Dena and the Tornado Pt. 01

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Author’s Note: Two short parts to this story. If it’s worth pursuing beyond that, maybe I will. Hope you like it.


My flight arrived on a late afternoon in May. We had a rough descent; thunderstorms littered eastern Kansas. I drove home from KCI through fits of downpours, and even some light hail. Despite the shitty weather, being back home was a relief.

I anticipated a relaxing evening. It was Friday. The kids were at Grandma and Grandpa’s, and I didn’t have to pick them up until Saturday afternoon. I could sleep in. Our babysitter/house sitter will have picked up the place. I’d be coming home to a clean, empty house.

I pulled into my driveway, opened the garage and parked in the second stall. I let Dena, the sitter, use my wife’s old stall for the four days I was gone. Dena had a Honda Accord, just like my wife, except Dena’s was a few years older and black. My wife’s was silver.

Just over a year ago, my wife was in an accident on the 435 loop on her way in to work. Her car was totaled. One day her garage stall was full; the next, empty. One day I had a wife; the next, widower. Once every week or two, Dena parked her Accord in my wife’s stall. Coming home, whenever I first saw it-even when I was expecting to see it-my heart lurched in my chest.

Dena was my wife’s younger sister.

I went in the house, and Dena was standing in the kitchen, messing around on her phone. She had on black yoga pants and a pink tee shirt. She looked great.

Huge locks of curly black hair framed her tan, flawless skin. Her big brown eyes were full of youthful zeal. She was voluptuously built. My wife said her sister was “built for gyrating in hip hop videos.” Dena’s breasts were huge; her ass was a booty. The rest of her body was crafted to accentuate those two features.

She was twenty—a sophomore at UM-KC. She didn’t mind the 20 minute drive out west into Kansas because I usually paid $15 an hour, a figure my wife’s parents-Dena’s parents-heard and darn near shit themselves with outrage.

After my father-in-law got over that figure, he asked, “Usually?”

“I’ll pay $18 if she cleans up the place—dishes, picking up, swapping out laundry. You know.”

He looked at his wife. “Darlin’, I don’t even know this country no more.”

But, I wasn’t paying $15 or $18 an hour for house sitting. Her total for the week was $400, which came to about $4 an hour, given how long I was gone. She took the kids to school and pre-school, picked them up, and watched them and the house for four days; on the last day, her parents took the kids to give me a break after the work trip.

Dena welcomed me back with a wave and said, “We’re under a tornado watch.”

I nodded. “Suppose you’ll want to get paid and get the hell out of here then, huh?”


“Let me pour myself a drink. I’ve been dying for one. Then, I’ll cut your check.”

She nodded and went back to her phone.

I walked into the kitchen, pulled open the liquor cabinet above the fridge, and grabbed the vodka. I got a big 32 ounce plastic cup full of ice, and then I poured about four or five shots worth into it. I topped it off with water, and took a pull.

Damn. Exactly what I needed.

Dena watched me take the drink, and she grinned at my satisfied reaction.

I nabbed the checkbook out of a drawer and began writing one out. “Good week?” I asked.

“They were great.”

“Good. Here.” I handed her the check. I made it out for $500. The place looked good, and I had already talked to the in-laws: the kids were healthy and happy.

“Oh, wow. Thanks.”

“You all packed up?”

“Yeah.” Her bag was sitting under the coat rack, and she bent over to grab it. I enjoyed the view.

I escorted her to the door and, ever since my wife passed, Dena always gave me a hug before she walked into the garage. Maybe that hug is why I always paid her well.

She set down the bag, turned to me, and put her arms out. I pulled her tight so that I could feel those enormous breasts mash up against me, and I let my left hand wrap around her back and my right hand around her waist. The tips of my fingers just rested upon the top of her booty—right where it began to bubble out from her lower back.

“Bye,” she said.

“Good-bye, Dena, and thanks, again.” She smiled, took her bag, and then we both stopped.

Sirens. Not a tornado watch, anymore: a tornado warning.

“Shit,” she muttered. Then, she looked up at me and asked, “Should I just risk it?”

“No. No way. Come on back inside. Let’s head down to the basement.”

I grabbed my drink and we went downstairs. On the way, my phone buzzed—Grandma.

“Hey, what’s up?” I greeted her.

“Is Dena still there?”


“Thank goodness. Keep her there. You on top of the weather situation?” she asked.

“We’ve got sirens here.”

