My Vanessa Vesuvio

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My teen seducer - slutty young in-law gives her ass.
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Vanessa Vesuvio -- look, even her name breathes trouble. The truth is I risk my neck, and my balls too, telling you too much about my little sister-in law, Miss Vesuvio.

At 18, Vanessa Vesuvio is a tempting young minx who'd give any Hollywood siren a run for her money. She's blonde, she's beautiful, she's silly, and she's trouble. She's also been my closest kept secret, but now this can't last for much longer. I worry the whole mess is about to unravel.

It's not simply that Vanessa is barely legal. Or that she's my wife's kid sister. Maybe I could scrape through all that with just my reputation ruined, but there's a bigger joker in the pack - her family, or to be more specific, her powerful father Emilio Vesuvio. He is a "man of honour" (as they say) and not to be messed with. And because of Vanessa and Emilio, I spend my life checking locks, watching strangers, and looking over my back. So how did I get myself in this fix?

I'll start at the beach club at the bay. It was here, I think, that Vanessa launched her campaign to catch, and then seduce me.

It was a hot Sunday afternoon, with no cooling breeze. I swam the length of the bay, paused a few minutes on the rocks fascinated by the tiny fish trapped in the pools, then raced myself back. Still breathing hard, I got the Sunday newspapers, sat down at the club's front bar with a coffee Americano, and looked out across the white sand beach to the sparkling emerald water. Vanessa was sunbathing in the private beach area in front of the club, her straps pulled down, and her bathing suit pulling tight across her perfect young ass. It was impossible not to take the odd surreptitious stare. The other member voyeurs were peeping across their newspapers too, the old perverts. I read on, sipping my coffee.

Suddenly Emilio Vesuvio's daughter was by my side. "I've done sunbathing," chirped Daddy's Girl. "Any chance of thumbing a ride back home? It's so hot I'll fry if I have to walk up the hill."

Of course I agreed. My wife's little sister scrambled into the front seat wearing her Madonna celebrity sunglasses, and her white monogrammed club robe. She kicked off her thong sandals and began chattering about her coming school formal. Maybe she was flirting too in a schoolgirl sort of way. Five minutes up the winding avenue, I pulled up outside Emilio's palatial pile, and walked round to open her door.

"Thanks a mill-- See ya," she said, catching my eye as I helped her out with her beach bag,

She wriggled her shoulders and suddenly two peachy breasts jumped out from her robe. They jiggled naked for a moment, inches from my nose. Their perfect pear shaped beauty, their hard pink nipples, and the sheer surprise, jolted me like a five hundred volt shock. For a moment she held my eyes. "Whoops," she giggled. She fumbled her bouncy breasts back into her robe, turned, and sped up the marble front steps, swinging her pert little backside.

"She didn't really mean to flash me -- it was an accident," I thought as I drove off, surprised by the sexual power of her young body, and a surge of excitement in my stomach I hadn't felt for a long time.

But something didn't add up. Vanessa was still wearing the swimsuit that clung to her tight little backside on the beach. I'd glimpsed the swimsuit as she swirled round to wave goodbye. And it was a one piece, whose top wouldn't just fall away to let her tits fall out. Not by itself. Or could it?

I've known Vanessa since she was an awkward kid, but in recent months she's transformed into a fiery young beauty. It was Vanessa's eldest sister Helena, who was my wife. Six years ago while I was away at a sales conference, Helena was killed when she drove her car off the road late at night. It was the next morning before my secretary found my hotel room, and connected the bad-news call from the police. For a price, a contact in the Commissioner's office hid the evidence she was crazy drunk, and I told nobody - especially not her father -- that she'd died in her tennis dress. She'd been driving home from her coach's apartment. It was as tawdry an unfaithful wife story as that.

A month after the funeral, I'd calmed down enough to pay her coach a visit. I took the lift to the 10th floor of a trendy new apartment block, and when I rang the buzzer, a caretaker carrying a mop, answered the door. "Don't know where he is," the old geezer told me. "I'm cleaning the place out for the landlord, because he's re-letting it."

"So where'd he go? Did he leave a forwarding address?"

"Not that I know of. Look -- a couple of big guys were also asking for him, but that was a fortnight back, and he hasn't been seen since. His red Mustang's still parked downstairs. Mail box is overflowing, television still on. It's like the man just vanished."

