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I take her nipples, nice small brown ones and start pinching them with my fingers and thumbs. They react immediately and erect, not able to hold any longer and bring my mouth down and start sucking on her nipples one by one. They taste heavenly. Shia and I still standing in the middle of the room, she making some horny noises now.I take my t-shirt off and proceed to unbutton her skirt and let it fall down around her feet. Shia standing there in only her black panties and the skirt around her feet. What a fantastic sight. Beautiful pair of boobs, a lovely navel, and plum stomach – an amazing pair of legs. Perfect flawless skin – I am getting a hard on just remembering the sight.Anyhow, I waste no time and pull my jeans down – with no underwear I am standing there stark naked and my dick giving a full-on salute, all the way up!While keeping eye contact Shia moves closer to me and holds my throbbing dick in her hand and kissing me together. She starts to gently feel my dick, stroking it. I suck mercilessly and it squirts out into my mouth. It’s sweeter than regular milk, like it has a bit of sugar or honey in it. And so warm. I quickly rip off the remaining pink pajama shirt from Ella's arms, throwing it aside. I let go of the girl’s wrists. She immediately covers her bare chest in front of her, tries to ball her entire body up and turn away from me. I force her little head to turn, “Ella, you’ve gotta try this! Your mommy tastes so good!” I shift the girl’s body, sitting her completely sideways, putting her legs up over one of Grace’s legs. Her face eye to eye with her mother’s tits, her body cradled in Grace’s lap, like a baby. I move in as close as I can get too, smushing the girl hard in the middle of her parents, putting my face right there at the tits with her. I roughly grab a handful of breast with one hand, my other hand on the back of Ella’s head, pushing her in, my face cheek to cheek next to hers. Ella squirms a bit, eyes tearing up, unsure what exactly.
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It wasn’t his physical resemblance to my sisters. ( or to myself, which I hate to admit still to this day ) It was the look in that man’s eyes. Something in those eyes connected with me, spoke to me. ‘I know you’re looking at me son’ those eyes said to me. ‘Don’t be hopeful boy. I’m gone for good’ I remember looking up from that picture to see my mother staring at me. Her eyes were full of this vacant terror I still can’t properly describe. Maybe it was a doomed look of resignation. I don’t know. I could tell it was hurting her badly to see me looking at my father’s picture. Over the years I had dreamed of a hundred different ways of killing him, erasing him, vandalizing his grave and defacing his resting place. I believe, though, that one of the reasons that I keep having these dreams is because I refuse to believe he is resting. I can feel it in myself, and in the life I live. I believe that very few people come from what society likes to label a ‘normal’ childhood. Most of us.

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