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Bathnight with Kate

by Rex Antioch

“You’ll stay in and look after your sister and that’s an end to it,” My father said in a voice which promised trouble if I argued any more.  I backed off.
“Isn’t fair,” I grumbled.
“Life isn’t fair,” Dad told me sharply.  “You’d better get used to it.”
A sudden change of plans was taking my parents out for the evening and I had been lumbered with baby-sitting my little sister.  It was in part my own fault.  When I had arrived home from school they had asked me innocently what plans I had for the evening and I admitted to nothing more than intending to wander round to a friend’s house for no particular reason.  In fact I’d had a date with a girl I’d screwed for the first time four days ago, my first ever screw, and had been hoping for a second but at fourteen going on fifteen I’d learned to be wary telling my parents if girls were part of my plans, as they didn’t altogether approve - at least of girls they’d never met.
“In that case you can baby-sit your sister,” they triumphantly trumped me.  “We’ve got to go out.”
I’d grumbled and griped for an hour until savaged by my father and then stayed sullenly silent in front of the TV, ignoring my eleven-year-old sister Kate while my parents left the house and for half an hour after. 
By then it was too late to telephone my girl Janet and I was savage with the knowledge that she wouldn’t take kindly to being stood up, and might very well find someone else to do what I had been hoping to do to her.  I curtly sent Kate off to bed at eight-o’clock, her usual time, and sat tormenting myself with thoughts of what I would have been doing had I not had a wretched little sister.  At memories of the newly-discovered joys of soft, round breasts and that wondrous forested landscape of hot, wet, girl-cleft and inviting hole with my prick sliding in and out of it I was only partly aware that I had released my stiff prick from my jeans and was gently masturbating when I heard a scrabble at the door and it swung slowly open.  I hastily jammed my prick back in my trousers and turned to see my little sister peering around it like one of those damn plastic fairies peeping from behind concrete toadstools the aesthetically-challenged enjoy littering their gardens with.
“What’re doing?” Kate enquired, tipping her head to one side like a puzzled puppy.
“Got’ta itch.  Just scratchin’,” I told her curtly.  “What’d’ya want?”
“Oh.”  She nodded as though all was explained.  “There’s a spider in the bath,” she announced, lazily swinging her body around the door a little further into the room.
She was wearing just her knickers, little-girl’s cotton things that hugged her hips and hinted at a little pouting mound between her legs.  “Girl,” howled the animal part of me, stirred into a frenzy by my fevered imaginings of moments before.  “Don’t be stupid,” my reasoning mind replied.  “She’s eleven-years-old, and your sister.”
Kate had a bath every night mainly to wash and dry her hair before giving it a hundred strokes with a brush.  This was necessary because her hair was her glory.  It fell in waves of thick golden ringlets as far as the small of her back, and her ambition was to be able one day to sit on it.  To me it was a vanity like a peacock’s tail, about as practical as a lump of concrete around the stupid bird’s neck, but Kate was passionate about it and our parents proudly indulged her.  For her to miss her nightly bath, and thus her toilette, would be a catastrophe of the first magnitude I would never hear the end of.  
“O.K.  I’ll come and get rid of it,” I said in a hard-done-by tone and still trying to hide my hard-on.
“Thank you,’ she said politely, dropped from the door-handle and turned away in a cascade of golden tresses like theatre curtains swishing closed across the front of the stage.  I arranged my still achingly stiff prick as best I could in my jeans (I dress to the right, when I can!), did up the fly and wearily followed my sister upstairs to the bathroom.
It wasn’t a particularly big spider in the bath, which was fortunate as I’m not very fond of them myself, and as Kate screeched and shuddered I herded it into my hand and crossed to the window with it.  My sister might have hated them but she’d never have forgiven me had I just squashed it or flushed it down the plug-hole.  While I was trying to open the window it escaped from my hand on to the sill and it took me another half a minute to round it up again and successfully evict it into the night.  I closed the window, turned and froze.
My little sister, now innocently naked, was reaching across the bath to turn on the taps.
She was five feet tall, five stone nothing and elfin.  Her hair lay across her back like a short golden cloak, erotically revealing her nudity.  Her arms were long and elegant. Her legs were longer and startlingly shapely.  Tiny mounds no bigger than peas underlay her nipples like seeds of the breasts waiting to grow there and her pose, stretched over the tub with one leg stretched balletically behind her for balance, revealed the smooth curve of her body between her thighs, deeply incised by the slit that had condemned her at birth to be forever a girl.
I felt like I had been hit by a truck.
I was still new to girls.  I’d known for some time that they didn’t grow proper breasts until they were twelve or thirteen and that instead of pricks they had holes into which the prick went to make babies.  Only in the last few weeks had I discovered that those breasts were the eighth wonder of the world, wonderfully soft and incredibly exciting.  I’d discovered, too, that girls grew hair between their legs like boys did and that the slit which began in it contained a surprising maze of folds and wrinkles which, if you put your finger on the right wrinkle, made a girl moan and wriggle and squeeze your hand between her thighs.  Here, too, was that passage into her body, the vagina in polite books and cunt in whispered conversations between school-boys into which, if you were lucky, the girl would eventually let you put your prick for the most exciting, the most wonderful, the most incredible, five minutes imaginable.
And the truck that had hit me was the realisation that my sister was a girl.
Not that she had breasts yet, nor hair between her legs.  I wasn’t even sure if she had a cunt - a vagina - as I half-assumed they grew in girls at the same time as their breasts did.  Yet she had smooth white skin and little enticing curves where big enticing ones would grow, she had that incredible hair and she had that magical, mysterious cleft between her legs out of which I was sure I could see peeping one of those soft folds of flesh so receptive of the exploring finger.
The hydraulics that worked my prick rammed another few hundred pounds of pressure into it far, I was sure, into the red on any internal gauges in my brain.
She ain’t sexy, she’s my sister, I told myself unsuccessfully.  I knew she was totally innocent of it but at that moment, for a number of reasons that were nothing to do with her intentions, she seemed incredibly sexy.
She’s still my sister.  So what.  I had a friend who claimed his older sister had allowed him to finger her and had wanked him off.   It was not a privilege she was willing to extend to any of his friends, he had declared, and he wasn’t universally believed but it at least established the principle.  When he’d made the claim, I remember, I had been steamingly envious, and had cursed the fact that my stupid sister was (then) ten rather than sixteen.
So now she’s eleven.  Still a baby, almost.  Certainly still a child.  She was as much like a real girl as a plastic Action Man was like a real commando.  It would be nice to touch her, though. Stroke that silky skin, kiss those little embryonic tits, explore that enticing crack.  It wouldn’t be a tenth as good as doing the same things with a real girl, but it would be better than nothing.
Water hissed out of the taps and Kate swayed back onto both feet.  She grinned at me.
“Hey, Sis,” I said.  “How’d you like me to wash your hair?”
Her eyes went wide with pleasure, tinged with suspicion.  I knew our mother usually washed her hair for her as it was a major task even when you could reach it. 
“Why?” she said.  
Our parents told me often enough that my little sister adored me, usually when they wanted me to do something for or with her.  Why she should adore me I couldn’t understand as I ignored her as far as was possible, tolerated her when I had no other choice and never went out of my way to do anything for her.  It was hardly surprising that she should wonder why I should suddenly volunteer to undertake a particularly onerous and messy task for her.
“Um,” I said as I sought about for some believable reason and, finding none, was forced into the truth.
“You’re growing up, Sis,” I explained, looking blatantly at her nudity.  “Getting quite sexy. I reckon it would be fun to have a bath with you, now.”   I had a vague memory of having had baths with her before, but not for a good many years.
Kate looked down at herself, surprised me by blushing and even turned away from me a little coyly yet I felt I’d pleased her in some way, maybe by being obviously honest.  She had to know I’d taken a risk suggesting something she would recognise was ‘naughty’ although I had been reasonably confident that even if she turned me down flat she wouldn’t go further and get me into trouble ( how much trouble she probably had no idea) by telling mum or dad what I’d said.
“What do you mean?” she said, and I heard a vein of naughtiness, a breath of excitement and a hint of a giggle in her voice.
“Well, er, perhaps, er, we should get to know each other better,” I hazarded.
“Suppose mum and dad come back?” she queried and I was surprised at the leap she had made.  So she was aware our parents would not be pleased (to put it mildly) to discover me actually in the bath with her, knew that what I was suggesting was in the ‘naughty’ category, and she wasn’t ruling it out.
“We’ll hear the car,” I told her.  “And even if we don’t we’ll hear the front door and I’ll have time to get back to my own room.”  Unless mum or dad came directly upstairs, which wasn’t usual.  I conceded to myself that there was a risk of being caught but the unexpected awareness being shown by my sister that my proposal was not entirely proper and her obvious inclination to go along with it anyway, or perhaps because it was improper, was oddly exciting.  It at least solved what I had assumed would be my major risk, that of an innocent Kate happily telling her mother that I had joined her in the bath.
“Well OK, then,” she said.  “If you’re sure.”
I wasn’t, but a number of interesting possibilities were forming in my mind.
“You finish running the bath.  I’ll be back in a minute,” I said and fled to my bedroom.  The alarm-clock on my bedside table said 8:10 and the hospital our parents were visiting was a good 45 minute drive away so they wouldn’t even be there yet, having left at 7.30.  At the very minimum they wouldn’t be back for fifty minutes, and they’d surely spend at least a half-hour with the hospitalised Aunt they were visiting.  I easily had an hour yet alone with my sister.  I set the alarm on the clock to 9:00 pm and primed it.  Then I slowly undressed.
My prick was rock hard, pointing stiffly up and away from my body.  My little sister had probably never seen anything like it.  It could easily frighten her, but there was nothing I could do about it.  Except not go.  For Heaven’s sake she was my sister, and she was only eleven.  What was I thinking of?  I heard the water stop streaming into the bath and then little splashing sounds as my sister climbed into it.  I could imagine the water slicking and shining on her smooth skin and at the picture my heart beat painfully, my breath seemed to stick in my throat and my hydraulics pumped a few more impossible pounds into my prick.
“I’m ready,” Kate called from the bathroom.
So was I.  Ready to the point of exploding.  Leaving the bedroom door open so as to be able to hear the alarm-clock should it be necessary, and the bathroom door open so as to be able to hear both alarm clock and return of parents, I re-entered the bathroom.
Kate was sitting in the middle of the bath with her feet at the tap end and her knees raised to make room for me behind her.  The bottom six-inches of her hair was floating like golden sea-weed around her back in the hip-deep (to her) bathwater. At the sight of me I saw her eyes lock onto my prick and widen.  Her mouth dropped slightly.  Unexpectedly I felt embarrassed.  Hurriedly I climbed into the bath behind her.  In order to sit down I had to slide my legs alongside her with my knees under her elbows, but she wasn’t very big and there was room for us both although my prick was sticking up out of the water like a post among the fronds of her hair which lapped and flowed around it.  I rested my hands on the skinny shoulders under the flow of hair, kissed her on the back of the head and said, “Let’s have the shower, then.”  My balls were almost touching her little bottom.
Kate adjusted the lever that diverted the water between faucet and hand shower unit, played with the taps until the water hissing out of the shower-rose was right and then passed the hand piece back over her shoulder to me.  I took it and began playing it on her hair.
She had a lot of hair and it took a lot of water to wet it.  Then I shampooed it and worked up a lather right through it, scrubbing at her scalp with my fingertips and working it all the way down its 30 inch length.  Rinsing it took as long as wetting it in the first place, there was another shampoo and rinse and then the conditioner to work through it with a rinse following that.  By the time I’d finished perhaps twenty-minutes of the hour was up, the bath was twice as deep in cooling soapy water and my fingers and wrists ached.
And I was burning with the need for relief, fired by the unavoidable contact my hands had made with the smooth, warm skin of my sister’s shoulders, back and flanks and the gentle, loving kisses the ends of my sister’s hair had been giving the bloated, incredibly sensitive bulb at the end of my prick when wrapping lovingly around it.
I wrung the last of the loose water out of the golden rope of hair I was trying to keep from drooping back into the bathwater again and asked, “What now?”  Kate reached behind her head for it, took it from my hands and wrapped it into a coil above her ears.  Then she reached out of the bath for a towel but it was too far for her sitting and she had to lift herself out of the water to stretch for it.  Her little round bottom was right under my nose and as she shifted her opposite knee as a counterweight I could see between her thighs to her crack, which had opened a little with the movement.  In it were hints of those delightfully soft and malleable folds and rolls of skin I had discovered in the crack of my girlfriend and I found, for a moment, that I couldn’t breath.
Unaccountably I suddenly thought of the attack on the Deathstar in “Star Wars” with the fighters swooping into the crevice in the smoothly curving surface of the huge spaceship, except that the crevice in the spaceship was the crack in the smoothly-curving surface between my sister’s legs and Luke Skywalker’s Millenium Fighter slipping along it was my finger.
And of course Luke and Leila had been brother and sister all along yet you kind of think the tension between them all the time was them fancying each other so if they’d had sex had they would have had sex without knowing they were brother and sister.  Or even if they did.  Or perhaps they did have sex secretly, when the cameras weren’t looking.  Brother and sister.  Oh boy!
I came within an ace of seizing my little sister by her waist and pulling her back into my lap so that her delicious crack was squashed against my prick.  I did put my hands on her waist but it made her jump, startling me and killing the urge so I had to pretend I was just steadying her as she reached for the towel.  She picked it up and I regretfully let her go, my blood tingling to the remembered feel of her firm little body in my hands.
She slid back into the bathwater between my knees and wound the towel expertly into a turban around her damp hair.  “Now what?” she asked.
“How about I wash the rest of you?” I asked, a little gruffly.
“OK,” she said easily.
“Soap?”
She passed the bar back over her shoulder to me, I whipped up a lather between my hands and began soaping her shoulders and back to her waist.  I could feel her ribs under her skin, but that skin was smooth and flawless cream and honey. Caressing her I wiped the lather off and then rinsed her down with bathwater from cupped hands.
“Can you turn round?” I asked, hoarsely this time through a half-closed throat.
There was a slight pause which told me she knew what it meant.  Then she said, “OK.”
If she turned round we’d be full frontal.  She might be only eleven but she was aware boys and girls were different, and that the difference was special and significant and somehow to be kept secret even if she might not know why.  She knew if she turned round our differences would be exposed to the other, had that girlish instinct not to expose herself to anyone and knew that I shouldn’t be exposing myself to her.  Yet she had agreed.
She stood up in the bath, water cascading from her hips and sliding down her tiny buttocks and long, lovely legs, a woman’s in miniature.  Then she turned around and I was staring directly at her sex no more than a few inches away.
Where her legs joined her body was a little padded V the bottom of which was split by the beginning of her crack which disappeared between the soft press of her thighs.  I wanted to kiss it, but didn’t dare.
“Shift your legs,” Kate said.  She had to know what I was staring at.
I raised my knees and she lowered herself, hands of the sides of the tub.  She had to slide her legs under my knees and up beside my bottom in order to sit down facing me.  The movement opened her legs right under my nose, exposing her slit, the little maze of wrinkles within it and, I was sure, giving a momentary glimpse of a little hole amid the wrinkles.  Then it was all submerged in opaque soapy water as she sat down.
The quickly-cooling bath water was waist-deep but two inches of the end of my prick was sticking up out of it, including its cherry-red helmet which had forced itself out of its tube of skin under the pressure and was shaped, I suddenly realised, not unlike Darth Vader’s black helmet but without the grill.  I saw my sister looking at it just as I had looked at her sex and couldn’t think of anything to say.  Neither, it seemed, could she as she just looked up into my face and smiled a little doubtfully.  Breaking the moment I took up the soap again, soaped my hands and began washing her front.
Somewhere along the way we had crossed some invisible line and I knew that in the new territory we had entered I didn’t need to pretend I wasn’t doing what I was.  I briskly soaped and rinsed down her shoulders and arms and then rubbed lather all over her chest to her waist. This I washed off.  Then, carefully and playfully, I soaped her just her nipples, worked up a lather with a fingertip just over the area of each little pimple of nipple and its surrounding pink patch of incredibly soft skin with its tiny pad of flesh beneath and then dabbed them clean with a flannel.  Kate watched my hands at work carefully and then giggled as I leaned forward to awkwardly kiss each virgin little nipple.
“Can you stand up so I can do the rest?” I asked in a voice stiff with tension.
Again came that slight pause, which I realised wasn’t a hesitation on her part but was intended to let me know she was aware I was asking something that I shouldn’t.  Then she untangled her long legs from mine and stood up.
I was having to be conscious of my breathing in order to keep breathing at all as I soaped my hands and then spread the lather over her little round, soft buttocks, her hard bony hips and down the backs, sides and fronts of her long legs, avoiding without seeming to an area the size of a dinner-plate centred on her sex.  Then I washed off the suds, soaped my hands again and began smoothing it on to the dinner-plate.  The bottom of her stomach between her hip-bones was soft and gently-rounded like a pillow and the little V below that, formed by the join of her legs, softer still with a hint of plumpness.  I carefully soaped the fronts of her thighs to where her legs were pressed together and washed them, too.  That left only one tiny area, the small shield containing the beginning of her crack with the rest of it hidden by her closed thighs.
I carefully soaped a fingertip and gently applied it to the postage-stamp-sized area containing the start of her groove, dipping into the head of the groove itself, and then paused with my fingertip in the groove gently pressing into the closed wall of flesh where her legs and her body came together. 
I knew I could force my finger in along the slit between her closed legs but had learned, too, that girls did not like to be forced.  I waited to see if she would let me in, sure that even at eleven-years-old she knew perfectly well girls were not supposed to let boys touch them there.  Even their brothers.  Perhaps especially their brothers.
She made me wait for a long moment and then shifted her feet, opening her thighs enough to allow my soapy finger to slip between them.
I followed her groove back between her legs until my fist pressed into her thighs.  My slippery fingertip worked its way into her crack, carefully opening it up and I could feel more folds of loose, crinkly skin folded within it.  Blindly I explored them, trying to visualise in my mind what I was finding, and found myself easing between two tiny folds of soft skin like little ears.  I came to the floor of her crack between the little ears, hard and flat and not as wide than my fingertip, explored a little further and realised I had my fingertip pressed to the entrance to a narrow hole leading back into my sister.  It could only be a little cunt.
Kate was absolutely still and I realised she wasn’t even breathing.  She might be only eleven, eleven-and-one-third to be more accurate, but it was clear she was fully aware that her cunt was somehow very special, a part of her with more significance than any other.  My own experience of girls in the eighteen-months or so during which I had been developing such an intense interest in them, was that their cunts were absolutely ultra top secret. If you caught sight of them naked it was the part they would hide (at least they did on TV).  They might flaunt and be proud of their breasts but they’d do anything to stop you seeing their nickers and the hole hidden within them, and they didn’t make a game of it.  If they caught you peeking up their dresses they were genuinely angry and scornful.  In my experience for a girl had to like you very much to let you even touch her cunt let alone put even a finger in it, while for her to let you put your prick in it you had to be willing to jump through all manner of hoops and swear undying love.
From her behaviour I felt sure that even at eleven-and-a-bit my sister was totally subject to the same feelings about her cunt but, for the first time in her life I was sure, was allowing a boy to put his finger on it.  And that boy was her brother.  Me.  My little sister adored me and would do anything for me, our parents had sometimes told me.  Anything, I wondered?
With exquisite care I explored the entrance to my sister’s vagina with my fingertip.  The skin around it was velvety and slightly slippery, presumably with soap, but it felt as though it overlay a small hole in solid bone.  Gently I probed at it and then tried to work my finger through the hole.  Even soaped my finger wasn’t going to go in there easily and I was fully prepared for Kate to pull away from me, slamming her legs shut.  There was no way on earth she could not be aware what I was trying to do.
She held herself still as a statue even when I’d worked my finger the length of its nail through the hole and inside her and I realised she was willing to let me try to get more of my finger into her.  I even harboured the suspicion she was as curious as I was to see how much of it I could actually get into her.
Gently I continued working my finger into her cunt, up to the first knuckle, another inch to the second and then all the way to the third.  Perhaps three inches of finger penetrating her body.  The ring that was the entrance to her cunt was gripping the base of my finger tightly but inside there seemed to by plenty of room.  It felt warm and slippery, presumably soap or perhaps even bathwater which, I assumed, filled her hole when she sat in the bath.  My finger felt as though it was surrounded by a press of tiny soft velvet cushions.
I waggled my finger experimentally inside my sister and then smiled up at her.  She was frowning down at me, her lower lip caught between her teeth as was her habit when she was thinking hard and her gaze turned inward as though listening, or presumably feeling, something inside herself.  Then she realised I was looking at her and focussed on my face, still frowning.
“That’s your vagina,” I told her, not being the sort of person to use the word ‘cunt’ in ordinary conversation.  Not that this was an ordinary conversation.
“I know that,” she said, her tone adding the word ‘silly’ at me.
“Oh.”  I was put down.  My prick, I could not help thinking, might be a lot longer than my finger but the latter had not yet touched the top of the hole while the soft cushioning inside my sister would be easily able to accommodate its width apart from the narrowness of that ring at its entrance, which had only just let my finger in.  Perhaps, I speculated, it was just the ring that grew bigger as she grew up until, by the time she had breasts and hair between her legs, it was big enough to let a prick through.
I gently shafted her a couple of times with my finger.  “What’s that like?”
“Tickles,” she said, clearly thinking about it.
“Nice?” I asked.  She gave a so-so shrug.
“Want me to stop?”  Another so-so shrug.
I carried on, watching in the small gap between my little sister’s legs my finger sliding into and out of her crack.  It seemed to be becoming easier as if the ring at the entrance was not so tight, but I supposed it was just the soap on my finger being spread around.  
On impulse I leaned forward and kissed her on the tummy, just above the start of the crack.  It was probably my imagination but it seemed to me that I could feel through my lips a faint echo through her flesh of the movements of my finger.  I had my other hand behind her on her little bottom. and it almost completely covered her little round buttocks.
I kissed her slightly lower, feeling the actual beginning of her crack beneath my lips, and noticed a slight, musty, exciting smell.  I had smelled it before, when screwing my girlfriend Janet having jumped through all the hoops for her.  It was the smell of a girl’s sex.
“Would you like me to wash you?” my sister asked.  I suspected she was politely asking me to stop fingering her.
The bathwater was getting cold and I guessed there was not much time left before my alarm went off.
“That would be nice,” I said, sliding my finger out of her vagina.  As she sat down again in the bath I had a secret sniff at my finger.  It bore the girl-sex smell very strongly, giving me a thrill.
My little sister soaped her hands and rubbed them over my shoulders and chest to create a lather, then washed me down with my flannel.  Two inches of my prick was still sticking out of the water like the mast-top of a sunken boat.
“Do you want me to do...”  Kate nodded at it.
“Would you?” I asked, hardly able to believe my luck.
“If you want me to.”
I did.  Heart and soul I did.
Feeling acutely self-conscious I heaved myself out of the water and knelt between my little sister’s legs.  My straining prick, jerking slightly in time to my heartbeats, was only inches away from Kate’s face.  She began soaping her hands, staring at it, and I knew she was nervous of it.
“What’s it like, having......?” she nodded at it, watching it bob up and down on its own.
I opened my mouth, caught flies for a moment and then shut it again.  How do you describe to a girl what it’s like to have a prick?  How would you even describe it to a boy?
“Isn’t it uncomfortable?  Doesn’t it get in the way?”  She enquired into my dumbfounded silence.  Her hands were well soaped and I knew she was reluctant to touch it.
“It’s not always like this,” I explained.  “Most of the time it’s a lot smaller, and soft.  Like a sausage.”  I winced as I anticipated the question I had just invited.  Kate didn’t disappoint.
“So why....?”
“Do you know how babies are made?” I asked in desperation. 
“Some,” she said doubtfully.
“Well, you know that a man puts his prick...”  I nodded at mine, “Into a woman’s vagina?”  I nodded in the general direction of hers.  It seemed all right to use the word ‘prick’ as I had one although girls seem to find it easier to say ‘prick’ than ‘cunt’ as well.
She nodded slowly.
“And he squirts sperm into her, which swims up to her egg and makes it grow into a baby?”
She nodded slowly again.  I had the feeling she hadn’t known any more than the barest outline while I, having put theory into practice, was a lot more confident.  
“Well, a prick has to be stiff like this to be able to go into a vagina,” I explained.
“Like threading a needle,” Kate declared.  
“I suppose so,” I said, never having threaded a needle in my life.
My little sister nodded as though the previously incomprehensible now made sense.  “Is it stiff because it wants to go into my vagina,” she asked.
“Ugh,” I gulped.  That was far too close to the truth.  “Well, yes.”  I agreed.  “But you’re too small.  Anyway, you’re my sister.”
She nodded, accepting that calmly.  She straightened her back, set her jaw and took my prick in her hands.
God it felt good.  She soaped my prick conscientiously from its base up the shaft to its big cherry head, her little hands stroking and rubbing, her expression a frown of concentration under the turban and her little white teeth chewing her lips as she recorded what she was feeling.
“Kate,” I groaned.  “That feels so good.  The bag underneath it contains my balls.”  She must have seen it and been probably wondering, but had been too shy to ask.  “That’s where the sperm is made to go into the vagina to make babies.  But boys make lots of it.  It’s being made all the time.”  Some of the human biology I’d done at school had stuck.  “We can make it squirt out on its own.  It’s called ‘wanking off’.  It feels really nice.  If a girl likes a boy she’ll sometimes wank him off just to make him feel good.  What you’re doing now really is almost wanking me.”
I took a deep breath.  “Would you like to wank me off properly?”
My little eleven-year-old sister regarded me seriously for a moment and then gave her slow nod.  “What do I do?” she asked.
“Just what your doing.  Rub your hands up and down my prick.  I suppose that makes my prick think it’s in a girl’s vagina and it has to squirt some sperm into it.”
Kate looked doubtful.  “What happens?  I mean.....”  She didn’t seem to know what to say but I thought  knew what she was getting at.
“Sperm is kinda’like cream,” I explained.  “And there isn’t very much of it.  Just a teaspoonful.  It squirts out. It won’t do you any harm.” 
She nodded again, still doubtful, but began caressing my prick again.  One hand under it palm up and the other over it palm down.
“Specially the bulge at the end,” I whispered, melting into her hands.  She obediently concentrated on my glans penis, rubbing her little hands around it as though polishing it. 
She was watching it closely, especially the little mouth at its tip and I saw a dribble of pre-come ooze out to be smeared by her palms into the soap lather coating the bulge.
“Was that....?” she asked.
“No,” I moaned.  “But it’s coming.  It sort of builds up here,” I patted the bottom of my stomach, “Like you want to pee badly, but not painful like that.  It builds up and builds up and then it kinda explodes and shoots out.”
She looked at me doubtfully, her busy hands slowing.  I suspected she was worried either by the word ‘pee’ or the word ‘explode’, or perhaps both.
“It isn’t like peeing,” I hurried to explain.  “It’s just a squirt of semen.  Like a squirt of shampoo. And, well, it might hit you.”  She was immediately in front of my prick and so close it would be hard to miss. “But you needn’t worry if it does.  It won’t do you any harm.”
She still looked doubtful but she picked up the pace of her hands, rubbing and stroking my bulging prickhead.  I felt my ejaculation gather, stir and fire.
“Here it comes,” I warned her with a groan.  My little sister froze and my prick twitched violently in her hands. A gout of semen shot from it and hit her in the middle of her chest quite hard, squarely between her nipples.  A second, smaller gout with less force spread in a skein across her stomach and a third plopped into the water between us, between her widespread legs only inches from her crack.  Still pumping in the aftermath of my orgasm my prick dribbled the last of my ejaculation across her fingers and wrist.
“Oh God, Sis, that was fantastic,” I panted, wilting.  Kate was staring down at the gooey mess on her chest and stomach, her lips twisted with faint distaste.  Then she lifted her gaze to her semen-smeared hands, still clasping my already shrivelling prick, and then looked me in the face.
“Eeuuu, yuk,” she said with conviction. “Gross.”
I gently took her face between my hands, leaned forward and kissed her on the lips.
“It was fantastic for me,” I breathed, aware that she was still gently fondling my prick while not even appearing to be aware of it.  The sexual fires were burning so hot in my blood that I had been a wank-a-day man for many months and I was seized with the possibility of training my sister to be my assistant. And labourer.
Kate seemed to be pleased by the kiss so I kissed her again and she gave me a little kiss back.  Her hands felt nice on my now sleepy prick.
I lowered myself back into the water and she didn’t let me go, so I assumed she liked the feel of my prick in her hands. Attentively I washed my semen from her chest and stomach and then cleaned her hands, when she had to let me go.   I took her hands in mine.  
“You’re great, you know that?” I asked.
She shrugged, beaming.  My alarm began beeping.
“You go get dry,” I said, “And I’ll clean up here.  Then I’ll come and help dry your hair.”  That was an even lengthier process than washing it.
“And brush it?” Kate asked hopefully.
“And brush it,” I agreed.
She climbed out of the bath and towelled herself off, not seeming to notice that I was absorbing her nakedness with my eyes even though she must have been aware of my study.  As she went to leave the room I said, “Kate?”
“What?”
“You won’t say anything about this,” I indicated the bath, “To mum or dad, or anyone?”
“No.”  She added the unvocalised ‘silly’ again and I was reasonably sure she had at least some inkling of what would happen to me if she did.  In truth I didn’t really know what would happen, but I was certain I didn’t want to find out.
I dried myself off, killed the alarm, dressed, cleaned out the bath and chased the little gobbets of my semen down the plug-hole.  Then I finished blasting my little sister’s hair with the industrial-strength dry hair-dryer it needed and had brushed it sixty-eight times when I heard our parent’s car turn into the drive.  Quickly I handed her the brush, kissed the top of her head and fled downstairs.  When my father walked in I was sitting in my chair reading as though I had been there all evening.
“Kate all right?” my mother asked from behind him.
“Dunno about Kate,” I said sourly.  “But there’s been a walrus in the bathroom all evening.”

