His eyes glistened in the moonlight. He looked about my age, early-twenties, with dark eyes and a rough dusting of beard. “What you want?” he aske..., hoarsely, as if his grief caught in his throat. “I heard you, I… I don’t know, I guess I was just concerned.” He turned back to the grave and I crept up behind him to look at it. Marie Louise Emmett, dead just two weeks, lay beneath the soil by his knees. “You wife?” I asked crouching beside him. “My sister,” he said. “My little sister.” I looked. A low moan escaped her parted lips, and the ache in her virginal cunt increased.Slowly, then, she began to massage her breasts; first one, then the other, cupping the naked, sun-kissed mounds tenderly, then stroking each nipple in turn. Whirlpools of passion seethed within her young body. Her left hand remained at her taut, firm breasts stroking and caressing them, while her right traveled slowly downward, over the smooth, flat expanse of her heaving belly, then lower still, to the glistening. More

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