Annie and Paul's brother and sister incestuous 'tour of the bases' is complete.
It was another long week. Only seven days, but it still seemed like a year. Monday came and went and did I feel different? No, not really, not physically, but mentally? Psychologically? Absolutely. I knew that my contraceptives had now kicked in and I somehow felt freer, that I could make decisions easier than I could a week before. Sexual decisions, obviously. So all in all I was looking forward to a summer of growing freedom, of a world whose horizons were enlarging as I, hopefully, obtained my driver’s license and, as I’ve already said, matured into a young woman now capable of making responsible decisions about her own sexuality.
And my brother’s final championship ballgame was approaching, too. Paul is a very good, very experienced player, probably the best on his team. One that scouts are keeping an eye on. But even he clearly felt the tension as the game grew closer. We were both finishing our school year; Paul in his junior year, me in my sophomore year, and our exams helped distract a bit. Our parents, who’d somehow managed to miss all of Paul’s post-season games were preoccupied with their now-regular weekends at our rented lake cottage and announced that they would be at the game. Maybe it was some vestige of parental guilt, or maybe they genuinely wanted to see their son’s performance; it didn’t matter as Paul and I were both happy that they would be there.
Even if it put a possible serious kink in our personal plans. My brother and I had grown to pretty much own Friday and Saturday nights in our absent-parent home and we didn’t have to talk between ourselves to know the other was seriously disappointed that our folks might stay home for the weekend. Our incestuous lovemaking, our repeated couplings of the weekend before were so fresh in our minds that we made an unconscious effort to avoid private or too close contact or interactions. It wasn’t until Wednesday when I realized the pattern we’d set, getting together only when one of our parents were present.
All of this was a radical and unforeseen thing two months before. Until then Paul and I had been the most typical of typical siblings, older brother and younger sister, probably closer than most due to our shared athleticism. Paul was good at whatever sport he tried but had focussed on baseball and made our school’s A-team at second base. I was a pretty good ballplayer and was on the school’s girls’ fast pitch team but more important to me, at least, was the fact that for several years I’d been playing in various of my brother’s pickup games. I was always chuffed that the boys were happy to have me on their teams. Strictly for athletic reasons, I hasten to add, because I’d never seen myself as particularly attractive; not because I wasn’t attractive but simply because I never gave it much thought. The boys in my life were friends, not boyfriends if you can see the difference.
But two months before I’d made a hollow threat to my brother one evening; I’d seen him making out with our neighbor Brittany and threatened to report him to Mom. It was a completely empty threat, a bluff to extort a kissing lesson from Paul. My brief observation of him and Brittany in flagrante delicto told me that Paul had a few moves that that, if I could bluff him into it, he might be able to teach me. My kissing experience was the extreme opposite of my athletic abilities i.e. nil.
The lesson went better than I’d hoped. In fact within ten minutes we were both so into the “lesson” that I realized that no more threats or bluffs would be required. As I gained more and more skill that evening I teased my brother that he’d never made it to second base with Brittany and for reasons that I’ve never been able to understand, I made a casual, almost wanton, suggestion that maybe if he hit a double he might…just might make it to second base. With me. His sister. By the time I teased him with the possibility we were well past worrying about it, past worrying that it might not be something that brothers and sisters should think about, much less actually do. That session did something else, though. It lifted the lid off some feelings that I’d never felt for my brother. Yes, he was always my buddy and yes, he’d always had his younger sister’s back. And yes, I’d always loved him as a brother and I knew he loved me in that brotherly way. But now I felt a growing affection and I sensed he did too; something different. There was lust simmering just below the surface, of course, but there was a growing affection, a different kind of love that was beginning to show itself.
It showed itself in the gentle, slow, considerate way that Paul treated me, how his kisses were as much about giving as they were about taking or satisfying a hunger, although both of us, I knew, were getting pretty hungry. His touches and shy - at first - caresses were more evidence of his affection. I can’t lie and say that session didn’t leave me horny, but I have to say as well I was left with a warmth that I hadn’t felt before, a sense that I was safe with my brother, that he loved me, and that he would never do anything to hurt me.
He hit that double and the bet paid off. The next evening his first experience of the other second base was a shared one. He’d taught me much the evening before that I was happy to teach him the intricacies of blouse and bra removal, a lesson that did not have to be repeated as my brother slowly recovered his senses after his first look at a young woman’s breasts, up close and, as they say, in the flesh. He might have wanted this more than I did, but I’m sure by the end of the evening I had felt far more pleasure than he had. The gentle touch and caress of his soft hands, the feel of a tongue and lips on my nipples for the first time in my young life sent shocks of pleasure through my body that were so profound that they were permanently burned into my nervous system. Even as I write this my body can summon up a shiver at the memory.
We knew what that meant; third base and home plate remained. We knew we were very far down a forbidden road, that we had already broken a couple of societal taboos, but the next two bases were not taboos on just a linear measure; they were exponential. To get to third base would break a taboo far, far greater than what we had enjoyed together on second base. And break it we did. Paul shocked us both by soon after hitting a triple, the hardest hit in baseball. We celebrated that hit to a degree that would have been unimaginable to me just a few weeks before. For the first time we became naked for each other. For the first time we performed oral sex on each other. Did I say ‘on each other’? It was the first time for both of us on anyone. There was no talk, no begging or pleading; going down on each other seemed as natural as breathing. I can’t tell you what Paul was feeling, what made him do it, but I can say that I was driven by a mix of love, lust, curiosity and an unacknowledged sense of competition with some of my girlfriends, a few of whom were happy to admit to having pleasured their boyfriends - or any boys - with blowjobs.
We each tasted the other, laughed at the novelty and deeply forbidden acts we were performing on each other, and then each masturbated the other. I’ve often thought that there must be a different, more beautiful word for ‘masturbate’, for the extreme pleasure that my brother’s rookie explorer fingers gave me, for the burst of sheer joy I felt in feeling his rigid cock in my warm grip for the first time, marveling at its hardness and softness coexisting, at the easy way its skin moved beneath my fingers as I stroked him to his fountain of sperm, as he shot jet after jet mere minutes, it seemed, after my fellatio had trigger ropes of cum that struck my cheek, my shoulder, my chest, and my breasts. He seemed that night to be a kind of cornucopia of cum.
And the home run. My god, the home run. I don’t know how a couple of inexperienced virgins were able to do what we did. I mean, obviously, we knew how to have sex. That’s not what I mean. I mean that our first time was so loving, so gentle, so perfect that it was as if we’d been lovers for years. I’ve listened to the very few of my girlfriends who admit to having ‘done it’ and I’ve read enough accounts to know that for many, many people the first time they have sex is, well, let’s just admit it; fucking, pure and simple. And I’m sad to say that for many girls and young women their first time is even worse; it’s not even mutual. The first time that many girls have sex they are, I think, simply fucked. I think their first time is a simple case of guys getting their rocks off, ‘pounding her’ as I’ve read a few times on porn sites. Paul has confirmed this to me, recounting some of his teammates’ stories of their ‘conquests’ as if young women were simply mountains to be climbed, or challenges to be met.