2

My feelings towards my little sister changed hugely after she had wanked me off in the bath, and I had to work hard to hide the fact.
When we met the following morning, she in her school uniform, I’m sure I must have flushed bright pink at the memory of her little naked body with its crack and hole and her tiny hands working at my prick although fortunately neither of our parents were in the room at the time and Kate didn’t seem to notice anything.  At school I was distracted by the memories of my finger sliding in and out of her little vagina and my sperm sliding down her chest and had to work very hard to fight them down in order to concentrate on the teacher.
Fortunately it seemed to get easier with time and by the evening I was able to pretend I was pretty much ignoring her as I had always done.  In her turn she ignored me as was usual although once, when we were alone together in the room, I gave her a very uncharacteristic wink and she replied by wrinkling her nose and mouthing the ‘eeeuu yuk’ with which she had greeted my sperm.  Then our mother entered the room and we were as strangers again.
The orgasm my little sister had given me in the bath seemed to have satisfied the urges in my blood to an extraordinary degree and several days passed before I felt the need to wank again.  Unfortunately I had to do it myself as I had no opportunity to be alone with Kate for sufficient time and was acutely aware of the dangers of alerting my parents to any unusual interest on my part in my little sister. I will admit that I was also a little shy and in awe of Kate herself and I didn’t want her to think I was hounding her for sexual favours.  Indeed I was even afraid that she might have reconsidered the events in the tub and decided not to allow it to happen again, the disappointment of which would have been considerable.
I managed to repair the damage my no-show had done to my relationship with Janet and was allowed to screw her again.  Somewhat to my surprise, though, I found that when we were sitting in the back row of the darkened cinema with my hand down her knickers, her buttocks thrust forward to the edge of the seat to allow me maximum access to her slit, I found myself probing her architecture and comparing it with what I remembered of my sister’s while when, in the shadows of the park afterwards, I lay myself on top of her and probed into her slit with my condom covered prick I almost dispassionately took note of the texture and dimensions of the tight entrance to her vagina with a view to measuring it against my sister’s, although fortunately such dispassion did not survive long once I was through and lost in the hot embrace of her cunt.
It was almost a fortnight after the events in the bath that I unexpectedly found myself alone with Kate again.  On a Saturday morning I dragged myself out of bed at nine, wandered sleepily downstairs for a DIY breakfast and found that my father who usually mowed the lawn or washed the car or something on Saturday mornings, usually with my unwilling assistance if I was up too soon, was back at work earning overtime on a rush job and my mother was just leaving for the supermarket with a friend.  I declined the offer to go with her, being still in my pyjamas, burnt myself some toast and leaned on the sink crunching my way through it while watching the English rain through the kitchen window.
“Hi.”  My little sister was standing in the doorway behind me washed, brushed and neat in denim skirt and T-shirt.  It occurred to me that I had no idea how she usually spent wet Saturday mornings.  Then it occurred to me that I had the house and her to myself.
“Er, hi.”
She crossed to stand beside me at the window.
“Horrid,” she said, referring to the rain.
“Yeah.”
There was a short silence.  Then, “How is he?” she asked.
I looked at her blankly.
“Him,’ she said with a quick downward nod and glance.  I realised she meant my prick.
“Er, fine.”  At her interest ‘he’ stirred in my pyjama bottoms.
She nodded and said nothing.  I realised the ball was in my court.
“Er, Kate.  Would you do me a favour?”
She regarded me receptively.
“I couldn’t half do with a, ah, wank.”  I was fourteen and my sister was eleven, and I was utterly in her power.  She could say, ‘have one, then,’ and stalk regally off with a total, annihilating victory over me in her pocket.  I was a foot taller, three stone heavier, 25% older and felt like a rabbit at her feet.  I’m sure she was completely aware of it, and enjoyed it for the space of a long pause.  Then, 
“Would you like me to do it for you,” she asked casually.
“Er, would you?”
She shrugged a casual assent.  My waking prick stuck his head out the fly in my pyjama-bottoms.
“Here?” she asked, slightly surprised.  I was still tingling with excitement that she had agreed at all and hadn’t thought that far ahead.
“Why not?” I challenged her.  The kitchen window was not overlooked and the back garden beyond was well secluded by the high fences and shrubs of suburbia. 
She shrugged that it was OK with her, reached through my fly and drew my prick out. I didn’t usually use lubrication on myself but there was a bottle of mother’s hand-cream by the sink and I reflected that the soap had made a pleasing difference the previous time.  I gave her the hand-cream, she put a dollop in her palm and began stroking my prick with both hands, moving round in front of me to get easier access.
Sweet waves of sensation swept out of my prick to her ministrations and I nearly buckled at the knees.  From semi-stiff when she first took it up my prick went to raging hard-on in her hands in one mighty bound.   The top of my little sister’s head with its cascade of golden tresses was below my chin so that I had to lower my head to kiss it and my prick wasn’t far below the level of her heart but, as they say, size doesn’t matter!
She was looking down watching her hands on my prick but after a few moments she lifted her head to glance at my face and said, “I don’t want your sperm on my clothes.”
I could see her point.  I’d had to get it off mine occasionally and the damp patch took hours to dry.
“Why don’t you take them off?” I suggested through a dry throat.   She looked up at me and wrinkled her nose in thought.  “Here?” she asked again.
Even as it was the kitchen wouldn’t ever be the same for me again.  Someone walking in through the gate from the alley at the back at that moment would see only a boy in his pyjamas facing his fully-dressed kid-sister at the sink and would have no reason to think anything of it, but for the girl to be obviously topless, even if only eleven,  there would be a lot more reason for suspicion.
“No, upstairs,” I proposed.
She pursed her lips and wrinkled her nose again in thought, seemingly paying no attention to her hands still busy on my prick.  
“OK,” she announced brightly.  “Whose room?”
“Mine,” I suggested.  To use hers seemed somehow inappropriate though I couldn’t for the life of me think why.
“O.K.”  Her voice was a chirrup, like those chimes they use at airports.  Ding-dong.  She let go of my prick, turned and walked away.  At the door she turned back.  “Coming?”
I very nearly was.  In a way she looked more exciting in her flat-fronted white T-shirt with bearing our school’s team netball logo, knee-length blue denim skirt and white ankle socks than she did naked.  I stuffed my prick back into my pyjama trousers, though it seemed a bit pointless as it made the cloth stick up like a tent in my lap and had to lock my knees before I could move as my little sister’s hands on my prick had left me feeling boneless.
I followed her into my bedroom.  It was at the front of the house and faced the others on the other side of the avenue but fortunately I’d not drawn the curtains back, as to close them again at 9.30 am would, I was sure, awake the suspicions of every neighbour we had. Consequently the room was filled with a dim green light.  
I lay out on my rumpled, unmade bed and watched my little sister undress.  She did so unselfconsciously and neatly, drawing the T-shirt over her head, dropping the skirt to the floor and then sliding her knickers down her legs to step out of them.  “Leave my socks on,” she announced to no-one in particular and I understood.  After all, it seems to take twice as long to put your socks on as it does all the rest of your clothes together.
She carefully gathered up her clothes and folded them neatly, placing them on top of the untidy pile that were mine on my chair.  Then, naked apart from her socks, she turned to me.
God, she was sexy.  How a girl with no breasts, no waist to speak of and no tuft of hair between her legs can be sexy I can’t tell you but she was.  Maybe it was the hair, like a golden wedding veil behind her head and shoulders and peeping around her waist promising future pleasures.  Maybe it was her legs, amazingly long for someone only fifty-odd inches high and surprisingly shapely with narrow thighs and calves.  Maybe it was in her poise, standing naked before a boy far bigger, older and more knowledgeable yet confident of her power over me.  Maybe it was that inviting triangle of white in the Y of her thighs, noticeably lighter than the rest of her golden skin, and the clearly visible, bold entrance to the curving slot between her body which, for all its tiny size, was so like the beginning downward curve of that first terrifyingly exciting descent on a fairground roller-coaster
Or maybe it was because the girl standing confidently naked in front of me was my sister.  Would any other eleven-year-old girl standing naked before me have seemed as sexy as my sister?  Well, certainly not unless she had already brought me to orgasm with her hands at least once as my sister had.  But even then I was sure I still felt a specially powerful sexual response to my sister precisely because she was my sister.
I’d known her a long time, of course. All her life.  I had memories of our mother breast-feeding her.  Indeed I have clear memories of my mother’s breasts, lushly swollen with milk with huge (to a five-year-old) brown nipples and Kate a little pink doll attached to them.  We’d done things together, shared holiday adventures.  I had in my chaotic, unconcerned way looked after her, clowned for her, responded when she’d cried and tried to put it right, defended her from imaginary terrors - and real spiders - and found her when she’d been lost because I, being older,  usually knew where we were.  We’d faced some new experiences together, like the death of our first pet dog, but more often I had introduced her to what were new experiences to her like climbing trees, staging night raids on the neighbour’s raspberry canes, taking a sip of forbidden wine from a half-drunk bottle in the fridge, sneaking into cinemas without having to part with our pocket money.
And sex.
It was a blinding illumination, and yet seemed so obvious afterwards.  At eleven-and-nearly-a-half, far younger than I or any boy I knew, my sister had become aware of sex.  She knew she and girls in general had vaginas and boys had something else.  She knew women had babies and men didn’t, and knew that her path led to womanhood.  That was probably all she had known, plus the fact that those simple statements were at the heart of a complete world she knew nothing about.  She saw sex on TV, saw it in newspapers and on the covers of grown-up’s books, overheard it in gossip at her mother’s side and saw it all around her.  And knew enough to know she knew nothing about it.
So who should she turn to for an introduction to this vast, incomprehensible world of sex?  Who else than her brother, who had introduced her to so many other new things.
OK, so that was where Kate was coming from.  But where did that put me?
My naked little sister crossed to my bed, perched on its edge, undid the tie of my pyjama bottom and folded the cloth back to expose my throbbing prick. Then, regarding it with a look if intense concentration, she took it into her hands and began massaging it.
I turned to jelly in my sister’s hands.  She was curious about sex.  She wanted to explore her own sex and find out about the other, which for her was a complete mystery.  What eleven-year-old boy could help her do that?  What twelve or thirteen-year-old boy could, come to that?  At thirteen I had been as ignorant though perhaps experiencing the same stirrings of curiosity as my sister seemingly was at eleven and I was confident most of my contemporaries were at much the same stage.  So even with a thirteen-year-old boy my little sister’s explorations of sex would be a case of the blind leading the blind.  Yet what fourteen or fifteen-year-old boy with a bit of sexual experience under his belt (quite literally!) would have any time for a scrawny, flat-chested eleven-year-old girl he couldn’t fuck.  Who apart from her brother?
Since coming down from the wank in the bath my conscience had been pricking me about using my little sister for sex and it was again now as I lay melting into the mattress with her little pink body perched on the edge of my bed and her tiny hands caressing my prick.  She was only eleven and she was my sister, either of which on its own would certainly be regarded by grown-ups as a damn good reason for me not to be getting her to do what she was at that moment.  Put both together and I had a feeling I would be for a deadly serious high jump were we to be found out.
Yet Kate looked so pretty, poised nude on the edge of my bed, her white skin smooth and crying out to be stroked against the backdrop of her stunning waterfall of hair.  And her hands on my prick felt soooo good.  Being wanked by a girl, even an eleven-year-old one, was so much nicer than doing it yourself.
I struck a deal with my conscience.  Kate wanted to know about sex and I was the best, if not the only, boy in the world in a position to teach her.  So I would teach her, introduce her to the world of sex and prepare her for it, but I wouldn’t take advantage of her or just use her for sex.
Quite what that all meant I wasn’t sure but I immediately felt better and was able to submerge myself in the waves of tingling sensation being woken in my prick as my sister stroked and squeezed it, and from where they spread so deliciously through my entire body.
I usually wanked in my room and kept a box of tissues innocently beside the bed for the purpose.  When I felt my orgasm gather I grabbed a few and, with a practised hand, caught the ejaculation in the wad as it shot from the end of my prick.  It also caught Kate by surprise and one of her hands, which had been wrapped around the nob at the end of my prick at the time.
“Eeugh,” she said in disgust.  “It’s so messy.”  So she’d learned one of the basic things about sex they never show in Hollywood films or mention in novels. Nevertheless she began wanking me again and I had to grab her by the wrist to prevent a pained squeal on my part.  I could completely encircle her wrist with my finger and thumb.
“Enough,” I gasped.  “Just after I’ve come my prickhead is so sensitive it can’t bear to be touched.”
That, I suppose, was just the sort of information about sex she was after and I saw her take it on board and nod slowly as she lodged it in her registry of facts.  She took her hand away from my prick and I saw that most of my sperm, caught by the wad of tissue, had slopped back onto the side of her hand to lie in a great glob around the base of her thumb and forefinger.  She carefully lifted it to her face and studied it, wrinkling her nose in distaste.
“Is this what makes babies?” she asked doubtfully.
“Yes.”  As it was the subject I was most interested in I had supplemented school biology with research of my own.  “Boys call it spunk but its real name is semen, which means ‘seed’.  It’s Latin.” I wasn’t sure about that but it seemed a reasonable guess.  The proper name for most things seemed to be Latin, and I hoped that giving it a posh Latin name might make it a bit more respectable.
“I thought you said it was ‘sperm’,” Kate queried.  She lifted her hand to her nose and sniffed at it cautiously, to give a so-so grimace of disgust.
“No, the sperm is in the semen.”  I explained.  “Sperms are like tiny tadpoles with little wriggling tails, and they contain the DNA which joins with the DNA in the woman’s egg to make the baby.  The sperms get squirted out of a man’s prick in the semen into the woman’s vagina and then wriggle up into her womb where the egg is.”
I suspected only part of that had made any sense to her but she nodded as though she understood and then peered very closely at the slimy yellow-white mass on the back of her tiny hand.
“Can’t see any tadpoles,” she declared.
I’d never looked that closely at my semen.  Or anyone else’s, come to that.
“No, they’re really, really tiny.  The few inches they have to swim up a woman’s vagina to get to the egg are like a couple of miles to us.”  I’d read that in a biology book and been suitably impressed with it.
“The rest of it,” I propounded in a voice suitably like a teacher’s, “is just there to protect the sperm.  Give it something to swim in.  It’s sort of like egg-white, really. Just there to protect the yoke.”
“Gross,” she declared, still looking for tadpoles.
I grabbed a fresh tissue, gently took her hand and wiped my semen off it.  Then I took another tissue and cleaned up my prick.  The used tissues I bundled into a ball and parked on my bedside table for later disposal, then I took my naked little sister in my arms and pulled her down onto the bed with me.  She snuggled up to me.
With my urges blunted by my orgasm at her hands I was able to concentrate on her.  I kissed her eyes, nose and lips and nibbled her ears.  I stroked her amazing hair and played with her tiny nipples.  I kissed her throat and those same pimples on her chest while my hand stroked her stomach and the fronts of her legs.  When I slid my hand down over her stomach into the valley where her thighs pressed together she opened her legs lazily so that I could get between them and explore her crack.  I found her cunt and worked my finger into it, and it seemed to me that, if anything, that tight ring at its entrance was not quite as tight as it had been before.
She was lying on her back, eyes closed and apparently relaxed with one of my arms under her shoulders swathed in golden hair.  I was lying on my side with my free hand at her groin, gently shafting her little vagina with a finger.  My prick, semi-stiff and content, was lying across her leg.  Experience had taught me that girls (well Janet, anyway, but I was sure she was as typical of girls as I knew I was of boys) ) usually had cool, dry cunts but when they got ready for sex their cunts became excitingly hot and wet.  Perhaps it was my imagination, but I did get the distinct impression that when I had first eased my finger into my sister’s vagina it had been cool and no more than softly moist whereas now I was sliding my finger back and forth in something distinctly more slippery.  I suddenly wanted to fuck my little sister very much indeed.
It was out of the question, of course.  Although the ring at the entrance had not seemed as tight this time around I could still feel it tightly squeezing the fatter parts of my finger, and my prick was probably nearer three times thicker than my finger than two.  I also harboured the suspicion that even attempting to fuck my little sister might be more than she was prepared to allow.  The step from even the heaviest petting to full intercourse on the school-boy’s scale of progress was like the climb from a no more than challenging base-camp to the peak of Everest, and with my little sister I was still in the foothills.
My finger was beginning to make little squishy noises in my sister’s vagina and she suddenly closed her thighs around my hand, trapping it.  “We’d better get up,” she said.  I nodded regretfully.  She opened her legs, releasing my hand, but I left my finger in her as I leaned down and kissed her on the lips.
“Love you,” I said.  And meant it.
She gave me a playful wrinkle of disgust.  “Silly,” she said, but her voice was warm and I knew she was pleased.  
Kate wiggled her hips as though to remind me that I still had my finger in her and I slid it out. It was slippery wet.
My sister rolled off my bed and I lay watching her dress.  When she was ready she crossed to the door and then looked back at me.
“Come on, slug,” she said.  “You’d better be up when mum gets home or she’ll wonder what you’ve been doing all morning.”  Then she was gone.
She was right of course, and if mum gained even an inkling of what I really had been doing there’d likely be an explosion which would take the roof off the house.  Nevertheless it proved extraordinarily difficult to rise, wash and dress when all I really wanted to so was lie there and remember how nice my little sister’s hands had felt in my prick, and inhale the wonderful smell she had left on my finger.

