by Amy Star
Jaxon lay down across the bed with his legs splayed apart, and Sherry climbed down after him to let her mouth take possession of his hard-on once again. He was the only partner with a foreskin she had ever had, and now she relived the pleasure and fun of playing with the turtleneck of flesh that dressed his cock. With her lips, she pulled it up and down over the bluntness of his glans and sucked at it when she had it all the way up over the tip, making him grunt and moan at her. She teased and tickled his balls and sensed the way his toes flexed and curled as she did. Wanting still more of him, Sherry licked her way down the length of his rod and found the flesh-wrapped chestnuts of his maleness. She took one of his balls into her mouth. He almost wailed at the feeling of it. She held his one nut on her tongue and felt him shudder with delight before releasing that one and doing the same to the other, bringing forth the same response. She drew his entire scrotum into his mouth and brought forth his near-weeping tone again. “Oh, fuck, Sherry, yeah…yeah…”
At length, panting with pleasure, Jaxon got himself up on one elbow to spend a lusty moment watching Sherry blow him, before his own need grew too great to put off any longer. He ran his fingers through her hair and groaned, “Lay down, baby. Let me fuck you.”
His request for the only pleasure that could possibly be greater than the two of them going down on each other made Sherry’s heart leap. She withdrew her mouth from his boner and climbed up to put her head on the pillows and spread her legs for him. He looked with pure desire at the entrance to her slippery-wet pink cave and climbed up after her. Jaxon lay down upon Sherry and, with a smooth and sure stroke, moved his moist and throbbing wood through her opening and into her passage. The response from both their bodies was electric. It was like all the sex they’d ever had as kids, but it was new and wondrous and breathtaking: for there was no sleeve of latex enclosing Jaxon’s prong this time. This time, for the first time, Jaxon had nothing inside Sherry’s womanhood but the pulsing length of his cock, and the feeling of being joined this way consumed the two of them.
Jaxon held his hardness inside Sherry for that one incredible moment, and their eyes locked the same as their bodies. The unfolding of pleasure inside both of them was beyond comprehension. It was all Jaxon could do to gasp, “Sherry…oh, shit… Ooohhh…”
Sherry sounded on the verge of tears, rubbing his face and neck and shoulder and chest. “Oh, Jaxon… Oh my God, Jaxon…” Her voice dissolved into euphoric breathing.
A tremor of increasing pleasure surged through them, and Jaxon could no longer resist the need to pump. He pulled back and then stroked into her once again and set himself to the ultimate joy of fucking his first love.
The humping and screwing that followed was a thing of utter and transcendent joy. Lying under Jaxon, moaning and nearly sobbing, feeling her body fusing with his, Sherry welcomed his urgently, deeply thrusting dick as if it were a long-missing part of her own self. Jaxon, gasping on top of her, his head spinning and senses reeling with the limitless abandon of feeling her tightening wetness around his prong once more, felt her welcoming him, and pumped harder and faster with an ardor beyond his power to express. There were no words and hardly any thoughts for the feeling of slipping and sliding in and out of Sherry once again. He, too, had a feeling of completeness, of reconnection, a feeling that his hard-pumping cock was the bridge from his soul to hers. Sherry tightened her thighs around Jaxon as if to imprison him inside her, and Jaxon rammed his meat in and out of her as if to tell her to keep him locked there and throw away the key.
A madness of ecstasy came over Jaxon. Pressing her into the mattress and pounding in and out of her passage as if thousands of yesterdays had never happened and there would be no tomorrow, his voice came from him as the voice of someone dreaming the sweetest dream in the world. “Oh, Sherry… Fuck… Oh, Sherry… Fuck, fuck, FUCK…”
She grew as delirious as he was. Her entire body rang and hummed with the feeling of the beats of his wood in her depths. She sounded as though she had found the place where agony and ecstasy became one and the same. “Jaxon… Jaxon, yes… JAXON, YES…”
He pumped her harder, with an ever greater need to feel his pole sheathed inside her. In all the times he had ever been on top of Sherry, Jaxon had never fucked her as hard as he did now. Somewhere in the back of their sex-drunk and fevered minds, they feared that the force of Jaxon’s pounding and pumping would break the sofa bed. And they didn’t care. Sherry clutched at him and received every urgent stroke and blow of his cock inside her, and cried out for more, which Jaxon eagerly and lustily gave her, until at last he threw back his head and roared insanely, “FUUUCCCK…!” And that was when Sherry knew the moment had hit him. He slammed himself with full force into her, his entire body shook on top of her, and Sherry knew that into her womb at this moment a mighty white dam-burst of Jaxon’s semen was pouring. He held himself on top of her and inside her, and tremors of unleashed pleasure rumbled through his muscles. Neither of them would have been surprised if they had just turned to statues at that moment and stayed that way forever.
But finally, the moment subsided, and Jaxon collapsed, panting, on top of Sherry. He took deep, desperate gulps of air, lying on top of her, and Sherry, trembling all over, ran her hands along his ass and his back and up to his neck and into his hair. Jaxon lifted his head and made a sound of laughter and sobbing all at once. He sweetly and wetly kissed Sherry’s lips, a kiss that she returned, joyously, gratefully.
