Anderson Family Journals #12
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
Incest – Taboo – Father/Daughter – Uncle/Niece – Girl-on-Girl Sex – Straight Sex – Exhibitionism – Voyeurism – Smoking Weed – Virgin
I do not grant permission to anyone to re-post or archive my stories. If you want to download my story for personal use, be my guest, but that’s as far as my permissions go.
Otherwise, have fun and enjoy.
* * * * *
Abbey’s Secret Life
If my brother can keep a journal, so I can I. His little book just sits in his room, tempting me to read his thoughts, but I won’t, but I want to, but I won’t. There isn’t a place in our home where he could keep it hidden from me, and there’s not a lock in the house that I can’t get into (for now). I could read his journal, but I won’t.
*Smiles*. I used to call Timmy “Timmy Bear” back when I first met him. (When I first remembered meeting him the day Dad dropped me off at Mom’s house and said, “Don’t forget I love you. This is goodbye for now, not forever. We’ll see each other again.” What kind of Dad does that to his daughter? I don’t call him “Dad” anymore–not to his face.
Maybe I’ll start calling Timmy “Timmy Bear” again.
I’m not going to use my journal to keep my life in order. When I get a thought, I’ll write it down, whether it’s from ten days ago or ten years. Chaos, baby!
Something “strange” is going on in my home. I’m more tempted by the day to look through my brother’s journal.
Entry – The Upstairs Man
I met Vicki after school today, something that started about a week after we both turned eighteen. Vicki is Lana’s cousin. She’s eighteen and one-hundred-percent Polish American, unlike Lana. She’s also a senior, whereas I’m stuck at being a junior. (Thanks, Dad.)
In truth, I could have graduated high school before I was old enough to enter junior high, but we, Dad and I, didn’t see the point in growing up fast. I don’t see the point in growing up slow, either. (I’m digressing.)
Vicki was a girl who I met in a strange place. Diana had asked me if I wanted a ride home today, but I had brought my board, as I always do, and so I said, “Next time.”
“But, I’m getting burgers,” Diana said as we stood outside her car. “Big, greasy, fat burgers with cheese and tomatoes and mushrooms and onions and all of that unhealthy shit we can eat now while we’re young.”
“Another time,” I said. “I mean it.”
Diana looked at me. I could see her mind working behind her blue eyes. I could hear her words already. “You’re not a talker today, are you?” she’d say, not ask, but say. It was one of those rhetorical questions. Then she’d prod me to talk until she was sure the sunlight shined on every corner of my world, but I had things to do today. So, I stepped forward and hugged her, pressing my lean, wiry body against her all-American athleticism.
As always, her big tits reminded me that I had no tits. I didn’t have small tits. I didn’t have little handfuls. I had no tits. I had Keira Knightley’s tits. I Katherine Moennig’s tits. No, I had Zendaya’s tits with a more athletic body. I had pectorals where my tits should have been, LOL. But, even so, no one could mistake me for a “little girl.” I was as tall as Diana. I was “beautiful” (according to Diana), and I guess my beauty was evident in my reflection. I was a short-haired gamine, but I had those regal lines, high cheekbones–Fuck it: I looked like Tinker Bell or Sleeping Beauty with my hair long, the classic animations. Enough about my tits. (Enough about me. I’m not as “beautiful” as Diana tells me I am. She’s always been too nice to me.)
I waited until my sister drove off before I dropped my board and pushed my way across the parking lot, where I met Vicki, who was waiting in her Subaru, behind her metalized windows that barred people from seeing the interior of her car.
I didn’t knock on the window when I reached the passenger side door. I grabbed the handle, opened it, tossed my backpack on the floor, and got in with my board standing between my knees. I shut the door, and Vicki drove off.
It wasn’t until we were off school property that Vicki asked, “Where are we going today? The house, the neighborhood, or downtown?”
“The neighborhood,” I said, thinking back on the text I had sent during lunch.
We didn’t talk for the rest of the drive.
I had worn my fitted, black baseball cap with a shapeable brim to school, along with metallic red basketball shorts and a buttoned-up jersey. Underneath my jersey, I wore a black, wraparound tube top that covered my tits and nothing more. I didn’t bother with a bra since the tube top kept my little titties in place, and the jersey covered my nipples whenever they turned hard, typically around some of my friends and a few of the teachers. I went around school with only the jersey buttons covering my tits done up.