3

Sex with my eleven-year-old sister Kate in the weeks after that slipped into a routine.  Wednesday evenings, when our parents visited dad’s sick aunt in hospital as part of a family rota, were the only times Kate and I had the house to ourselves for a safe length of time.  Almost as soon as they’d gone Kate would take her bath and I’d wash her hair, and her, although I didn’t join her in the bath again.  Then I’d help her dry her hair and would brush it a hundred times for her, which was an arm-aching task though a small price to pay for what was to follow.
I’d undress in my room and return to hers to lie on naked on her bed so that she could wank me off, something she was getting continually more skilled at.  Then, when we’d cleaned up what she disdainfully called ‘the mess’ that resulted, I’d take her little naked body in my arms, explore it with my hands and shaft her with my finger, constantly monitoring the way the tight little entrance to it did seem to be growing ever so slightly wider.
The only innovation I suggested, very carefully and cautiously and which she surprised me by agreeing to, was that she allowed me to try putting things apart from my finger into her vagina.  The first was the wooden handle of a hairbrush from a girl’s dressing-table set she’d been given for a Christmas past.  Meant for a little girl’s hand it wasn’t much larger than my finger but, still, it was larger and yet after carefully inspecting it and wiping it clean, Kate gave me the nod to try inserting it into her.  Kneeling between her raised and spread knees and with Kate propped up on her elbows watching doubtfully, I carefully presented the end of the brush-handle to her vagina and eased it into her, all the way, and then let it go.
Staring down at the head of the brush sticking out between her thighs the way my prick stuck out of mine my little sister gave me a triumphant ‘anything-you-can-do...’ smile and then lay back.
I began carefully shafting her with the brush handle.
“What does it feel like?” I asked, genuinely curious.  I had absolutely no idea what sex felt like for a girl, though it seemed to be as enjoyable for Janet as it did me if not more so.
Kate gave her so-so shrug.  “Not not-nice,” she declared opaquely.
“Better than my finger?” It was, after all, bigger.
So-so shrug again.  “Harder.  Doesn’t give in me,” she said.  Knowing how hard it is to describe sex to another I knew that was the best I’d get.
She refused to let me try to fuck her with a banana, which was disappointing as in the middle it was about the same thickness as my prick, a carrot, because she was worried about the dirt still lodged in little crevices in its shaft even after I’d scrubbed it, and a plastic 12-inch ruler, which I suppose I understood although it would have answered a few questions I had about her vagina, but she did allow me to shaft her with the pen I used every day at school (which I’d never hold in my fingers thereafter without remembering where it had been and which I’m sure held traces of that wonderful girl-sex smell for weeks afterwards), and the long, narrow neck of a bottle of perfume from our mother’s dressing table.  This was thicker than both finger and hair-brush handle and I knew from the winces and screwings-up of her face that my pushing it through the ring at the entrance to her vagina had been painful for her.  I had been ready to stop trying but she hadn’t asked me to so, gritting my own teeth in sympathy, I had continued screwing it into her - and understood for the first time a possible reason for the use of the word ‘screwing’ when applied to sex.  Eventually I pressed the wide glass shoulders of the bottle against her crack and had to stop.  
Kate let her breath go in a gust of triumph.
Her crack was wide open, perhaps because she had her legs spread as wide as she could, and I could clearly see the two little flaps of wrinkled flesh in it which I now, because of my researches into anatomy, knew were her vaginal lips with between them the glass shaft of the bottle disappearing through the ring into her body.  Where the bottle-neck entered the ring the skin in the floor of her crack was white and clearly stretched, I suddenly remembered my anatomy of female genitalia and the penny dropped.
My little sister, of course, was a virgin.  And virgins had a flap of skin across their vaginas to show they really were virgins.  It wasn’t a ring of bone I had been forcing things through which would grow bigger as she grew up.  It was her hymen.  Her maidenhead. Which, I knew enough school-boy folklore to know, had to be broken by the prick of first man to fuck her and would bleed all over the sheets which, in olden times, had been hung out of the bedroom window in the morning to confirm the fact.
Kate looked so uncomfortable I didn’t try shafting her with the bottle-neck but instead carefully eased it out of her again.  As it came, narrowing slightly, I saw the ring of tight skin around it relax slightly like eased elastic and I knew I had been right.  Did Kate know any of this, I wondered?
As the top of the bottle slid out of the hole I felt my sister relax and knew it had hurt.  Yet she had born it. Her vagina was slow to close up again and after placing the perfume bottle carefully on her bedside table and still kneeling between her open legs I could still see it between her puffy little lips.  Carefully I slipped my finger into her up to the first knuckle and explored it from the inside, pinching the membrane between fingertip and thumb.
“Do you know what this is?” I asked softly.
She propped herself up on her elbows again to observe my hand between her legs and then raised her eyes to my face.
“‘Course,” she said scathingly.
“Oh,” I said helplessly, running my fingertip round and round inside the rim of my eleven-year-old sister’s vagina. Without it’s skin lid it might, I thought, even be wide enough inside for my prick.
“They say you can get rid of it by riding a bike,” Kate told me with certainty.  “Or a horse. Or doing gym.  But if not, a boy has to pop it with his prick.  Or something.”
I didn’t wonder who ‘they’ were.  Little girls were a secret society surpassing what I knew of Freemasonry and the Mafia hands down.  She’d known about her hymen all the time, yet had never given any indication that she wanted me to ‘pop’ it with my prick.  So I assumed she didn’t.  After all, I was her only her brother.  I felt a wave of disappointment I was ashamed of.
That left the ‘or something’, and I presumed the perfume bottle had been a stage in that process.  My little sister, it seemed, was using me as a surgeon to slowly tunnel into her vagina through her hymen with a variety of distinctly non-surgical instruments even as I was using her as a labourer to wank me off.
Her double-cross was so wonderful I had to laugh, still kneeling between my sister’s spread legs like a surgeon at work.  I could not help laughing and, laughter being contagious, it spread to Kate who was laughing too even if she wasn’t sure why.  Laughing almost helplessly I lay on her for the first time, pressing her body between mine and the mattress, and gently kissed her on the mouth.  We were, I recognised, in the traditional position for sexual intercourse except that, as we were mouth to mouth and she was so much shorter than me, the parting of her legs and the hole into her between them was somewhere up around my belly-button while my prick was down around her knees somewhere.  Not that it mattered, for my little sister had already given her big brother his orgasm for the evening and had taken the edge off my needs.  So I just kissed her and stroked her amazing hair and told her in a whisper what a wonderful, wonderful little sister she was, all of which I think she liked.
For several weeks after that I spent a lot of time with my eyes open for things suitable for enlarging the hole into my little sister after she had wanked me off with increasing skill.  One of the long, elegant, tapering green candles our parents set out on holders on the dining table for dinner parties enabled me to find out how deep her vagina was.  Only slightly wider than my fingertip at its top it went through the hole into her easily enough and I kept working it in until I felt a soft resistance and Kate growled warningly. Making a mark in the wax with my fingernail at the point it disappeared through the ring into her cunt I slipped it out again and lay it alongside my rigid penis.  My penis was a half-inch shorter.  I was impressed and Kate looked like she wanted to crow.  Surreptitiously measuring the candle to the mark later I found it turned in at near enough seven inches.  In an eleven-year-old girl!
Kate’s own favourite was the tin cylinder for a single Havana cigar I had acquired to store something long forgotten in years before. It had a gently domed end, was nearly ¾" in diameter and seven inches long and had a smooth, cool shaft. After she had wanked me off on her bed as usual I carefully fucked her with it and she had lain utterly relaxed, eyes closed and whispering ‘nice’ as I slid it up and down inside her little vagina.  I even thought I detected a little quiver of her body and an involuntary twitch of her legs just before she asked me to stop.  Once I’d withdrawn it she asked politely if she could keep it, so I gave it to her and assumed she fucked herself with it every now and then.
Aunt was becoming more and more ill, I overheard the big C being mentioned and mum and dad started talking to us, in a general kind of way, about what happened when people died. As we had not had a death in the family before Kate and I awaited the event with some interest.  My curiosity about our Aunt’s fate, however, was utterly overwhelmed when I was able to acquire at school a pornographic magazine.  It was grubby, tatty, dog-eared and falling apart, and cost me far more than its original cover-price brand new, but it was the real thing.  Real photos of real men and women having real sex.  And when real men and woman have real sex, I discovered, they use their mouths as well.
OK, the close-ups of men’s pricks stuck up girls’ cunts was breathtakingly exciting, but I’d been there and done that.  What I was totally unprepared for, and what made me sweat while feeling cold at the same time, were the pictures of girls with men’s pricks in their mouths.  Right in their mouths.  All the way in their mouths.
And one unbelievable photograph of a pretty blond girl poised over a man’s vertical prick with what looked incredibly like semen on her tongue and looping in strands from her lips and chin to the white-streaked bulb at the end of his prick.  It looked incredibly like semen, but it couldn’t be.  Surely.  Could it?
There were pictures, too, of men lying with their heads between girl’s thighs, licking and kissing their cracks.  
Well, if a girl can take a man’s prick in her mouth it is surely only fair that he should put his mouth to her crack.
But letting him squirt his spunk into her mouth?
I’d lost Janet to a seventeen-year-old apprentice with his own car several weeks after Kate had started wanking me, not that that had anything to do with it, and while I was devastated by it for a while at least my Wednesday evenings with my little sister went some way to easing the loss.  Janet had never used her mouth on my prick and it had never occurred to me to kiss her right on the cunt but although I knew I wasn’t the first to fuck her, or even the only boy to fuck her while I was, we had always been, well, I suppose ‘unsophisticated’ about sex and I couldn’t imagine what she would have said had I kissed her between the legs, or wanted her to take my prick in her mouth.
Now I was without a girl altogether (except for my sister) and had no-one on that side of the fence to even discuss it with let alone practice on, while the two older boys I felt I knew well enough to show the photo of the girl who might have spunk in her mouth to did agree that there were girls who would do it, even then I’m not sure I believed them.
Wednesday evening came and our parents set off for the hospital in a very sober mood.  Kate was already up in her room and it was only ten minutes after the had left that I heard her call from upstairs, “I’m ready.”
I joined her in the bathroom where she sat pink and naked in the bath, the fronds of her hair floating around her waist like the little mermaid’s.  My prick salivated at the sight like one of Pavlov’s dogs to the bell.
We had washing, drying and brushing her hair down to a respectable 45 minutes and then I adjourned to my own room to undress, to return naked to Kate’s bedroom.  She, as usual, was sitting on the edge of her bed in the nude waiting for me to stretch out on the bed and make my prick available.  Her little cotton night-dress with the print of Dumbo on the front and her pair of clean cotton knickers were as usual arranged neatly on her chair ready for an emergency dressing should our parents return unexpectedly.  I’d left the water in her bath so that, even if it was only the key in the front-door lock that gave us warning, I could skip naked into the bathroom and pretend to be having my own bath while my sister lay innocently reading in bed in her room next door.
She smiled when I entered the room, now completely at ease at the sight of her brother’s prick. Instead of lying down on her bed, however, I settled onto its edge next to her, put my arm round her narrow shoulders and pulled her to me.  Her fabulous hair coated my side, heavy, warm, soft and tickling.
“Sis,” I said, knowing she was puzzled by the change in routine.  “I’ve got...”  I swallowed.  OK, I was nervous about telling my kid sister I had a dirty book.  I suppose I was afraid she might be shocked by it.  Too shocked.  But she wanted to learn about sex, didn’t she?
“I’ve got a dirty book,” I said, feeling dirty.  “With photo’s.  But they’re very, ah, grown-up.  Maybe too grown-up for you.  I mean, I don’t know if it’s right I should show it to you.”
Do you know anyone who has ever decided not to watch a TV programme because they were warned it might offend them? My sister gave me a look that made me want to crawl under the bed.  ‘I’ve wanked you off, for God’s sake,’ her eyes said.  ‘And let you stuff candles and bottles of perfume up my eleven-year-old cunt.’
“Yeah.  They said,” she told me calmly.
“What!!?”
“They said you’d got it.”
The monstrous regiment of schoolgirls.  I had an awful thought.
“Do they...” I asked nervously, “Know about us?”
Her steady look told me that I would never know, and that it was none of my damn business anyway.
“Are you going to get it?” she asked.  Five years wasn’t a big enough handicap, I decided.  A boy probably needed an advantage of twenty to face a girl on equal terms.
On slightly shaky knees I went and recovered the book from its hiding-place in my bedroom and returned with it to my sister.  She was sitting as I had left her on the bed. I sat down beside her, put the book on my knees and began leafing through it.
I’d turn a page, wait for the sharp nod that said she’d seen it and turn to the next.  She studied each page silently and if she was as surprised as I’d been by the pictures of girls with men’s pricks in their mouths before they got down to proper fucking, she gave no indication.  The picture of the girl with the man’s spunk in her mouth went the way of the others, with no particular reaction I could see.  We reached the end of the book and stared at the blank, stained  back-cover.
"Want to see it again?" I offered.  Kate was silent for a moment.  Sitting on the bed next to me the top of her head was barely as high as my armpit and all I could see was that cascade of golden hair with a skinny shoulder sticking though it like a rock in a waterfall and, beyond it, her little girl's knees with her hands primly in her lap.  She was looking into my lap but whether at the back of the book or my prick jutting out just beside it I didn't know.
"Yeah.  OK," she said steadily.
We went through it again from the front as before, me waiting for her nod and turning the page.  As I looked at the photographs myself my prick twitched and juddered over and above its steady pulsing in time with my heart, which felt as though it was knocking loudly on my chestbone.  Particularly at the photographs of the girls with men's pricks in their mouths.  And double particularly at the one of the girl with the spunk on her lips.  We reached the grubby back cover again.
"Again?" I offered.
"Nah," she said after a short pause.  I carefully put the book on her bedside table and waited.  She continued gazing into my lap.  I began to fear I'd put her off sex for ever.
Our routine was that she'd wank me off and then I'd explore her body, offering to inset this or that into her vagina.  But I'd spoiled that routine my introducing the porn, and I wondered how much else I'd spoiled.  Then, with a sniff, my little sister suddenly grabbed the shaft of my prick in one hand and bobbed her head down to take the bulge at its head in her mouth.  
A moment later she'd lifted her head again, leaving me with just the tingling memory of tongue and perhaps pallet caressing the helmet of my prick.  I waited, unable to breath.
Following her movement and bent over me as she was her hair was sliding over her shoulders like an avalanche of gold, half of it falling over my knees and the other half piling into my lap, brushing my prick and covering half its shaft together with my sister's hand still holding it steady.  With her other hand she suddenly cleared away the strands draped over its head and then put her mouth down over it.
This time she held it there and her tongue touched it more surely.  I almost jumped out of my skin at the sensation and my prick twitched powerfully.  Instantly my sister snatched her head away.
"I don't want you squirting spunk into my mouth," she said firmly, not looking at me.
"No.  No.  OK."  I assured her.  "I can't help making it twitch like that," I added.  "It kinda' does it itself.  I can't control it.  But I promise to let you know if I start to come.  You know I can't stop it when it does."  That was something else about the male reproductive system I had explained to her.
I had a hand on her head stroking her mass of curls and felt her nod.  "You'd better," she growled and then her head fell away from my hand as she took my prick in her mouth again.
God.  Incredibly, it was better than having it in Janet Harcourt's cunt, I swear.  As she held it still with one hand my little sister ran her tongue around the helmet at the head of my prick and then somehow swilled her whole mouth around it.  It was warm, wet and incredibly sweet.  Then, when I was still catching up with that she suddenly bobbed down further on it, until her lips met the top of her hand around the base of its shaft and I felt the tip of my helmet hit the back of her throat.  While I was still trying the enjoy the tidal-wave of delight that woke in me she drew her mouth back up the shaft of my prick, closed her lips tight around the waist below the helmet and sucked. Hard.  It felt so good I thought for a moment I was actually going to pass out.  My prick seemed to swell and then explode like a cannon in a Tom & Jerry cartoon spitting out a cannon-ball.  Instantly my sister snatched her head away from my prick.
"You promised you wouldn't," she snarled.
"What...?" I gasped, still trying to catch up.
"Come in my mouth," she hissed, furious.
"What?  I haven't.  I didn't,' I pleaded helplessly.  I knew I hadn't because the orgasm I had been building towards with my little sister's mouth around my prick had been promising to be the most memorable of my life.
Kate growled wordlessly realising, I suppose, that her mouth wasn't full of my spunk and there was none in the mass of golden hair in which my prick was buried.  As I watched, though, a drop of liquid formed at the little mouth at the tip of my prick.
"Then what's that?  It's not pee, is it?"  Her voice rose and quivered.
"No, no.  It's not pee," I assured her hastily.  "It's my pre-cum."
"Your what?"
I was out of the realm of biology books here and firmly into schoolboy folk-lore.
"Well, when I'm getting ready to come,'" I explained, "I make a little bit of pre-cum.  It kinda' coats the inside of my prick. Oils it, like, so my spunk can slip out easily.  It's mostly sugar," I ad libbed, inspired by the fact that the little drop at the mouth of my penis, a precursor of which my sister must have felt with her tongue, did look very like a drop of clear liquid sugar and nothing like semen at all.
Kate growled again but the vehemence had gone.  "Didn't taste like sugar," she grumbled.  
"Well, there's all sorts of sugars," I said with the advantage of four years chemistry.  Despite having produced pints of the stuff I had no idea what my spunk tasted like.
"Humph."  My sister gave a grunt of discontent and then surprised me by bobbing her head and delicately licking the drop of pre-cum off the tip of my penis.  She ran her tongue around her mouth thoughtfully then made a face.
"Funny sort of sugar," she observed.  "But not really yukky.  Are you close?"
"Ah, not now," I told her.  "It's like there's a sort of pressure that builds up and builds up in me until it explodes.  But if something else happens, like this, it all goes off the boil and I have to start again."
She nodded as if she could empathise with that.  "Well, you just be sure you tell me before you come properly," she warned.  
"Yes, yes.  Promise.  But I can't really feel the pre-cum coming."
"Yeah, well.  I suppose I’ll have to put up with that."  Before I could say any more her mouth closed again over my prick and I lost all desire to say anything at all.
How my eleven-year-old sister knew what to do after seeing a few dog-eared photographs I cannot begin to imagine, but her mouth did wonderful things with my prick.  I would have been quite content to have stayed there lying across her bed for the rest of my life with her little mouth licking, sucking, nibbling and revolving around my prick.  Unfortunately my orgasm hadn't been as far away as I had thought and all too soon, it seemed, I had to say, "It's coming, sis."  Then her mouth was gone and her little hands took over until I exploded and, with all her experience of six weeks, Kate neatly caught my ejaculation in a wad of tissues held over my prick.  She hated getting my spunk on her bed and once, when a particularly violent squirt had sent a gout of spunk right through the tissue to land on her pillow, she had turned noticeably spiky. As though it was my fault!
"Oh, Oh,"  I panted.  Had I heard our father's key in the front-door latch at that moment I doubt I could have found the strength to even crawl to the bathroom.  Kate giggled.
"You look like a beached whale," she teased, yet I heard something else in her voice.  Pride, perhaps, that she could reduce her brother with all my advantages of size and strength and age and experience, to a jelly in her hands.  
Her nest of hair lifted out of my lap as she raised her head but she was still squeezing the last drops of my ejaculation out of my prick with one hand and dabbing away the yellow-white drops as they appeared out of the tip with a tissue held in the other.  
"That was incredible, sis," I groaned ecstatically and stretched massively, thrilling to the smooth obedience of my body.  Orgasms always left me feeling terrific.  The rippling clench of muscle included my penis, throbbing once powerfully in my sister's little hand, and a final pearl of white semen formed at its tip.  Instead of dabbing it away with the tissue Kate after two false starts licked it off and swilled it around her mouth.  
The false starts did not surprise me but that she could do it at the third attempt did.  There was no chance of passing this off as 'sugar'.  It was 100% semen and my sister knew it.  With it in her mouth she looked initially as if she was fighting an urge to vomit and even when this spasm had passed she shuddered several times before she could control it.  Then she swilled her mouth around a couple of times and swallowed.  Seeing me staring at her she twisted her face into a grimace and groaned.
"Tadpoles.  Gross."
Almost appalled by her determination to emulate the girl in the magazine, her courage even,  I reached out a hand and began combing her gorgeous tresses.  "Sis, you are amazing," I breathed.  She gave me a pleased smile and waited.
How could I follow that?
With a groan of my own I flogged my body into action and sat up.  Kate was still sitting at the edge if the bed and, gently, lovingly, I set my hands to her shoulders and pushed her down onto it.  Then I slipped to my knees and shuffled round to face hers.  With my hands I parted them and carefully shouldered my way between them.  My eleven-year-old sister weighed next to nothing and with my hands to her waist I was easily able to manoeuvre her until her buttocks were right at the edge of the bed and I could spread her legs with my shoulders and set my lips to her sex.
That delicious hint of girl-sex smell was there together with what had to be girl-sex taste, too - pungent and earthly - and I could taste soap and shampoo over the girl-sex. Sure she peed from there, where I was not sure exactly, but she was fresh from the bath and anyway she knew I peed out of my prick and that hadn't stopped her from putting it her mouth so I was damned if I was going to let it bother me.
I ran my tongue up her crack from deep between her buttocks very near where I thought her shit-hole must be, have occasionally seen the little puckered hole when she moved, up between her vaginal lips with the tiny hole into her cunt tripping at my tongue, lifted an odd little flap of skin like an hood and then tangled with her tiny tongue of a clitoris before the groove ran out up to her stomach.  I covered the whole area with my mouth and sucked at it. I took her clit between my teeth and worried at it like a terrier with a rat.  I kissed her vaginal lips and wormed my tongue between them as far as I could into her body.  I made farting noises against her genitals with my lips and rubbed her clit with my nose.  I nuzzled the softness of her inner thighs and tickled them with my tongue.  I did everything I could think of to try to wake in my sister some even slight echo of the pleasure she had given me but if I succeeded to any extent at all she didn't betray it by so much as a twitch.
Finally I rocked back onto my heels.  In front of me my sister’s wide-spread legs hung over the side of the bed with the curve of her body between them and her secret girl-crack open to my gaze, pink and shining with my slobber.  It was a delicious sight and I could even see the tiny hole in her virginity leading through to her vagina.  
“Oh, Sis,” I groaned.  “I wish I could make you feel as good as you do me.”
Kate lifted her head and looked at me down the length of her body and between her thighs.
“‘S’pect you will when I’m bigger,” she said.
As it was likely to be years yet before she was any bigger, at least where it mattered, I hoped she wasn’t holding her breath but from my viewpoint the prospects of another two or three years of the kind of delights my kid sister was bringing me were a joy to behold.
And talking of beholding things from viewpoints the one I actually had at that time wasn’t too bad as I leaned forward between Kate’s legs to plant a big wet kiss on her little bald fanny. 

