And Carol . . . keep your
pussy warm. I'm on my way home."

She heard Mike chuckling as he hung up.

CHAPTER THREE

It was one of those rare California days: sunny, clear, and smog free. On top of
that the Coast Road was virtually deserted of traffic. To Marsha Bradford, this
was frosting on the cake.

She handled the convertible with easy confidence. The wind whipped her long
blonde ponytail around, and she brushed a stray wisp of hair from her full lips.
The morning sun warmed her face and body, pushing last night from her mind and
like a kid out of school, she revelled in its' warmth.

Impulsively, she opened the zippers that ran down the middle of her denim jacket
and skirt. She wasn't wearing a bra. The racing wind hardened the nipples on her
full breasts and flipped her jacket open, exposing her left tit.

A loud horn blast made her laugh.

Eat your heart out, she thought, with a smile. She was proud of her
superstructure, and her slender frame served to accent them even more. They were
full, firm, and big nippled; perfectly round and jutting. She worked damn hard
at keeping them that way.

Going into one of the never ending curves, the sun found her tan thighs. It was
warm, sensuous; like a lover's caress, and she opened her legs wider to receive
it. She tugged the skirt's zipper up further and was rewarded with a hot sunbeam
directly on her cunt. The heat flowed through her body and penetrated her being.
Idly, her hand played with the reddish-blonde hair protruding from her minuscule
panty. For a change, she was on top of the world.

Another horn blasted the air and she heard the squeal of tires. She giggled. If
they could only see what I'm really doing, she thought, they would go right off
the cliff.

Marsha's finger had squirmed beneath her panty and had found a home in her hot,
pink pussy. The warm glow, along with the sun, gave her entire being a sense of
contentment she hadn't known for a long time. She was glad to be going home. An
unnamed feeling had been gnawing at her for days, ever since her mother had
called about the anniversary reunion. And her secret fantasy had been more
frequent and more vivid. Just last night she had to call it up from her
subconscious mind, to feed the furnace of her hungry body; to put herself over
the top.

The road stretched out before her, and she remembered.

Her mind was detached; separated from her body. It floated free, and its' eye
wandered about the bedroom. It saw her laying on the bed, legs wide and pulled
over Tom Ellis' shoulders. It saw his sweaty body and skinny dick pumping
furiously in and out of her semi-dry cunt. It could hear her rote responses,
moaning and moving on cue, like an actress in a role. It was a good performance,
Tom Ellis thought she was hot stuff.

Marsha knew she would have to call it back; have it help her through this - as
she had so frequently in the past. Sex with Tom Ellis had lost what little
sparkle it once had. For the millionth time, she wondered why she let this man
fuck her.

Because he looks like your brother, Peter, a little voice told her.

Her mind circled the room once more, taking in Tom's heaving flanks, her own
firm, rounded asscheeks; pink, puckered asshole, involuntarily contracting;
round tits flattened against her chest by his weight, blonde hair framing her
oval face; then it returned to its' rightful place.

Peter! Oh, Peter, she thought, come to me! I need you! She could see her brother
as he had been that day; young, but with a full-grown cock. He lay naked on his
bed, legs apart, his hand slowly caressing his heavy prick, bringing it to life.
She saw herself watching from the closet - a childish game that suddenly turned
exciting - the strange, unfamiliar, heat beginning in her cunny, spreading
upwards through her body.

Her eyes widened as Peter gripped his cock tightly. He couldn't quite fit his
hand around the whole, throbbing shaft. His prick mesmerized her; long, thick,
and meaty, with a heavy ballsac drooping between his legs. She found it hard to
breathe.

Marsha watched him stroke the shaft, gaining speed. Each stroke seem to send an
electric shock through her cunny, making it throb. She pressed her hand against
her mound and hot, sticky juice began to seep out and wet her panties. A warm
wave of pleasure flowed through her body. Without conscious thought, her hands
began small explorations; stomach, hips, tits, thigh. Tits and thighs!