“Well, I’m watching the news. There’s one on the ground, and it’s moving your way, so get down in that basement.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And tell Dena to please respond to my messages sometimes.”

I laughed. “I will.”

I thanked her and hung up. Dena looked up at me.

“Your mom.”

She nodded.

“She wants you to respond to your messages sometimes.”

“I read them,” she argued.

“She says there’s a tornado on the ground not far from here and moving this way.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Let’s head to the shelter.”


Our basement is finished—it was when we bought it—and it had a tornado shelter, a nice little space. The previous owners had gotten hit back in ’06. Part of the repair process included putting in the shelter.

It was basically a closet the size of a king bed with a mattress on the floor, some blankets and pillows, and padded rugs stapled to the walls. We put a little flat screen in there and a battery powered radio. Also, my wife placed a tackle box full of various emergency odds and ends: first aid stuff, batteries, a flashlight, hand warmers, some tools, some dehydrated food. She’d also put a some jugs of distilled water in there.

I flicked on the light, turned on the television, set my drink and my phone down, and sat on the mattress. Dena did, too. She kept messing around with her phone.

She said, “Shit! Look at this.” She held up a radar image. Our town was surrounded by a jagged red and yellow splotch. Dena zoomed out—more behind it.

“Damn,” I muttered.

An enormous crack of thunder shook the house. Dena hollered, “Oh, shit!” Her phone flew out of her hands and behind her as she covered her ears.

I flinched.

The lights flickered and went out. The tv image vanished to black, and Dena and I were surrounded by darkness and silence. I cracked the door open, but it didn’t help. Not much exterior light made it to the shelter, and there wasn’t much to be had, anyways.

“I can’t find where I dropped my phone,” she said.

“Where the hell did I put mine?” I wondered aloud. I felt around for it, and then I said, “Dena, feel around for that tackle box behind you. There’s a flashlight in it.”

I listened to her move around on the mattress. After a few seconds, she said, “I can’t see anything.”

“Wait. I got it,” I told her, and I crawled on my knees across the mattress to the back of the shelter. “Fuck, it’s dark. Hang on.”

I reached out with my hand, feeling for the back wall, moving it in an arc. At the end of one sweep, my fingertips pushed against thin cotton covering heavy, soft, and warm flesh. I drew back.

“It’s me.”

“Sorry, Dena.” It was her tit. I knew it. Fuck, it was big.

I moved on and found the wall and the tackle box, and in a moment, I had it open and the flashlight out. I turned it on, found Dena and handed it to her. She found her phone, and then she pointed to where I’d set mine down.

“Want the flashlight?” she asked.

“Nah. Just point me to my drink.”

She did, and after I fetched it, I sat against the wall and took a sip.

“Do you drink, Dena? Do you want a some?”

“Do you care?” she asked.

“No. Come here.”

She crawled over. Another massive roll of thunder permeated the house, and I heard hail commence, sounding like thousands of marbles falling on a wood floor.

She leaned against the wall beside me, and I handed over the cup. “Thanks,” she said, and the light, airlessness of her voice told me she was nervous.

She took a drink and handed it to me. I gulped down some and handed it back.

“This helps,” she said, tilting the cup.

“You a little scared?”

“Yeah.” She lifted the drink to her lips.

Another crack of thunder—an ear splitter, this one—rocked us. It sounded like it hit mere yards away from the house.

“Shit!” I said, stunned.

Dena managed not to spill the drink. Then, she sucked down a couple of huge gulps and handed me the cup. Her hands were shaking.

“Dena, wait,” I said. ‘Give me the flashlight.” She did, and I set down the drink, sat up, and crawled over the mattresses, grabbing a pillow and a soft blanket. I came back and said, “Here, lay down.”

She did, pushing her shoes off with her toes, and I laid the blanket down over her. Then, I took off my own shoes. I leaned back against the wall, and Dena laid beside me on the pillow.

“Stay close,” she said.

A trio of thunderbolts hit, and Dena turned on her side to me, scooting herself and her pillow closer. I felt her arm lay across my belly.

I put my arm on her back. She pulled herself closer, and her huge breasts squashed against my hip.

The battering sound of the hail ebbed; howling wind replaced it. Was this it? The tornado?

Dena slipped her other arm under my back and gripped me in a hug. I gently rubbed around her back. My fingertips crossed back and forth over the straps that held those tits from bursting out—those tits that I felt mashed against me.