4

Unfortunately the years of delights I was looking forward to with my kid sister began with a postponement.  
The very next Wednesday I arrived home from school tingling with anticipation for an evening with Kate in her bath and on her bed to be met my a long-faced mother with the news that Aunt Mary had died that morning.  My immediate reaction, I’m afraid to say, was to damn my Aunt under my breath for not hanging on for another day.
Our parent’s visit to the hospital was off, of course, and for the rest of the week and the week-end I had no more than a couple of minutes alone with my sister with mum and/or dad no further away than the next room.
On the Saturday we were both fitted out with new clothes for Aunt Mary’s funeral on the Monday, which was earning us a day out of school, as we were both growing out of clothes every six months.  I got a black suit, but didn’t see what Kate got until the Monday morning when dad got the car out to drive us to the crematorium. 
Mostly because of her gorgeous wavy, waist-length fair hair Kate was a dead-ringer for the Alice of Looking-Glass fame, although the girl who played Alice in a neat video we had of the books was to my eyes about 12 and not as close to the original book illustrations as Kate herself.  Mum and dad even played on it by putting Kate in dresses a bit like Alice’s for special occasions, tho’ never the hooped stockings or dozens of flouncy petticoats.  Kate seemed to like it, too.  For Aunt Mary’s funeral, though, the only nod to Alice was a broad black hair ribbon which crossed her hair from ear to ear, throwing the fringe forward but the back back, as it were.  Otherwise my little sister was in black shiny shoes, short white socks, and a sober black dress which covered her smooth and flat from throat to chest and then flowed over her hips in loose soft folds to her knees over a white blouse with a little lace at the throat and wrists.
For a kid she looked absolutely stunning.
How much of that was because I had seen her with no clothes on at all I couldn’t be sure but as well as a hard-on I had a hard job keeping my eyes off her despite being concerned that mum or dad might notice me staring and even see me drooling.
Funerals were new to both of us and sitting next to Kate in the crematorium chapel I knew she was unhappy and uneasy, and when I surreptitiously gave her hand a comforting squeeze she didn’t want to let it go.  Deciding that mum and dad couldn’t read the fact that I dearly wanted to have sex with my little sister from my merely holding her hand in such circumstances I let her keep it.
She kept giving little half-glances at the coffin on its plinth containing Aunt Mary which reminded me of the two false starts she’d made before licking the drop of pure semen from the top of my prick and I knew that what lay behind both was the same - she’d seen the girl in the magazine with semen in her mouth and was going to do it herself, but had been afraid the actual taste and texture of my semen on her tongue was going to make her sick.  Now she was face to face with death for the first time and knew this, too, was something she was going to have to come to terms with as she grew up.  Watching her face pale but her eyes steadfastly remain on the coffin as it suddenly jerked into life seemingly on its own and trundled along the rollers through the curtains to the furnace beyond I knew she was registering, assessing and filing away all the experiences of death that she could, just as she registered, assessed and filed away all the experiences of sex I was introducing her to.
Dear God I loved her, and would have happily died for her.
After the funeral the family and mourners adjourned to Uncle Bob’s house.  Uncle Bob was dad’s brother and had been Aunt Mary’s husband, so Aunt Mary had only been a relation by marriage.  Nevertheless she had always been good to my sister and I, and the source of interesting Christmas and birthday presents.  Uncle Bob was quite a bit older than dad and his, and Aunt Mary’s, children were in their 20's.  One was unmarried, the other married but with only a baby so Kate and I found ourselves the only ‘children’ at the house for the reception.
The mood, of course, was sad and sombre while the sun, rather unkindly, was shining happily outside.  Very quickly we ‘children’ were encouraged to go outside and play.
Uncle Bob’s was a big old and now almost empty house with a big old garden which was actually two gardens.  By the house was a lawn with flowerbeds and seats and things while beyond it, behind a tall hedge with a little archway cut in it, was a vegetable garden.  And at the bottom of the vegetable garden was a tool/potting shed.
I loved the shed, with its racks of tools, its benches, its pots and trays, its old motorised oil-smelling lawnmower which I’d driven a couple of times and its bags of seeds and chemicals. Kate hated it because, of course, it was Spider City.  
I was drawn to it almost tidally and when I stepped into the wonderful smell of earth and wood and oil and petrol and sharp chemicals Kate surprised me by coming with me.  The old door on its old hinges swung shut behind us, being hung to do that Uncle Bob had explained, and I turned to face Kate.  Her face was trembling and after a moment she began to cry.
“Kate, Kate.”  After two hours of the most intense longing I finally had her in my arms.  She buried her face in my chest, being well below my shoulder, and wept.
“Sis?”
“Aunt Mary,” she wailed.
Well, O.K.    I was sad, too.  Everyone was.  I’d quite liked Aunt Mary tho’ she could be a bit stiff sometimes.  Especially about modern pop groups.  I was sorry she was dead and sad about it, but I can’t say it made me actually want to cry.
Kate, though, wept her heart out clinging to me while I stroked that thick, lush fall of hair, caressed her skinny, flat back and felt her little, lithe body press itself against me.  My hard-on became uncomfortable, squashed against her soft stomach.
Holding her was pleasant enough but she wept long enough for me to begin to get bored with even that and I was studying the curvaceous handle of a hand-trowel and imagining working it carefully into my little sister’s vagina even while I knew she would never allow anything that grubby anywhere near her cunt, when she ran out of tears.  
She clung to me in silence for a moment or two and then after a great sniff stepped away from me.
“Give us your hanky,” she ordered.
I was surprised because she, like most girls, seemed to always have half-a-box of tissues hidden around their clothes and I’d have wagered she could have produced at least one even stark naked but if she wanted my handkerchief she could have it.  It was even clean.  I gave it to her.
She wiped her eyes, blew her nose and gave it back to me.  Bemused I put it back into my pocket.  Her mascara hadn’t run because she was still three or four years short of being allowed to wear any.
“Thank you,” she said, and from the tone in her voice I thought she was thanking me for more than the loan of the handkerchief although I couldn’t think what.  Stroking her and having dirty thoughts about her while she cried?
“Anyone about?” she asked.
“Eh, No.”  The shed had a big window but it was set high in the wall to allow room for a bench, a shelf and a rack of tools under it.  Its sill was level with my shoulder which meant it was an inch or two above the top of my sister’s head.  Through it I could see almost the entire vegetable garden and the archway through the hedge into the lawns although only the roof of the house was visible.  There was no-one in sight.
From a shelf beside her my little sister took a small sack which,  according to the label, had once held seed potatoes.  She folded it twice and then bent to put it on the concrete of the shed floor in front of her shoes.  Lifting the hem of her dress slightly to avoid kneeling on it she lowered herself onto her knees on it, unzipped my fly, burrowed through my trousers and underpants for my prick and pulled it out.  Then she leant forward and began sucking it.
“Ohmygod.”  I felt as though she had sucked all the marrow from my bones out through my prick, leaving them just sitting on top of each other like a house of cards, ready to collapse in a heap.  “Sis, you don’t have to do this now,” I told her because I really thought I should, not because I wanted to. I set a trembling hand in top of her head.
She pulled her mouth away from my prick with a pop and looked up at me.
“Don’t you want me to?”
“Shit, Sis, it’s not that,” I exclaimed making her eyes widen, for I didn’t use a word like ‘shit’ very often.  “As far as I’m concerned you can do it for ever.  But you’re upset.  And here? I mean.....”  I’d no idea what I meant and shut up, letting her decided on her own meaning.
“Bruv, you hugged me when I needed it.  And held my hand. You need this, don’t you?”
“Well, I....”  I’d survive without it, I knew, but cheated on my sister by giving her a cheesy smile of agreement.  She gave me a clear smile back.  She was pleased she could do something for me.  Something special.
“I could feel him against my tummy,” she added to the smile.  “Fluttering like he was alive. It was funny.”  She put her mouth back over my prick and resumed torturing it with pleasure.
I felt awful that I had surrendered without a fight, and like a million dollars though how any amount of money can feel like a rocket, a jacuzi and a nuclear explosion all at the same time I can’t imagine.  I don’t even know how I could feel it myself.
Cheating on my little sister still further I fought back my orgasm as hard as I could but eventually had to whisper, “I’m coming, Sis.”  She kept at it, so I said, “Sis?” again warningly and she nodded with my prick in her mouth.  I realised she knew what she was doing and gave up the fight.
I climaxed and a great gush of semen shot from my prick against the back of Kate’s throat.  She gagged and choked.  A second gout followed and she couldn’t help pulling her mouth off my prick in reflex as it went down the wrong way.  A third unstoppable spasm squirted semen onto her cheek and a fourth spewed spunk over her shoulder into the curtain of her hair.  A moment later I managed to get my hand over the front of my prick and managed to catch a fifth short fountain and the tail-end trickle in a cupped hand.
My sister was on all-fours in front of me, choking helplessly.  I checked the garden was clear with a glance and then dropped into a crouch in front of her, my sticky prick still sticking out of my flies. There was a great gob of spunk on the concrete path below my sister’s face and thin tendril of frothy spunk and spit mixed hanging from her lips.  As I arrived she gargled, hawked and spat another frothy gobbet of semen and saliva onto the concrete, snatched a breath like the tearing of an old towel and broke into another fit of coughing.  Her hair following her drop from kneeling to all-fours was still falling across her shoulders on both sides like waterfalls of honey.
“Oh Kate, Kate.”  Watching her suffering I wanted to cry.
She let more semen and spit dribble from her mouth, took a great whooping breath and managed to suppress the coughing, though I could see her midriff still spasming as she wanted to.  “Oooooooh”.  She coughed once more, this time deliberately, worked something around her mouth and spat another small globe of semen out.  “Shooooo,” she breathed as she managed to get her breath back under control.  She turned her face up to me.
It was mottled bright crimson, her eyes were rheumy with tears that were pearling on her cheeks and the jet of semen which had nearly hit her in the eye was slithering down beside her nose, oozing across her lips slimily and forming a pool on her chin. Her lips were smeared with a froth of spunk and spit.  To my astonishment she was laughing.
“I thought... I thought..”  She gasped, trying to blink the tears out of her eyes.  “Is there anyone....”
I bobbed up and bobbed down.  “No.”  The garden was still empty.  I wiped the spunk off my own hands on a piece of old shirt that seemed to be doing duty as a rag in the shed, then pulled my handkerchief out and began wiping the mess from her face.
“I thought if I could just catch it all in my mouth and swallow it out we wouldn’t have the mess to clear up.  I haven’t got any tissues and I bet you haven’t?”
I hadn’t.
“But it came a lot harder than I expected,” she giggled again, eyes still watering. “I’m sorry.”
She was sorry?  I couldn’t believe it. 
I turned her little face up to mine and kissed her spit and my spunk off her lips.  I knew her spit didn’t taste of anything so it must have been my spunk that tasted heavy, pungent and chemical.  It reminded me of the taste of a big old black telephone with a wheel you spun with your finger to dial which dad had found for me to play with when I was a kid, before Kate was born.  Odd, that.
I finished wiping down her face as best I could, finding it hard to find a clean place on the handkerchief by the finish.   I knew it would have to go as I was sure my mother, finding it among the washing, would immediately recognise the stains on it as dried spunk .
“You got some in your hair,” I said to Kate.
“Where,” She tried to look round at it, alarmed.  I carefully sorted through the mass of tresses until I found it, spread through a handful or two of spun gold.  None of it had reached her clothes, fortunately.  I tried cleaning it with the handkerchief but that just spread it further so in the end I had to tunnel into my sister’s beautiful hair and suck it out.  Compared with what she had been prepared to swallow it was just a drop.
I rose and helped her to her feet.  I couldn’t see any spunk left on her face but she looked pink, tousled and a mess.  It would hardly do to take her back to the house in that state.
“You owe me a shampoo,” she said a little crossly.  “Getting your spunk in my hair!  And I want an orange-juice.  Your tadpoles don’t taste very nice.”
“I’ll do your hair any time,” I offered earnestly, and not very selflessly considering what it usually led to.  “You know, that was the first time I’ve come since that last Wednesday,” I added, working it out.  “It was thirteen days worth. No wonder there was a lot.”   I probably hadn’t gone so long without a wank since I’d started.
She grinned, pleased.  She may have been little but she was game.
I ended up pretending to chase her back to the house to explain her flushed complexion and tousled hair and in the circumstances the solemn grown-ups were not impressed.  I certainly received a very sharp word from my father for playing the fool at such a time but considering what I would likely have got from him had he known the real reason for his little girl’s state I think I got off lightly.

