My sister Deanne had come home a minute ago, blind drunk again, as she often did lately. Right now, she was stumbling up the stairs in a fruitless attempt to make as little noise as possible to avoid waking up our parents. Of course, she didn’t need to worry about that, I doubt even a cannon blast would wake them. Not with his loud snoring and her earplugs. However, it did wake me.In a few more moments Deanne would stumble into my room, she always did. My cock was already swelling in anticipation.“Hi shexy.” she slurred as she staggered through the door and steadied herself with both hands on my bed. I could smell beer on her breath, then taste it as she kissed me.“I’m sho wet for you.” she giggled and drew a slippery finger over my lips, “Here.”The distinct aroma of aroused pussy entered my nose and I tasted the sweet tartness of her female nectar.I could now see my sister’s naked pussy, neatly shaven and highly excited, below the hem of her little black dress. Deanne had already. The acid-etched memory of her mother with that horrible Marlowe man blazed in her mind like a neon billboard... her own mother, John Barrett's widow, sprawled nakedly across the bedspread like a central character in some five-dollar porno movie... pot-bellied, balding Jerry Marlowe hunched over her, his head stuffed between her lewdly-splayed thighs, his back arching and bobbing as he salaciously licked and sucked there at the banquet-table of her naked loins! Even now, over the pounding rhythms of the rock music from her radio, she could still hear, in that private inner ear of her mind, the wetly lascivious sounds of that horrible man as his lips and tongue worked ravenously between her mother's willing thighs!Why, oh why, she asked herself, did I have to see that? If it had to happen between them like that so vulgarly, why not some night when I was out? Dear God, how could she bring that man into her bedroom, there on the very bed, between the very sheets where she once slept with.
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