk, Dagmar asked Philippe, just loudly enough to be overheard by the clerk, "Will you see me to my room, please, Oncle? I have something there for you."

"Bien sûr, ma cherie," Philippe replied, masking the question marks in his mind with a poker face for the benefit of the hotelier. As he handed Dagmar the key that the clerk pushed across the counter, he pointed across the lobby and said jovially, "Lead on, then!"

The sleepy-eyed lift operator said nothing, but thought plenty, as he delivered the well-dressed gentleman and his lovely young companion to the fourth floor. While they strolled the hall after exiting his car, he delayed shutting the gate and stared after them. By the time they had closed Dagmar's room door behind themselves, he had the girl mentally stripped and mounted. Patting his crotch, he filed her image away for future use, then pressed the button to return to the lobby to wait for something else to break the night's boring monotony.

On the other side of the door to her room, Dagmar spun on tiptoe and pressed against Philippe. She wondered if he could feel her heart beating through their thick winter overcoats. It seemed to her it was ready to burst from her chest. Delivering a swift kiss to his open mouth, she pulled back again and said, "There! That's what I've wanted to give you for the longest time! Thank you for the party; for the necklace; for... EVERY thing!"

Philippe had not minded offering Dagmar a ride, but after his self-debate in the garage he was in a hurry to get home to Trang and was a little irked not to have been able simply to drop Dagmar off. Now, however, he felt quite different. Her light spontaneous kiss and vibrant attitude instantly focused his attention closer to hand. With a low growl, he stepped forward, took her in his arms and asked rhetorically, "Is that so, now?"

Philippe raised his hands, swiftly unbuttoned Dagmar's greatcoat and then pushed it with her school blazer off her shoulders. As the garments fell heavily to the floor, he advanced over the piled wool, propelling her with him until her stockinged calves were backed up against the brass bedstead's quilted coverlet. While his hands were at her throat, he opened her school tie's knot, then whisked it away and undid her shirt from collar to belt before she realized it. Shoving firmly, but gently, against her shoulders, he said huskily, "Show me."

Off-balance, Dagmar teetered, then folded at her knees and fell backward into the deep covers on the Krafft double bed. Looking up at Philippe, who was rapidly disrobing before her, she asked, "Everything?" The slight tremble in her voice broadcast the thrill she felt shooting from her quaking breasts to her moistening pussy.

"Everything," Philippe quietly repeated as he pulled his shirttails out from his trousers and unbuckled his belt.

Although he did not appear to rush, Philippe shed his jacket, vest, cravat and shirt quicker than Dagmar thought possible. His hairy hardpan chest and strong developed arm muscles surprised her as much as did his flat paunch-less gut. She did not know that he enjoyed rowing on the Rhine in Spring and Summer; or exercising on the rings at his men's club's gymnasium during the Fall and Winter. She only knew that her father, who was also in his mid-forties, had a pudgy protuberant belly and flabby soft pecs.

After dropping his suit pants, Philippe moved between Dagmar's spread knees. Standing with his hands on his hips at his boxers' waistband, he saw that she had made no progress, but only continued to stare at the thatch of hair poking over his ribbed cotton tank undershirt's low U-neck. He smiled kindly and inquired, "Are you waiting for me to help you?"

Freed from her awe-struck admiration, Dagmar shook her head 'no'. Her school tam fell by the wayside and her neck-length bobbed cinnamon hair shone against the sateen duvet. Unconsciously licking her lips, she pulled her opened shirt front out from her skirt and shrugged her shoulders. Her bountiful ninety-four centimeter bust rolled in its supportive brassiere's E-cups.

Philippe did not accept Dagmar's answer but instead helped her out below the waist. After unbuckling her wide black patent leather belt, he unzipped her A-line skirt at her right hip, and hauled it all to her shins where it continued to fall of its own accord to her feet. Then he knelt and skinned her white stockings from her toned pink legs. Adding her Mary Janes to the skirt and knee socks, he pushed the entire wad away to his right.

Meanwhile Dagmar had wriggled out from her white dress shirt and now lay with her arms outspread to the bed's either end. Philippe rose to a crouch then clambered up astride her hips. Crutching his strong hands under her armpits, he pulled her through his legs entirely onto the mattress and then brought her upright to a seated position with her legs extended. She cuddled his back in her hands as he kissed her brow while unsnapping her bra band and releasing her breasts to mound against his undershirt.