“Oh, fuck, Sherry,” he panted at her. “Goddamn, that was incredible.” He kissed her again. “That was fucking unbelievable.”
Kissing at his lips and chin, Sherry could say only, “Jaxon… Oh, Jaxon… Oh…”
Eventually, neither of them was sure just how, Sherry and Jaxon ended up lying in each other’s arms with legs entangled and her head resting on his hairy pecs. Their breathing had slowed somewhere between Jaxon’s orgasm and this moment. Their bodies calmed into a mellow afterglow.
Jaxon said, “That was like another first time, wasn’t it? It was like losing it together all over again. Like we had our first time together, now it’s like a second first time—with no condom and being able to come inside you. That was special, Sherry—like we’re more together now than we were then.” He kissed the top of her head.
“I never thought we’d have a time like this,” she said, her breath stirring through the hairs of his chest and fondling the moistened, thick hose of his maleness.
“Yeah, I know,” he said, grunting a bit at the feeling of her fingers caressing his piece. “But it was like…our bodies remembered each other. Like my body never forgot yours, and yours never forgot mine. And being in you again felt like coming home, like we really fit together.”
“It was the best time since…our last time,” Sherry realized aloud. She lifted her head and looked up into the pure sex in his eyes. “We were so much in love, Jaxon.”
“And we never forgot,” he replied, stroking her hair. “It’s like we just took a long break, waiting for this.”
Sherry ran her fingertips along his lips. He kissed her fingers. Then, she returned her touch down below his pubes to the source of her greatest ecstasy. She was unsurprised at its condition
“You’re giving me another boner,” he told her.
“I know,” she smiled softly at him. “It felt so amazing, just having it inside me and nothing else—just you.”
“Talking like that and playing with my dick, you know what’s gonna happen to you. All night, like we used to,” he said, pecking at her lips.
“Please,” she answered, rolling off him and beside him, pulling him by his muscular arm, inviting him. “Please, Jaxon…all night.”
Jaxon climbed onto her again and settled himself between her thighs. And once again, his aching, needing erection slid home and lit the fire inside the two of them, and Jaxon began to pump deeply and passionately in and out of her. The fire, as they promised themselves, would burn all night long.
Chapter8
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sp; She was a beautiful young woman, sitting up in bed with a gently lovely face, a blank expression, and vacant, unfocused eyes. The man sitting in the chair beside the bed stared silently at the expressionless face and remembered, as he did every day when he visited her, how much life once played across those features. How well he recalled the way her eyes lit up when she laughed, and how much she used to laugh, and the way her lips turned up when she smiled, and the way she would toss her hair. He remembered her as a little girl, running madly about and getting into all sorts of mischief, and how no one could ever stay angry with her for more than five minutes at a time. He remembered her as an older girl, first growing into womanhood, and how she wanted to know everything about everything and could talk anyone else under the table about almost any subject. And he remembered her as a young woman, in love for the first time.
She was like a blossom, just opening up to the Sun.
And Norris Jones frowned and scowled so ferociously that the lines in his face threatened to etch themselves permanently into him, thinking of how short a time his little sister Fiona had bloomed, and what it was—or who it was—that had wiped the smile from her lovely face, perhaps forever, and stolen the dancing light from her eyes. Norris was a big man, muscular but not heavy, with curls of brown hair frosted with grey and a short-trimmed beard to match, and a face across which shadows of sorrow and anger always played now that his sister had fallen into her present state. Those were the only expressions he seemed able to manage anymore.
Regardless of what had happened to Fiona, Norris wanted her always to be some semblance of the lively beauty she’d always been. So, he took special care to ensure that the nurses always combed and brushed her honey-colored hair properly, and that someone in the family at least gave her a touch of makeup and glossed her lips. Some of the relatives chided him for this, telling him that he was treating Fiona like a doll that needed to be primped to be kept on display. Norris did not care. To do any less, in his mind, was simply to treat her as some vegetating thing to be kept in a bed as if she would just shrivel up and wither away. He refused to let his sister wither like a cut flower not even kept in a vase of water. She was too beautiful, too gentle, too precious, and she did not deserve what had happened to her.
Each day, Norris came to visit his sister, to sit with her and talk gently to her and touch her hand, whether she responded or not. He believed—needed to believe—that somewhere inside the pretty, empty-eyed doll that she had become, his vibrant and beautiful little Fiona knew he was there, and needed to know he was near, and would someday find her way through the shadows and curtains that had closed over her mind and return to the ones who loved her.
Norris would never give up on Fiona, just as he would never forgive the one who had put her where she was. Not a day went by that Norris did not curse his name.
Fiona had loved him so much, the bloody American airman. Norris hardly knew what she ever saw in him. Not only was he a Yank, he wasn’t even their breed. What would she ever want with someone like him? Yes, he was dark and handsome and built—not as built, or not built in the same way, as one would expect a member of his breed to be. They were usually burlier. Even so, even not being their kind, this American had somehow charmed Fiona to the point that he was almost all she could talk about. All that anyone ever seemed to hear from her was how sweet her airman from the States was, and how funny he was, and what a wonderful time they always had together. Norris’s frowning lips twitched at the thought of it. Oh, he’d had himself a bloody proper good time with Fiona, hadn’t he? A good time in his bed, a good time defiling the sweetest girl that ever drew breath. And what had it gotten Fiona in the end?