I understand those stories. I understand that many girls haven’t learned or understood their power when they have their first sex, that they have a lot to say in the matter, that they could expect as much pleasure as their partner obviously has. Some, I know, never learn that. I’ve thought many times that perhaps that’s the case with a few of the girls at school who are well know to be slutty, to put out for any guy that asks. Both I and my brother could name a few (thankfully it’s just a few) girls that would qualify. It’s obvious they know they have something the boys want, but it’s also obvious that they have no idea of the beauty and wonder that sex can offer. Paul and I were learning about that beauty and wonder and the lessons would sustain us in relationships all our lives. Maybe that’s one of the greatest gifts we were giving each other.
But back to that home run. My brother had only hit one home run that day but that night we celebrated his four at bats. As I explained to him, he didn’t need to hit more than one homer in the game to, well, score with me more than once that night. Four at bats allowed for four celebrations. Four celebrations; I could remember that number, but I can’t tell you the number of orgasms my brother gave me that night. Each time we made love he brought me to more than one orgasm. And each was like neither of us had experienced it before. Even our third base celebrations, the climactic peaks that we brought each other to, hadn’t prepared us for the prolonged and profound orgasms we reached together that night. Paul’s slow and gentle first entry into my body, my eager vaginal walls welcoming him for the first time with its hot, wet embrace had been so careful, so loving that only later could I understood that it was our love, not our lust, that pushed our orgasms to such extreme limits.
Thinking of all those young women who, as I suspect, don’t get to savor the love and rapturous sex that my brother gave me my first time, I recall a figure from a study that I once read; it said that while almost one hundred percent of men achieve orgasm during sex, on average only about sixty-five percent of women do. I’ve thought about that statistic many times and thought that, logically, it meant that somewhere out there is a woman who climaxes around thirty percent of the time, as Paul’s love and generosity gave me orgasms virtually every time we had sex. So adding that poor woman’s frequency to mine would, mathematically, result in that sixty-five percent. It was an idle thought, but every time it ended with sympathy for all the millions of women who didn’t have lovers as generous as my brother. Maybe more women should have sex with their brothers, I thought. Maybe they do.
I’ve talked a lot here about the love that grew those spring and summer months between Paul and me, but there was something else. Or maybe it was just an essential part of that love: trust. We never had to discuss it, never had to articulate it, but we trusted each other with our lives. Luckily our lives were never at risk (although my sexual euphoria with him sometimes almost felt like I was dying. I know a few times I was perilously close to passing out) our reputations were. Had our parents known what we were doing together the shock might have been overwhelming. Had our friends, our community, our schoolmates known we had no doubt we would have been ostracized entirely and that any normalcy in our lives would have been impossible. It was a huge gamble, a huge investment that each of us made in trusting the other to never tell anyone, not our best friends, not our boyfriends or girlfriends…no one…of our incest.
So where are we by the day of Paul’s final game? Well, I’d love to say it ended well, that Paul’s team won our city championship, but it simply didn’t happen. “On a given day, a given team…” as one of the time-honored baseball cliches goes, and on that given day the other team prevailed. It was close and Paul in particular played very well. He went two for three with a walk, finishing the season with a batting average over three hundred. And he was pivot man on a double play. But it wasn’t good enough and and they lost by two runs. Naturally we were all disappointed. Mom, Dad, and I waited while his team had their final post-game conference after which his team, a bunch of young guys, surprised me by giving each other impromptu hugs. They knew they’d played well and I could see their disappointment was leavened with pride. I saw a couple of men approach Paul and chat for a few seconds.
And as Paul walked toward us I could see a couple more business cards in one hand. I raised my eyebrow as I inferred their meaning and as he got close he held them up to my parents and said “more scouts. They wanted to know what ball camps I’ll be going to this summer. Said they’ll keep an eye on me.” In answer to my unspoken question he said “university scouts.” So our parents broad smiles and hugs helped evaporate the disappointment that ended his season.
There were a few minutes’ discussion, a few questions from us, a few de***********ions from Paul about the game, the decisions of the coaches and players, the plays made until the chat slowed and we seemed to be searching for words. I suddenly realized that our parents had things other than the game and its result on their mind. “Mom, Dad, why don’t you head to the lake? You love it there and I know that’s where you’d rather be.” Paul glanced at me but remained silent.
“No, no, dear. Dad and I can give it a pass this weekend and head up there next weekend. No, we’re happy to stay. Maybe we should head out for dinner later?” Our Dad stood by nodding, but I could see in both their eyes that I was pretty close to the truth.
Sensing my real purpose, Paul then joined in with “no, I’m fine, Mom, I’m good. I think I just want to go home, shower, and rest. You and Dad should go to the lake and…and how about this: Annie and I will figure something out to do and could come up tomorrow morning, just for the day. We’ve actually never seen the cottage, so I think I’d like to do that.” I could see that he’d scored a hit. Our parents’ expression changed slightly, from parental concern to a kind of relief as they brightened at the thought of the lake. It was soon settled, Dad dug into his wallet and pressed a bunch of bills in my hand with the suggestion I arrange dinner for Paul and me, and with hugs and kisses they headed to their car and headed off to the lake.
Now alone - together - Paul and I wandered over to my customary spot, beneath a shade tree on the first base side. Comfortable in our silence, we sat together as the park emptied until there were just us and a few dog walkers left. Finally we began to talk about the game. The other topic looming was left unsaid for now as I asked a few more questions about the game. The post-game chat with the parents, I knew, had left other things unsaid. I knew my brother very, very well. I knew he had feelings that he hadn’t expressed. I knew that feelings were not an easy topic for most men and I knew Paul was no exception. So I asked a couple of gentle questions to offer the chance to him. And he took it. I’ve talked about the trust between us and it was just another example that he was able to talk, to express his frustrations and feelings at his own play. I knew the time for questions was past, that the best I could offer was my silent witness, my willing listening.
As he talked, as we each lay back on the grass and watched the pillowy clouds drift across our summer sky, I could feel the relief, feel the slow process as my brother came to peace with himself. Finally his quiet words trailed off and we became joined in our silence. He reached across the gap between us and took my hand and caressed it lightly with his other hand. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more mature, more loving, more womanly as I rolled slightly to him, leaned over him, and kissed him deeply, neither of us worried or hesitant in this first entirely public display of our forbidden love. Smiling at each other, I rolled back and quickly glanced around the park; same emptiness, same few dog walkers, no one caring what two young people did together beneath that shade tree.
As the afternoon began to wane I finally broke our silence and said “we can’t stay here forever, bro.”
