John Douglas - Stepmother Lover

Dorothy Morgan glared at her stepson with angry green eyes as she listened to the lawyer's cracked voice destroy the hope she had nursed for the past five years.

Damn it! It just wasn't fair! Bruce Morgan had been ages older than her twenty-four years, and his children were already into their teens when she married him. He wasn't a bad looking man, and he had been proficient, if not inventive in the bedroom. But Dorothy was convinced that she could have done a lot better with a minimum of effort. The only reason she married Bruce Morgan was his clearly stated promise that the three hundred acre farm would be hers when he died.

For five years, she had played mother to Ted and Linda, while dutifully offering her young body to Bruce's nightly assaults. Now, Ted was eighteen and Linda was sixteen, and Bruce was dead.

Dorothy did not pretend a grief she could not discover among her emotions. Even the youngsters received the news of the auto accident with suppressed sighs of relief. Bruce had never been close to either of them, and his authoritarian attitude would be missed but little.

"So," the lawyer concluded, folding the document and removing his glasses, "Mr. Morgan left the bulk of his estate to his sole male heir, Ted Morgan. The others will receive sums up to ten thousand dollars."

Ted's dark eyes mocked her as Dorothy exclaimed, "He couldn't do this to me! I'll contest the will!"

The attorney sighed. "That is your privilege, of course. But I assure you, this will cannot be broken. Mr. Morgan was very specific in his demands that it be made unbreakable." He folded his bony hands on the desk. "I'm sure you can work something out among yourselves without all the expense and embarrassment of prolonged litigation."

"Sure," Ted's deep baritone drew another glare from his stepmother. "We can work something out. We'll talk it over when we get home."

"Your home," the woman exclaimed angrily. "Not mine! Your father saw to that."

The lawyer stood up, his narrow shoulders supplying a shrug of finality. Ted rose to his feet, tall and muscular, offering an arm to Dorothy and receiving another furious frown of refusal.

Linda Morgan, Ted's younger sister, followed her brother and stepmother from the office, down the narrow hallway, and out the side door into the parking area where they had left the Chrysler.

The contents of the will had failed to surprise the girl. It seemed logical that Ted should assume control of the farm. He was, after all, a man, and farming was no job for a woman, especially one like Dorothy.

Linda didn't dislike her stepmother. It was just that she had never been able to accept her as Bruce's wife. Her father had been a stern and cold man, while Dorothy, with her flaming red hair and generously curved body, was-Linda found it difficult to shape the word, even in the privacy of her mind-sexy.

"I'll drive," Ted announced when they reached the car. He held out his hand for the keys, and Dorothy's normally full lips became a tight red slash above a quivering dainty chin. She placed them on his palm with unnecessary force, then stalked to the rear door and climbed into the back seat.

"You can ride up front with me, Linda." Ted grinned, and the girl trotted happily around the car, her skirt climbing over her slender thighs as she settled herself in the comfortable seat, watching her brother insert the key with an air of authority.

"Are things going to be different, Ted?" Linda asked as they pulled out into the light afternoon traffic. "At home, I mean."

Ted gave her a quick smile, his eyes dropping to caress the tanned flesh above her dimpled knees. His right hand lifted from the wheel to curve warm fingers about her thigh, gentle, yet bold, moving upward just enough to suggest more than a casual touch.

Linda's body tensed as she felt the warm tingling between her legs.

Then, just as suddenly, the muscles relaxed and she let her thighs roll on the seat, widening the angle between them. She was mistaken about Ted's intention. She had to be. It was unthinkable that her own brother would actually do the thing that flitted through her mind.

"Things will be better, Sis." His voice was soft, conveying the same thrilling warmth that radiated from his fingers, still sliding over the smoothness of her skin, dangerously near the forbidden zone. Linda wondered what she would do if he actually touched her there.

"What are you doing?" Dorothy's voice came harshly from the back seat.

She was leaning forward, staring at Ted's hand, her own gripping the leather upholstery.

Ted's eyes were insolent, meeting hers in the rectangular mirror. His fingers tightened about the young flesh, possessively and boldly. His voice bore a trace of harshness that made the woman sit back, her face a lovely mask of confusion.

"I'm doing what I want to do," he said tensely. "She's my sister. Or have you forgotten that?"

Linda wondered why Dorothy had objected to her brother's touch. He wasn't hurting her. On the contrary, the most pleasant sensations were pulsating through her lower belly, concentrating their tingling thrills in the plump mound beneath her thin panties.

A faint pink glow spread upward from her small breasts to paint her cheeks. She desperately hoped that Ted would not notice the dampness that was beginning to seep through her panties.

Linda hated it when his hand returned to the wheel, and she hated herself for thinking that it had been anything more than a gesture of affection. Ted would never dream of doing those awful things that were pictured hazily on the rim of her consciousness.

All three were silent as the powerful car swallowed the miles with its throaty purr. At the farm, Dorothy was first out, stalking into the multi-columned house with an exaggerated twisting of her lush bottom.

She climbed the stairs to her second-story bedroom, closing the door behind her before dropping the mask of haughty defiance and yielding to the gut-wrenching sobs of disappointment. Before the mirror of the heavy oak dresser, she stared at the convulsive heaving of her prominent breasts, the big mounds shoving their outlined tips against the black dress.

"Mourn, bitch," she whispered in a fierce tone. "Pretend you're sorry!

The only thing you're sorry about is getting cut out of his will."

The lips snarled, quivered, then curved in a strained smile. Her head went back, the red hair swirling and reflecting the lift from the tall windows of the bedroom. She laughed, beginning with a sobbing chuckle, and climbing dangerously toward hysteria.

"He fucked you, Dot!" she hissed at her swaying reflection. "The son of a bitch fucked you after he was dead and buried!"

Her fingers tore at the neckline of the dress, ripping it down the front and tugging the split until it hung like a ragged black smock, gaping to expose her nakedness. Her tits poked meaty nipples at the mirror, and her pubic thatch flamed its redness.

"He got the prime years," she whispered, the angry tone surrendering to a wistful softness. "And what did you get? You got fucked! That's what!

He promised you the whole damn pie, and you end up with the crumbs!"

Gracefully, even in anger, she shrugged the torn dress down over the firm breasts, wiggling her voluptuous hips until the cloth puddled about her feet, and she stood naked except for the sheer hose, garter belt and slippers.

Unsnapping, feeling her thighs tensing and quivering, she removed the last item to stand, long legs spread wide, devouring her mirrored nakedness with half-closed eyes. The spongy nipples began a visible engorgement, swelling and tightening in their pinkish brown circles.

She shot her pelvis forward, pushing the plump cuntal mound into greater prominence, bending her knees and widening the angle of her thighs until the lips of her pussy were tugged apart to reveal the delicate slit of the vaginal entrance, pink, moist and shivering with suppressed excitement.