During Beşiktaş Escort the drive, I took off the jersey and stuffed it into my backpack. From a secret pouch I had sewn into the pack, I fetched a pre-rolled joint, fit it to a glass filter, and pushed the joint behind my right ear. I then sat without making a sound until Vicki pulled into a gated driveway in an affluent neighborhood on the border of the suburbs and the city. As we waited behind the gate, I logged into my phone and sent a text. The gate opened, and a tight, twisting motion hardened my bright pink nipples. Vicki pulled into the property, stopping long enough to lower her window so I could show my face to Tattooed Jake, who waved us in.
“Why don’t you have to pay?” Vicki asked me as she always asked me.
“Lucky, I guess,” I answered as I always answered.
They had tried to recruit Vicki. She was a short, slender, and small-breasted girl, but her tits looked big on her petite frame, and her ass looked big beneath her narrow waist. She had passed on their offer, and now she couldn’t get into the place without me. The one day in a year that we had both been in the same place at the same time….
Vicki drove through the roundabout and around the side of the house with a custom-built parking lot. She found a space and parked her car, then leaned back and took a deep breath.
“Yes,” Vicki said, sighing. “Please.”
I pulled the J from my ear, and we lit up in Vicki’s car, passing it back and forth and saying nothing. I relaxed as the THC warmed my body. The blush that ran through my light skin sent a pinkish swirl through my cheeks. As the smoke filled my lungs, my mind slowed, as did my breathing, as did Vicki’s breathing. I let her have the last couple of hits, and then we sat in her smoke-filled car, like fat men in a sauna.
“Am I giving you a ride home?” Vicki asked.
“Yeah,” I said, pushing the door open. “Text me when you’re ready to go.”
I led the way to a pair of cellar doors at the side of the mansion near the parking lot. Tracksuit Tony stood by the closed doors, dressed in his trademark tracksuit, but I doubt the no-neck thug ever moved faster than a walking pace.
“ID,” he said, looking at Vicki.
“You know me,” Vicki said.
I said nothing.
“Eighteen and over only,” Tony said. “You’re a guest of a member. We card.”
Vicki pulled her ID out of her back pocket. Tony scanned it, looked it over, then nodded his head as he always did. I walked away from the cellar doors as Tony pulled them open.
“Hey,” Vicki said before I managed to get two steps away from her. “You’re going to go see him, right?”
I turned around and managed to keep the frown off my face.
“Introduce me to the Man Upstairs,” Vicki said.
“You didn’t want to work for him, so you don’t want to meet him.”
“I do want to meet him.”
“He doesn’t want to meet you.”
“They tried to recruit me.”
“If you don’t want to pay to see the show, take them up on their offer,” I said. “Or tell Tony you want to blow the Man Upstairs, and he’ll set it up.”
Tony made a face.
“Do you blow him?” Vicki asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Every time I come by.”
Tony frowned and shook his head at me from behind Vicki.
“I can’t do that yet,” Vicki said, sighing. “I’ll text you when I’m ready to go.”
I waited for Vicki to walk down into the cellar. As Tony closed the doors behind her, he looked at me again and shook his head. I sighed and continued around to the front of the mansion, up the steps, and inside, where the downstairs furnishings were so sparse, you’d think the owner had spent all of his money on buying the property.
I jogged up the steps of the front room’s staircase, ignoring the looks of the men sitting on the couches as they looked up from their titty magazines. I walked down the East Wing’s hallway, doing my best to ignore the moans coming from behind the doors. I had to stop for a minute as from behind one door, I could hear the loud moans of some guy and the constant, out-of-breath grunts of some lady. I wanted to press my ear to the door and listen to the way that man was riding that woman. She sounded beat, physically, mentally, and she sounded like she never wanted the pussy pounding to end.
Between my legs, a warm pool of liquid grew, wetting my boyshorts panties, but knowing there were cameras on me, I continued down the hallway to a large, iron door. I pushed it open and stepped inside, closing the door behind me.
A tall, athletic man about an inch shorter than Timmy looked up from the desk: He had black hair with specks of gray, and he wore a pair of small reading glasses on his lean face. On his cherry wood desk sat a laptop, a money counter, an open, silver briefcase full of loose cash, and two closed briefcases stacked beside it. In the corner of the room, sleeping on a small couch, was Fred, who opened an eye to look at me before closing it again.
“I’ve told you to knock Beylikdüzü Escort before you entered my office,” the Guy Upstairs said. “It’s polite.”
“I told you to lock the doors,” I said. “And then I’d knock.”