“Yes we can,” and I laughed to hear my brother’s humor returning.
“Time to go, Paul. We’re going out to dinner; it’s a special day and it’ll be a special night…I hope.” I would have thought by now, confirmed lovers, that I would have moved well past the blushing stage, but as my hand drifted up and down my brother’s dusty, game-stained uniform jersey, as I intimated the night we might have…I blushed. Will that ever stop, I wondered? Will I ever be able to contemplated sex with my brother without giving myself away? I dismissed the thoughts as I rose, brushed the grass off my jeans, reached down, and pulled my brother up. We walked slowly to the car, tossed his gear in the trunk, and headed home. But not before we indulged ourselves with a quick hug and kiss before Paul started the car and drove us home.
Over the previous couple of months, as I’ve said, so much changed between my brother and me. Our new feelings began, grew, and began to overwhelm us so that we had to learn new skills, learning to hide those feelings, learning almost forensic care in leaving nothing, no clues that might alert our parents. But among those skills came the ability to communicate some things without talk, without words. And that afternoon as we returned home we immediately set about a kind of routine, almost domestic, almost, yes, spousal. Paul headed to his room, tossed his uniform into the laundry and headed straight to the shower. We usually took turns in the bathroom on our bedroom floor above our living floor, but there was another bathroom in our basement. Our folks had had the foresight to have it finished along with the family room next to it and it often came in handy. I was eager to head out to dinner with my brother so I also stripped down and added to the laundry load, wrapping myself in a towel and headed downstairs for my shower.
Paul was done and dry, dressing himself in his room when I returned, hair damp and body wrapped in my towel. Paul’s face lit up and he immediately headed for me, his grinning lear signalling his intent. “No you don’t, bro, NO YOU DON’T,” I laughed. “Not now; you have to be a good boy and wait. Patience has its rewards, bro,” as I laughed again. His leer turned to laughter as he returned to his room.
A few minutes later we were both clean, fresh, and dressed for the evening. Paul in his golf shirt and slacks, me in another sun dress, a recent purchase. And it was a good purchase, I thought, as Paul’s appraisal took me in entirely, his eyes beginning at my sandals and rising appreciatively until he met my eyes. He confirmed his approval when he took my hands in his and leaned into a kiss.
And with that we were off to dinner. We chatted about the choices and settled on a small Mexican restaurant that we knew and liked. Given our pick, we chose a table off in a quiet corner where we could sit kitty-corner rather than on opposite sides. It wouldn’t have surprised me, given how adult we both felt, if we could have pulled off a drink order but neither of us tried. Nachos, a burrito for Paul and taco salad for me followed by tres leches cake for each and coffee. “Strong coffee,” Paul said quietly, “because I might have to stay up late tonight.”
“Oh, I have no doubt you’ll, ahem, stay up tonight, bro. I’ll see to that,” I laughed conspiratorially as my hand surreptitiously slipped under the table and stroked his thigh. His hand shot beneath the table and intercepted mine, blocking my obvious goal. I had playfully stopped Paul’s roaming hands on a few occasions as he’d tried to “steal a base” before he’d earned second and third bases but this was the first time he’d stopped mine.
We both laughed as he removed my hand and whispered “I don’t want to be obvious when we go, sis; and you’re making it obvious. Painfully obvious, in fact.” Our desserts and coffee arrived just in the nick of time. Dinner done we paid; Dad had given enough for a generous tip and off we were home. Looking back I remember a peaceful calm descending as Paul drove, our hands occasionally joining, windows down and warm summer evening breeze passing through the car. I was excited for what was to come and I knew Paul was too, but the weekend before’s quadruple couplings had, as I say, established us as confirmed lovers. So if it’s not a contradiction in terms, I felt an excited calmness as we approached home and my occasional glances at my brother implied that he felt the same.
We arrived home and, taking my hand, my brother led me…not to one of our bedrooms but through the house and out onto our patio “for old time’s sake,” he said. I laughed; ‘old times’ was all of a few weeks before, but I was happy to take my place next to him on the patio swing and cuddle next to him. If he felt possessory with his arm around me it was more than fine with me; I was all his for the taking, eager to give myself to him again. We sat quietly feeling the evening’s warmth and listening to the last sounds of the evening birds as we sat swinging, kissing, and caressing.
We finally rose, entered and secured the house, and headed upstairs. Without discussing it I led him into my bedroom. Lights out and bedroom door closed as we’d done in my brother’s bedroom the weekend before, I repeated his arrangements; checked the darkened street, opened my window, and pushed the curtain aside so that our lovemaking would be lit only by the nearby streetlight. As our eyes adjusted to the light we waited a few seconds, hands holding hands as we stood inches apart. Then I took Paul into my arms kissed him, and began, as I’d done so many times already for my brother, removing my clothes. Sandals kicked off, dress unzipped and dropped to the floor, bra unclipped and dropped and…I waited. Paul knew what I was waiting for so he lowered himself to his knees as he reached up and drew my moistened panties down to the floor.
Then it was his turn; shirt, slacks and then it was my turn to kneel and remove his shorts. “Hello, Babe,” I said, addressing his rigid cock by the name I’d chosen for it. “Are you ready for the game? Think you can score?” and gave his glans a quick kiss, tasting his pre-cum. I’d tasted a lot more of my brother, both at third base and when he made it home but not this evening. No, tonight was another first for us. I know; my early accounts of how my brother and I rounded the bases have recorded first after first. First tongue contact (in my case first with any boy) - first base, first touch, for both of us, of my breasts - second base, and first touches below the belt - third base, where the Marquis of Queensbury Rules definitely did not apply. By now my brother had brought me to multiple orgasms with his tongue and fingers. And last weekend, as I’ve said, we took each other’s virginity. Four times, as I’ve said.
But my contraceptive pills did not take effect until the following Monday, so we relied on a supply of condoms that Paul miraculously had sourced. I didn’t ask his source but was happy to perform the ritual of rolling a fresh condom down my brother’s six-inch erection. Four times. By the end of our long night of lovemaking Paul announced “ball four…a walk” and we laughed as we fell together into a cuddle that carried us into a deep sleep. Yes, another first, the first time my brother and I slept, literally slept, together.
Now we had moved past condoms. Now I was so eager to feel my brother, all of my brother, the unsheathed real brother inside me that I bypassed my oral ministrations after my introductory kiss and taste, and dragged him onto my bed. Eager as we both were - Paul had been erect since we’d left the patio swing - something allowed us to hang back just a little, to play with each other, to kiss, to caress, to fondle, to reacquaint ourselves with the other’s body as our anticipation and need grew by the minute. Finally, with a whispered “yes” in Paul’s ear I rolled onto my back and felt the bed’s movement as Paul shifted, rose slightly, and placed himself between my welcoming thighs for the fifth time but for the first time that we could say we were totally and absolutely naked for each other.
