Blackmail Asstr

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Blackmail Asstr
MF, Mg12, Mg9, brother/sister, uncle/niece, inc, cons, oral, 1st, ped
Occasionally blackmail has exquisite rewards.
The comfortable L-shaped leather couch was unusually deep with a wide seat and a firm cushioned back that supported my neck perfectly. It had taken me weeks to find this couch. I must have plonked into hundreds before finding this particular gem and I was very proud of it. It was my 'bed-away-from-bed'. Since my life seemed to revolve around the custom-built quad-core, liquid-cooled, over-clocked computer in my study and the Samsung flat-panel 65" LED TV in front of me, a supremely comfortable couch was a must.
With legs stretched out and ankles crossed, I slouched and relaxed, wiggling my toes inside socks, sneakers kicked off to the floor, mind drifting. Through floor-to-ceiling glass wall I studied a familiar vista. Downtown Toronto in the late afternoon summer was pretty, the CN Tower a tall spire rising above the city, Lake Ontario calm and blue stretching out before me, and in the hazy distance across the lake, the faint outline of Buffalo. Toronto Island was a lush green and, to my left, the startling Manulife building, its gold-tinted glass cladding making it look like a massive gold ingot standing on end, shimmering and glowing from sun striking it at the perfect angle. Below me, the harbour was busy with late afternoon sightseeing cruise-boats plying their trade at a leisurely pace. To the right I saw the dome of Ontario Place, and beyond, the marina filled with weekend boats; small power boats, large luxury cruisers, and sleek sail boats all clean, neat, and locked up until the approaching weekend, waiting for their owners to descend for their symbolic escape from civilization.
Despite Toronto being a big metropolis, it was remarkably green; a carpet of trees stretching as far as the eye could see with occasional tall office and apartment buildings rising in clusters. Toronto was the greenest city I'd ever seen.
Behind me I heard a laugh amid the noise of unpacking. It made me smile. It was good to hear it. Memories of my childhood came flooding back; Switzerland, nine years old and exploring the drainage tunnels in Lausanne, her nervous, excited and scared laugh echoing in the six-foot tunnel; England, dressed in our school uniforms, trudging through the light British rain across a field at eleven years old, a shortcut to school, aping around to make her laugh, the cow pie crusty on top, mushy inside, my shoe filthy, her peal of laughter cutting through the misty cool morning air.
I wondered what she'd be like now, as an adult.
Her phone call had come while I was deep into writing code, wrestling with reducing a key script to a few critical bytes so I could hide it within a software program. It came at a very inopportune moment. I'd just had a brainwave. Instead of using the program, a small Trojan executable based on a zero exploit that, when scanned by anti-virus software, would insert a tiny script into the host computer, I'd hide the script in an image file. This was completely new; very intriguing. I'd just started contemplating how it might be achieved, what image file format would be most suited to it, and what trigger would be needed to activate the script, when my beloved old jet-black dial telephone, an anachronism, plugged into an actual land line, distracted me. The loud harsh ring almost made me forget my brainwave. That's probably why I was a bit curt.
I'd snapped "Hello" into the phone and been momentarily confused, not knowing who the hell was calling. It took Susan a couple of tries before I actually understood it was my sister calling. We hadn't talked in four or five years, drifting apart as a result of geographic isolation - Susan living in California - and different lives being led. But the one thing I'd immediately caught was the change in her voice; Susan sounded like a stranger to me.
Life was funny. Susan and I had been joined at the hip when growing up. Dad was an international business executive, which meant we moved frequently, lived in some very interesting countries and, with the difficulty of making new friends, especially when you didn't speak the local language most of the time, Susan and I were best friends. Then I went to university, Mom and Dad divorced, and Susan got married. The close family imploded and geographic distance became the new norm, birthdays slowly forgotten over time, contact becoming intermittent then almost non-existent.
Susan had, after taking a deep breath, asked in a hesitant voice if I thought I could handle a couple of guests for a while. I'd immediately asked her what was going on and, shocking me, Susan had made a sound like a sob or shaky inhalation; something I'd never heard from my feisty sister. She'd babbled about needing a break, that everything would be better if she could just have a break.
I had a disjointed conversation with her. It seemed her husband had left a year ago, the divorce still dragging on over custody disagreements and now turning acrimonious. Susan was drained, emotionally and physically. She was stressed, worried and close to losing it. "I feel like I'm on the ragged edge, Mark. I actually yelled at the girls the other day for no reason!" she'd explained.