I wasn’t surprised to feel myself growing hard. I tried to focus elsewhere—the niğde escort sounds, the threat of the tornado, the fact that she was my dead wife’s sister—but I couldn’t; my brain was gauging the surface area of breast currently pressed against me. There was a lot.

My hand roamed all over her back, feeling and imagining the body underneath the tee shirt. Dena was warm, soft, and shapely. Her hair smelled fragrant, some aroma I knew but couldn’t identify.

My penis had flipped around, pushing up against my pants just near the right pocket. My belt corralled it and kept it from spilling out onto my stomach. Dena’s arm—her tricep—couldn’t have been more than two inches from the tip.

I switched from gently caressing to lightly scratching her back, letting my fingernails freely draw wide circles all over her, and she sighed.

“That feels really good,” she almost whispered. My hard cock flexed. We listened to the wind.

I closed and spread my fingertips, moving down to her lower shoulder, and then back up over and across the shoulder and arm that rested on my tummy.

She adjusted her position, and then I felt it—a brief hesitation. Her arm had dipped down and nudged against the head of my penis, and she had reacted—not a jump, but a pause. When she stilled herself, her arm came to rest just against the tip of the stiff bulge. It contracted again.

“On my skin, please?” she requested.

I moved my hand down her back, hitting the small of it in little circles. Then I gathered up the bottom of her shirt in my fingers. I lifted and Dena raised her torso, letting me pull her shirt to just over her bra strap. My hand slid across her velvet skin. I hovered on her bra strap momentarily, and decided I didn’t like it there. I pinched the two sides together and unlatched the tiny hooks with my thumb. The separated ends of the straps fell away with surprising strength. Her breasts, so massive, pulled those straps around her torso when they released. I scratched freely.

“Yes,” she uttered, “like that.” She hummed a sigh and moved just slightly, and her arm came to rest over the top half of my erection.

I slid down her back, no longer scratching, but massaging—feeling, really. She mumbled, “That’s nice.” Shit, her body was smooth and firm. The way her waist dipped down and then rose back up to her hips was supremely sexy.

I wanted to push this further. But, with every risk I took, the results of failure might be staggering.

If Dena got upset, I’d be totally fucked. She’d think I was betraying her dead sister. She’d never sit for me again. She might tell her parents, and they would be furious. They might let the grandkids over, but they’d never speak to me again. It could be seen as a betrayal of the entire family. Hell, they might even tell my own family.

I slipped my fingers just barely under the back of her yoga pants, under her panties.

She didn’t say anything.

On the second pass, my fingers completely slid under. They slid side to side, crossing from one side to the other. My penis contracted under her arm. She had to have felt it.

On the third, my entire hand caressed Dena’s big ass. I grabbed one globe and squeezed it and lifted it, and then I took the other in hand.

It had to be the hottest ass I’d ever felt. In the darkness, I was left only with my imagination as to how it looked.

Maybe Dena was arching her back to accentuate the curve, but from her lower back to the peak of her ass was a concave ramp. In the blackness of the shelter, I guessed it curved perhaps six inches higher than her back—a hemisphere, in other words, that connected her back to her thighs. It was a soft, warm layer of flesh encasing a toned and curvy young ass.

I convinced myself this could all still be explained away as comforting each other in duress—not a sexual event. Not yet, at least. I wanted to push it there, but a part of me was satisfied with how far it had already gone. Even if the storm ended right now and she left, I would have this moment to dream about for the rest of my life. I needed to decide: move and go for more or stay and enjoy what I had.

She decided for me.

While my hand took in the perfection of her ass, Dena lifted her arm off my erection. I pinched my eyes closed and, in my head, cursed. I slowly withdrew my hand from inside her panties.

Then I felt the inside of her elbow come to rest on my thigh and her hand settle gently on my jutting shaft.

I drew in a breath, feeling the pads of her fingers slide down and then up it’s length. My mouth gaped open, and I let out the breath. I wasn’t thinking about it at the time, but this was the first time I had been touched there since my wife died. A year without sex, and it was ending with her sister, a voluptuous college girl.

Without a word, I felt her fingers disengage the buckle of my belt. Then, they unbuttoned and unzipped my pants. When her fingers curled under my pants and boxers, I raised my hips and she tugged my pants down. I took my penis and helped it underneath the lowering boxers, and then I let it go. I felt it spring back into position.