As I had the very first time I told him quietly, our eyes now long adjusted to the minimal light through the window, “I want to see it. I want to watch.” So once again my athletic brother raised himself easily, resting on one forearm as his other hand reached down. “No, let me do it this time.” Yes, another first as I reached down and found Paul’s stiff cock. My entire body trembled at its feel, its heat radiating into my fingers, it’s crazy combination of softness and hardness, the drops of pre-cum on its tip. My thumb found and spread the drops on his glans as my brother gasped and buried his face in my neck. I began to move his shaft, lifting my hips enough to press his head between my labia, stroking it up and down, lubricating it with my juices, as my gasps joined his.
Finally, all restraint gone, I guided Paul’s cock to my opening and whispered against his neck “now,” rewarded by his hips’ immediate push as he slipped easily into me, his full length sliding into my hot, wet vagina, my vaginal muscles gripping him, holding him, helping him as he reached his full depth, as I felt the tip of his cock press my cervix and his sac rest against my skin. He rested there, deep inside me, and then slowly drew back his full length, almost falling out of me before he thrust back in, with more force this time. He quickly began the rhythm he and I had grown to love so much, to need so deeply. I had learned well the lessons of the previous weekend so that almost immediately I joined Paul’s cadence, rising slightly to meet each thrust. My trembling had grown to shuddering and I could feel Paul’s body trembling as well as my hands began to glide up and down his sides and back. I reached farther down than I ever had and cupped his buttocks, felt them constrict with each thrust and marveled as their soft flesh became hardened with each thrust, each muscular clench.
But I had very little time to process what my hands were feeling as my brother’s thrusts grew faster, stronger, more insistent, Paul’s hard, wet, bare cock sliding so easily within me that my response rose, the sexual tide rising so fast that within minutes I was drowning in that ocean of incestuous pleasure, that sexual euphoria that my brother created every time we had sex. I shook to the point of convulsion, my shaking body telling my brother that I had arrived, that he’d taken me to the place we wanted me to go so that now I could welcome him there as he began to pump himself into me faster and faster, thrusting over and over as I clutched him to me, wrapped my legs around him and locked my ankles to hold him. Finally with one loud, long groan his body became suddenly rigid as my hands felt his buttocks clench almost into two stones and he pressed harder and deeper into me than he had all evening. He managed two or three more thrusts as his semen pumped into me, my vaginal muscles recording the familiar pulses of his cock but now feeling something different. Now I felt the hot wetness of my brother’s volcanic cock and his seed as jet after jet soaked my walls, filled my vagina. I couldn’t restrain myself. I couldn’t help it. I shouted “YES…YEEESSS…OH GOD…YEEESSS” as Paul seemed to pump an infinite flood of cum into me, filling me to overflowing.
All thoughts were blown from my mind by my second orgasm triggered by the flood of my brother’s seed, the divine wet flood that I felt for the very first time. Paul’s body was as stiff as rigor mortis for long seconds before he collapsed onto me. Our groans were replaced by loud laughter as we kissed and held each other, each now feeling the sweat that coated our bodies. After long minutes, after our ragged breathing returned to normal as we lay quietly together and after we reminded each other of how much we loved each other, my mind drifted back to reality and I laughed as I pointed out to Paul how lucky we were that we had the house to ourselves. I thought there was a very good chance that someone on the street might have heard how my passion, how the exquisite and sublime pleasure of my orgasm made me literally shout for joy.
“Are you going to be a shouter?” smiled Paul.
“I have no idea, bro. That was a first, wasn’t it? Did I shout last week?”
“No. You made a lot of sounds, a lot of good sounds for sure. In fact your sounds, all of them, really turn me on, sis. We just have to realize that we can’t be shouting all the time.”
“Agreed”.
We lay together quietly, my head resting against Paul’s shoulder as our fingertips idly traced themselves on each other’s body. The memories, the sensations of my climaxes so fresh in my mind I wondered: how was that different from last week? Sex is sex, intercourse is intercourse, ok, fucking is fucking, isn’t it? So why did these orgasms feel so much better. Clinically speaking I suppose skin on skin and wet on wet was better than Paul’s necessary latex last week, obviously. But was it that much less pleasurable last weekend? Then it occurred to me. I knew by now the feeling of my brother’s pulsing cock as he pumped his seed into me. But the flood that I’d just felt, the soaking of my womb with his seed; that was new. I realized that after last weekend my womb felt more and more parched, dry, a desert crying for rain and my brother’s jets of semen flooding me were exactly that rain. If my vagina was a garden, then my brother had seeded and watered it. We knew that if any of his millions of seeds actually took root it would be a disaster, but metaphorically I felt my garden blooming with its very first seeding, flooding, and fertilizing.
And as I reached down and took his moist, soft penis in my hand and lightly fondled it, reached further and cupped his sac, elated to gently roll his balls around easily with my light squeezing, another thing occurred. “You fit me perfectly, bro,” I said. “Last week I worried that I could accommodate you; you felt so big when I had you in my mouth. I thought “how on earth will he actually get inside me? He’s going to kill me. But you fit me absolutely perfectly. Maybe that’s why brother and sister sex is so damned good?”
“Maybe. I agree that we fit perfectly, sis.”
A few minutes later he rolled onto his side and pressed closer. “You’re a good baseball player, Annie.”
“Uhhh, ok?”
“And you know that every player learns two positions, right? Their usual position and a backup position?”
“Uhhh, ok?” wondering where my brother was headed.
“And every team has a utility player, one who can fill in at any position they have to?”
“Sure, I know that.”
“How would you like to learn another position or two?” Raucous laughter from his sister as the penny dropped and I realized his double entendre meaning. “I’m serious; ready for some coaching?” and I continued laughing as my strong, athletic brother gripped my hips and rolled onto his back, hoisting me easily over him until I was kneeling between his thighs. He suddenly became serious and said “you’re in charge now, sis; you pick your time, your speed, your rhythm. You go or stop as you choose. It’s all up to you.”
I’ve talked about discovering the power sex had, the power that I had as a woman, the effect my power could have on a man. None of those realizations had prepared me for this as I began to understand that I now commanded our coupling. I glanced at Paul and tried to read his expression; all I saw was patient waiting and a smile. My gaze drifted down taking in his muscular body now lying quietly, awaiting my command. Finally my eyes fell upon my brother’s erection, six inches of sexual power awaiting my next move. I reached out and slowly stroked it, not to arouse Paul as that was obviously unnecessary. No, it was a loving caress. Then I lifted myself and shifted forward, taking his cock lightly and positioning myself directly over it. With one last glance at Paul I began to lower myself, savoring every inch…no, every millimeter of Paul’s shaft as I continued to lower myself, pacing his entry, watching his face as he clenched his eyes shut as my tight vaginal muscles once again acquainted themselves with my brother’s stiff shaft, feeling once again its welcome heat as I sunk lower and lower. Finally I reached the end, Paul’s cock deep within me and leaned down, supporting myself by hands on his chest as I began to lift myself and drop again, impaling myself on my brother over and over with a regular tempo until my brother reached up and pulled me down for a kiss. Our bodies rested together as I relished the reversal of our roles and rested on my brother’s body as I continued my rhythm. His hands glided up and down my sides, occasionally cupping my breasts, then returning to their caress until they descended and found my active buttocks, caressed and cupped them as they rose and fell on him.