The conversation had been long, two siblings slowly reacquainting themselves, testing hesitantly to see if familial bonds were still there. They were. I'd felt immediate concern; I was back in the tunnel in Switzerland reassuring six-year-old Susan it was safe, "Monsters don't live in the tunnel, Sis." I didn't hesitate in agreeing to have my nieces visit me for a while.
"Susan," I'd suggested, "A change of scenery would do you good, too. Come here; stay with me. It's miles away from San Diego and Burt, and his lawyers."
"Are you sure, Bro? You really wouldn't mind?"
"Of course not. Why would I mind? I have two unused bedrooms. The girls can sleep in one, you in the other."
Picking them up at Lester B. Pearson International airport, I'd been shocked and deeply concerned. Susan, normally a compact woman whom people usually assumed was a ballerina, was gaunt and far too skinny. She had dark shadows under her eyes, soft brown eyes that looked larger with her weight loss.
Turning from the view of Toronto I looked at Zoë as she walked into the living room, giving her a smile. She was a little Susan, nine and all of three-foot ten, slender, thick black hair, darker than her mother's, trimmed to shoulder-length, a bright smile, excitement making her eyes glisten, her generous mouth curling.
"Hey. Find everything?" I asked. "By-the-by, you can call me Mark, okay?"
"Okay," she smiled, walking over to stand at the glass wall, peering out at the view. "How come you have such a big apartment?"
"I don't like mowing lawns," I answered with a grin.
Zoë turned and grinned back at me. Quite cute, I thought. "No. I mean how come you have such a big apartment, not why."
I smiled, impressed. She was sharp. "I work hard."
She opened her mouth to ask another question when Susan walked into the living room, pre-empting her. "Zoë, you can't just dump your clothes in a drawer. They'll get wrinkled. Go arrange them properly," she ordered in a stern voice, a slight frown on her face.
"Kay." Zoë gave me a chagrined smile as she left.
"Mark, you have a nice place," Susan said, sitting next to me on the brown leather couch. "What do you do that you can afford a penthouse?"
"Would you like a coffee? Or tea?" I asked, rising from the couch.
"Sure. Coffee would be nice. I'm tired from the trip."
"Come on." I took her hand and pulled her up, heading to the open-plan kitchen. Her hand was all bones, her slender wrist looking far too delicate. Susan was unhealthily waifish and it worried me.
"I'm a hacker," I explained while filling the Braun coffee maker with water.
Susan looked surprised. "You mean you steal credit cards and things?"
With a chuckle I clarified. "No. I'm a computer security consultant. I break into company's computer systems and then show them how to secure their systems properly."
"Yeah. One hundred percent." Closing the coffee filter, I started the machine, turned and leaned back against the counter. "You're looking a bit ragged, Sue." In narrow-legged jeans, soft burgundy blouse, and Keds on her sockless feet, she looked frail. Susan had never been tall. Now, all five-foot four inches looked even smaller, her breasts noticeably small, hips too prominent and boney.
"I haven't had much of an appetite these days."
"Well then, I'll fatten you up. That'll be my job," I told her with a grin. "It'll be fun to see you fat."
We chatted while the coffee-maker gurgled behind me, reintroducing ourselves now we were adults. Susan was thirty-three, three years younger than me, dark brown hair styled in a rough layered cut, short with fringes and feathers that accentuated her delicate face. If she hadn't been gaunt, she'd still be quite pretty I decided, sort of pixyish; just like when she was young.
I wondered what had happened to her, asked, and wished that I hadn't been curious. My blood stirred when I heard about the verbal abuse and, without ever seeing Burt, I knew I'd kill him if I ever set eyes on him. He'd changed my firebrand sister into a shadow of herself. I saw only fragments of her strong will, eyes glistening from tears held back as she calmly talked about the abuse, her arms hugging her slender body which seemed to take on a defensive posture. I hated seeing what Burt had wrought. He was a verbal bully and, to make matters worse, was starving her of money in order to get custody of Olivia and Zoë.
Thank goodness we were interrupted just as coffee was poured, Olivia strolling into the room, eyes taking everything in, the huge living room, the open plan arrangement with a dining area and the large open kitchen. She grinned at her mother sitting at the counter separating the kitchen from the living room. "I like it!" she exclaimed with a big smile.