“I saw you on the cameras, as I always do,” he said and pressed a button on the underside of his desk. Behind me, several steel latches slid into place, locking the door. “Always use the back stairs to come and see me, no matter what place I’m working at for the day. I don’t want the clients in the waiting room remembering who you are.” He took a breath. “Do you need anything? Money?”
I shook my head as I stared at him.
“You sure? I have more than enough now; you know that.”
“I just wanted to say hi.”
He nodded and asked, “That’s it? Nothing else? Are you sure? Maybe you’d like me to go online and order you a decent shirt?”
“I want a pound of weed,” I said, trying to stand straighter so I could push my itty bitties outward. “A bottle of pills. A bag of blow. Something I can sell on the street.”
He shook his head at me.
“Laugh,” I said. “It was a joke.”
“Ha,” he said.
“Fine, I’m going to the cellar. I want to see them wrestle.”
He looked down at his computer, put his hands on the keys, and tapped one finger up and down, making little clicking sounds, but he didn’t speak, nor did he type, unless it was the same continuous letter materializing across his screen.
“I’ll see you around,” I said as I turned away from him. “I want them to be my age, and the girl needs to have small tits.”
The Man Upstairs pressed his desk button. The bolts slid free, and I left his office, heading to the cellar from inside the house.
Entry – A Thought
I wonder if Timmy keeps his journal in order?
– The Cellar
I’m not sure I should write this next part down…fuck it, I could always destroy it later.
Whoever owned the mansion before the Man Upstairs had built a wine cellar you could live in, with multiple rooms and racks able to reach as high as fifteen feet. I walked through the cellar, still with my titties pushed forward, but I kept the brim of my hat low. Security said nothing to me, other than Horrible Ralph, who stopped me at the fuck-mat entrance and whispered, “We’ve cleared and cleaned your spot, so sit there this time”–his voice dropped to the level of barely discernable–“out of the security cameras’ line of sight.” His voice rose back to a whisper when he spoke again. “Keep your phone in your pocket this time, or we’re gonna have to take it from you and you’ll have to get it back from him.”
“What if I need to text someone?” I asked. “C’mon, Horrible; I’m won’t record the show again.”
“Text from out here,” he said.
I sighed, but I nodded as I walked through a short tunnel between two bleachers and into a square room with tiered, leather-padded seating. Smoke hung in the air (not the cigarette kind), but it couldn’t hide the smell of pussy and sex in the room. I didn’t search for Vicki (I never do) as I prowled through the darkness and climbed the elevated rows of leather up to the east corner. As I moved through the scattered crowd up to my corner perch, the wetness between my legs grew thicker, making each step a little slippery slide for my cunny lips until I sat, my soaked panties pressing into my small bubble butt and the meaty clam below my asshole. I pressed my back into the corner of the bleachers, pushed my ass to the edge of my seat, and watched the show in silence.
Within a padded square, spotlit from above by a dozen recessed lights, I watched an older man with gray chest hairs between the legs of a Latin-looking girl who was probably in her early twenties. She had long black hair, big breasts, and dark nipples puckered into long, thick nubs. Her light brown skin held a sheen of sweat as she lay on her back, the older guy between her firm legs, pumping his big cock between her hairless pussy lips. (The performers were always big and long or thick between their legs.)
I listened to the girl and guy moan as my heartbeat rose and a rush of heat traveled through my body. Around me, a good distance away (a social distance away, lol), I watched shadows touch themselves, or if they were lucky enough to have a partner, I watched them touch each other. I heard a guy come. I heard a lady whimper. I saw one shadow climb atop another and bounce up and down, facing away from the man whose lap she was riding, but the crowd kept their pleasure to themselves. It was a rule: Only the performers could be vocal with their cries.
A moan wanted out of my mouth as my nipples tightened, constricting and swelling until I had to cup my little breasts and rub my palms over my hard nubs. Caressing my tits sent shivers of pleasure through my body that ended up between my legs. I tightened my firm ass, feeling my pussy pulse and the wetness within me double. A thick, floral scent filled my nostrils, and I looked around, wondering Beyoğlu Escort if anyone else could smell my pussy as well.
As I watched, I ran my hands over my stomach, back up to my tits, down to my shorts, back to my tits, over my abs, back to my tits, and into the waistband of my basketball shorts. I undid the strings when the Latin girl begged, “Dame tu leche, Papi. Mas duro. Mas duro. Ay si, ay si, dame tu leche!”