I reveled in my power and teasingly slowed down until Paul, laughing, began lifting his hips, trying to begin his own, faster rhythm. I laughed, leaned down again to kiss him and said “I’m in charge, remember? You promised, now be a good boy” as I resumed my thrusts. But my brother had his own tricks and gently pulled me toward him but not for a kiss; as I lowered myself at his command he craned his head up and took my left nipple between his lips and began licking and sucking. My body convulsed with the shock of his tongue on my breast and continued to shake as he changed to my other breast. I was stunned by the double-ended bliss that my brother had rocketed my entire body into, my vagina pumping his cock, pushing me closer and closer to orgasm while his lips brought the waves of pleasure up my spine, enveloping all of me in the sexual gratification he gave me as the flashes of sexual pleasure came closer and closer together until my body arched back, my head bent back, my eyes staring briefly at the bedroom ceiling before they reflexively shut with my orgasm. I could only withstand its waves for a few instances before I fell back down, supporting myself briefly above him before falling onto him, into his arms. I could hear my panting, feel my heart racing as I collapsed onto him.
The good news: I was ecstatic at the control my brother had given me over our lovemaking. The bad news: I had totally exhausted myself by it. It was a few long minutes before I shot back up and realized “my god, Paul; you didn’t cum!” His smile was forgiving as he pulled me down for a kiss before I rose back up and began my rhythm. I didn’t have to wait as his smile vanished, his eyes clenched shut, and his passive body suddenly was seized with orgasmic energy as he lifted us both from the bed and began launching his seed into his sister’s waiting vagina. By now his pulses, his pumping were familiar to me and I waited, totally impaled upon him, as his pulses and their jets of semen slowed until I could finally roll off of him.
“Well?”
“You’re a hell of a utility player, sis. Give us a few minutes and we’ll see if you can play another position.
It was time for pillow talk. “Was it really good for you, Paul? As good as missionary?”
“Perfect. Every bit as good. I couldn’t say better, but, well, wonderful. You can be on top any time you want.”
I was suddenly struck like a physical blow as his deeper meaning hit me. “You mean…you mean…we’re going to keep doing this? Like, several times?”
“Annie we’ve already done this ‘several times’. And yes, if I have anything to do with it we’re going to do it again. And again. And again. Sis, I don’t think I’m addicted to sex, but I’m sure as hell addicted to you.” And he sealed his promise with a long, deep kiss.
Lightening the mood I asked coyly “so…how was my ass? How did you like it?” recalling the feeling of his strong hands cupping it as I lifted and fell on his cock.
“It’s perfect, sis, absolutely perfect. Two soft, warm, beautiful globes, like the world’s tastiest melons,” and he playfully grabbed me, rolled me onto my stomach, and quickly leaned down and kissed each cheek. And not the ones on my face. “Now when you tell me to ‘kiss my ass’ you can really mean it, sis.”
I laughed as I reminded him “you want me to be a good utility player, coach. You’ve taught me two positions. I’m ready for another. Start coaching.” With that there followed much shuffling around, much bed-bouncing as he pushed blankets aside, grabbed all but one of my pillows, drew me up and turned me around, directing me to rest on my knees and hands, my breasts suspended beneath me. Suddenly, as he piled the pillows beneath my navel and lightly pressed my head down to the remaining pillow with a start I recalled my very first lesson in sex, that very first time when as a young girl a friend and I watched a male dog mount a bitch “so they can make puppies,” my more aware friend said. I remembered the rough pounding that that dog gave the bitch, that they seemed locked together after and couldn’t separate. A shiver of fear shot through me: was my brother going to pound me like a bitch? Would we lock together and be unable to separate?
I shouldn’t have worried as I felt his familiar warm hands gently caressing my back, once again caressing my sides, gliding down and gently grasping my hips as he asked quietly “ready, Annie?” My mute nod into the pillow was my reply. I immediately felt his movement as one of his hands left my hip and I felt the slight movement of the bed as he found his cock; clearly I wasn’t the only one ready as I glanced back beneath my upraised body and saw my brother’s full erection approaching my opening with Paul’s guidance. But then he began a tease as he moistened his glans, my moans escaping my throat involuntarily. But instead of making his grand entrance he drew back and played with his cock, directing it up and down the space between my buttocks, brushing my anus and teasing me as my whole body shuddered at its touch on the only virginal orifice that I had left. He teased a few seconds more before returning to my other entrance, lubricating it liberally and seriously this time, and began to push into me.
By now, our seventh incestuous coupling, my brother had made me gasp countless times, but this time…this time…as he pressed harder and further into me I was actually breathless, my body seeming to leap for a second off the bed, held to it by Paul’s hands on my hip and his cock sliding deeper and deeper into me. By this time our sexual familiarity with each other had not prepared me for this; I assumed a penis us a penis, a vagina is a vagina, and sexual intercourse is sexual intercourse. Wrong, as my brother instantly proved as his he bottomed out, his cock clearly thrust more deeply into me than we’d ever managed. My breath returned with gasp after gasp as he began to thrust repeatedly into me. I had never heard the word “G-spot”, had no idea it existed, but that night Paul absolutely found my G-spot as his cock thrust against it. My body was shaking so much with his thrusts that his grip on my hips was clearly necessary.
Then he added a whole other layer of bliss as he leaned over me, his chest almost resting on my back, reached around, and cupped each breast, pinching each nipple lovingly between thumb and forefinger. My body convulsed so profoundly that it almost threw him off me. Dimly through the fog of pleasure I heard his chuckle as his hands retreated but my breathless relief was very brief; one hand returned to my hip and the other found my slit, and instantly moved to my clitoris. That was it; two, three seconds of his light touch and circling it and my body was hit with an orgasm that had me screaming into the pillow, had my brother laughing loudly as he continued his cock’s plunging. My shouts were less muffled as my back reflexively arched and my head lifted off the pillow. My shouts became words as I shouted “Oh god…Oh Jesus…” as my body continued to shake with wave after wave of my climax. If that sounds like a prayer, it was; first I, then Paul as he joined in during his own orgasm that quickly followed, were shouting to our god, Eros, as our orgasms struck us both and seemed to roll back and forth between us. Even in my kneeling position I could feel Paul’s body, see it with quick glances over my shoulder, shoot upright and shake as his cock once again flooded my womb with his seed, spasm after spasm shooting repeated jets of semen deeper into me than he ever had. I saw him grit his teeth, seize my hips harder, and press as hard as he could into me, making as many thrusts into his sister as he could before he began to soften.
