Smart Sister, Smitten Brother 2

by bluepervina - © 2003

( FM, inc, rom )

[ 6/20/03 ] - This story is in progress--the second in a series about siblings who fuck. By looking at the story codes, you can see that this is a pretty straightforward tale. It's all more or less sketched out in my head, but I'm trying to limit my writing time on it for only when I'm really in a "second person" mood. I hate writing in second person, but it's necessary for the kind of narrative energy I want to create for this tale. What is most important, for me, is that the story is obviously being told from hindsight in a tone of wonder and worship that is still very strong in the narrator as he relates the unfolding of his shared past. He is "telling" or "sharing" the story with the other participant--his sister--but it's not clear if she's remembering it with him, in the present, at all. Are they sitting over cocktails in a cozy pub somewhere? Is he cooking her eggs for breakfast while she leans against the counter with her orange juice and watches his hands, his shoulders? Could he be far from her, writing her a long letter? Is he kneeling beside her grave, keening inside as their story spills out? Does any of that matter, anyway? One thing is certain--it is not "all just a dream". And another thing, for some who are undoubtedly wondering--no, this story will contain no toilet-related fetishes whatsoever.

If you read what's in this story so far, and you have any ideas about how you'd like to see it proceed, feel free to email me with your suggestions. Make sure the subject says something like "an idea for smart sister smitten brother". And don't forget--the address is munged.

 

Mom, of course, was the only person who knew what we were doing.

After stumbling in upon us in the bathroom that day, she'd very nervously explained that she would not tell anyone what she'd seen. "Obviously," she'd said, in a trembling voice, "that especially includes your father and your sisters. They just wouldn't understand."

Do you remember how shocking that was, the way she'd said that? We waited for an explanation, but Mom didn't elaborate. She just made it clear that she, at least, understood. Whatever that meant.

"What you need to do is to stop doing this with each other, and to stop it right now. Forever." She deeply, profoundly sighed and seemed to wait for some kind of acknowledgement from us. But what do you say to the obvious? We were well-mannered children, remember? Mom and Dad had raised us well, and I'm sure Mom was utterly shocked with what she'd witnessed if for no other reason than the fact that we were, in a way, somehow reflecting on her flaws as a parent.

I was numb, my chest a great hole of nothing. All my lust and joy wrapped up in you was being negated-cancelled out-by the shame and fear I felt under Mom's gaze. I was completely unhinged, and I thought with dead certainty that at any moment I'd simply collapse in upon myself and die. I just didn't know what to do.

Mom just continued staring at us with wild, watery eyes, and I could barely bring myself to hold her gaze for more than two seconds. Your hand was in mine, your thumb rubbing me. I concentrated with all my heart on feeling your touch just then. I sat there forcibly remembering what it had felt like to twine my tongue around yours, to suck on your breasts, to slide my cock so deep inside your wet, sweet hole. In case, truly, we did decide to stop it right then. Forever.

But Mom was watching us closely, and when she spoke next, her voice was somehow different.

"It has to be your choice, not anything I can make you do." She cleared her throat and looked down thoughtfully.

"I of course can't truly make you stop what you're doing, because the only way I can is to send one of you away. Then I'd have to have a reason for it, and I'd have to force you to go along with whatever story I'd make up." Mom was staring at the grey boards of the porch, frowning; I remember thinking, hey, that's where you get that cute little frown-from Mom!

The rows of orange trees, just beyond our backyard, rustled in the warm breeze. Evening was come, and it was quickly getting hard to see much of anything on that porch. The wind-tossed branches of the trees almost created a noise like waves, surf on the sea. We were in a small dark boat, sailing into a vast unknown future, and Mom was about to open the map for us, for the first time.

"Christina, you're starting college in just a few more months, so we'll just have to hold on until then." We stared at her, more confused than ever. Hold on to what?

"It won't be too hard to keep this a secret, really," she went on, oblivious to the reactions she was inducing. "You two will simply need to be very, very discrete. And Christina, sweetie, we'll need to get you on the Pill. I'll call the doctor for an appointment first thing in the morning."

It was like a deep gong resonating through my gut, rattling up through my chest, straight to my throat, where somehow tears began to spring up in my eyes. The Pill? What about "you've got to stop"?

I couldn't help it-I looked over at you, and you squeezed my hand and flashed me a tight, nervous smile. But your eyes hadn't left Mom's face, and she was staring right back at you.

"It's a difficult thing, you understand," Mom said, "and I don't like this one bit. Not at all."

You nodded, and Mom went on. "Please be careful. Be smart. OK?"

And after you nodded that last time, she never spoke to us about it again.

There was one more brief, awkward silence, and then Mom left us to go back in and finish cleaning the kitchen. We walked, hand in hand, past Dad's closed office door, up the steps, and into your room, where we fucked for most of the night.