Helena was hard yards but I'd loved her once. I felt lost and -- I thought -- left by myself. But the Vesuvios pretended they knew nothing of her affair, or her alcohol problem. Emilio insisted on me coming home to their big weekly family dinner, and that's where I watched Vanessa grow into a beautiful 18 year old who was spoilt, and way too keen on pushing boundaries.

Her father was a forceful and darkly charismatic bigshot -- a Calabrian immigrant who used brains, and "interesting" connections, to become a big dick in the road transport business. The Vesuvio trucking firm had depots across thirty states.

Emilio's wife Lorna came from some snotty New England family, and married her good looks into more raw power than she quite understood. Vanessa had Lorna's blonde hair and startling blue eyes -- with the impact heightened by the smooth olive skin she took from Emilio's Mediterranean blood. Between them, Emilio and Lorna had come up with that striking rarity -- the Italian blonde.

The middle sister Antonia, was dark haired, serious, and a respectable Associate Professor at the State University, who spent her spare time shut in her room writing a book she'd announced was an "Elizabethan historical novel."

Vanessa's brothers, Ricky and Bernardo? Well they were lazy, and pretty much useless to Emilio, so after I married Helena, I found the head of the Vesuvio family virtually adopted me as a third son. He came up with wise advice and influential introductions when I set up my ceramic tiles business, and tried -- sometimes too much - to help from the side,

When my business took off, I deflected his hints that he invest and become a partner. I wanted to preserve my independence, and I worried about the complications that came with Emilio Vesuvio. To build his trucking empire, Emilio worked hand in glove with the big guys at the Teamsters Union. He made big-moolah political donations which meant senior politicians welcomed him to their homes, while steering clear of him in public. A city public relations firm got paid a small fortune to keep the media focussed on Emilio's many good works, rather than the rumours about the volcanic Vesuvio temper, and gangster connections. Mostly they were successful.

Funnily, you couldn't have asked for a better father in law. Strange, isn't it, how we can be bound to someone we're very scared of? Like Emilio Vesuvio, and I guess Vanessa, in her own way, too.

A month after Vanessa's swimming robe tit-flash, I called at the house on a Friday evening to drop off a book Professor Antonia had insisted I better myself with. Bumper and Bollo, the German shepherd guard dogs, scrabbled excitedly at my knees, as I rang the doorbell. Nobody answered, so I put the book on the step, and was turning to leave when the door cracked. Vanessa peeped through.

"Hey Uncle David -- Antonia said you were coming," she said. Vanessa calls me "Uncle" -- but obviously I'm not. Shit, the twenty years between us is hardly a generation, is it?

"Everyone's out, but can you come in? I'm being picked up for a School Formal, and I think I've got the dress wrong." She took my arm and led me down the hall past Emilio's "good citizen" citations and his art collection, to their huge family kitchen.

"I'll get you a drink," she said, and inexpertly fumbled a bottle of her father's best pinot grigio from the bar fridge. "So what do you think? Will this dress pass the test?" Vanessa asked, stepping back and striking a modelling pose, her chin inclined, breasts thrust out, and a stockinged leg peeping through the gash up the side of her spangled outfit.

"You'll knock 'em dead, kid, " I said honestly, admiring her as I sipped the white wine she'd wrongly splashed into one of Emilio's special Riedel claret glasses. He'd have had a fit.

"C'mon Uncle David - don't play with me," she complained. "It's a bit too....too small girly. I want to look sophisticated." The dress was as small-girly as a night out in Berlin. Vanessa picked a slinky black dress from a hanger and held it in up in front of her. "This might be sexier. What do you think?"

"Sorry Vanessa, I'm a dud with fashion," I said. "Maybe I could judge it if you were wearing it. Besides you look great in your spangles gear."

She pursed her lips, and considered the black dress. "Well, I'll put it on and show you," she said. "Hold on a sec."

Vanessa turned on her heel, like she was going to her bedroom to change. But then she stopped dead, clawed down her zip, wriggled her hips, and let the dress rustle down to the floor. She stood with her back to me, her body naked except for a matching cream half bra and clingy boy pants that shimmered against her light olive skin. Her stilettos emphasised the shapeliness of her long legs, which were clad in sheer stockings hooked to a lacy garter belt. She was wearing this fuck-me gear for a school formal?

"I need to change the stockings too," she muttered, and my eyes stood on stalks when she bent from the waist to slip off her high heels, flashing her tight ass straight up at me. I could see a gap of light between her tanned thighs - where her clinging panties puckered into the pink crease of her slit.