He never saw the issue of the “wonderful times” Fiona spent with the Yank. But Norris could just imagine it. He could picture the thing; the thing that could not live because it was neither one thing nor the other. The thing that was some grotesque mix of her and him. The incompatible mix of genes from two different breeds, the genes that should never have come together, had made it deliver prematurely, and once it was birthed, three months too soon, those incompatible genes had made it start to morph immediately. Norris shut his eyes in pain, thinking of the tiny creature with three bodies that could not inhabit the same form, shifting and convulsing, its little shape trying to take on fur and claws and wings and scales and horns all at once, and tearing itself apart inside. He gritted his teeth at how the little thing must have hurt, and not even understood what pain was, in the mercifully short time that it lived.
And that was the end of Fiona’s mind. Knowing what she had borne and knowing the fate to which it was so quickly doomed had been too much for her. Grief, horror, pain, guilt, anguish—they all closed in on her, and Fiona had fled to someplace deep inside herself, run away and locked all the doors and shutters and pulled all the drapes, sealing herself in some place in her mind where none of it could reach her.
Was she in the dark now, somewhere inside herself? Was she curled up in darkness there in her own head? Or had her mind made her some safe place where it was still light, still sunny, where she could still laugh and not know anything of what had happened or what had been done to her? Where was Fiona now?
Wherever she was, Norris knew, his little sister deserved better than this. So much better. And she might never get it.
“That bloody Yank bear,” he muttered at the unseeing, unhearing figure of his little sister sitting up in bed. “That bloody Yank bear who gave you that thing and left you this way. We’re going to get him, love, don’t you worry.”
With a heavy breath and a burning heart, Norris Jones picked himself up from the chair and slid it back against the wall. He stood at his little sister’s bedside and clasped her hand warmly in his. He leaned over and passed his fingers tenderly through the honey locks of her hair, and just as tenderly kissed the top of her head. Then, straightening up and looking his last at Fiona for today, Norris turned and left the room.
Out in the hall, his daughter Anna was approaching from the reception and waiting area.
Anna was a short but shapely young woman, her hair the same color as her father’s but without the frost of grey, her gently lovely features etched not so much with bitterness and wrath as with concern. And her father gave her plenty of reason for it.
She came up to her father, who towered over her, and looked up at him, looking him right in the eye. Anna said, softly but firmly, “Daddy, I don’t want you to do it. And you know Auntie Fiona wouldn’t want you to do it. She wouldn’t want this. She’d want you to stay with her and not leave. Please, Daddy—don’t go. Just don’t.”
“And then what?” said Norris with all the bitterness that his daughter had attributed to him. “What then? Just sit with her, day after day, and do nothing?”
“Being here with her is doing something. We’re all doing something, just being with her. She needs us together.”
“It’s not enough, Anna,” Norris said, shaking his head and sweeping his hand before him as if to wipe the argument right out of the air. “It’s not enough. She’s in that bed, wasting away, and he—where is he? Back in the States, living his life, probably doing to some American girl what he did to your aunt, not giving any of this another thought. He gets to have his life. What does Fiona get?”
“Jaxon wasn’t like that,” Anna objected. “The way you talk about him, you make him sound like a monster. You remember the way he was when it all happened. He was crushed. He was heartbroken. You saw how much he regretted it. He was sorry.” She put a hand on his arm. “Daddy, he loved her. He did. He never wanted this.”
“I know what he wanted!” Norris shouted. Then, he stopped himself, remembered where he was, took a breath, and looked up at the ceiling as if he were looking through it to the heavens. More quietly but just as rancorously, he looked back down at his daughter. “I know what he wanted. And I know what he got. And I know what your aunt got for it. Are we ever going to hear Fiona’s voice again? Is she ever going to look at any of us a
nd know us, and know herself, and know she’s even in the world? Are we ever going to see her smile again or hear her laugh again? Tell me that. Can you tell me that?”
“You know what the doctors said,” Anna answered as soothingly as she could. “She could still respond to treatment. She could still come back.”
“She could, yes,” Norris fumed. “And she could not. She could be just the way she is now for the rest of her life.”
“Don’t think that way, Daddy,” Anna pleaded. “Don’t give up hope. And don’t go away and do this thing you keep talking about. Daddy, when you talk about that, it scares me. I’m afraid. I don’t want you to go.”
“If I don’t go,” said Norris, “my sister will never have justice.”
“And if you do go,” Anna argued, “and something happens to you and the boys, what happens to Auntie Fiona and me? Daddy, we’ll have no one. I love Auntie Fiona just like you do. I want to see her come back as much as you. But I want you and the boys to be here when she does. I know you care about her. But I’m your daughter. I need you too. What about me? Daddy, please. Please.”
