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She showed no emotion."Thanks, Uncle Steven," she said. "I suppose I ought to have guessed at something like that but not when she was killed. I thought as a kid that she was too young to die and that she'd sugared off with some bloke and didn't want me along. That's what's made me so bitter: that she'd have left me to all those bloody do-gooders who just wanted to get into my knickers."She was silent and Steven respected it. Suddenly her attitude changed. She bent forward put her face in her hands and was wracked with sobs. Steven moved from his chair and knelt in front of her taking her hands in his. He did nothing more, waiting for her to react."Uncle Steven, hug me, ple-ease."He did so. Only their faces and shoulders could be in contact.There were no words to comfort her. All he could do was let her sob her sorrow out. He could rub her back and that he did, not sensually but firmly and lovingly.At last she calmed down and, taking Steven's head in her hands, looked him in the. They were simply enormous, and as tasty a piece of eye candy that a teenager could hope to see on a daily basis. "Attacking Brazil, Jess..." My mother's lips wrapped around the words, but they fell on deaf ears. I had become caught up in my gazing. Her mouth was painted a shimmering red, my mom wore makeup much more often than my sister in an attempt to fight off the aging that had so far not noticeably ravaged her face. Her hair was a darker brown than my sister's and much shorter as well. It bounced across her face as she rolled the dice against my sister. As far as features went, my sister was the spitting image of my mother. From the waist up, they had been undoubtedly chiseled from the same piece of marble; however, my mother did have two c***dren under her belt, and her wide hips and plump ass reflected this. But she carried her extra weight in a way that appealed to a primal urge which declared the more woman the better. Her jeans and a t-shirt were tight, and forced my eyes.
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