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.