She slid the stockings down each leg, and stepped out of the puddle of dress around her ankles. Vanessa half turned to me as she picked up the black dress she'd spread on the counter. Her bra gaped, and I saw a flash of nipple at the tip of her curving breast.

"Daddy hasn't seen this one," she giggled. "He'd kill me if he did."

She stood on her toes, her back arched as she lifted her arms, the exhibitionist little vamp. She began to pull the black number down over her wavy blonde hair and the borrowed pearl choker on her neck. (It was worth fifty thousand, and was too old for her). But the dress got caught at her shoulders.

"It's so damn tight it's stuck - can you help?" said Vanessa, her blue eyes flashing. Not knowing what else I could do, I tried to help her pull the dress down her back without touching her. But she guided my hands round to her front where she was sliding the dress over her breasts, which struggled to burst from the half bra.

"Here Uncle David," she said. "Pull it here." Her butt pushed into my crotch as my hands pawed down her chest, trying to help her. But as I pulled the dress, her tits popped out from her bra into my hands. She gasped, and I felt her nipples jut. Embarrassed, I froze, holding them. Then I gathered my senses, tucked them back into her bra, and helped her slide the black dress down.

The dress was tight, but I wasn't sure my help had been needed. I stepped back, breathing heavily, and she caught my eyes as she gazed back, her face flushed. Her tongue flickered between her lips, and she smiled slightly.

"So?" she asked. "What do you think?"

Think? I was bursting. I wanted to grab my wife's little sister and fuck her on the spot. To rip away the silly dress; to pull her panties aside, to bury my throbbing cock inside the puffy pussy lips I'd glimpsed. My dick, which had been absent on holidays, was suddenly so excited I felt I could come in my pants like a teenager. I stepped back scared, and with my heart thumping, gave her my widest, cheesiest, smile.

"Sweetheart, you make both dresses look great. But pushed for a choice, I'd choose the first," I said.

"That's good," she whispered. "So I guess I don't have to change into the black panties too?"

"Look, I've got to rush," I stammered.

Was she staring down at the tent in my trousers? I'm not certain. But if I stayed another sixty seconds I couldn't help myself. I'm not a cradle snatcher or a pervert -- and the thought of fucking Vanessa scared me. I suppose that if you're pedantic you could argue that screwing your kid sister in law is only incest once removed. But tell that excuse to the ghost of Helena. Or any Italian family. Or worst, Emilio.

At that moment, I heard the big man's Lincoln Town Car purr up the driveway. Its door slammed and Franco, the enormous bodyguard who drives Emilio, called: "Good night, Boss."

"Hey Davey," Emilio said punching my arm, as I met him at the door. Dressed in a smart pin stripe suit, he was grinning like a madman. "Have you seen my little Princess? She's dressing for the ball, so I came home early to see how our angel looks. The kid's something isn't she?"

"Yes Emilio, she's something else," I said carefully.

He looked at me quizzically. "Hey, your face is all red. You feeling okay?"

xxxxx

More weeks passed, and there was an argument. Emilio was taking his family to his summer house for a long weekend, but Vanessa insisted she stay in the city for a girlfriend's birthday party. It became a father-daughter contest of wills.

Emilio phoned. "Don't know what to do with the kid, she's so damn stubborn," he groaned. "Maybe we could do a deal where she stays at your place? It's just the two nights." I mumbled half protests about being an untidy bachelor who didn't know about teenagers, but these weren't good enough.

"Hell, Davey, you're part of the family. I trust you so much I should appoint you her guardian," he joked. "Okay, then? You'll be in charge? So mind out for my princess."

Vanessa arrived on Friday night in the new yellow Fiat her dad had given her, and set herself up in my guest bedroom. When she was ready I took her up the street to a trendy café called Sissy's. We had a couple of glasses of wine, and to my surprise, I quite enjoyed the conversation. Vanessa has the idealized view of life you'd expect of someone just beginning to see its realities. And while she's a flirt and scatter brained, there's a splash of her father's street intelligence, some of her mother's arrogance -- and of course, more than a touch of the devil.

We got home, and Vanessa curled up on the couch beside me. "Let's relax and watch something together." she purred.

I'm not an idiot. I gave her a boring worked-hard-all-day excuse, and she rolled her eyes. "Ok then, party pooper, good night. I'm going to the gym first up, so see you at breakfast."

xxxxx

My bedroom door was open, so in the morning I heard her go out and start her little Fiat. Then I drifted back into semi consciousness. I often sleep naked, and being a hot night, I'd kicked the sheets down past my feet.