She heard Peter groan; watched his fist begin to fly up and down the engorged
shaft; saw the veins bulge, the angry purple head. Fingers slipped beneath
elastic panty-bands, through the silky fuzz, searching; finding her drooling
slit, and a magic spot that intensified this new thrill. A blinding flash
erupted before her eyes and her legs went weak. She sucked in her breath, but
made no sound.

Peter's cock seemed to fill her vision and her fingers moved with rough finesse.
Pleasure came in waves.

She could see it!

She could feel it!

It filled her up!

"Oh, God! Yessss!" she screamed, as her dream within a dream drove her to
reality. "That's it! Yes! Fuck me! Oh, fuck me! Make me cum! I need to cum!"

"Shit, babe, oh, shit, Marsha . . . babe, you're so hot. I love fucking you! Cum
for me! Cum for Tom!"

Her mind heard nothing. It was reaching for her brother's huge, erupting cock.
An enormous wave carried her up and over.

"Aaaaaaagggg! . . . I'm cummmmmin' . . . I'm cummmmin'!"

Her legs wrapped tight around Tom's back; fingers digging into his flesh. He
yelled his pain and pleasure as his cock exploded hotly in Marsha's, now, juicy
cunt.

She felt the hot, sticky cream spurt, lava-like, inside her body; fill up her
cunt cavern, then seep out into the crack of her ass. Her body thrashed and her
hips beat frantically against his, as her cunt-walls tried to drain every
pleasure-giving droplet from his shrinking cock. Her mind and body strained, but
it was no use. The image was slowly fading away.

A car horn blared at her as her car drifted towards the white line. Her brow was
furrowed and beads of sweat dotted her forehead. She blinked her eyes and a
shiver ran up her spine. The fantasy was becoming stronger and stronger; the
urge more insistent. Oh, God, how she wished Peter wasn't her brother.

He's only your adopted brother, not your real brother, the little voice said.
Who would know?

Marsha pushed the tormenting thought from her mind, but like a seed planted, it
had already taken root in her subconscious mind. She pressed the accelerator
down and the car surged forward. Marsha Bradford was in hurry.

*****************************

When the young flight attendant bent over to assist an elderly passenger, her
skirt tightened across her buttocks. It was a very nice ass, Peter Bradford
thought, as he watched from two rows back. It had a familiar look about it; an
ass that he new and liked. Watching, he had an almost uncontrollable urge to
reach out and pat it; so much so that he deliberately crossed his arms to avoid
a reflex action.

The more he watched the well-shaped derriere sway from side to side, the more he
wondered whose ass it reminded him of. Impulsively, he rang the call button.

The flight attendant stood up and straightened her skirt out, effectively hiding
the heart shaped mounds. But Peter had her contours memorized. He searched his
mind, taking in the girl's long legs as he did; young, mid-twenties, blonde,
nice smile, a well shaped bust hiding beneath the tailored blouse.

Damn, he thought, Marsha! Always at the edge of his thoughts; even here and now,
after all this time.

"Yes, Mr. Bradford, can I get you something?"

"Eh, yes, another Scotch, please," he stammered, amazed at how quickly they
picked up on names.

"Right away, Mr. Bradford," she said, giving Peter her best airline smile.

He watched her walk away. Was the sway of her hips more pronounced, or was it
his imagination. Sometimes Marsha walked that way, he thought.

Heat filled his loins, like it always did when he thought about his sister -
'that way'. She was part of a teenage fantasy world; a world that he kept safely
hidden, only to be examined in the dark of the night. As the flight attendant
brought his drink, a fleeting image of Marsha's naked body came to him.
Embarrassed and angry, he crossed his legs to hide his growing erection. This is
silly, he thought. That was long ago. He hadn't even seen Marsha in over a year.
He should be thinking about Lucy Parsons, not his sister; somebody real, not a
fantasy.

He gulped his drink and forced himself to concentrate on Lucy, but even as he
slipped into reverie, he knew that his sister was a fantasy that would always be
with him.

*******************************

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