With one last, prolonged thrust Paul collapsed onto me so that only my thighs and arms supported us both. I began to laugh and couldn’t stop. The image of the two of us, sister and brother, locked together by our incestuous sex. The image of that dog of long ago and his bitch trying to disengage made me laugh even harder, shaking us both. Slowly my brother lifted himself off me and rose on his knees, slowly pulling his flaccid penis out of me, his cum flowing down my leg, the puzzled expression clear on his face. We instantly collapsed together, embraced, and lay together as my laughter slowed. Finally I could talk. Finally I could report to my sibling lover that whatever he’d just done was amazing, that we had to do that again…soon. But I reminded him that I didn’t want to play the same position every game. “A utility player moves around the field, right?” And I told him of my canine-inspired fear and how the finality of our sex brought that image to mind and made me laugh.
The easy silence that followed our passion and our laughter allowed quiet contemplation. Missionary…Cowgirl…Doggie Style, all bareback for the first time. What could possibly remain for us? As I lay against my brother, my fingertips lightly tracing the muscles on his chest, his ribs, his midriff, I idly thought: which did I like best? It was, as Paul promised, early days. But already I saw the differences and I let my mind slowly turn the question around, letting the answer evolve. But all the while I became more and more aware of our bodies; soaked by now with our sweat, the byproduct of our passion. And my brother’s seminal fluid, his seed, his cum, now coating both of our bodies randomly and generously, drying as our heartbeats slowed and our breathing calmed. “I have to shower, bro; I can feel your cum everywhere. You’ve filled your little sister to overflow. I love that, but…I have to shower,” and with that rose from our rumpled bed, noting the extensive staining and soaking of its sheets, and headed to the shower.
Paul took the hint and entered the shower immediately after I was done. When he returned to my bedroom he found me standing by the bed, surveying the state of its sheets. “Pretty messed up, eh?”
“Bro, I’m astounded: you pumped gallons of cum into me but just look at how much is on the sheets! You must have an infinite supply of sperm, Paul. You reload at an astounding rate.” No reply from my brother other than a silly, goofy prideful grin. “I think we were, what, twenty minutes between ‘events’? Twenty minutes to reload? I wonder how fast you can do it? Fifteen minutes? Ten?”
“I don’t know, but I’m looking forward to figuring it out.” He thought for a second and then brightened with “you know, I used to masturbate thinking of you.”
“I’m aware. I could hear you through the wall and it was so quick after our, ahem, lessons that I put two and two together and came up with, ummm, incest. And for the record, bro, you weren’t the only one,” to his widening eyes.
“Yeah, well, my point is that when I had a double header thinking about you I’m pretty sure they well under twenty minutes apart.”
“Double header? We’ve already had a triple header tonight; want to go for a quadruple header?” Again his smile was all the answer I needed. With one last look at the deplorable condition of my bed I took his hand, led him from my bedroom and down the hall to Paul’s bedroom. I tossed his blankets aside as we easily sunk onto his sheets in the most familiar and natural way as if we’d done it together a thousand times. A few kisses and I finally said “you know, there’s one thing we haven’t done.”
His interest was piqued. “Oh, what?”
“Talked dirty.”
“Huh? Whaaaa…?” He thought for a second and said “no, you said ‘fuck’ once, maybe twice. And Annie never swears. That’s a house rule. No, not a rule; a fact.”
“That didn’t count, bro. I was cumming so hard with you that I almost lost my mind. No, I’m talking about serious dirty talk. Every time we’ve had sex it’s been lovemaking.” And then I thought a moment and said “well, maybe that last one, doggie style, was pushing the boundary. But you get my point, right?”
“Uh huh.”
“So…dirty talk. Kind of less making love and more,” at this time I could feel a blush; crazy, I know, with what my brother and I had done so far, “more, ummm, fucking.” Now I really had his attention. “You’ve read a bit of porn, bro? You know that it’s mostly just that: fucking, humping, banging, whatever you want to call it. It doesn’t describe what you and I have been doing for a couple of months now, does it? But want to give it a try? Maybe just this once?”
“Ooookaaay.” I could see the hesitation in his eyes.
“How about I begin? What am I?”
“My sister?”
“And what are you?”
“Your brother?”
“And what has my big brother been doing to his little sister?”
I could see hesitation changing to lust. “Ummm, having sex?”
Quieter now, leaning into his ear “do you mean fucking? bro? Do you mean my big brother has been fucking his little sister?”
He gulped, actually gulped. “Yeah.”
“Well then say it.”
“Your big brother has been fucking his little sister.”
I leaned in and whispered even more quietly “then fuck me, bro, right now, and knock me up, try to knock your little sister up. Try to make me p-r-e-g-n-a-n-t,” drawing the word out, hissing it directly into his ear.
Shock in his eyes, absolute wide-eyed shock. “But…but…you’re…”
“I know, I know, bro. It can’t happen. But let’s just pretend, for tonight, that it it can. That you can knock your little sister up. That your cock will pump two…hundred…MILLION sperm into my pussy. ‘Cause that’s the number, bro, the way you pump your cum into me it’s easily two hundred million sperm. Every time. Soaking my cunt. Trying to impregnate me. Trying to make me have your baby.” With that I reached down so that my thumb and fingers could squeeze Paul’s cock. I had never felt him that hard. I’ve marveled before at its mix of soft and hard, but by now there was no soft. My brother was as stiff and hard as a hammer handle.
His eyes were still wide, almost staring as we began a sexual call and refrain. “Does my big brother’ long, stiff cock like his little sister’s hot, wet…pussy? Her cunt?” Now my heart was beating faster as I thought “this dirty talk really works.” It was working on me and I could see it was obviously working on my brother. Who needs a taboo like incest when profane talk works like this?
“Yes. His stiff prick loves his sister’s…cunt, loves to slip it into her, to feel her hot, wet pussy grabbing his cock. Oh, god, sis, it feels so damned good.” Really into it now.
“So what does my brother want to do to me right now? Does he want to make love to me?”
“No, I want to fuck you, sis, I want to fuck you so badly, so hard. I want to pound you so hard you can’t walk.”
I whispered again into his ear as he feverishly swung his body over mine, “well, big brother, what’s keeping you? When do we start our i-n-c-e-s-t? When are you going to start fucking your little sister? She wants your huge cock. She wants you to fertilize her. She wants you to pump your seed into her. She’s starving for it. Put her up the pole, bro; she wants to make your baby.”