I was having an erotic morning dream, strangely, about Vanessa's bespectacled sister Antonia, when a small noise beside the bedroom door woke me. Immediately I was aware I was lying on my back with my uncircumcised cock stiffened into a huge erection, pointed straight towards the ceiling. Vanessa, dressed in red lycra gym gear that clung to every curve of her body, was standing at the bedroom door, staring in. She couldn't see I was awake because my head was hidden in shadows, but the way the light fell meant my sexual excitement was fully visible to her.

I almost reached down to pull up the sheet, but realized it would be less embarrassing to pretend I was asleep.

I watched Vanessa through half closed eyes as she edged into the room, her eyes fixed on my prick, which had become so tight and excited by the dream that I couldn't stop it jerking. The sight of Vanessa peeping at me made matters worse -- my cock was tingling, and as it clenched and unclenched involuntarily, I knew I was close to spurting a big load of cum.

I tried to hold on. Vanessa reached the bed, and knelt beside it, staring at my cock, her big blue eyes wide and transfixed, her cheeks flushed, and her pink lips slightly open. I kept breathing heavily as if I was asleep

I felt a small shift on the mattress, as Vanessa lifted herself up and leaned towards my dick, staring at it curiously like some nurse doing a hospital patient's cock examination. Her young face was so close I could feel her warm breath on the skin of my cock, where a small spill of early sperm had leaked from its helmet.

Through the slits of my eyes I saw her lean closer, her tongue flicking. Surely she wouldn't dare? It was madness. In anticipation of her enveloping mouth, my cock jerked wildly, brushing the blonde hair hanging down over her shoulder. As her hair swished against my excited prick, I felt its base begin to clench and spasm. I was gone. I was beginning to cum.

There was a "beep beep" sound. Someone had texted the mobile in Vanessa's pocket. Alarmed, she slid quickly out of the room, not looking back to see the surges of cum that were spurting from my jumping cock -- white streams, leaping up into the space where her mouth and blue eyes had been a moment earlier.

xxxxx

I groaned, and waited for a few minutes to calm myself, then got up, showered, and dressed for a midday tee time with friends at the golf club. I found Vanessa in the kitchen, pink faced and awkward, still in her red gym gear, her hair now tied back. She'd made me coffee, and was scrambling eggs. "You've been fast asleep?" she asked nervously.

"Yes. Like a log. Dead to the world," I lied. "But I was having very sweet dreams. It was interesting."

She flinched, and I saw her wondering, considering which way to jump. "Who was in your dreams? Someone sexy?"

"Actually, yes, someone very sexy. Some stranger in the night. A sun tanned blonde, I think."

"Anybody I know?"

"Don't think so. But funny, she was dressed in red, rather like you are." Vanessa paused, her knife poised over the toast she was buttering. "Yes, a mystery girl," I added.

"Lucky her then." Vanessa Vesuvio giggled, hiding her mouth behind her hand. "Hey, do you know what Daddy says about you?"

"No -- tell me about it."

"He says you're someone I should marry."

"What the hell -- you can't..."

"No, sorry, I said that wrong. He's not some sicko. What he means is you're the SORT of man I should marry. He says -- 'Vanessa, when you get some sense in your silly head, you'll want the right kind of man. Someone people respect. Someone like David.' Which is all very well, but you're too old."

My vanity got the better of me. I couldn't help myself. "Old, you say? God I'm only thirty-eight -- in my prime, at the peak of my powers."

"Yeah, I seen that," she smirked. "Peak of your powers."

Xxxxx

Vanessa went to her girlfriend's to get dressed for the birthday party. I drove to the golf club. We bet a hundred on the match, and I soon forgot her. After nine holes my partner and I were down, so we pressed and the money came down to the last hole, where somehow I fluked a curling, downhill putt, knowing it would skitter five feet past the hole, unless it dropped.

"Buried us alive. Dave's a killer," bitched one of my opponents.

"He takes lessons from his father in law," joked his buddy.

The four of us stayed for the Saturday night dinner at the club. I got home, watched the Dodgers, and was in bed by midnight. But I lay awake worrying about Vanessa, like she was some kid. Well, she is, of course. I felt better when I heard the Fiat enter the garage an hour later. She dickered around the house and I'd begun to drift off, when I heard sniffling, and realized she was standing beside the bed. She was wearing a white satin gown, and sobbing.

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