Susan spoke before I could say anything. "Did you unpack properly?" she asked firmly, so much the mother.
"Of course I did, Mom. It's pretty, Uncle Mark," she added looking out at the view. "I thought Canada was all snow."
Olivia was, at twelve years old, willowy with a dancer's grace in her movements just like her mother, mature restraint in her carriage, and a personality that was softer than Zoë. She was a preteen on the cusp of teen-hood trying to portray sophistication and worldliness. She had her mother's dark brown hair, long and pulled up in a ponytail, and dark gray eyes that, I assumed, came from her father, since Susan's were chocolate brown. Olivia stood about five feet tall, and was inquisitive. No. More like nosy based on how she was casually opening cupboards and looking inside drawers. Her eyes seemed older than twelve, though, observant, knowing and assessing.
I'd never met either niece before, but liked them both. "Olivia, call me Mark," I suggested.
Susan interjected, "Or Uncle, I think."
"No. Call me Mark. I insist," I said with a defiant smile, Olivia looking alternately at me then her mother.
Susan smiled back at me sweetly. "Or Uncle," she disagreed.
"My house, my rules," I told Susan. "Let's compromise." I turned to Olivia. "Call me Sir," I suggested with a grin. Susan snorted laughter behind me. Olivia let her youth out with a giggle and a remarkably pretty smile.
"Sir," she asked coyly, "Can we have dinner soon? I'm hungry."
We ate at il Fornello at the harbour front. It was a bit cheesy for me; too touristy. They enjoyed it, though. As they ate wood-fire gourmet pizzas we chatted getting to know each other, building familiarity and ease. Susan perked up slightly as she told Zoë and Olivia embarrassing stories about their uncle, all of which I denounced as complete fabrications; unsuccessfully it seemed.
As we got to know each other I studied the differences; Olivia, slightly more restrained, was trying to be an adult, yet her youthfulness would break through with an occasional attractive giggle; Zoë, an uninhibited spirit that reminded me of her mother when she was that young, was fearless, charging forward even when cheeks flushed red from embarrassment. She was full of spit and vinegar.
But Susan was different. I didn't know if it was being an adult, being a mother, or being verbally abused by a good-for-nothing, bully-of-a-husband. She was not the person I grew up with. It preyed on my mind even when I went to bed later that night.
That night in bed, Olivia turned on her side towards Zoë. "Uncle Mark's cute," she said. "I like him."
"Yeah. Doesn't look like Mom's brother, though," Zoë said.
"Yes he does. You've got to look at his eyes. They both have the same eyes."
Zoë giggled. "I didn't pay attention. Too busy looking at his butt. Jeez it's like, compact. I wouldn't mind grabbing . . ."
"Zoë!" Olivia chastised, "He's our Uncle!" After a moment of thought, she giggled. "You're right. He's got a sexy ass."
Over the next several days a routine developed. They let me work undisturbed in my home office till noon; I was an early riser, up at four in the morning, at my desk by four-thirty with java at my side, dual screen monitors providing the only light in the early darkness. Mornings and late nights were my most productive times. At noon it was off to a restaurant, afternoon sightseeing, or strolling along the noisy, eclectic Queens Street West, and evening dinner at home, me cooking. I was an accomplished chef and the kitchen reflected it with modern appliances, high-end cooking utensils and a vast array of interesting spices.
I was pleased to see Susan slowly begin to eat, not just pick at her food. And it was a Friday night when we actually talked, opened up a bit to each other, and rediscovered the closeness we'd lost over the years. Olivia and Zoë had gone to bed, tired from a visit to the Toronto zoo, a vast open-air zoo that made us walk to exhaustion. Susan and I sat on the couch, slightly turned towards each other, glass of white wine in our hands, music playing softly, and the occasional distant blare of a car horn making it up from the street below. The CN Tower was putting on another colourful LED light show, patterns of pink celebrating the fight against breast cancer. We were reminiscing about our time in England and how our lives had evolved. It was very relaxing. I liked the animation returning to my sister's face.