I grabbed the hem of her shirt and tugged on it. Dena sat up and slipped it over her head and off. Then, she slid her bra down her arms, but I couldn’t see her breasts.

I felt them on my thigh when she resumed her position, and I felt her thumb and fingers clasp my penis and stroke it, softly.

With my feet, I pushed my pants the rest of the way down and off.

It was no expert hand job; her grip wasn’t quite firm enough. But, her hands were feminine and supple, stroking me carefully, like she was more interested in how my penis felt in her hand than how her hand felt on my penis. This made it incredibly sexy to me. The sheer mass and weight of her gigantic tits on my hip added to it. The nipples felt like pinky fingertips against the skin there.

“It’s what I always wanted it to be,” she whispered.

I wasn’t exactly sure if she was talking about us being together or if she was referring to my penis. Either way, it was a good thing.

“You’re so sexy, Dena.”

Up to then, I had tuned out every sound, and when she and I spoke, I realized I didn’t hear the wind anymore. I didn’t hear rain or hail or thunder. This front had passed us.

Dena let me go and sat up. I felt her climb between my legs.

Fuck, yes. Fuck, yes, Dena.

I felt her hair on my thighs first, and then her hand grasped my penis and drew it vertical. I felt, but could not see anything in the absolute darkness. Heat enveloped the head of my cock, and then Dena’s lips closed around the shaft below. I felt her breasts against my thighs, so plump and soft. I reached down with both hands and cupped them.

When Dena’s mouth slid up the shaft, her tits slid up my scrotum to the base of my penis. I nudged her gently forward. Her lips left the tip of my cock with a kiss, and I squeezed the shaft with her heavy breasts.

She lowered herself and my cock ran back through her cleavage, and her lips took me in again. Her tits slid back over my balls and down to my legs as she gathered more and more of my cock into her mouth.

She took half of me, lingered there, and then moved up again, and we repeated our movements.

I had experienced my share of blowjobs, and this was a good one for few reasons other than it had been a long time. My wife could nearly deep throat, and I loved it when she sucked me. If Dena could, she wasn’t showing it. What I had never before known was the feel of my penis squeezed between two large tits. Neither my wife nor any previous girlfriend had been big up top—less than a handful, all of them. Each of Dena’s breasts needed two hands to truly get a hold of. So, the feel of the blowjob combined with the tit job was a kind of new sexual ecstasy for me.

As Dena’s lips were about to release my cock at the top of our movement, I lifted my hips, pushing the shaft between her breasts and keeping the tip in her mouth. We lowered ourselves together, and so the head of my penis remained encased in her hot, sopping mouth throughout our motions.

We swayed together this way a few more times. Her fat tits started on my thighs, drug up to my balls, and then I squeezed them together on my penis. They slid up and down it, and then back to my thighs. Her mouth started halfway down my cock, and then it rose to the tip, held there with her tongue caressing me, and then descended back to the halfway point.

Warmth coursed through my body. A massive build up of energy rumbled inside me, and I felt supercharged power. My cock grew and pulsed in her mouth.

“Dena, here I come,” I warned.

I mashed her tits together and bulldozed my penis through, and then my ass and stomach clenched up. I held her breasts against the base of my shaft and felt her lips pulling and sucking the head of my cock as cords of semen pitched out, filling her mouth.

Then, the lights came back on, and I saw everything. I saw her fat nipples mounted upon those huge breasts. I saw her lips flexing and relaxing, flexing and relaxing around the tip of my penis, nursing up each volley of cum. I saw the crevasse of her naked back and the two mounds of her ass like Mickey Mouse ears in those black yoga pants.

I let go of her tits; they fell away, revealing my shaft, and Dena, perhaps noticing the light for the first time, looked up at me as the surges in my penis died away.

I gasped as Dena let my cock fall. She rose and I had my first complete view of her chest; it was beyond the wildest imaginations of teenage boys. My hands almost involuntarily reached out for them, grabbed, caressed, held, and gently pinched them.

She smiled, and so did I.

The television was back on, and the weather alert buzzed. We looked. The announcer described a second wave of thunderstorms, likely with golf ball or larger sized hail, approaching the metro area from the southwest. The map showed a mass of red and yellow just northeast of us and a new, fatter one approaching behind it. We were only in a little lull.

“Dena, I think you should stay here tonight.”

She reached for the cup of vodka and took a huge pull. She set it down and grinned. “I do, too.”

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