"Now, we are almost done, ma cherie," Philippe cooed. He tilted her torso backward and supported her at arms'-length by her scapulae as he openly admired her firm upstanding bosom below her dangling brand-new cloissoné chalet pendant. "Yes, from this angle, your necklace looks even more lovely than it did when I first put it on you at the birthday table." He chuckled and added, "Of course, there are other prettier sights." Leaning forward, he teased his tongue on her right tit's perked up pip, then slid to her left and nipped the other proud peak.

Dagmar squeaked as the zing from her licked nipple collided under her sternum with the sharp pang from her bitten tip. Philippe exclaimed happily, "Oho! So, my little Viking likes to have her pleasure mixed with pain! But not too much, I warrant." He bent his mouth to her left breast and drew its large pale pebbly areola and proud pale pink nipple deep into his mouth. At the same time as he suckled, he slid his left hand from her shoulder blade to her right boob and twisted its top while he crimped its puffed platform.

Dagmar sucked her teeth as she inhaled short sharp breaths. Confusing delightfully tormenting signals rang through her body. She flexed her fingers in Philippe's hard lats. Her cunt soaked her panties.

Sensing her readiness, Philippe lowered Dagmar again into the duvet and raked his chin through the valley between her breasts as he scooted back on the mattress. Faced with her flat round navel for the first time, he noted how its raised knot filled the depression flush to its rim. He smiled and circumnavigated its perimeter with his tongue tip before traveling further south. She reflexively scratched his ears as she whimpered, "Oh, Popo, P-popo, Popo!"

Philippe slipped his hands over Dagmar's ribs and past her hips as she became more animated. With his fingers inserted under her thin white rayon briefs leg seams, he gently prodded her full outer labia with his thumb tips. She immediately responded with more involuntary squirms and small panting gasps. Her sex-scent filled his nostrils and his racing blood filled his cock.

As she agitatedly lurched her bottom up from its quilted cloud, Philippe yanked Dagmar's panties clear, then slid them down her kicking legs and off completely. In the shadowed half-light from the glass-globed lamps on the chestnut dresser, he saw thick dewdrops bead on her long plump pussy. They clung sparkling to sprouted ginger hairs that marched upward to her darker denser pubic patch. While he traced his right forefinger along the sticky track, he forked apart the lower outer lips with his left index and middle fingers then touched his thumbpad to the juices' welling source.

Dagmar autonomically arched her belly then crunched it as she lifted her pelvis to meet Philippe's digital contact with her quivering aperture and throbbing clit. Groaning, she bit her tongue and clutched her hands at her aching breasts. She felt a thousand tiny fires from as many matchheads. He moved his hands to her knees and spread her legs wide.

Straightening up, Philippe peeled his tank top over his head and off, then shoved his shorts to the bedcover as he declared, "Maintenant, je pense que c'est tout!" Dropping to a push-up position over Dagmar's nude body, he whispered rhetorically, "Shall I glaze your sweet donut once more?" She answered non-verbally by clutching the small of his back and urging him onward.

Philippe was too stoked to delay further. As he felt Dagmar's yielding hole kiss his spear's broad spade point, he thrust his butt powerfully forward and drove his wide iron-hard shaft balls-deep into her for the second time that evening. She hooked her heels into the hollows behind his knees and crabbed her clawing nails into his contracted glutes while her unpracticed pussy's Kegels tightened around the transgressor. Fearful that his long denied nuts were on a fast-burning short fuse, he flexed in her tight tunnel and held his breath.

Feeling his anxious moment pass, Philippe began his strokes. As if he were on the river on a sunny day, he plied his prick like oars in a scull. With smooth long pulls and swiftly dipped reloads, he steadily rowed Dagmar's boat against a strengthening current. Her increasingly rapid ragged irregular breaths foretold her building storm.

Suddenly Dagmar squeezed upon Philippe with every muscle she had. As her squall broke inside, she curled tightly upon him and cried loudly, "OUI! Ohhh-weeeeee! Ohnncle! POHHH-po!" Catatonically frozen, she felt torn by the raging quaking sensations which charged amok throughout her entire being. Lights flared behind her squinched eyelids, while great trumpets rang in her clogged ears.