5

With no more weekly visits to hospital by mum and dad my bath nights with my little sister were over. I missed them, but that didn’t mean I stopped having sex with her.
She must have been listening to ‘them’ - and I hoped it was just listening and not discussing her case in detail - for Kate seemed to consider it her duty to work up to taking my full ejaculation into her mouth and swallow it.  It was the Saturday morning after the funeral that she tried a second time.  
Mum had persuaded dad to go to the Supermarket with her which happened sometimes when he’d blotted his copy-book somehow and had to make it up. I lay in bed and heard them go, and stayed put to see if Kate would come to me.  When after ten minutes she hadn’t I broke my rule and decided to try my luck with her. We met in the hallway.  Whether she was on her way to me or just to the bathroom I don’t know - she was in her nightie but she usually was when she came to my room in case she should need to put it back on in a hurry - and we stopped and stared at each other for one of those silly moments.
“Oh, hello Kate,” I said, brilliantly.
“Hello, John,” she replied.  
I was still working out how to ask her if she fancied sex without actually asking if she fancied sex when she said, “How’s he?” nodding at my pyjama-bottom’s fly.
“Ah, he’s...”  I stopped, but ‘he’ made his own view known by pumping himself up at the sight of my little sister and sticking himself out of my fly.
Kate giggled - the way my prick went hard, or soft or waggled itself about fascinated her - and then fell on her knees and took it in her mouth.  She sucked and chumbled at it for a delicious couple of minutes before I said, “Sis, I’m coming,” but she nodded around it and I knew she was going to try again.
I exploded into her mouth.  She tried to take the discharge holding my prick steady with a hand around the shaft and her lips tightly clamped just under the helmet’s rim but with a cough that was half a splutter and vice versa she blew a fine spray of some cum past her lips over the back over her hand, my short-and-curlies, my pyjama-bottoms and the wall beside us.  Nevertheless she held herself still until I’d finished then swilled what most left, which was most of it, around her mouth and swallowed it grimacing.  Despite this she held my prick in her mouth until it had stopped twitching and leaking, cleaned it again with her tongue and then let me go.
“Getting better,” she said happily.
I lifted her to her feet, bent down to kiss her and got a taste of my own spunk again.  We then adjourned to the bathroom together, she washing my semen off her hand and swilled her mouth out while sponged myself down and dumped my pyjamas in the wash-basket, for I was confident there was not enough spunk on them for mum to notice and even if there was she would assume I had put it there myself.  I did sometimes wonder if they knew I wanked, or at least had wanked before their daughter made it unnecessary, or maybe they just supposed I wanked because 14-year-old boys do, or whether they really didn’t really think about it at all.  It was certainly nothing we’d ever discussed.  I also wiped the wall down where Kate had sprayed it although there really wasn’t a mark to notice.
I quickly took her to bed, kissed her fanny and finger-fucked her but I was getting more and more sure that anything I did for her didn’t really have much effect and she only went with me to please me.  Which was nice, but.....
Dad must have blotted his copybook badly because he went to Mass with mum that Sunday.  Or maybe it was Aunt Mary’s death.  They weren’t particularly religious and it certainly wasn’t compulsory for Kate and I so we both declined.  That gave us an hour or so alone on the house later in the morning but, only a day after last doing me, I couldn’t think my sister would want to do me again.  I was wrong.
Shortly after mum and dad left I was standing by the kitchen sink again, this time with a mid-morning cup of coffee, when Kate entered the room (she’d been upstairs with her school books, her reason for not going to church.)
“Would he like....?” she offered.
“You bet,” I accepted.
No-one did, but anyone sticking his head around the back-garden gate would have seen only a fourteen-year-old boy standing by the sink in front of the kitchen window holding a cup of coffee and looking pensively, and thought nothing of it.  Had that person looked closely enough and for long enough he would have noticed that the boy didn’t drink from the cup and perhaps that it was quivering slightly in his hand.  He certainly would not have seen the said fourteen-year-old-boy’s eleven-year-old sister kneeling in front of him, her mass of blond hair falling down her back and shimmering gently as she slid her head back and forth on her brother’s prick, and so would have missed her look of triumph when she successfully took his entire ejaculation in her mouth and swallowed it without spilling a drop, and even cleaned his prick up for him with her tongue afterwards.  He might have been surprised though when the head of the diminutive girl-child suddenly popped up into view right in front the boy, would have wondered why she should make a playful grimace of distaste at him and thought it slightly odd that she should then have drunk the rest of his coffee.
My darling little sister drunk lots of my spunk as well in the weeks that followed.  If we really had the time, an hour or so, I’d take her naked to bed, kiss her all over and then wind something reasonably challenging into her cunt - a fatter candle than the ones for the dining table, a smooth, cylindrical wooden tool with a little nob at its end which was part of Mum’s spinning wheel - I sometimes wondered afterwards if mum had ever used it without the slightest idea it had been in her little daughter’s cunt - and a screwdriver handle, which seemed appropriate. But she still refused a banana and anything over about seven/eight’s inch in diameter clearly caused her a lot of pain at which I’d suggest we stop and she’d agree.  As my prick was well over an inch in diameter it was clear we had someway to go.
Kate’s taking me in her mouth, however, was quick, easy, clean and, for me anyway, delicious.  I made it a rule never to approach her for a suck - part of the bargain with my conscience - but as at least once every three or four days she’d ask, “Would he like a bath?”, a phrase Kate invented, and I’d say something witty like, “He sure would,” at which she’d bob down before me (unless I was in bed or something), fish him out and give him a quite wonderful wash and brush up in her mouth.  
I once asked her, in a casual, unconcerned sort of way, if many girls would actually take spunk in their mouths and swallow it. “Some will, some won’t,” she told me knowledgeable, presumably passing on to me a snippet of school-girl lore.  It was utterly typical of my little sister Kate that she determined to be one of the ‘will’s, and I’m glad she was able to get there in stages with a loving and concerned boy who wouldn’t tell a soul about it, even if he was her brother.  Too often it happens with a kind of mouth gang-bang behind the bike-sheds which leaves the girl sickened and mistrustful of boys, which doesn’t do us boys any good in the long run.
I also asked her once why, now she knew she could do it, she kept doing it for me.
“‘Cos you like it,” she said, adding the scornful “silly” by her tone.  Well, I did.  But it didn’t really seem to answer my question.
Just occasionally I thought it would be nice to fuck a girl in the cunt again, as being mouth-fucked by little Kate was a bit passive on my part.  All I had to do was stand, sit or lie there.  The hole in her hymen, though,  was still quite clearly too small for my prick and once, when I lay on her and rubbed my prickhead in her crack, I could tell she was nervous that I was going to try to push it into her vagina so I stopped and didn’t do it again.
In any case my fortunes in that direction changed unexpectedly, too.  On losing Janet I hadn’t really tried to make another girlfriend in part because my baby sister was fulfilling most of my needs quite well and in part because with end of year exams coming up I really didn’t have the time.  In fact I had been building a relationship without really noticing it.
Jennifer Andrews was no catch.  She was dumpy in figure, mousy in charisma and hair, owlish behind vast spectacles she couldn’t see without and outstandingly shy.  With her teeth fitted with enough ironwork to build a park fence, her specs, her round stubby nose, her little fat cheeks and a shiny forehead she bore the nickname “Morrie” because, head-on, she did look rather like the front end of a little Morris Minor car.  As compensation she had an IQ higher that the rest of the school put together.
At least, it seemed that way.  In fact as she seemed to have few friends in or out of school she had practically no distractions and just applied a very good brain to the work.
Still not 14 as the rest of my class at school including me turned or neared 15 she was actually a year ahead of her peers and I had begun the year taking as much notice of Morrie as the rest of the class, which wasn’t much.  However her good subjects were my bad ones and vice versa, and we were both very good at our good ones and bad at our bad ones so almost inevitably we found ourselves drawn together.  She, I must confess, started it by asking me for a bit of help with her bad ones and I endured a bit of ribbing from the rest of the boys when it became apparent ‘Morrie’ had chosen me.  However I enjoyed helping her as she did catch on fast when anyone took the trouble to explain and found her good at helping me see the wood for the trees with my problem subjects so I bore it with the best grace I could.
It developed into us spending time together in the Library after school poring over each others books, stayed that way during all my time with Janet and until shortly after my sister swallowed her first full load of my spunk.  Then I just happen to mention to Jennifer that there was a film on I’d thought to see and which it turned out she’d thought to see too and so we went together, and were seen and it was all around the school next day which was a mortal embarrassment to me and like water off a duck’s back to Morrie.
Kate, when I’d told her about Jennifer, had merely said, “Morrie?  Oh, they say she’s OK,” and put her mouth back over my prick - which was a startlingly thorough assessment of a girl a huge 3 years older, and as I would never in a million years have thought Jen was one of ‘them’,  ‘they’ had clearly judged and cleared her by whatever criterion it was ‘they’ had.
‘Sex’ and ‘Morrie’ never went together in the same sentence or thought except scornfully, and even by the time I would have happily classed her as a friend I’d certainly never considered having sex with her the way I had with Janet and was having with my little sister.  After our second film, during which her sotto voce observations about the plot and the acting had been funny as well as spot on, it never occurred to me to try walking her through the park afterwards to see what might happen in the shadows and we wandered through the busy, brightly-lit streets as I nobly walked her home.
At the end of the driveway to her house, though, occurred without warning one of those moments that shapes the paths of men, or whatever it was Shakespeare said. Morrie would know.  We were standing in the shadows and I’d wished her a good night but she hadn’t turned away and I was suddenly reminded of Kate when we’d been brother and sister teetering on the edge of that cliff-edge which led to a sexual relationship if we fell and a ‘normal’ brother/sister relationship if we pulled back from the edge.  It hadn’t been quite as clear-cut as this was - even after Kate had wanked me in the bath, even after I’d first put my finger in her, we could have pulled back.  We could have said, ‘hey, we shouldn’t be doing this,’ and stopped.  We passed the point of no return, I think when Kate first took my prick in her little mouth.  There was no going back then.  We could yet stop, but we would have had a fully sexual relationship - after all, she’d mouth-fucked me -  and could never be a ‘normal’ brother and sister again.
I recognised, or thought I did, Jen in that moment being Kate those three months before when she knew what I was doing and said, without saying it, ‘OK. I’m not going to stop you.’
I could have been wrong about Jen, of course.  I’d never made a single sexual approach to her at any point nor her to me.  It was just something about the moment, her hesitation before turning away, that said as clearly as a bell, ‘I don’t know if you want me or not, but here I am if you do.”  And I knew in my guts that if I turned away from her the moment would never come again.
As it happened I didn’t even want Jen sexually.  I didn’t fancy her and was getting practically all the sexual relief I wanted from my kid sister.  But I also heard Kate say with her mouth almost around my prick, “Morrie?  Oh, they say she’s OK,” and knew that if I turned away from Jen now it’d be like saying, “Morrie?  Oh, you’re OK but...”.  I guessed, too, how deeply that ‘but’ would hurt and that she’d never show a drop of it.
So instead of turning away I took her by the shoulders and kissed her on the forehead.  Or tried to.  In fact she moved at the same time and I actually kissed the top of her head and put my hand squarely on her breast.
It was round and firm and plump and I could feel a little nipple at the top of it pressing into my palm through bra, blouse and jacket.  I didn’t take my hand away and she didn’t move her breast out of it.  My hormones hollered, “sex” and I bent my head to kiss her gently on her lips, wary of the ironmongery on her teeth.  Warm, soft lips gently returned the kiss and then her hand settled equally gently on my erection.
That is something no man can fake and, having checked it and felt my response to her checking, she took my hand and breathed, “Come”.
Assuming she didn’t mean there and then I followed her soft-footed up the drive in the shadows, past the car sitting on the drive and into the garage at the top.  In the garage was a small touring caravan I’d noticed before.  She opened a side door into it, drew me into it after her and then softly closed the door on us.
It was dark inside, but not pitch dark.  Enough light from the city sky reflected through the garage and caravan windows to enable me to see the furnishings of the caravan including the bed across its end, and Jen taking her clothes off.
She stripped completely, including her socks, knelt in front of me just as my little sister did, freed my prick from my clothes and took it in her mouth.
She did what Kate did - slightly differently in style but no better nor worse in effect.  It felt every bit as good as what my little sister did to me, but it wasn’t as good.  I put my hands to her head and ran my fingers through her black, rather coarse and tightly-curled hair and it was nice but not as nice as running it through my sister’s long, fine, golden locks.  Jen was only 13-nearly-14 but that, compared with my sister’s 11½, made her almost an old woman.
And although she was a girl she wasn’t a girl AND my sister, while for reasons I am totally unable to explain the-girl-who-was-my-sister’s mouth around my prick felt so much nicer than just any old girl’s.
Nice enough, though, and she was stroking and cradling my balls in her hands as she mouth-fucked me in a way I knew I’d have to teach Kate, for that was very nice as well as new to me.  I felt my spunk gather and just as I was wondering if I ought to say something about it so, I suppose, did Jen for she took her head away, moved back to the bed and lay on it, on her back, with her legs spread wide.  She’d drawn me with her by the hand, not dragging me but inviting me, and now lay waiting for me to take her up on it.
I dropped my trousers and underpants and crawled between her legs.  Then I stopped, chagrined.
“I haven’t got a rubber,” I whispered.
“It’s O.K.  I’m on the pill,” she whispered back.
At 13?  She must have felt my confusion for she added to the whisper, “It’s to regulate my periods.”
I didn’t know what that meant but it sounded better than, “It’s because they know I screw.”  Taking her at her word I lay on her, her hand took my prick and with easy confidence she directed it into her cunt.
Skin to skin.  About 10 million times better than with even the lightest condom, I discovered.
Kate had emptied me only the day before so I was able to give Jen a good long ride before I finished and shot my load into her.  By that time she was gasping in a most satisfactory way for my ego and her little chubby thighs were straining against me with her rather short, fat legs crossed by the ankles in the small of my back.  
“Oooerghh,” she gurgled, shuddering and squeezing me in her arms, legs and cunt.
“Oohhaahh,” I sighed as the last of my spunk trickled into her. Basic conversation for basic times.
She relaxed her octopus act and lay arms and legs on the mattress.  I still had my prick in her but other than that she had no way to stop me going, and there was no way her slippery cunt could hold a boy by the prick.
She knew that, of course.  Poor Morrie knew she couldn’t snare a boy for weeks or months, perhaps even for a lifetime, with promises - I might let you put your hand in my nickers next week - and little, gradual surrenders.  Fifteen minutes earlier I hadn’t even considered kissing her let alone wonder if she’d let me put my hand in her knickers.  Now we’d been over the top of Everest, my sperm was wriggling its unobstructed way into her womb and she’d dumped her entire treasury at my feet in one pile and was waiting for me to take it or leave it.
And more than half expecting me to leave it.  
She knew I’d been mortified by the linking of my name with hers in school gossip.  Maybe what she’d just given me was her way of trying to make it up for it.  Her surrender had been so complete and unconditional it was absolute.  If I was willing to go on being her friend as I had before, she was willing to let me fuck her in that little caravan whenever I wanted.  It was even a tempting offer.  Even as I lay on her little tubby body post-fucking her the prospect of word getting around school that I fucked Morrie made me cringe.  Only the most desperate, the most hopeless case would ever consider fucking Morrie.
Certainly the gossip about us at school hadn’t gone that far - I had my sources.  In fact I think the main root of the gossip was a school-boy’s difficulty (I’ve no idea what the girl’s gossip about us was) in comprehending a non-sexual relationship between a boy and a girl despite the fact everyone recognised this was what Jen and I had.
Except that we hadn’t any more.
So she was offering me a way to keep our relationship at that level as far as society (ie the school) was concerned while fucking her in secret, while fearing in her heart that I’d be so scared of the secret, or even rumours, getting out that I wouldn’t risk being seen even talking to her again.
Poor Morrie.  I’d fucked her and at the worst I’d carve a notch for her on my bedpost and move on to the next girl.  Yet even the best she was hoping for was that I would be willing to go on fucking her in absolute secrecy as she knew no boy in his right mind would want it known he was fucking her.  
School-boy lore told of girls at fifteen , sixteen and even older who hadn’t been fucked but this always because, for whatever reason, they hadn’t wanted to be.  There’d certainly been no shortage of boys ready to fuck them.  You could even tell who they were, the smart, haughty ones who made it obvious weren’t going to waste themselves on mere boys but who were not yet quite old enough for men.
Few and pitiful, though, were the girls who hadn’t been fucked because no-one wanted to.  The fat ones, the ugly ones, the boy-haters and the silly ones you couldn’t trust not to tell their mums because they didn’t really understand that you weren’t supposed to do it.
Morrie wasn’t exactly fat but she was short and round so that while I now knew she actually had breasts, small droopy ones, they didn’t exactly stand out.  She was - well, - plain, to be generous, hiding from the world behind those owlish specs,  and she certainly did nothing to artificially improve her appearance.  There was no way a school uniform was going to do anything other than make her look rounder so she wore it, and any other clothes I’d seen her in, purely as functional necessities.  And while in her innocence, or indifference to the opinions of others, she could sometimes say silly things she had a brain that was not silly at all while the indifference, I suspected, was a hugely heavy and not always successful armour against hurt.
Poor Morrie.  She was still waiting to learn what I was going to do.
I lowered my head and kissed her carefully, wary of the steel lattice underneath, and said gently, “That was lovely.  I hope you’ll let me do it again some time.”
There was a moment’s silence while she measured that against all the possibilities she had constructed.  Then she said, politely, “I’m sure something can be arranged.”
Something was.  The following morning I met her at the school gates when she arrived and for the first time at least in the year I’d known her she didn’t have to wait on her own for the school bell to ring , or with the little gaggle of ugly ducklings.  I shared lunchtime with her and half-an-hour in the school library afterwards.  All the time I was with her we had our heads in text-books or were pouring over past exam papers and for all the watching eyes I never made a single remotely sexual acknowledgement of her.  However whereas before it had usually been she who had sought me out for my help with a problem with differential equations or computer studies and, when I’d put her straight, been willing to help me with a problem in Chaucer or the Wars of the Roses, now I sought her out and in return for the use of her cunt placed myself unequivocally at her disposal.
The following week we visited the cinema again, as just good friends with a mutual taste will, but afterwards she led me to the caravan without circumlocution.  There she began taking off her clothes again so I, rather uneasily, began taking mine off too for it seems somehow to be far worse to be caught fucking a girl when completely naked than just with your trousers down.  When Jen saw me doing it, tho’, she seemed unconcerned and as the risks were far greater for her, it being her family she’d have to face and anyway it seems to be far worse for girls to be caught having sex with boys than it is boys with girls, I hoped she knew what she was doing.
As before she mouthfucked me first while I stood wilting and playing with her ears. Then, just before I reached the point of no return, she stopped so it all subsided again and led to me to bed.  This time, though, just before stretching out on it and opening her legs for me, she took a small towel from a drawer beside the bed and spread it out over the mattress where her bottom would be.
“We left a stain last time,” she whispered. “Had a job getting it out.”
I knew well enough how spunk mixed with a girl’s sex-juice turned cotton into old parchment as I’d had to dump a pair of underpants put back on too soon after a session with Janet, but that didn’t seem an appropriate observation for the  moment so I didn’t say anything.   Jen lay down, settled her bum carefully on the towel and then spread her legs for me.  Instead of plunging in prick first, though, I crouched between her legs and set my face to her fanny.
I didn’t know if she’d react with delight, surprise, shock or disgust.  In fact she took it like a man and didn’t react at all, at first.  My first surprise was the hair.  My little sister’s fanny was as bald and smooth as an egg while my fingers had taught me that Janet had a small, sparse tuft of soft hair coating her slit rather like one of those stately-home avenues with the lines of trees each side. I hadn’t put my face down there with Janet while with Jen and despite having fucked her I literally hadn’t laid a hand on her as far as the fanny is concerned.
Jen had a positive bush filling the glass part of the wineglass Y at the top of her legs.  I buried my nose in it and found it strong with the scent of girl-sex the way a beer-drinker’s moustache must always taste of beer.  I got short coarse curls on my tongue, between my teeth and tickling my throat.  I found the start of her slit hidden in this undergrowth like a secret passage and followed it down.
Jen’s genitals were lush and full just like the rest of her and completely unlike those of my little sister Kate, which were tiny, tight and dry.  I found I could lift her clitoris right out of her crack with my tongue and suck in into my mouth like a short, fat piece of spaghetti.  Her vaginal lips spilled out of her crack like the filling of a toasted cheese sandwich and seemed to taste just as delicious though not, of course, of cheese, while unlike my little sister’s vagina which was as sharply delineated in the floor of her crack as a man-hole in the road, it was hard to tell where Jen’s slit ended and her cunt began if in fact they weren’t the same thing.  Her slit just seemed to curve down between her legs and there you were with your tongue in her cunt, pushing it into soft pillows of warm, inviting flesh.
Compared with the dry neat Sierra of my little sister’s fanny Jen’s was the Amazon, lush, wet and bushy, and my appreciation of each was enlarged by my appreciation of the other.
Jen seemed to be appreciating it, too, as she began to press her fanny into my mouth and grind it against me.  She began to pant and I could feel in the fleshy cushions of her thighs squeezing against my cheeks the little quivers I’d been able to wake in Janet with my finger at her cunt.  Finally she jammed her fanny into my mouth, arched her back off the mattress from buttocks to the back of her head and squealed, fortunately quietly.  Then she collapsed back on the mattress, grabbed me by the ears and began trying to pull me up her body by main force.
“Come on, quickly,” she was gasping.
On, quickly, I could do but come I delayed as long as possible.  To my astonishment Jen came three more times while I was delaying and a final massive forth time which had her arching her body off the mattress with me on top of it and her wire-bound teeth sunk in my shoulder, as my pumping prick squirted my spunk against her soft 13-year-old insides for the one and only orgasm my sex is allowed - in any one fifteen-minute spell, anyway.  
She collapsed under me, panting, and I collapsed on top of her, panting.
“Ohmygosh,” I panted.   My eleven-year-old sister had already staggered me with demonstrations of how superior the female can be in matters sexual if she choses and it was almost depressing to be getting the same lessons from a tubby 13-year-old.
“Come again?” she queried once she’d unfastened her steel-netted fangs from my shoulder and, well, all I can say is that I gave it my best.

6

After time for only one more session in the caravan with Jen my fifteenth birthday came around and dad offered me a choice of a party at home or a dinner at a restaurant for the family with a guest of my choice.
Not being a party animal I chose the dinner, and for the guest I chose Jen.
We duly picked her up at her house and as she walked down the drive to the car I caught sight of a spasm of dismay on my father’s face at the sight of her for though she and her mother had done their best it really hadn’t been very successful.  I had tried to get my parents to understand that Jen was not a girlfriend, just a friend who happened to be a girl but they had decided that at my age I should have a girlfriend and obviously the girl I’d invite to a posh dinner on my birthday would be that girl.  In fact the girl who was most like my girlfriend in the sense they meant was their daughter so I suppose in a way my girlfriend was at my birthday dinner after all.
So my father’s reaction to Jen actually annoyed and embarrassed me as well as making me sad.  Poor Morrie.
I think he understood me better by the end of the evening as Jen, once you were used to her, was quite good company.  She was shy and wouldn’t initiate a conversation, but once you could draw her into it and she forgot herself she could be quite entertaining.   I think she quickly won my mum over and treated Kate as an equal, which Kate bathed in.  For my part I was just tingling with the realisation that I had kissed the fannies of, and had my pricks in the mouths of, the two girls sitting at the table with me. What, I had to wonder, would be the expression on dad’s face if he knew that.  Not that I was at all anxious to find out.
In the car journey home I was squeezed in the back seat with Kate on one side and Jen on the other, and it was actually Kate who let her little bottom rub against mine rather than Jen.  The temptation to slip my hands into the knickers of the girl to either side of me and do a direct comparison of their fannies suddenly appealed powerfully to a slightly inebriated mind but fortunately I retained just enough sanity to resist it.
At Jen’s house I said goodby to her just as if she had been one of my mates and tried not to look at the back-end of the caravan sticking out of the garage.  Two streets from home dad turned into a pub car-park.
Because of the drive home he hadn’t drunk much at the restaurant - mum couldn’t drive because of a medical condition - and now he fancied a nightcap.  Mum went in with him to make sure a nightcap was all it was.  They promised they wouldn’t be a minute, which must be the parental promise most often broken although as it was nearly closing time it clearly couldn’t be very much more than a few minutes.  While they were still walking away through the car-park my hand was on my little sister’s knee and slipping up a cool, satin thigh.  
Kate was in a little dress, looking cute, which meant that I couldn’t get down into her knickers from belt level, and it was so tight with her sitting on it that I could only just get my fingertips on the soft cotton of her knickers before my advance was trapped.
“Oh, OK, as it’s your birthday,” she said in a weary voice, but which I knew would be accompanied by a wicked grin I couldn’t see in the shadows.  She lifted her bottom and worked her dress up to her waist.  I slipped my hand under her knickers-elastic and cupped the curve of her body, drinking in the soft, tight folds of flesh which had been haunting me all night - my little sister’s fanny.
“Don’t do too much,” she said warningly as I tried to worm a finger between her labia and into her little tight vagina.  “You know it always smells a little bit.”
Regretfully I had to admit she had a point.  Playing with any cunt, even my little sister’s, seemed always to release some of that tangy girl-sex scent and in an enclosed space like the car a little would go a long way.  I certainly wouldn’t have put it past mum to have nosed it on their return.  Had it been Jen sitting beside me on the back seat I might have got away with it but when it was my little sister?  I think not.
I withdrew from her vagina.
“Let me,” she said and her hand outlined the hard shape on my prick in my trousers.  I slid my hand out of her knickers and she straightened up her dress.  Then she undid my flies, extracted my prick and bent down over it.  If there is a boy-sex smell I’ve never noticed it.
“Don’t go to sleep,” Kate hissed from my lap.  “I don’t want mum and dad coming back to find me doing this.”  Then her little mouth closed over my prick.
I didn’t want mum and dad to find their eleven-year-old daughter sucking off their now fifteen-year-old son in the back of their car either and there was no way I was about to go to sleep during an act of fellatio, but as I was slightly tiddly to begin with it was hard not to close my eyes and drift off into the warm sea of sensation with its sparkling billows which filled my body as my little sister played with my prick in her mouth.  I stroked her hair gently, listening to her breath heavily through the nose because, of course, her mouth was full.  Her hair completely covered both her head and my lap but anyone passing the car would have had a good idea what she was doing from the motions of her head in its thick veils of gold.
Kate surfaced, took a deep breath and dived again.
I still had absolutely no idea why she did it.  Particularly at times like this when it was all one-way traffic.  I loved having Jen go down on me and I knew she loved having me go down on her so I suppose there was a quid pro quo but I’ve no reason to think  having my prick in her mouth actually did anything for her the way having it in her cunt did.  I enjoyed having her cunt in my mouth because, well, because cunt is the centre of a man’s life.  He comes out of it (and into it!) and spends the rest of his life trying to get back into it.  More, though, I enjoyed feeling Jen’s responses to what I was doing.  It pleased me that it was pleasing her.  If it hadn’t I probably wouldn’t have bothered.
And there was my answer.  Kate probably didn’t enjoy having my prick in mouth very much, but giving me this sort of pleasure gave her pleasure which was why she did it.  Which was basically what she’d said when I asked her.  God, I’m so stupid.
I leaned down and kissed her on the top of her bobbing head.
“You keep watching,” she growled around my prick.
For courtesy’s sake I warned her when I felt myself coming but I’m sure she was well able to track the progress of my orgasm by then.  She held herself still, lips clamped just under the rim around the base of my glans and her tongue somehow arranged to absorb the force of my spunk spurting out and directing it where she wanted it.  Once I’d finished she gathered it together in her mouth, swallowed, cleaned the last ooze from my prick, swilled her mouth around a couple of times and then swallowed noisily again.
“Ugh,” she grimaced as usual.  I made a move to kiss her and share the taste but at that moment mum stepped out of the pub, dad at her heels, and I was suddenly busy getting my prick back into my trousers.
“You two OK?” mum asked as she climbed into the passenger seat.
“Uh-huh,” Kate responded innocently and sleepily from one corner of the back seat and “Never felt  better,” I assured her with perfect honesty from the other.