* * *

The next afternoon you were holding my hand as we walked through the far end of the groves, down near the spring. You told me all about going to Dr. Callaway and getting on the Pill. He'd given you some waiting period when you weren't supposed to trust it being strong enough in your system, so in the meantime you were going to have to use prophylactics if you had intercourse. You even said it just like that, remember? All intellectualized and detached, mimicking the doctor and not even realizing it. I thought you were mocking, but clearly you were dead serious, and something was on your mind.

We stopped at the end of the row of trees. The trough-like path of sugar sand, dotted with ragweed and sandspurs, gave way to a gentle slope of patchy bahia and bottlebrush grasses, right down to the cattails that reached thickly out into the shallow lagoon. The water there was just warm enough, and all that life seemed to cling thickly to those edges of the cove, just beyond the deep end where the spring bubbled gently forth. That cavern was eighty feet down, remember? We used to watch the university hydrology and geology students come down and dive in it. It was part of what inspired me to major in Ecology, that place.

It became especially precious to us once we started fucking, remember? We quickly discovered how tucked away and perfect it was. The gators only came up onto a few of the banks to sunbathe, and they just ignored us. If we went around to the banks beside the deep end, it was too cold for them to bother swimming to, and we could lie out under the trees, on that sun-dappled, ancient sand, and have our own Eden to ourselves.

We must have fucked there a hundred times that first year, don't you think?

But that first day of our new life together, as we approached the far bank, you were frowning. I wasn't asking you any questions, of course. It wasn't my way, and never has been. You get whatever space and time you need, even if I'm right there with you.

We sat in the mucky edge of the water, on a shelf of limestone where the sand was sloughed off and the limestone fell away in a rough underwater cliff. We let our feet dangle out into the crystal clear abyss, silent, for a long time. I tried to count how many different birds I could hear calling. There was a red fox who stopped by the scrawny stand of slash pine that stood between that part of the river and the lagoon. It watched us, sniffing suspiciously at the air, and then darted out of sight. I'll bet you don't remember that. You were so lost in your concern.

"Billy," you softly called, reaching out for me as you gazed into the sparkling deep, "I feel so strange."

I cleared my throat and managed to whisper back, "Me too."

You turned to look at me then, your round, gorgeous blue eyes shining and moist. A tear came, then another, and soon you were shaking. Leaning into me. My arms were around you, and we clung to each other for a long time, until both of us were sobbing and wet and feeling pretty silly. It was you who began laughing first. It was always you who laughed!

Soon we were splashing, soaking each other with the cold spring water, and then I shoved you in.

I guess you expected it. It wasn't like we'd never done that before, as kids. The moment you felt yourself moved off the limestone shelf, you threw up your hands to the sky, took a deep breath, and plummeted down. For a split second-I'll never forget it-your blonde hair was a silken yellow blanket, spread like a faerie's on the surface of the water. Then it was sucked down from below, pulled under in a crisp yank of gravity that seemed more magic than physics. It was like your essence-softness, light, breathless beauty-had been called back to the neverland from whence you came. I feared for you then like I never had before in that place.

Anxiously, I watched your progress down. Another shelf extended out 12 feet or so below our perch, and once your feet hit it, you gathered yourself and rocketed back up to me. Bursting forth into my arms, you showered me with a glittering rain of sweet spring. The sun caught the drops on you and around you and lit them like jewels. You were smiling. I caught you.

We kissed.

A few minutes later, we were making love. Long, slow, tender, tearful love. I remember how long and frail your arms and legs felt around me, the white down on your skin, darkened slightly in the damp. Your hair was quickly full of fine sand as you lay back on the bank, but I brought up handful by handful to wash it clean as I moved in you. Then you scooped up your own handful of frigid muck, digging deep beside your hip, and dumped it on the small of my back, just as I was coming.

It was wonderful to laugh like that while I emptied myself inside you.

"I think I like feeling strange," you whispered in my ear, pulling me down beside you. We watched the willows above us sway in the breeze, a gentle rustling calm compared to the rough shakings of the pines nearby, where the fox had come back out to observe us.

We stayed there for hours, until it was almost too dark to see our way back around the lagoon. We could barely even hear Mom's dinner bell, remember? You said it felt like we were in our own world. That's when we decided we'd have to make a place like that for ourselves always, no matter where we happened to be. We knew instinctively that we would have a life that others would misunderstand and hate, and we might have such pain later on. But if we could just make a special, secret place for ourselves and guard it with all the jealousy and magic of our unique love, then we'd always have a chance at safety and peace. At least a small happiness. Together.

That's what you called it: "Our Little Happy". "The Tiny Smile". That was our love-our life held out separate from the rest of the world.

 

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Again, i f you read what's in this story so far, and you have any ideas about how you'd like to see it proceed, feel free to contact me wi th your suggestions. Make sure the subject says something like "an idea for smart sister smitten brother".

Copyright 2003 by bluepervina.