Susan studied her brother as they chatted. He'd changed in the fourteen years since she'd last seen him, yet was still the same. At five-foot ten or eleven, he appeared taller from the way he carried his body, upright with a confident angle to his head. He had a way of looking directly at her that gave her the impression she was the only thing he was seeing, his intense dark brown eyes penetrating, as though he was seeing inside her. She knew it wasn't true. You could be in a complicated debate with him and he'd suddenly refer to something someone across the room had said, or comment on something that he'd just seen on TV. She'd swear he was completely focused on her, yet he wasn't. His mind seemed to be running on full throttle all the time, never a down moment.
She saw his youth appear in how he'd grin, his mouth widening, lips curling, white teeth appearing, a boyish glint making his dark brown eyes sparkle. In those moments he looked so much younger than his thirty-six years, more like early twenties, or younger. He had an impish grin, the type that let you know he was thinking of something out of character for the situation; something shocking designed to embarrass just for the hell of it. His dark brown, almost black hair was in desperate need of a trim, a thick mop falling to the base of his collar at the back and almost into his eyes at the front. Now, at ten-thirty at night, he had a day-old shadow darkening his chin. He looked good with it, she decided. Her brother was handsome.
As they talked, she noticed how he observed her, his eyes studying her even when he was laughing or telling her some made up story of his technical prowess, his mind operating on two levels. She felt the old comfort with her brother return, an easy familiarity. The wine, a nice Canadian Zinfandel, helped her relax, too.
". . . and, when the Pentagon found out how far I'd penetrated their purchasing system, General McKinsey just about shit his pants," he was saying with laughter. She'd temporarily lost track of his story.
She interrupted him, overcome with a flush of sisterly love. "Thanks, Mark," she blurted.
"For caring," she answered. "And for letting us stay here with you." She truly felt away from the trouble Burt had caused, the stress, anger, and yes, fear. She couldn't imagine losing custody of her girls.
"Sis, you've always been welcome here. You know that."
She watched him tilt his head just so and smile with warmth. It brought with it a strong memory. She blushed, then chuckled. "You were my first, you know," she said with a soft smile, memories now streaming back with familiarity.
"My first lover," she said with a light embarrassed laugh.
"I was your . . ." I didn't finish the sentence, a bit surprised by Susan's casual comment, puzzled, too.
She laughed. "Yeah, I was fantasizing about you when I experienced my first orgasm."
"You were?" I liked hearing her laugh.
She looked at me, soft eyes bright. "I think I had a crush on you. No. I definitely had a crush on you. You took me to the movies and then held my hand all the way home. Remember? The Addams Family?"
"Sorry." I couldn't remember that specific event. I probably held her hand to stop her running into the road.
Susan laughed and gave me a big smile. "I was nine. You were a pretty good lover, too, as I remember it," she said. "Look, my brother's blushing!" She laughed again and reached across the couch and took my hand. "Cute."
I grinned. "Well, since we're playing truth, you were my first, too," I said.
Her brown eyes regarded me carefully. "I was?" she asked, her voice contemplative.
"The first naked female I ever saw," I said.
The memory flashed back. I got the same reaction I'd had twenty-one years ago, a physical reaction that made me fidget on the couch and cross my legs casually. It was a deeply profound accident. It had formed my sexual perspectives and defined what I found attractive in females. Susan had been in the tub, headphones on listening to music on her Sony Walkman, her eyes closed. She was twelve.
It was perhaps five seconds, a long, long five seconds, before I backtracked and closed the bathroom door, a full erection straining my jeans even though it was my sister. Nothing had prepared me for how much better a naked female was in real life. Pictures couldn't hold a candle to the sight of real female flesh.
I didn't even try to feel guilty about it when I beat off in my room. Susan's body had just started developing. Her breasts were small mounds almost conical under the water. She had dark pink areolae that seemed large on her small breasts, and little nipples, two soft peas. Her body was slender, a precursor to what she'd grow up to be. Yet, with her sides flared out around her hips and her bottom pressed to the bathtub, she had incredibly sexy curves.
But the sight that, to this day, I could still picture vividly was her pussy. It wasn't bare, nor did she have a pubic bush. It was somewhere in between, newly sprouted individual pubic hairs. I could see every detail of her pussy, the prominent sensual mound of her pubis tapering so sexily to a gap at her crotch, two thick lips forming a deep sexy slit and, nestled into that seductive cleft, a small clit peeking out about half way down. Susan had dark little pubic hairs sort of sprinkled on her pussy and labia. It was an intensely sexy and incredibly arousing sight for a fifteen year old.
Susan's thumb, rubbing the back of my hand softly, brought my attention back from
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