Philippe pressed his hands onto Dagmar's collarbones and pulled her tighter to his crotch as he jammed his joint its full length in her coming cunt. As he slammed into her back wall he exploded and chorused his own animal relief with her. His dick twitched while its velvet plum's spitting slit sprayed her cervix. Her collapsed channel worked his staff to draw out every last spurt.

When, at last, his flinching prick flicked its final seminal gob into Dagmar's fertile field and her thundering orgasmic rush subsided, Philippe laid the wasted teen back onto the duvet, but did nothing to remove himself from her warmth. Slowly, she roused from her ecstatic torpor. As she languidly ran her hands lovingly up his spine from his butt to his scalp, she sighed, "Merci beaucoup. I am sure I will be more than just a 'handful' for my Papa, now."

Rolling off Dagmar, Philipe stood from the bed. She watched his athletic naked body and cemented his every casual pose into her memory as he gathered his discarded clothes. While he dressed, he cautioned her, for their double benefit, "He may not like that another man has brought you to womanhood. He may have hoped to do that himself. Be careful as you go."

Dagmar smiled as she got under the bedcovers and answered, "Do not worry for that, Monsieur Pique. He will never know about us. I want too much to visit you again!" Scooting down until the sheet was snugged under her chin, she drifted her left hand to her snatch and cupped it closed around her first lover's turtling semen as she shut her eyes and fell into a satisfied sleep.

Philippe exited the Hotel Krafft quietly after discreetly using the stairwell to the lobby. Outside the snow had stopped but the temperature seemed to have dropped and, despite his heavy wool overcoat, he shivered when he first stepped through the doors into the night. As he got into his parked automobile, he gratefully remembered Trang had last said to him, "Do not expect to see me when you return. I am sure I will be back in bed dreaming."

When Philippe left his townhouse, he had certainly not planned to fuck Dagmar again, let alone to do it so thoroughly that he himself would then want nothing more than to rest in own bed. Even his iniquitous inner voice was quiet as he drove the Daimler home through the white blanketed Basel streets. Letting himself in through the kitchen, he was pleased to find it both straightened away and empty. Tired as he was, he intentionally walked up the carpeted alabaster stairs to the third floor to avoid risking that the elevator's motor might waken his niece.

As Philippe reached the second floor landing, the Elliott grandfather clock in the foyer below announced itself. He paused and listened to its light Whittington chimes, after which eleven muffled bongs tolled. Keeping his ear cocked for any other sounds, he advanced upward while he thought, "I was gone for an hour. Surely Trang finished the kitchen cleanup with enough time left to be quite asleep by now."

Philippe was correct that sufficient time had elapsed, however he did not account for the lasting excitement that his oral attentions had stored up in his ward's libido. While the champagne's effects were long gone, and the sauerbraten had served its purpose, she remained hungrily besotted in a way that she had never before known. Like a whirlwind, she had gathered, washed, dried and put away the dishes, then flown upstairs. Perching in the dark in the window seat overlooking the mews, she had waited on edge for her uncle's return while plotting his demise.

The moment Trang spotted Philippe's hat above the gated entry to the townhouse's tiny brick-walled backyard, she swiftly shucked her housecoat and darted toward her bed. Diving deep under the heavy bedcovers, she pulled the sheet up to her chin and prepared to feign sleep the instant her uncle's silhouette appeared in her bedroom doorframe. As she lay rigid on her back with her eyes fixed on her target, she second-guessed herself, "Will he check on me? I told him not to bother! What if he stays away? Will I know? How long should I lay here waiting? What if I got out of bed just as he was coming in?" Her heart ached and her pulse raced as she anxiously fretted.

Trang brought her left wrist close to her face and stared in her bedroom's half-light at her new gold ladies' Longines wristwatch. She squinted and wished she could more clearly make out the hands on its face. Just then, she heard the grandfather clock's distant mellow gong. After it stopped on its eleventh stroke, she thought, "I'll continue counting slowly to three hundred. Surely he is in the house and will not take more than five minutes to get to my room, if that is his idea."

Before she reached one-hundred-and-fifty, Trang heard door hinges creak at the far end of the hall and knew that Philippe had turned at the top of the stairs to go to his own suite. She threw back the duvet, then crept from her bed to her open door. Arriving just in time to see his brogan's heel disappear while he shut his door behind himself, she left her housecoat by the window seat and padded slipper-less in her thin sleeveless silk nightgown along the corridor toward the master bedroom.