The heat between my legs dampened my skin. My pussy dripped with my honey as I undid my drawstrings and pushed my hands into my shorts. I grabbed onto my boyshorts panties and pulled them against my muffin, feeling a tingle in my clitty as the fabric tightened against my mound. When the guy came, pulling his cock out and shooting his spunk all over the Latin girl’s light brown skin, I let go of my panties and exhaled a shaky breath. Someone several feet to my right nutted into a towel, cleaned himself up, and leaned back, breathing hard. When his head turned toward me, I slowly turned my eyes back to the performers, a chill dancing along my spine.
(I need a boyfriend. Writing this memory down is making my cute little pussy wet. I think it’s cute. It’s small, hairless, though sometimes I grow a flaxen-haired landing strip. My outer lips are thick, and they curve inward, protecting my petite inner lips, forming a level crescent that hid the bright pink meat within, and my clit looks like a shiny pink pearl within a smooth hood. That’s enough about my pussy. I want to touch it again.)
Before the next show, Zack, a college-aged man in a pair of jeans, white shirt, and flat brim hat, strolled out of the narrow tunnel through the bottom corner of the bleachers and wiped the fuck-mats down with a pushable floor squeegee. The lights over the mat stayed on; the lights over the crowd remained off. As I watched him move, his lithe arm muscles flexing, his butt pushing against his jeans, I pinched my nipples again, grimacing and making faces as the pleasurable pain buzzed through my tits. Before he left the floor, I softened my nipple play until a fuzzy tingle radiated throughout my small breast bumps.
Another pair of performers entered the fuck-mat from the bottom corner of the bleachers. These were my performers. They could have been anywhere from eighteen to twenty-two by the looks of them. (The “Club” didn’t allow anyone under eighteen onto the grounds. This was a swingers’ club that accepted “donations.” The only “real” trouble they could get into was for the drugs they sold, which is one of the reasons I kept my distance from the Man Upstairs. I never knew when he’d be gone again.)
Shit, I’m digressing.
They were a hard-bodied couple, the two on the floor. The guy had short, black hair and a lean body, but he didn’t have a wrestler’s physique. He carried a small bottle of coconut oil in each of his hands. The girl had a slender, athletic body with a hint of leanness, long brown hair, and tits bigger than mine that were just handfuls, but still: They–were–bigger–than–mine.
(*Sigh* There are no flat-chested girls at the meeting places.)
The girl stood in the middle of the mat, wearing a tight sports bra and sporty bikini bottoms with multiple straps connecting the front of her panties to the back of her thong. The guy, wearing a pair of tight boxer briefs with a nice bulge, walked around her, then called out, “Any volunteers?” as he held up the bottles of oil. “We’re looking for a man and a woman?”
(*smile* I remember when Tracksuit Tony tried to play MC at one of the places. He thought he was a wrestler cutting a promo. He slipped on some oil the cleanup guy had missed, pedaled his feet like a cartoon, and fell on his ass. Tony’s been on the outside door ever since.)
Two volunteers stepped forward, a blonde woman for the guy and a blond guy for the girl. The volunteers held hands, so I deduced they were a couple. The girl wore a tight dress, and the guy had on slacks and a shirt. They took the oil and poured it over the performers.
I watched the guy spread the oil over the girl, not a moment’s hesitation in his hands as they moved over her shoulders and sides, her back, then over her ass and abs. He darkened her gray sports bra, rubbing his hands over her tits while her sexy spasms twitched across her face. He moved to her side, cupped her pussy, then dropped into a squat and did each of her legs individually, cupping her meaty cameltoe through her bikini bottoms every time his hands went up her legs.
The woman groped the man as aggressively as the guy did the girl. She had her hands on his chest and arms, his butt, the oil darkening his boxer briefs, and she pulled his waistband outward as she poured oil over his cock. I leaned my head to the right against the bleacher’s padded rails, closed my eyes, and moaned in damn near silence as I pushed my hands between my legs. If only I were touching that guy’s cock.
Eventually, the guy had to end the rubdown when the audience member slid his fingers under the leghole of the girl’s panties and tried to get his digits up her snatch. You could “donate” to play upstairs, but this wasn’t a free use market. Though, when he molested her pussy, my right hand slid up the loose leghole of my basketball shorts, pulling the fabric up my thigh as it caught on my wrist, and I pressed my fingers against my pussy. The front of my panties was so wet my fingertips came away sticky.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32