He was beyond dirty talk for the few seconds it took him to begin entering me, to begin slipping his cock into my cunt (I’m really into it, even with just the memory) so I carried on with “that’s right, big brother, fuck me. Fuck me right now. Give it to your little sister. Pump her, bang her, pound her like you’ve never pounded her. She wants your stiff shaft as far into her as possible. Soak her womb with your seed. Fill me up.” By then he was into me his full length and had dispensed with any niceties, any gentleness, and was pumping himself into me faster and harder than he ever had, a rhythm that would have broken a metronome trying to match his cadence. It was like trying to ride a bronco; I wrapped my arms and legs around my brother and held on for dear life, harder and closer than I’d ever held on. “What are you trying to do, bro, what are you trying to do to your sister?”
“I’m, I’m fucking her as hard as I can,” through gritted teeth, “I’m going to…unnhh…I’m going to…knock her up. I’m going to get my little sister pregnant. I want her to have my baby.” And with that he suddenly rolled us both over so that I was suddenly on top. I released my grip as he said loudly, almost shouting, “I want her to ride me. I want my little sister to ride my pole as hard as she can. I want her to milk my cock of every single seed I’ve got.”
Now it was my turn; “hang on, bro, here we go,” as I began to pump my brother’s cock as fast and as hard as I could, as he reached up and squeezed my breasts I managed to pant “do you like my tits, big brother?”
“God, yes, I love my sister’s tits.”
“Do you love your sister’s tits? Come on, baby,” - I’d never called him ‘baby’ before - “come on and show me how much you love my tits.” He couldn’t manage an answer and instead pulled me down roughly so that my hair curtained us as he pulled me into a deep, savage kiss that almost bruised my lips while I continued to ride him as fast and hard as I could as he took each of my nipples between his lips, brought his teeth perilously close to biting. Laughing, he rolled us over again and once more took the initiative.
“I’m going to fuck you blind, sis, I’m going to knock you up, seed you, fill your cunt with my cum. You’re going to have my baby,” as his cock jack hammered into me. Paul was driving himself into me so hard, so furiously that he began to push my whole body up the bed, inch by inch toward the headboard so I felt his hands slip beneath my back and grip my shoulders from under me, holding me to him so that with each pounding entry he held my body stationary beneath his.
“Fuck me, baby, fuck me, fuck me, FUUUUCK MEE” as my orgasm hit without warning. Every orgasm I’d had with my brother so far had announced its approach but this one…this one blasted me off the bed. If my orgasms had been, say, one-hundred watt light bulbs, this one was a blinding flash, but a flash that kept on and on and on. “Oh my god. Oh Jesus. Paul I’m…fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK” and my convulsing body removed all capacity for words. My shaking body was my brother’s release as his throbbing cock made one last thrust while his body became totally rigid and began pumping his seed, seed by the millions into my womb, as I felt his hot torrent flooding and washing it as pulse after pulse sent millions more in eager search of my eggs.
He collapsed onto me but I hardly felt his weight as the tide of my climax drowned me in euphoric, incestuous sexual bliss until it began to ebb, wave after wave slowly washing over and through me, just as wave after wave of my brother’s semen had washed into and through me.
“What. The. Hell. Was. That?” my brother gasped. “Where the hell did it come from? Sex with you has been fantastic over and over, Annie, but I’ve never imagined we could have anything like that. Where did it come from?”
My breathing had still not returned to normal. “I have no idea, bro. I - we - must have a dark side. I’ve been thinking for several weeks that you and I have let our incest genie out of its bottle, but this genie; he…she…is a sexual monster. I think if we have sex like this every time it might kill us. I don’t know about you, but I think I almost died there. Bro, we can’t go there all the time; we have to handle this with care.”
“Fucking amazing.”
“No, bro, amazing fucking,” as he laughed at the truth in what I said. We lay together longer than usual (and we’d had sex frequently enough now that we had established something like ‘usual’) until I finally said “you know, Paul, I’ve run two half-marathons.”
“Ok, and…?”
“And each half-marathon took about as long as we’ve spent tonight in bed, but I think I’m more exhausted right now than if I’d run those thirteen miles.”
“I get that. I get that for sure.” Then after a few minutes he wondered aloud “how did we get here, sis? How did this start?”
“I went to get you for dinner. And I saw you with Brittany. And that’s all it took, bro, that’s all it took.” And I gave him a long kiss in further answer.
By now we needed a second shower and this time we economized by showering together for the first time. No, we did not have sex in the shower. Yes, it was a new pleasure to feel Paul’s hands soaping and washing my body, taking care to wash every curve, every fold, every inch and I was laughing as I returned the favor. Clean and exhausted we fell into his bed and slept the deep sleep of the righteous, totally guiltless despite having committed the same criminal act, incest, four times that night. My last waking thought was “we’re both above the age of consent…and we love each other.”
That summer my brother hit many home runs. Most of them were with me. No, almost all were with me. And I loved it. Toward the end of the summer Paul and I had become seasoned and very experienced lovers when, late one Saturday night and after he and I had spent a quiet evening in the den watching - actually watching - the game on TV, Paul surprised me by taking my hand and, instead of leading me to one of our bedrooms, walked me to the car. Perplexed, I buckled myself in as we drove off. Late night coffee? I wondered, midnight movie? But within minutes I understood our destination as we drove slowly down very familiar streets to the ballpark. Wordlessly my brother reached into the back seat and lifted the family picnic hamper out, then took my hand and walked us to a very familiar spot: my game-watching spot beneath the shade tree by the first base line. He quickly spread a blanket and then removed thermos, sodas, and sandwiches from the basket. Still wordless he took me into his arms, kissed me, and drew me down onto the blanket. What followed was a unique chapter in the history of our incestuous lovemaking as he reached beneath my skirt and deftly removed my panties before unbuckling his belt and pushing his trousers and boxers to his knees. We had never had sex with any clothes on, I realized, and was thrilled by the furtive, taboo, conspiratorial nature of what my brother and I were doing. “Just in case anyone happens by,” he whispered in my ear as his caresses, his fondling, his fingers’ hard work at my vaginal entrance raised me to a fever peak so that it was almost a relief to feel his rigid cock quickly entering me.
As his cock began its familiar rhythmic thrusting into me, as my hips adopted their natural rhythmic response, rising to meet each of his thrusts, I was able to whisper just a few words in his ear; “Paul, this is perfect…just perfect, bro. I love you,” and with that my hips lifted us both from the blanket as my orgasm struck. My brother wasn’t far behind me as he made one last deep thrust and began pouring his seed into me with jet of hot jet hitting the walls of my womb. Laughing together we quickly fixed our clothing and, lying together, talked quietly as we watched the stars. And thus began a treasured tradition; every year since my brother and I have somehow managed to repeat that episode, each year on the anniversary of our very first real incestuous coupling, our very first home run together.