7

The next week-end I was asked if I would mind baby-sitting my little sister as mum and dad had been invited to a dinner party.  Ever devious and cunning I pretended to be underwhelmed by the idea but grudgingly agreed even as my heart sang, ‘bath-night with Kate,’ and went pitter-patter.
It was seven-thirty for eight so they left at seven.  There was, though, a TV programme Kate and I both wanted to watch until eight.  Not that I saw much of it.  At my leering invitation Kate had come over to sit herself in my lap almost as soon as mum and dad were clear of the drive, and she watched the programme from my arms while I enjoyed the feel of her body in them, tunnelled my face through her fabulous hair to gnaw at her tiny neck, imagined in glorious technicolour what we were going to be doing later that evening and felt my prick grow harder and harder under her little bottom until poor Kate must have thought she was sitting on a log.
As the credits rolled Kate wriggled out of my lap and asked, “Shall I go run the bath?” I nodded.  On a Saturday night she was allowed to stay up until 10 so eight seemed a bit early but I wasn’t about to argue.  When she’d left the room I shut the TV off.  There were some good programmes scheduled for the evening but nothing even remotely as good as seeing my little sister naked in the bath.
“I’m ready,” floated down from above in angelic tones.
Not wanting to appear to be too eager I took the stairs only two at a time.
It had only been about a month since I had last seen her in the bath but I had forgotten how lovely she was.  Then I noticed that the bathroom was full of steam and that Kate’s legs and bottom in the bathwater were lobster pink.
“Sis?”  I wondered what she was at.  She normally ran the water hot, but not this hot.
“Gets cold too quickly,” she explained.  Puzzled I draped a hand in the water and snatched it out.  It was too hot for me, yet my little sister was sitting in it.
“I don’t know how you can,” I said, awed.
I took up the shower head and set it to something slightly cooler.  Then I saturated, shampooed, washed, rinsed, shampooed, washed, rinsed, conditioned, massaged, rinsed, wrung-out and rubbed my sister’s fantastic hair as dry as I could.  Then she took it off me, coiled it about her head and turbaned it with a towel all as usual, by which time, nearly 25 minutes later, the bath-water was down to a temperature I could probably just about have sat down in myself.  Kate’s legs and little bottom, though, were still a bright pink and in truth I was a little worried about it.
Usually at this point she’d stand up in the bath and let me pat and then towel her dry, all over, as the water drained away.  This night, though, she surprised me by stretching out in the bath again.  With her feet at the tap-end she could, even with her legs straight, get most of her body to the shoulders in the water and her head even surmounted by the turban was below the rim of the bath.  Somewhat puzzled I waited for her.  Had she decided, I wondered with a sinking heart, to tell me that she didn’t want to suck me off any more?  God knows she shouldn’t be sucking me off.  Not at her age.  And not her brother at any age.
“John?” she queried, and when she used my Christian name I knew she wasn’t about to ask me just to hand her a towel.   She hesitated and then, as though rushing a fence, asked, “Are you shagging Morrie?”
  I find it odd that although the three words describe exactly the same thing girls seem to find it reasonably easy to say ‘shag’, will say ‘screw’ if pressed or upset but will only in extreme circumstances say ‘fuck’.  Or perhaps there are subtle nuances in them for girls that don’t exist for boys, the way the Eskimos have 37 different words for snow and the Ancient Greeks had 110 for love, or something like that.  Morrie would know.
I had to overcome my shock at the question before I could even begin to think how I could avoid telling the truth to my sister without lying.  Then I realised I’d already told her just by the delay in thinking about it, for any boy accused of shagging Morrie when he hadn’t would be bristling with instant denials.
“Ah, we have,” I said cautiously. Kate gave a single slight nod to herself, as if I’d just confirmed something.
“We’d rather.. er.. not have it... er..  you know... become public knowledge,” I said hopefully.
“Oh, I expect they know,” said my little sister confidently.  I wilted, but even if ‘they’ knew I was reasonably sure it hadn’t become a fact on the boy’s side of the divide.
“So I suppose everyone will know,” I said somewhat bitterly.
“Oh no,” said Kate, surprised.  “Only they know.  No-one else will.  And I won’t tell anyone.”
Who the Hell were ‘they’ I wanted desperately to know.  I knew, though, that I’d never get it out of Kate.  From what she had said it was clearly not the entire female population of the school though.  Just one of those cliques that girl’s love to form.  Kate, though, was clearly part of it and Morrie, equally, wasn’t.  Did it know what I did to my little sister?  With a sinking feeling I knew I would never know which female eyes fastened on me in the schoolyard or drilled into my back in the classroom while the mind behind it thought, “That’s the prick that gets his little sister to suck him off.”  How would I ever be able to ask any girl in the school for a date if I thought there was a chance she might know I fingered my own sister and inserted foreign objects in her cunt.  Shit!
“Do you, ah, mind?” I asked.
“Me?”  Kate was genuinely surprised.  Then she shrugged her little shoulders and woke waves in the bath.  It was nothing to do with her, they said.  “Morrie’s OK,” she said.  I was probably the only boy in the school who would have said the same thing.
She hadn’t finished.  I could see from the tension in her shoulders, the look on her face and the fact she’d closed her eyes so as not to see me that the question about Morrie had not been the main one.  A diversion even.  I set my arms on the bath rim, my chin on my arms and studied my little sister’s naked body in case I might never see it again.
And saw on her chest, beneath the little pink circles with the tiny buds at their centres that were her baby nipples, the faintest hint of puffiness with water lapping around them.  Circular cushions no bigger than the face of my wristwatch raised the skin of my sister’s chest beneath each nipple the thickness of a matchstick.  It was probably only the way the light was lying and the water was playing on her body that enabled me to see it at all, but it was breathtakingly clear to me that my little sister’s breasts had begun developing.
“John?” she asked again as I reeled with excitement at my discovery.  “I know I’m only little and not a real girl and I’m your sister and you don’t want to do it with me but would you help me break my cherry.  Please?”,  she said all in a rush.
Breathless with excitement at the realisation that my eleven-year-old sister’s breasts had begun growing I barely heard the question.  Breasts fascinated me.  They fascinate all men unless they’re gay or dead.  Maybe, Oh God maybe, my little sister would let me watch hers grow.  Let me chart their progress from day to day with the most delicate touch of my fingertips, the gentlest touch of my tongue.  No gardener with a single seed from the only black rose in the world would watch and nurture that plant as attentively and lovingly as I would love and cherish my sister’s budding breasts.
“What?” I said to Kate.
“Please?” she said to me.
From the tone of voice it was clear she’d asked something important to her.  With an effort I banished her little breasts from my mind and tried to remember what she’d said.  When I thought I’d got the gist of it and understood what I thought she’d said my heart stopped.
“You want me.....?”  I squeaked.
She looked worried I was about to hit her.  “I know I’m not a real girl yet like Janet or Morrie, and I’m only your sister.  But I’d much rather you did it than anyone. Please?”
Unbelievably she must actually have said what I thought she couldn’t possible have said.  “Your cherry?” I echoed, still not able to believe it.   She nodded, worried eyes on my face.
Thirty seconds ago I would have said nothing but nothing could have made me forget those exquisite little brand new pads on my sister’s chest.  I’d forgotten them.
“Now?” I asked.  She nodded.
“But you’re so small,” I breathed.  “I mean, shouldn’t you wait ‘til you’re twelve or something?”
“That’s a year,” she wailed.  Another ten percent of her entire lifetime to date.  And she’d still be a year younger than Morrie.
“I know, but.....”  I said hopelessly.  God knows I’d been fantasising for months about taking that last huge step with Kate and slipping my prick up her cunt, but I also knew that the biggest thing I had actually been able to do it with so far - the long tapering neck of a wine-bottle - had been just under an inch wide at the point she’d finally asked me to stop, teeth gritted against the pain.  As only three inches of the bottle had been in her vagina at that point and I knew she could take over six, and as the shaft of my erect prick was a good half-inch wider yet at its thickest point, I did not see how I could hope to get it through and into her.
“You’re just too small,” I said helplessly.  Where could she possible have acquired the idea I didn’t want to do it with her because she was my sister?  I’d been dreaming of it for weeks. Then I remembered that in this very bath where it had all begun three months or so before, when she had taken my prick in her little hands for the first time, she had asked if my prick was stiff because it wanted to go in her vagina and I’d said yes but it couldn’t because she was too small.  And she was my sister.  Since then I’d never even tried to introduce my prick into her cunt except for that once when I’d slid my prickhead up and down her little crack, and had abruptly taken it away and apologised to her.  So she’d thought I didn’t want to.
“I’m big enough inside,” she said defiantly and, I believed, correctly.  “You’ve only got to break my cherry.  And,” she added, less defiantly but with what I knew was her tone of heels-in determination, “They say it’s easy to break your cherry if you sit in a bath as hot as you can, and let it soak.”
So that was why she had damn near cooked herself.
“And,” she added finally in a small voice, “Other brothers do it with their sisters.”
Was that just schoolgirl-lore or did she know for sure?  Schoolboy-lore said the same but I didn’t know a single real schoolboy who’d actually said he’d done it.  Not all the way.  Not so’s you’d believe him.
“You know that brothers and sisters are not supposed to do it with each other.” I said carefully.
Kate looked at me tight-lipped. Stubborn.  “Why not?” she asked.
She really wanted to know.  She’d heard from ‘them’ that some girls let their brothers fuck them and had decided as part of her exploration of this new world of sex that she wanted me to fuck her as presumably I was the only boy who might, or at least the only boy she felt she could ask who might.  Now I was telling her I shouldn’t and she wanted to know why I shouldn’t.  And for the life of me I couldn’t think of any reason why I shouldn’t.  Apart from the fact that I guessed my father would kill me if he found out I’d fucked my little sister.
“Well, dad would kill me if he found out,” I told her.
“I wouldn’t tell,” she said, and I believed her.
“Well....”  I shrugged helplessly that I didn’t know why I wasn’t supposed to fuck her.
“I know a girl who lets her brother shag her,” she told me quietly, with a kind of desperation.  “She says they made it a rule in olden days when people had huge families all living in one house ‘til they were grown up and sometimes even then.  And if they hadn’t made the rule all the sisters would have had babies with the brothers and wouldn’t go away and get married.  But we’re not a big family and I won’t have babies for years yet and you’ll go away to get married some day and so will I.”
I was vaguely aware there was something about it in the Bible too but, as I’ve said, we’re not a particularly religious family and didn’t really take a lot of notice of what the bible said, tho’ mum went to church sometimes.  I even thought the explanation Kate had given had more than a hint of authenticity tho’ I had a suspicion babies came into it another way too, genetics or something, but that was on next year’s curriculum .  Morrie would probably know, except that I couldn’t think of any way of casually bringing it into the conversation.  In any case Kate was probably right.  She couldn’t have babies for years yet, according to the biology I remembered.
And she’d made the stunning claim that she knew a girl who let her brother fuck her.  I found it stunning, anyway.  A year ago when I and all my friends had been virgins and girls had not had the slightest interest in us, one or another of us with a sister the right age might have claimed to have fucked her and thus gained a priceless status advantage over the rest of us.  Now, though, when there were real girls to fuck, no-one would claim to be fucking his own sister.  Where was the kudos in that?
I would have thought that girls would have been even more careful about who they admitted was fucking them.
I was interested, too, in Kate’s phraseology.  She knew a girl who ‘let’ her brother shag her. Not ‘wanted to’ or ‘did it with’.
“How old is she?” I asked.  I knew I hadn’t a hope of learning a name but thought the girl’s age at least might be in the public domain.
For a few moments I didn’t think I was even going to get that.  Then Kate admitted, “Twelve,” reluctantly.
“And her brother?”
Kate’s lips clamped shut tight.
I was as hard as iron but still fully dressed and my prick as straining to get out of its cloth cage.   My sister was lying in the bath with only her toes,  knees and body above the waist visible above the soapy water.  An anxious face regarded me from under the turban.
“Will you?” she asked.  “Please?”
I wanted to, and couldn’t think of a single damn reason why I shouldn’t.  Actually I probably could have thought of half-a-dozen reasons why I shouldn’t but didn’t try too hard.  No man of iron, me, save in the prick department.  And my prick knew what it wanted.
“OK,” I capitulated.  “What do you want me to do?”
She smiled but still looked tense and nervous.  
“Just lie on your back on the floor,” she ordered.  “And get him ready.”
No problem there.  There was a little more room than I needed to stretch out on my back on the floor beside the bath, and he’d been ready for some time.  I slipped my underpants and trousers off but kept my socks and T-shirt on.
“OK.  Ready,” I said.
There was a moment’s quiet before I heard my little sister take a breath like an athlete preparing for the off.  Water sloshed in the bath as she stood up.  She’d been in the water for a good half-hour and the skin of her legs had acquired that slightly flabby, pale, waterlogged look although the rose-pink marks  were still visible where she’d taken the water as hot as she could bear.  She’d done that because she’d decided to pop her cherry tonight, and I had quibbled about it.  I felt humbled.
She bobbed down slightly in order to open her legs and then wiped the bar of soap several times in her groove, no doubt something else ‘they’ had recommended.  Then she stepped out of the bath, knelt astride my thighs and lowered herself onto me, dripping.
I was holding my prick upright for her like a spike and felt, and saw, my little sister’s body make contact with it. She repositioned herself slightly and I felt it slide into her crack.  She wriggled again, gazing straight ahead towards the radiator but seeing nothing as she located the target.  I felt the tip of my prick with its little mouth slip into her hole.  Kate held for a moment, her little teeth starting to gnaw at her bottom lip, her eyes open but unfocussed, then began lowering herself.  
I was half an inch in, and already I could feel the ring of skin beginning to resist me. It was as if I was trying to roll a small but strong elastic band down my prickhead.  Between my sister’s legs I could see her little labia, those loose lip-like flaps that guard the entrance to her vagina to - normally - keep things out of it being parted by my prickhead as Kate pressed her crack down on it.  Another quarter-inch in and I could feel the first of those warm billows of girl-flesh inside her vagina brushing against the tip of my prick but the ring of skin at its entrance was tight around my prickhead.  Painfully tight for me and probably ten times worse for Kate.  If you’re a boy, imagine spreading your fingers so wide that you actually split that little web of skin at the base between them.  Then imagine doing it on purpose.  Slowly. That, basically, was what my little sister was doing with her hymen, her virginity, her maidenhead, her cherry.
She stopped and I knew she was at her limits.  My prick was trying to bend under her weight and that was painful although I was squeezing it in my hand to support it.  Kate was carrying all that weight on a tiny ring of skin, which felt like a tourniquet around my prickhead.  The next half-inch included the flare at the base of my bulge which was the widest part of my prick and I could see between her vaginal lips that the ring of skin had squeezed my prickhead slightly causing its rim to flare out even more.  We’d tried, I was hugely disappointed but she was just too small still.  And it was hurting me though not, I suspected, half as much as it was hurting her.
“Enough, Sis,” I breathed.  “We can try again another day.”
By way of reply she bared her teeth and jagged herself downwards.
For a terrible moment I thought my prick was going to snap in half like a carrot and in fact the next day I did find some bruising down the shaft where the sudden spike of pressure in an already pressurised object, my prick, had broken some of the small blood vessels. I never told Kate this.  There was a jab of pain, too, from my prickhead and I heard a small squeal from Kate over my head.  Then the tourniquet vanished from my helmet and the pressure eased and I was through the ring and inside my sister.
She had just jabbed down the half-inch and was holding herself still with my bulge just inside her body until the pain of her torn skin ebbed.  I saw her relax slowly, her little skinny shoulders drop as she let the tension go and the grimace of pain on her white face fade.  Her eyes came back into focus, I knew she’d felt the bulge of my prickhead inside her and she smiled with triumph and satisfaction.
Carefully she eased herself down my pole until her fanny came in contact with my hand with which I was still holding my prick steady, unnecessarily now.  I took it away and she eased herself further down.  My eyes watched my prick disappearing into her body, being swallowed by it, while my prick could feel the warm soft billows of my baby sister’s vagina enfolding and sliding past it.
There was a smear of blood on my hand where her fanny had rested on it.  My little sister’s virgin blood.  Her weight settled across my thighs, the front of her crack where it curved up from beneath her was pressed against the sandy curls of my bush of pubic hair.  The sheath of my little sister’s vagina was wrapped lovingly around my prick and the ring of skin at its entrance was tight around its base.  I was in.  All the way in.
Little Kate sighed as she could sit her weight across my thighs and relax.  She leaned forward slightly and her shoulders drooped with relief, and in that position her tiny breasts appeared on her chest again.  It may have been the position she was in, it may have been the angle I was looking from but I felt knew I had never seen them before, yet would have done had they been there.  It was several weeks since I had last seen my sister naked, and I was sure they had grown in that time.
“Done it,” Kate breathed with satisfaction and my prick acknowledged the fact with a happy twitch.  A spasm of pain flashed across her face.
“Yes you have,” I agreed, holding her by her tiny waist.  “And as soon as you’re ready we’ll do it properly.  But not tonight.”
Kate nodded, clearly relieved that I wasn’t going to try to fuck her properly.  “They say you should leave it in as long as you can,” she explained.  “Otherwise it just heals itself up and you’re back where you started.”
That made a kind of sense, and anyway I was in no position to challenge what ‘they’ said.  ‘They’ presumably knew a lot more about breaking girl’s cherries than I did. In quite remarkable detail, it seemed. Anyway I was quite happy just to lie there with my little sister sitting across my thighs and my prick humming happily to itself in the tight, soft embrace of her vagina.  I showed her the blood on my hand. She made a face.
“Does it hurt much?” I asked.  Kate wrinkled her nose in thought.
“A bit at the front,” she admitted.  “In the back it feels nice.”
A girl’s perspective, I realised.  To me a vagina had an top and a bottom.  An up and a down.  To my sister it had a front and a back.
Something odd about her was tickling the back of my consciousness.  OK, so I guess there’s nothing much normal about a naked eleven-year-old girl sitting astride her fifteen-year-old brother on the bathroom floor with his prick buried in her cunt, but apart from that there was still something odd.  Then I twigged what it was.  My little sister’s hair.
In all my fantasies about having sex with my little sister she was surrounded by her golden halo of hair.  Yet here she was, pretty much as far into sex as you could go - well, she was pretty and I was as far into her sex as I could go - and all I could see were a few loose strands of gold which had crept out from under the towel on her head and were stuck to the moisture beading her forehead.  A dream had come true and I was grizzling that the dream wasn’t true.  Idiot.
“What?”  Kate’s enquiry was half-laugh, half puzzlement as I giggled at the thought.
Grinning I shook my head in denial.  I wasn’t about to let her know how much I’d looked forward to the day I’d feel my prick in her cunt, and how much I’d worried that she’d never agree to let me put it there.
“What?”  Her laugh was more insistent.
“Oh, it’s just that you look odd without your hair.  Different, somehow.”  
She looked smaller.  She looked tiny.
Kate playfully stuck her tongue out at me, sneering.  It was the gesture of a child.  She looked like a child.  For God’s sake she was a child.  Without its frame of golden waves her face looked tiny and doll-like. Without the great fall of hair behind it her neck looked long, slim and fragile as the stem of the old clay tobacco pipe dad had dug out of the garden.  Without the support of its soft billows her shoulders looked thin and frail.  Without the weight of the years such a mass of hair must have taken to grow her little breastless body could have been a six-year-old’s. A two-year-old’s.
She was a girl-child experiencing for the first time a man inside her where a man should be - a once-in-a-lifetime event which perhaps only the first experience of her first baby kicking in her womb will equal in significance and will say to her so clearly that from that moment on she was something different, something new - and the glow of pride on her face told me plainly that she knew it.
Men have nothing like it.  I remembered the first time I felt my prick going into a girl’s cunt.  In the park one night with Janet.  Hasty, hurried, as much aware of the cold air on my bum and terrified that a torch beam was going to spring out of the darkness at us and pin us to the grass like butterflies than I was of the feel of a girl around my prick.  And it had been a plastic-wrapped prick, too.  The first time I had really had my prick inside a girl, rather than in a plastic tube inside a girl, was in the caravan with Morrie. The first time I had placed my sperm inside a girl as nature intended rather than cheating nature by squirting it into a plastic bag, was with Morrie after I’d fucked Janet half-a-dozen times.  So which was really my first time?  I suddenly felt cheated.
My little sister was looking down at me, her expression still puzzled.
“Is it usual.....?” I began.  “I mean....  You’re only eleven, Kate.  Is it usual for girls to do it for the first time at eleven?”
I’d used her name, so she’d know the question was important to me.  Kathleen Rosemary Alice Collins looked down at me, little teeth at work on her lips as she pondered her answer and her vagina still and silky around my prick.
“I’m twelve in September,” she observed, but we both knew that wasn’t the answer.
“A lot of girls,” she said slowly.  “Don’t know anything about it.  They know they’ve got a hole between their legs but they don’t know what it’s for and they just don’t think to wonder what it’s for.”  OK, I’d had a scrotum for nearly thirteen years before learning what it was for, and I don’t ever remember wondering what it might be for during all that time.  It just was, like the sky was blue.
“But some of us begin hearing things from older girls.  About what it’s for, and boys, and pricks and things.  And when you learn that a boy puts his prick in it to make babies, and that having a prick in it is the nicest thing in the world, you start to wonder what it really is like.  To have a prick in it.
“But it’s awfully hard to find out.  Bigger boys aren’t interested in you.  You’re not a real girl, with tits and things.  And they wouldn’t be seen dead going out with an eleven-year-old.  And they know there’d be big, big trouble if they did.
“So it’s only us girls with big brothers who like them well enough to do it can do it.  Or cousins sometimes.  It’s got to be a boy we’re supposed to be with.  We’re allowed to be with. Who we know isn’t going to spread it around.  Boys don’t like boasting that they do it with their sisters.  But a lot of them do.”
That all made perfect sense.  Then Kate shrugged, and winced as it jolted her vagina on my prick.
“And sometimes it’s her dad,” she said with a small voice.
It wasn’t a matter of schoolboy lore that fathers were sometimes sent to prison for having sex with their daughters.  It was a matter of fact.
“Has dad ever......?” I asked stupidly.
“No,” Kate flared, straightening up and then wincing as it shifted her vagina on my prick again.  “He’s never touched me.  Like that.”
“But would you mind if he did?” I asked.  Hide like a rhino, that’s me.
My little sister stiffened and glared at me angrily.  Then her anger died and she relaxed, carefully so as not to jar her wound against my prick.
“Not yet,” she said flatly.  “He’ll be much bigger than you.  But when I’m bigger I don’t think I’d mind.  As long as he’s gentle.  Which he would be.  But I don’t think he will, though.  Do it, that is.  He’s not that kind of dad.”
I was vaguely aware there were different kinds of dad.  ‘They’, though, and thus Kate would be bound to have a very much better idea what kind of dad had sex with his daughter.
“But he could go to prison,” I exclaimed.
Kate gave a tired smile of infinite wisdom.  “Only if he’s found out. And if I didn’t want him to be why should he be?”
I couldn’t argue with that.  The idea of dad having sex with Kate made me jealous.  I wanted her for myself.
Kate had been sitting on me for maybe ten minutes and my prick was still as stiff as a lamp-post.  Just being inside my sister was enough to keep it stiff.  I think I’d have been happy just to lie there all night with it inside her, just feeling her moist warmth and the gentle squeeze of her cunt around me.  Janet, I decided, didn’t count any more.  Having a condom on spoiled it too much, for the boy anyway.  I supposed it was all the same for the girl.  Jen’s cunt didn’t feel the same as my little sister’s.  It was sort of ‘roomier’.  Like it had been designed for a bigger prick than mine, though it still felt damn nice.  But then Jen was old enough to have babies, so her cunt had to be big enough for babies.  Kate wasn’t old enough to have babies so her cunt wouldn’t be big enough yet.  So it was bound to be smaller.  QED.
We sat, or rather Kate sat and I lay, for several minutes more without talking.  Kate seemed to spend all the time just getting used to the feel of the thing inside her, I stroked the smooth, soft skin of her legs spread wide over me and the firmness of her waist.  I could just see in the tiny gap under her body where she couldn’t quite get herself flat, the very bottom of my prick growing out of my little bush of hair like a tree and then disappearing into her crack.  It made me feel good.
Kate experimentally eased herself up and down a quarter-inch and the warm cushions inside her cunt stroked my prickhead.  Her lips twisted as though it hurt.  Gritting her teeth she lifted her body off mine and I watched my prick appear out of her crack.  It was shining as though highly oiled and I could see little threads of blood on it. I could still feel the ‘ring’ around it, nothing like as tight as before but still there and when it bumped against the rim of my helmet Kate stopped with a little hiss.  A moment later she popped herself upwards a half-inch and stopped to let what was obviously a fresh spurt of pain ebb away.  Half of the pink bulb of my prickhead was still inside her and as I watched without breathing a little tear of shining dark red blood appeared on it to trickle slowly down the shaft.
My little sister lifted herself off me, stood and stretched deliciously.  The movement pulled the skin taut on her chest and the tiny little lumps that were her new breasts stood out clearly.  She was standing astride me and I was looking upwards at her slit.  Her vaginal lips were still sticking out of it a little way and there was blood on them.  
“Kate, can I kiss it better?” I asked.
She lowered her arms and looked down at me with surprise.  Then gave a careless shrug.  If you want, it said.
I scrambled to my knees, knelt before her and gently kissed her on the slit.  I could taste the blood, sweet and salty.  With my tongue I gently probed between her little lips and felt her hole under its tip.  The little round hole wasn’t round any more, but bigger and sort of triangular.
“Ow,” said Kate and pulled away.
“Sorry.”
She turned from me, pulled a length of loo-paper from the roll and made it into a wad which she carefully placed against her crack and then squeezed there with her thighs.
“Dry my hair?” she asked.
“Of course.”  I’d probably have cut my own leg off with a wooden knife had she asked.  “I’ll just clean up here first.”
Kate nodded and left the bathroom, walking a little awkwardly because of the wad.  I tidied up the towels we’d used, emptied the bath and washed it down.  Then I washed Kate’s blood and sex-juice off my prick at the sink.  I felt sad doing it.  In fact I’d have liked to have kept her virgin blood on my prick for ever as a reminder, but that wouldn’t have been very practical.
In her bedroom I dried her hair and gave it 100 brushstrokes, plus 10 for luck.  Then she stood up from the stool in front of her dressing-table, the little wad of tissue still pressed to her crack.
“Would he like a bath?” she offered.
He would, he told me in quite definite terms.
“Not tonight,” I ignored him.  Tonight was Kate’s night.  In olden days it would have been preceded by solemn ceremonies with the girl white and shining at the focus, parties, presents and the couple going upstairs with everyone cheering them on, knowing what they were going to do, with the proof it was done hung out of the window on the bed sheets in the morning.  All Kate had had was a bath.  She seemed happy enough but I was felt sad there hadn’t been more I could do to make it special for her.
She didn’t seem disappointed that she wasn’t going to have to suck me off. Carefully she removed the wad of tissue from her crack and looked at it.  There were dark brown stains on it, but nothing that looked fresh.
She handed it to me to dispose of and sorted through the bottles on her dressing-table for a tube of skin-cream, a blob of which she carefully applied to the wound in her crack.  Then she made another thick wad of tissues from a box, tucked it to her crack and carefully put her knickers on over it.  She put her cotton nighty on and climbed carefully into bed.
I perched on the edge of it.
“You are incredible,” I said.  “Fantastic.  Terrific.”  I ran out of superlatives and I’d meant every one.
My little sister wrinkled her tiny nose at me.  “I’m just a girl,” she said.  I guess that’s the problem.  Girls are incredible, fantastic, terrific.  Makes life hard for us boys, though.
I tucked her in, turned her light out and left her to dream whatever girls dream about when they’ve just lost their virginity.   The little wad of blue toilet-paper with the brown stains I wrapped carefully in cling-film, attached a label bearing the date though no name - after all, I wasn’t about to forget whose blood it was - and carefully hid it away in my ultra-secret hiding place with the porno book, next to a little package containing the condom I’d worn with Janet that first night in the park.  OK, so I’m sentimental.  Then I went downstairs slowly, one at a time.
When mum and dad came in an hour-and-a-half later I was sitting up looking at a TV I wasn’t watching.
“Everything OK?” dad asked.  Behind him mum made straight for the stairs.
I knew a moment of pure ice-cold panic.  Something would give me away.  Was there a spot of virgin blood I’d missed on the bathmat from which mum would instantly divine that I’d broken through Kate’s cherry earlier that evening?  Was there a mark on one of the towels on the radiator screaming ‘sex happened here’?  Was there a lingering scent of girl-sex still there under the soap and the deodorant and the after-shave and the lavatory-cleaner smells which mum would instantly recognise and understand? Did the bathroom mirror still show a reflection of a naked eleven-year-old girl sitting astride her brother’s thighs with his sex deep in hers?
I nodded at dad, afraid to speak in case the sheer terror gave me away.  He turned away and wandered off to the kitchen.
I heard the loo flush upstairs.  Dad came back with a beer.  Mum came downstairs and walked into the room.
“She’s fast asleep,” she said fondly to dad.
“OK, lad.  Time you were too,” Dad said to me, and I had to stand and walk from the room just as if my knees were not about to fold up under me.
I woke the next morning with a sore prick and a dreamlike memory of my baby sister sitting on it.  Indeed it took a moment to recall that it had been a real event and not a dream.  Still half-dazed I wandered down to the Sunday morning kitchen in my dressing-gown and froze with terror in the doorway.
Kate was already there, dressed in tight jeans and a top at the table with her back to me, staring down at her spoon toying with a half-eaten boiled egg in an egg cup. My father standing across the table from her had a face like thunder while my mother, at the sink with her back to me, looked as though she was sobbing.
They knew.  Clear as a bell they knew.  Had my little sister up and told them?  “Hey, Mum.  Guess what John did to me last night.”  Or had something given us away?  Had mum found Kate with that bloodstained pad of tissues between her legs?  Or asked her to explain some blood on her sheets?  Had it been something about the way Kate had walked that had told mum and dad she was not a virgin any more?  Had she winced as she had sat down and mum had known instantly it was a sore cherry. Or did parents just know these things psychically, allowing dad to pick up images from my brain of my little sister lowering herself onto my prick or mum to receive echos of Kate’s pain as her cherry was torn or share her experience of her brother’s prick in her vagina.  Oh God, however it had happened I was in deep shit.
“Kate, you horrible little girl?” dad roared.  My little sister suddenly exploded with a giggle which has been suppressed too long.  Amazed, I saw mum turn round and realised she was laughing silently too.
“You can shut up, Sheila.  I’ll bet you put the little minx up to it,” dad bellowed but already there was laughter and a kind of hammy resignation in his voice.  I saw some stains on his trousers and shirt which looked very much like egg.  I stood baffled with my mouth open and my heart at a standstill.  Dad caught sight of me.
“Thank God,” he said.  “The only other sane member of the family.  Do you know what these wretched women just did to me?”
It appeared that mum had given dad a practically raw egg in his egg-cup and Kate, in on the plot, had egged him (so to speak) into repeating a trick he’d demonstrated several times before - that of decapitating a boiled egg with a single sweep of his mighty table knife.  I’d actually found it quite impressive, particularly as I hadn’t yet been able to repeat it and dad hadn’t told me the secret.  This time, though, the practically raw egg had virtually exploded under his knife just as I was coming down the stairs, showering him with yoke and egg-white.
My heart began beating again and I determined my little sister would never know that her trick on dad had taken about ten years off my life.  Kate turned in her chair to give me a smile, happy and with a sparkle in her eyes meant only for me and a secret that was safe with her.  And the world was full of sunshine.

8

The bruising in my prick caused by the breaking of my little sister’s cherry precluded any form of sex for the next few days, including DIY.  Even an erection made it ache uncomfortably, which was unfortunate as every time I laid eyes on my little sister I wanted to lay a lot more on her with the consequence that my prick ended up feeling as if someone had hit it with a hammer.
I expect Kate, too, was happy to lay off sex for a while as the rip in her hymen must have been sore for a few days while it healed over but in any case almost as if they had been aware of what we had done and were going to make sure it didn’t happen again, mum and/or dad seemed to be with one or other of us all the time.
End of year examinations were only weeks away and Jen and I were really getting down to it.  Schoolwork, I mean.  Break times I spent with my mates discussing the cricket, world affairs, the future of democratic socialism in the late 20th Century, that kind of thing (I should cocoa!) but lunch hours and the half-hour the library remained open after school for student’s use I spent with Jen.  Naturally the question Kate had put to me was also put by a couple of my mates but, now armed for it, I think I bristled convincingly with suitably offended denials.  What couldn’t be denied was that I was improving fast in my previously poor subjects for which I gave the entire credit to Jen as often as I could, with the consequence that one of two of my more thoughtful friends also sneaked off to Jen for a bit of quiet coaching when they thought no-one was looking    - although I was confident they weren’t actively seeking a bit of anything else, and suspected Jen wouldn’t give it to them even if they were.
The Thursday after I had broken through my little sister’s cherry Jen invited me to her home.  Not to meet her mother (she said) although that was inevitable, but to give us three solid hours to work through some previous exam papers.  As that is an excellent way to prepare for exams, I agreed.
It made sense to use Jen’s home for it was closer to the school than mine but not far from the route from mine to school.  The invitation included tea so after setting it up with mum, we wandered there after school on the Thursday.
I knew Jen’s mum was divorced and re-married, and that Jen had two brothers.  The eldest, Mark, was 20 and had left home already for, with a job with a city electronics firm, he could afford his own flat.  His, and Jen’s, younger brother David was 17 and in his first year at the City University, and had also moved from home into his older brother’s flat.
This left in Jen’s home her mother and step-father, a boy and girl 8 and 5 respectively from her stepfather’s first marriage and two boys, 4 and 1, who were Jen’s half-brother and sister.  Quite a tangled web.  I knew, though, that as the house had only three bedrooms Jen shared hers with her 5-year-old step- sister (and wasn’t very happy about it), the baby boy still slept in his parents’ room and the other two boys -whose relationship to each other defeats me - shared a room. 
Jen’s mother turned out to be physically a larger version of her daughter - fat (to be honest) and no film-star in the face (to be polite).  If you’ve ever seen one of those rotund Ancient Earthmother statuettes in a museum you’ll get the idea. Personalitywise, though, she was the complete opposite of her daughter - outgoing, unflappable, jolly, completely open and bustling.  She welcomed me with open-arms, sat me down and began feeding me, and would probably still have been persuading me to “have another chocolate bun, dear.  ‘Nother cup of tea?” three hours later had not Jen rescued me after a decent interval. Her step-father merely acknowledged me with a nod and returned to the TV.
Jen had secured the table in the dining room, which secured us some peace and quiet, and sanctuary from the three mobile children although every half-hour or so Jen’s mother would poke her head in the door and ask if I wanted a “Nother cup of tea. Or there’s coffee.  Or I can easily fix a cocoa if you’d like,” although I assumed her real purpose was to make sure I wasn’t trying to get into her daughter’s knickers and entice her off the straight and narrow - something neither of them were to begin with!
I was numb from the neck up by 9:00 when Jen called a halt, although as I didn’t have to be home by 10:00 we could have kept going for another half-hour.  I screwed the top back on my pen and tapped my nose with in a ‘thinking-of-something-else’ kind of way - it was ‘Kate’s pen’ and I was sure I could still smell faint traces of her little girl-sex on it - and then began stuffing my share of the acreage of the paperwork spread over the table into my bag.
“‘Nother cup of tea?” Jen asked.  “Or coffee.  Or I can fix you a cocoa?”  Her imitation of her mother was perfect.
“No.  No thanks.”  I assured her.
“Fancy a half-hour in the caravan?” Jen enquired blythly.
It had been more than a week since I’d last ejaculated and my prick was still waiting to finish what it had started in Kate’s little cunt beside the bath, especially as it had stopped hurting.  I probably had as much spunk in me bursting to get out as I had Jen’s mother’s tea.
“Er, well yes.  But...”
“But?” Jen enquired mildly.  I had a unnerving feeling she was enjoying something I knew nothing about.
“Well, your mother.  Won’t she notice?  If you’re away half-an-hour?  Maybe come looking?”  Jen’s mother might be wider than she was high but she was still plenty high enough to see into the caravan through its windows.
Jen paused and from the look of suppressed glee on her face I knew she was thoroughly intending to enjoy the next few moments.
“Oh, Mum knows we shag in the ‘van,” she said casually.
Jen had turned me to jelly before, but never like this.
“She knows?” I wailed faintly.
Hugging her joy at my reaction Jen nodded slow confirmation.  I was horrified speechless.  A fifteen-year-old boy would rather go and live on bugs in a cave in the Hindu Kush than have it known by an adult that he is actually shagging a girl.  Particularly when the girl is only 13 and the adult is her mother.
“Oh John,” crowed Jen gleefully.  “You should see your face.”
My brain was creaking into action again.  Usually 13-year-old girls had no reason to be overjoyed either if their mothers found out they were being shagged, by anyone of any age, so Jen had to be either pulling my leg or there was something much deeper here.
“True?” I frowned at her.
“True,” Jen confirmed and I believed her.   She relented and her smile turned from one of triumph to one of gentle sympathy.
“When they put me on the pill last year,” she explained.  “Mum and I had a good heart-to-heart about sex.  She said she wasn’t going to ask me to make any promises I would probably not keep and that anyway sex was so good that it seemed silly to waste a couple a’ years or more thinking about it when you could be doing it.  She said she knew I was too sensible to sleep around or waste it on some selfish prick - her words not mine - who’d just use me as an unpaid tart, and that all she’d ask is that I do it only with boys I think she’d like too.  As a matter of fact you’re the one and only boy I’ve used that licence with, John Collins,” Jen declared firmly.  “And I’m pleased to say that Mum likes you.”
Most girls who choose to do so have very little difficultly in sleeping around but I knew from the little pang which crossed her face as she said it that Jen was aware she wasn’t one of them.  It wasn’t that she particularly wanted to sleep around.  But I suppose it would have been nice for her to feel she had the option.
I was still thoroughly rattled.  A world in which mothers gave their 13-year-old daughters permission to have sex was like stumbling into a world where money really did grow on trees.  Almost too good to be true.
“So,” said Jen lightly.  “Caravan?  Or shall we spend half an hour discussing the reality of otherwise of the ghost in ‘Hamlet’?”
“Caravan,” I croaked hurriedly.
I had, of course, to bid my farewells to Jen’s mother.  Jen led me into the lounge where everyone was watching TV and said boldly, “We’re just popping out for a few minutes, Mum.”
Her Mum gave her a smile and a nod of consent.
“Er, thank you for the tea Mrs. Andrews,” I squeaked.  Then I remembered she’d remarried and wouldn’t be Mrs.Andrews any more.
“Grieg,” Jen prompted from behind me.
“Er, Mrs. Grieg,” I stammered.
“You’re very welcome, John,” said Jen’s mother sweetly.  “I hope you’ll come again.”  With that last sentence she looked right into my eyes knowingly and I realised she was perfectly well aware what we were popping out for a few minutes to do. Again.  My knees turned to water.
Jen hooked me out of the room, led me out to the caravan and let me in to it.  There, in the orange darkness she turned to face me.
I knew she wasn’t expecting me to sweep her into my arms and cover her face with kisses as happens to heroines with handsome lovers in the sort of books girls like to read.  Poor Morrie knew that sort of thing was not for the likes of her.  Usually she just began taking her clothes off.  Tonight, though, she didn’t.
“John,” she said shyly.  “This isn’t the right time of the month for me to want to shag.  I mean, we can if you want but it’s a bit uncomfortable for me and, well, messy. So if you don’t mind I’ll just do it with my mouth, unless...”  She had not yet taken me all the way to orgasm in her mouth as my little sister had but whether that was because we’d always been able to move on to a fuck or whether it was because she didn’t want me to come in her mouth I hadn’t known.  But I presumed that was what she was now offering to do, unless...
“Unless what?” I asked, confused.
“Unless you want to do it the other way,” she said carefully.
The other way?  How many ways were there to put your prick in a girl?
My bafflement must have been palpable in the near darkness because Jen said gently, “Haven’t you ever done it the other way?”
There was no disguising my ignorance.  “What ‘other way’?” I echoed faintly.
As if exclaiming in surprise and in a broad, soft Cornish burr Jen said, “Bugger me.”
“Oh,” I said even more faintly.
Schoolboys know all about the practice, of course.  It just rarely occurs to them that they might actually meet a girl willing to do it as most schoolboys assume a girl would only allow you to do it to them in exchange for large amounts of money.
“I’m not twisting your arm,” she said.  “I don’t suppose it appeals to everybody.  But if you’re curious this seems a good chance to find out.”
“Er, what do I do?” I asked.
“Take your pants off, for a start,” Jen suggested, taking her own off.
She took everything else off as well and then set about my prick with her mouth in the usual way.  When we reached the point where she normally drew me onto the bed, though, this time she knelt at it and leaned forward over it, presenting her bum to me.
“I’m sure I don’t really have to tell you what to do,” she hinted.
I knew the theory, of course, but that didn’t mean I could do it in practice.  I knelt between her feet and pressed my rigid prick between her buttocks. She couldn’t get her hand far enough round behind her to guide it into her as she did when I was coming at her from the front so she had to guide me by voice.
“Up a bit.  Bit more.  There.  Now press.”  
I pressed my prick between her buttocks and felt the little wrinkled orifice under its tip.  I pressed harder and it started to pass into and then through the eye of the wrinkles like a space-ship in one of those sci-fi films squeezing through an airlock into the space station.
It was a bit like breaking my sister’s cherry a few days before, but not much.  I was squeezing my way into Jen’s rectum but by forcing the hole wider rather than tearing my way through it.  When my bulge was inside her arse I could feel little quivers in the muscle surrounding the hole as though Jen was having to try hard to not clench her hole closed and force me out again.  In the spirit of discovery I pressed boldly on.
OK. I’ll admit I was worried about possibly meeting something coming the other way, but I didn’t and eventually I pressed my thighs against Jen’s generous buttocks with fully six inches of my prick in her rectum.
It felt odd, but oddly familiar.  Unlike Jen’s other hole her arse felt warm, dry and close-fitting instead of hot, wet and roomy, but for those reasons it was remarkably like my little sister’s vagina, even down to the tight ring gripping my prick at its base. Holding Jen by the hips I began shafting her and it was a pleasant sensation.  Not exhilarating, like fucking her in the cunt, but still enjoyable.  By leaning forward I could run my hands round under Jen’s body and hold her floppy little breasts in my hands, for of course she was facing down and gravity was having its way with them, and I had my way with them until Jen asked me politely not to.  They were, she explained, a little sensitive this time of the month.  So I went back to holding her by the waist again.  At least, where the waist would have been on a ‘normal’ girl.  I could feel against the underside of my prick something hard and slightly angular in the flesh beneath it and guessed it was a tampon in Jen’s vagina.  Schoolboys know all about tampons.
I felt my spunk stir and stopped shafting.
“Er, where do I come?” I asked shyly.
“Where you are’s fine,” Jen told me.  “I’ll be having a shower as soon as I get in.” Feeling a pang of shame that it is always the boy who leaves the girl with his mess to clean up, I made the mess and then knelt there panting, letting my prick shrivel inside her.
“What’s it like for you?” I asked, again in the spirit of discovery.
I saw Jen’s careless shrug in the dimness in front of me.
“It’s nice,” she said thoughtfully.  “But nothing to write home about.  It would never make me come, on its own.”
Writing home about it would be an interesting exercise, I mused.  ‘Dear Mum and Dad.  Having a wonderful time.  Saw Tower Bridge, the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben today.  Found out that having a boy stick his prick up my anus probably won’t make me have an orgasm.  Will be going to the Zoo tomorrow.  Love to Grandma.  Your loving daughter. XXX.’
I laughed.  I knew Jen probably wouldn’t appreciate it but I had to laugh.  Real girl-based orgasms make me feel so good I want to laugh and it doesn’t matter whether that orgasm happened in her cunt, her mouth or, I’d just discovered, her backside.  DIY orgasms were nice enough, but they never made me want to laugh.  There’s a moral there somewhere.  Amoral, no doubt.
“What is it?” Jen queried, rather icily.  I couldn’t blame her for feeling a bit - well - exposed to ridicule, kneeling there with my prick shrivelling inside her rectum.
“Oh, I feel so good,” I explained, still laughing gently and massaging her back.
“I see.  Well.  That’s all right then.”  She said coldly, and then giggled along with me.
I eased a distinctly floppy prick out of Jen’s back passage.  I’ll admit I was prepared for it to be brown and smelly.  As far as I could tell it in the dark was neither.  Jen pulled some tissues from a box that had appeared beside the caravan’s bed and stuck them between her buttocks.  Then she handed me a couple and I wiped my prick just in case.  There was a little waste bin, too.  Probably put there by Jen’s mother.
When we were dressed again and at the door to the caravan I gave Jen a hug and kissed the top of her head.  In part this was because this was the easiest part of her to reach, for the top of her head was level with my chin, and in part this was because kissing her on the mouth was like sticking your tongue through a chain-link fence.  I knew it would be only fair to give her more for the pleasure she’d given me in the twenty-five minutes just gone, for all I’d actually given her was a small glob of goo in the back-passage, but I couldn’t lie to her and she wouldn’t have believed me anyway.
“See you tomorrow,” I said.
“Yeah. See ya,” she agreed.