Our parents had fallen in love with the cottage and decided very quickly that they would buy it at the end of the summer. Paul’s baseball camps and my summer job meant that weekends at the cottage with them were few but we were able to drive up Saturdays and stay overnight, continuing the illusion of some kind of sibling normalcy. When we visited I began to notice and sense something different with our folks. A lighter tone between them, teasing and kidding that didn’t seem to happen as much at home. At times Mom even seemed a bit coquettish with Dad. One evening when our parents had gone into the nearby town for a drink I stole into their room, took a quick look at their sheets, and laughed as my suspicions were confirmed. I found Paul and said to my brother “have you noticed it, Paul?”
“Noticed what?”
“Noticed IT. Between Mom and Dad?” He was perplexed so I took his hand and led him into their room, throwing the blankets aside so that he could see the same evidence I had.
“Oh my god!” he exclaimed. “They’re actually doing it, aren’t they?”
“They absolutely are. This is their little love nest, bro.”
“Do you think we’ve started something, sis? That it’s contagious?” as we both burst out laughing.
Mom and Dad didn’t go to the cottage every weekend, and we realized that their trips would end by the fall so Paul and I strategized and occasionally moved our lovemaking to our family room in the basement. It was fully two floors below our and our parents’ bedroom so after establishing that its comfortable couch was excellent accommodation for our sexual activities, if our parents were at home and if one or both of us had an undeniable need (which became pretty routine) once we could hear the soft snoring of our parents’ sleep we would quietly slip downstairs and make love. Or, every so often, fuck. But even when my brother was fucking his little sister hard, even when he was pounding my pussy, we learned to muffle our shouts. We developed a coded language we could use in front of our parents; one of us, hoping for sex, would ask the other “is there a game on TV Friday?” If the answer was “yes” it meant lovemaking on Friday night while our parents were at the lake. Another code was “Is there a game on tonight?” and if our parents were home that night the code for a meeting in the family room that night would be “no, I’m just going to watch the post-game summary.” It was an ironic code because there was absolutely nothing summary or hurried about our family room lovemaking.
By the fall our parents’ trips to the cottage became fewer and once the leaves had changed and fallen they ceased. Paul and I strategized more and asked what would happen to the cottage over the winter? “Nothing, really,” said our Dad, “It’s winterized, insulated, and between the fireplace and the backup wood stove it could be easily warmed up. In fact, that might be a good thing - to go occasionally and keep the lights on once in a while, check for frozen pipes, see that everything is ok.” Eventually, to our innocent suggestion that now that we were back at school perhaps Paul and I could check on it his response was “hey, that’s a good idea.” Paul and I painted a picture of a study retreat so that we could both keep ourselves on the honour roll so that Paul’s scholarship offers would be more likely.
So every couple of weekends over the winter Paul and I headed to the lake…”to study” and as Dad predicted we definitely warmed the cottage up. Sometimes we were up in its loft, naked on its futon, before we’d even started the fires. And many times we made slow, languid love on the rug before the crackling fire. We learned simple, banal things like always placing towels beneath us to soak up any evidence and to give the cottage a careful once-over Sundays before returning. I’m pretty sure that by the end of the winter Paul and I loved that cottage more even than Mom and Dad did. And, yes, we actually did study a lot there in between our frequent incestuous sex.
And Paul did get several baseball scholarship offers, choosing one from a university about two hours’ drive from our home. That allowed him to return home regularly on weekends or for us, usually just me with my new driver’s license, to visit him there. The campus offered a visitors’ residence and Paul booked a room in it several times over the term. No one seemed concerned that it was often occupied only by his sister. And, of course, later in my visit by Paul and me. Paul’s presence at the school was a huge motivation for me so that I worked harder than anyone at our school to earn a scholarship as well. I also got several offers of soccer scholarships and was thrilled when one came from Paul’s university. I jumped at the chance to study at the same school as him. Because it was so highly rated academically…obviously.
When I graduated from our high school my brother and I and I quietly pursued our final strategy as Paul casually mentioned how a few of his friends were leaving the student residence the next year and getting apartments of their own. A while later he made offhand comments about how a two-bedroom apartment would cost considerably less than, say, two student residence rooms. He and I almost shouted “YES!!!” when our parents fell for the trap and suggested to Paul that maybe he might explore the possibility; would he mind, did he think, living with his little sister? Would that be too much of a problem? It would actually save scholarship money, they pointed out. Paul’s seeming to carefully consider the idea, to hem and haw, to shake his head at the idea and to finally admit that “Well, I don’t know…but, maybe…I guess it might work out” was easily an Academy Award performance.
And so it was settled. Paul and I moved in together to a small two bedroom apartment within easy walking distance of our campus. Two bedrooms, yes, but only one was ever used. We kept the other as if I slept there; my books, clothes, makeup, clear and obvious evidence should Mom and Dad drop by, as the occasionally did.
And our arrangement was invaluable to both my brother and me. By the time of my graduation I had changed from the pill to an IUD so I had one less daily distraction. Yes, we slept together every night and yes, we had sex at least four or five times a week and, yes, about once a week the sex was ‘dirty talk sex’ and I wondered why our neighbors didn’t complain about the thumping and shouting; for that reason we tried to ‘talk dirty’ only when the neighbors were away. But beyond that and more importantly: in our years together there we had challenges; one of us might have a bad game, a bad exam result and the other was always there to give comfort, to take the other to bed, to make slow and passionate love so that each of us always knew that we were loved.
It’s been over twenty years now since we both graduated from uni. We have both had good - charmed, even - careers. We have taken care to live and work in the same city, one state over from our folks. We both married; mine has lasted and I have two teenagers. No, in answer to your obvious question, they’re not my brother’s. He’s their uncle, not their father…although we occasionally repeat the “knock your sister up” tableau as it still adds taboo onto the forbidden, the prohibited onto the unthinkable. If you were to ask a simple clinical question: “how many times?” I would have to ask you to define “times” because there were many, many instances where our lovemaking included multiple couplings. Ok, multiple fucks if you must. So times? Hundreds, for sure. Actual fucks? Easily over a thousand.
My brother’s marriage ended fairly amicably; he and his wife agreed they simply weren’t suited and after ten years separated and remained friends. The cottage is still in the family although since our parents retired and moved to sunnier climes they use it far less. My husband doesn’t enjoy the lake so it’s left to me and Paul to use. My kids almost always want to spend time at home with their teenaged friends so when I go to the cottage I’m alone. Except, obviously, for my brother. My lover. My partner in years of incest. The weeks with him at the lake are my vision of heaven on earth. We occasionally “get together” aside from the cottage. My husband isn’t a baseball fan, either, so is happy to see me off to games without him, invariably with Paul taking his place. But…ahem…we don’t always get to the actual game. But Paul is still hitting home runs with me. Sometimes, as I tell my husband, I won’t be home early, as it looks like it’ll be a double header. “Take me out to the ballgame”, right?