9

Sunday morning and I lay dozing in bed for that wonderful extra hour the idle are allowed on the Sabbath.
I’d had no more sex since buggering Jen on the Thursday for I don’t think I’d had more than two minutes alone with Kate since then.  It was frustrating, but there wasn’t a lot I could do about it.
“Hi.”
I dragged myself from immersion in a warm sea of semi-consciousness and peered blearily out over the top of my quilt into Bugs Bunny’s cheerful leer.
“Eh?”  I asked him.
“You gonna lie there all morning?”
Being harassed by Bugs Bunny is not my ideal way to start a Sunday morning.  I refocused my eyes. Bugs was printed on the front of my little sister’s nighty.
“Wassup?”
“Mum and Dad have gone to the Garden Centre,” Kate said.
I refocussed a lot more than my eyes.  First thing on a Sunday morning I might not be able to tell you William Shakespeare’s surname but with Math my brain is like oiled silk.  The Garden Centre - the nearest Garden Centre - was a twenty minute drive away.  They’d be there thirty minutes minimum.  They’d be gone at least seventy minutes.  And Kate was standing beside my bed in the green gloom of my curtains.  She hadn’t brought me breakfast in bed, I realised.  Just herself.
I raised an arm, opening a inviting gap between the quilt and the sheet I was lying on.  Kate pulled Bugs Bunny over her head, slipped her knickers down her legs and carefully placed both garments where they could be found in a hurry.  Then, totally naked, she slipped into my bed.
“Oooo.  What a grotty pit,” she observed from the inside.
I’m not a great conversationalist first thing in the morning.  In any case I had better things to do with my lips than talk.  My little sister had stood for a moment beside the bed with her arms stretched over her head, swathed in Bugs Bunny nighty from her chin up.  On her chest pulled tight by the pose were her tiny but distinct breasts and they were still there as she lay beside me in my bed.
I could cover them with my mouth.  I could cover them with my mouth with room to spare. In fact it was mostly room. Beneath lips pressed to my little sister’s chest around each little mound I could feel her ribs hard under her skin but beneath her little pimple of a nipple and that velvet, pink disc beneath them I could feel a gathering softness, the tiniest mounding of female flesh, and I drank it in to my heart.
Little Kate giggled.  “I think they’re starting,” she said proudly.  With my mouth trying to hatch them I couldn’t comment.
My free hand was on the warm, ice-smooth slopes of her stomach, stroking it.  Dipping fleeting fingertips into her little navel, shaping the sharp ridges of her hip-bones rising beneath the velvet of her skin, skating down the faces of her thighs and lightly tracing up the valley between them to rest a fingertip in the cleft in the cup of her body. And then darting off like a startled deer to graze on the soft prairie of her stomach again.
Kate’s silliness died in the face of my intensity.  I wasn’t playing.  I was worshipping her.  She relaxed and lay still, one hand resting lightly on the back of my head.
I sucked gently at her nipples, the first ever to do so.  I kissed the soft U at the base of her throat and lay with my hear to her chest listening to the beat of her heart while I wondered at that tiny promise of a breast beneath my eyes.  I kissed her navel, that mark of her mortality, and the little Y-shaped pillow between her thighs as, at the urging of my hands, she opened her legs.  I kissed my way down her groove, the shy roll of her clitoris and the brave pouting lips of her vagina, and kissed like a lover, a worshipper, the heart of her secret, the mouth of her sex.
Then I reared above her, prick in my hand, and entered my dream.
Kate lay beneath me on her golden cradle of hair - pillowed on it - floating on it -  wide-eyed and knowing she was about to take that journey from Childhood to Womanhood.  Worried like a child but braced to endure whatever had to be endured to begin the journey, yet already Woman in the determined set of her lips and the steadiness of her eyes turned not to my prick as it prepared to pierce her but searching my face as for the first time she encountered Man and sought to know Him.
She didn’t try to help me enter her but lay still while I probed her cleft with my prickhead, seeking for the entrance.  I felt it give beneath me and I eased my prick slowly forward into her.
She was still tight and I probed forward a millimetre, relaxed, tried a slightly different angle and gained another millimetre reading her discomfort in the play of anticipation in her face.  Cream would have helped, but I was too far in to withdraw and then put her through having to start again.  Millimetre by millimetre I worked my way into her through that tight ring of skin like a man probing a landmine with a steel rod, breathless, unbreathing.
The healing her cherry had undergone had closed it up slightly and I saw her lip curl with pain as the rim of my prickhead tried to push through it.  No going back. I was too close to breaking through.  I jagged at it and Kate winced with a hiss but my prickhead was in her.  I ran it all the way in and then began shafting my little sister to take her mind off the pain.
Joined together as we were at the groin the top of her head was beneath my chin so I couldn’t lay my body on hers without smothering her and had to hold myself off her with straight arms.  Between them I could see her face in its wimple of golden hair, eyes closed now that she’d taken my worst and triumphed, narrow, flat chest breathing slowly and deeply, thighs spread wide with her knees up by my waist as my hips rushed between hers and withdrew, rushed between hers and withdrew, and my smooth-shafted prick slid in and out of her body.
Sweat dripped off my forehead and dewed on my skin as my body, the machine designed by nature, took over control.  Forwards, back, forwards, back, like a handsaw through a log.  Soft female flesh, the walls of my baby sister’s vagina, dragged and billowed around my prickhead stroking it, eager to draw forth what it held.   In, out, in, out, like an oiled piston in a cylinder and my breath sawing at my throat like the puffing of a steam train.
Five minutes by the clock on my bedside table and still in, out, in time to the beating of my heart.  The muscles in my arms screaming to be relieved of my weight on them, my spine aching at the stress of the unnatural arch I’d had to adopt to keep my weight off my little sister and my back-muscles, cramped by the arch, groaning at the unrelenting demands on them to keep my rod of flesh sliding back and forth in her vagina.  No discomfort was too unbearable, no weariness too intense, to divert my body from its task. Like a bloodhound with its nose to an irresistible scent my prickhead was snared my the sweet honey of my sister’s cunt. Like an addict with  no other care than his next fix my body sucked at that honey and needed more.  My prickhead was on fire with it.  Streams of sweet burning sensation flowed like lava in a night landscape through my flesh from my toes to my scalp and pooled in my thighs.  My prick stroking back and forth in my sister’s little vagina was sending a river of fire in the pool which grew to a lake which surged and strained against its dam and built and burst.
Every nerve in my body fried as they conducted all the fire in my body into a single point which burned like a thunderbolt through me, down my prick and exploded into my little sister’s virgin womb. 
I was goosebumps and shivers in a girdle of dying fire as a pumping, pulsing prick sent the second and third gouts of my semen into my sister. 
I was woodash in a dawn campfire sifting into fine dust while its inner glow fades as my prick spasmed a fourth and fifth squirt of seed deep into Kate.
I was as weak as a new-born and burned pure as a martyr as the last of my ejaculation dribbled from a feeble, twitching prick into this eleven-year-old woman, born that morning.
“Gosh!  Is it always such hard work?” she asked, wonderingly.
I laughed helplessly.  I felt so good.  No orgasm I’d ever had with Jen and certainly none with Janet, nor even any in my sister’s mouth had ever come close to that. I couldn’t hold my weight off Kate any more, slipped my prick out of her and collapsed beside her on the bed, laughing with sheer joy, bathed in sweat and weak as a kitten.
“John?” Kate was laughing too, puzzled.  “What is it?  What’s so funny?”  She punched me in the ribs.  Hard.
The laughter that was the joy in me morphed into love for the little girl on the bed with me.  I took her in my arms.
“Oh, Sis, that was special,” I told her.  “That was ten times better than with Janet or with Jen, and it always will be ten times better with you than with any other girl.  Because you’re my sister.  That’s what makes it special.”
She looked at me doubtfully yet I could see she was happy, and highly amused.
“You wait ‘til I’m grown up, then,” she promised with a twist of her nose.
“You’re not going to make me wait until then before we do it again, are you?” I asked, part in play and part in genuine alarm.
“Oh no,” she said firmly.  “We can do it whenever you want.  I just expect it will be better when I’m a proper girl.”
She was already Woman, but I could see it might take her a little time to understand that. “Did you enjoy it?’ I asked.  She wrinkled her little nose in thought.
“It was nice,” she admitted.  “Made me go all tingly inside.  And when you came in me it tickled, like I had a mouse inside me.  I don’t know if I came or not, though.”
“Then you didn’t. You will know when you do,” I promised her, kissing her on the nose and promising myself that I’d give her every opportunity to find out.
“There’s a bit of a mess in the bed,” she announced.
There was a sizeable damp patch on the sheet where her bottom had been, tinted with pink as she’d bled slightly, and her cleft and thighs were sticky with my cum.  I dispatched her to the bathroom for a quick shower and crawled after her to wash myself down at the sink.  Time was getting short.  Mum and dad could be another hour or could be back in fifteen minutes.  Once dressed I decided that the damp patch would stain and with the little bit of blood was just too incriminating.  I could sponge it off but it was likely it might still be damp on Monday morning when Mum changed the sheets so I stripped the bed down and asked Kate to show me how to work the washing machine.
When mum and dad returned forty minutes later I explained bashfully that I’d spilt coffee in bed and Mum grumbled about lazy-good-for-nothings but seemed to believe me.  However just to be on the safe side I sidled up to Dad later in the day and admitted to having had a sexy dream that had made me, well, you know, and he sympathised and told me that it happened to all  boys as they grow up and not to worry about it.
I was sure he’d pass it on to Mum, and hoped he would because the stain had gone right through to the mattress which she could hardly miss on Monday and didn’t look much like coffee.
I can be a cunning bugger when I have to be.

10

“The peace of God which passeth all understanding,”   is in the Common Prayer Book somewhere, I think.  To me the peace which passeth all understanding is the one I experience just after I’ve had an orgasm in my little sister Kate.  I feel pure and reborn, and the world is new and wonderful again.

11

We were into exams, and after all my work with Jen plus the peace which passeth all understanding in my heart and mind I knew I’d sailed them.  I saw a problem coming, though.  Jen.
Before each exam we’d meet and wish each other luck.  Afterwards we’d discuss the paper and gauge each other’s performance. Otherwise we’d each revise on our own.  This left the problem of that awful dog-end of the school year between exams and the holidays when I’d have no excuse for spending time with Jen at school, for to do so would be a declaration of non-academic interest in her.  And that, I’m ashamed to say, I didn’t want to do - especially with the School Ball coming up when all the pretty girls would be there and, perhaps, available to pin down for the long summer holidays.
So I avoided her.  Smiled and nodded if we passed but made no move towards her, and poor Morrie understood.
I knew she understood because a few days before the Ball she rang me at home to invite me to a small get-together at her home to mark the close of her elder brother David’s first year at University and the ending of his exams.  That she should ring me rather than just walk up to me at school with the invite showed that she was aware I didn’t really want to be seen with her without a heap of text-books between us and I was touched by her tact.  So touched, in fact, that I felt I had to accept her invitation when in truth I would rather not have.
Arriving at her home at the designated time she met me with a happy smile and introduced me first to her eldest brother Mark and then her elder brother David.  Mark was twenty and six-foot tall but otherwise with Jen’s build except that what on her was ‘generous flesh’ seemed to be muscle with him.  I don’t play rugby - I don’t see the sport in getting your ribs broken - but Mark was a natural for it.  He also had his mother’s jollity with a great booming laugh and was impossible not to like.  Women clearly felt the same as Jen had never before met the one he was with that night and, she confided to me in a whisper, her big brother anyway seemed to get through women the way dentists get through rubber gloves.
Shape-wise her elder brother David was almost normal but seemed to have shared  Jen’s eyesight genes as he wore the geekiest pair of specs I’ve ever seen.  He also shared Jen’s brain genes as he was, Jen said shyly, brilliant.  Most of the others at the get-together were his first-year friends from University and seemed to be the sort, the females as well, who play three-dimensional chess blindfold while re-designing potatoes to grow on trees.
Thus while there was a little background music - the Beatles, for heaven’s sake! - there was no dancing but rather a hum of very serious conversation.
While the youngest there apart from Jen I actually had quite a good time, for a time.
Of Jen’s step-father there was no sign while the youngest children were presumably locked upstairs and chained to their beds. Jen’s mother popped up occasionally with more plates of food, appearing slightly surprised each time that the party had not degenerated into a drug-crazed orgy and looking slightly apologetic as though it was only her unavoidable presence that prevented it from doing so.  ‘Don’t mind me,’ her body language - her ample body language - seemed to be saying hopefully as she squeezed between people discussing Joyce’s allusions to the Peloponnese Wars in ‘Ulysses’.  ‘If you want to have sex on the carpet I’ll just step over you.’
‘Ulysses’ was still a closed book to me but Jen, who seemed to have taken on the role of hostess, introduced me to a variety of David’s friends who seemed to be able to remember that they’d been 15 two years and a couple of academic lifetimes ago and find something in common with me, including some who kindly took an interest in me and provided me with some very interesting insights into the commercial possibilities of my skills and talents, discussed and even argued over what exams I should take and University courses I should attend and debated which companies offered the best career prospects, some of them in California.  All this was very gratifying, but when the talk moved from that on globalization, free-trade and corporate greed I lost interest and wandered off.  Hey, I’d only just turned 15, don’t forget.
Having only just turned 15 I was always hungry - for food as well as sex - and made my way to next room where the table laden by Jen’s Mum groaned under the weight.  I was grazing along this when movement drew my eye to a mirror hanging over the cold fire-place - Jen’s home, I’m afraid to say, is one of those places you expect to see plaster ducks flying up the wall.
Behind me Jen going one way through the door had clearly met her big brother Mark coming the other way.  Now, the doorway was barely wide enough for either of them to get through on their own but it was obviously a situation which had arisen plenty of times in the past, before Mark had left for his own flat in town, and they had developed a kind of family ‘in-joke’ way of dealing with it.  With a neat little dance and big grins Jen and her brother seemed to melt through the doorway simultaneously in opposite directions and then went their various ways, but what I had seen as they had done it left me stunned.
Had I not been looking in the mirror I would not have seen it.  Even seeing it I doubt most people would have twigged it, and I only twigged it because I recognised it.  Just for the briefest moment as they passed in the doorway Mark’s fingertips had briefly kissed his sister between her legs and Jen’s fingertips had momentarily rested on his prick beneath his trousers.  I’m sure that for most people who might have seen enough of it to wonder it would have passed it off a just an accidental mishap probably not even noticed by Jen and her brother.  I knew it had been very deliberate because I had done it myself with my sister Kate.
Not in doorways, as Kate and I could pass though them shoulder to shoulder with room to spare, but when we had been squeezed together say getting round the car in the garage or the freezer in the larder, or sorting out our seating in a darkened cinema, and if I had thought no-one was watching I might briefly tap my little sister’s little sex with my fingertips as though to say, ‘thanks for all the fun,’ and feel her little hand just accidentally brush my prick in my trousers as though to say, ‘you’re welcome’.
Jen - poor Morrie - had had sex with her big brother Mark.  I absolutely knew it.
Like that first standing domino you flick with a finger to start all the others lined up behind it falling I then saw so much more.
That first time we’d fucked in the caravan Jen had been no virgin.  My prick had held no secrets, no surprises for her.  She had taken me in her mouth with no ‘I wonder what this will be like’ and had read the progress of my orgasm with a skill even my little sister was still acquiring.  There’d been no cherry to break into her cunt - its entrance had been as wide open as a tunnel under the Thames.
Yet I was sure it had been her first time in the caravan - there’d been no towel, no tissues and she hadn’t arranged herself in quite the right position on the bed first time.  Yet where could she have had regular sex before that?  Where else than in her brothers’ bedroom in the house, or in her big brother’s flat.  She’d had no other boyfriends, poor Morrie hadn’t.  The whole school knew that.  And she’d told me herself I was the first boy she’d had sex with under her mother’s licence.  Her brothers didn’t count.  She’d probably been having sex with them long before that licence had been granted.
And I knew it was her brothers.  Both of them.  To me it wasn’t conceivable that she would have sex with one but not the other.  I’d seen her with both of them, smiling up at Mark, hanging on David’s arm.  I knew.  I was stunned.
“John?  Are you all right?”  Jen’s mother was at my elbow staring at me with concern and a plate of buns in her hand.  I realised I had been standing motionless staring at nothing for what felt like hours though I suppose it was only a few seconds.
“Ah, yes.”  I jerked myself into the present.  “Just had a sudden thought, Mrs. Andrews.  Ah, that is...  I’m sorry, Mrs....”  I couldn’t think and my brain still felt frozen.  Jen’s mother just smiled away my faux pas.
“Well, I hope it’s nothing you’ve eaten,” she said.
“No, no,” I assured her and took a big bite at the sandwich I held in my hand to prove it.
“You know,” she said conversationally, “Jennifer’s been a different girl since you and she began working together.  I know she’s enjoyed it immensely.  Having someone to discuss things with.  Bounce things off.”  She smiled, a great rubber-ball of a woman.  I remembered my balls bouncing off Jen’s bottom as I buggered her and knew I was blushing.
“It can be very difficult, you know,” she said conversationally.  “Not looking like what you are supposed to look like.  Can make you very lonely.  Very defensive.  You’re clever enough to understand that, I know.  But a lot of boys aren’t.  I know it wasn’t easy for you to befriend Jennifer.  I’d like to thank you for all you’ve done for her.”
I knew she wasn’t thanking me for shagging her 13-year-old daughter in the caravan.  I even had an idea what she was thanking me for.  But all I could do was to wonder if she knew what her brothers had done for her as well.  I had a feeling she did. She must have, surely?
“You know,” she said casually, “We have a small caravan here in the garage.  You’ve probably seen it.  Let’s us get away for the week-end every now and then.  But it also serves as a guest room, now and then.  Not five-star but comfortable.  If you’d like to stop over tonight you’d be most welcome.  We can ring your parents and let them know.  Save you a walk home.”  The walk home was nothing.  She had to know that if I stayed the night in the caravan her daughter would surely spend the night in the caravan as well.  She had to know I would know it, too.
“Ah.  Er.  No.  Thank you, Mrs....  I haven’t anything with me.  And I ought to get home..”  I spluttered.   She smiled it away but I saw the sadness in her eyes.  She had to know it was beyond the wildest dreams of a fifteen-year-old boy to spend a whole night in bed with a girl.   Had to know that he’d only turn it down if he really, really didn’t want to know the girl any more.  Like Jen her mother had dumped her daughter’s entire dowry at my feet in one go, but this time I’d rejected it.
“As you wish,” she said.  “But if you change your mind...”  I think she saw in my eyes that I wouldn’t and turned away a little sadly.
I left the get-together as soon as I could.  In fact I snuck out without saying goodby to Jen or anyone.  I knew that would hurt Jen as much as if I’d ripped her school uniform off in the middle of assembly and revealed her round bulging body and little floppy tits for everyone to laugh at.  I felt a complete bum, but couldn’t come to terms with Jen fucking her brothers.  Like her Mum, it was just too vast a concept to grapple with.
She didn’t attend the School Ball.  I’d known she wouldn’t.  Kate was there looking spectacular in her hair and two months from her twelfth birthday, but as usual the eleven, twelve and thirteen-year-old boys were by-and-large still terrified of girls - or at least of being seen romantically in the company of girls -  and hugged the walls while the fourteen, fifteen and sixteen-year-old boys were far more interested in something with tits on it.  So Kate’s friends mostly danced with each other and I mostly danced with Kate.
Of course she was in my care anyway, and I was charged with getting her home by midnight in case she turned into a pumpkin or something.  Despite everything I’d managed to get a couple of dates for the holidays by the time we left for the twenty-five minute walk home - a walk which actually took fifty as I stopped to make love to my little sister on the way home.
The School Ball was casually formal - denim was out; boys were expected to wear ties, and girls, dresses.  I wore the suit I had been bought for Aunt Mary’s funeral but with a psychedelic tie. Kate furiously resisted the ‘Alice’ look and went instead in a tight dress of peacock blue which would have had the Revd. Dodgson fulminating under his dog-collar for weeks.  Somehow my sister managed to look cute and steamingly sexy at the same time.
I knew screwing her on the way home was dangerous but she was irresistible.  Dancing, I’ve heard say, is vertical sex but even though I presume that refers to the sort of dancing in which the boy actually holds the girl in his arms just being near Kate as she wiggled her bum in time to the beat, getting those sexy caresses from her hair as she gyrated and making occasional contact with her bare arms or blue-sheathed body had driven me wild with lust.
The usual venue for extra-curricular sex was a park near the school.  Notionally this closed at sunset but there were a few reasonably well-known places where access could be obtained by the determined after that time. However I was confident there would be boys in the year above me who would have pulled a girl of my year or above at the dance and would be aiming for the same destination.  There was only one thing a couple would be sneaking into the park for and for me to be seen there with my own sister would be a neon declaration of incestuous guilt in letters six-feet high.
Of course the same applied to all the other potential venues - the shelters at the commuter railway station, the waste ground behind the cinema, the graveyard at St. Augustine’s - and while the chances of our meeting another couple from school there were a lot less the chances of our being unearthed by policemen, security guards, voyeurs or just people walking their dogs was higher.  Such people would be unlikely to be too troubled by a fifteen-year-old boy screwing a girl of roughly the same age - it happens all the time - but the same boy screwing a girl clearly only eleven or so would be far more likely to invite trouble even before they discovered she was his sister.
Kate dreamily walked beside me though the brightly-lit streets bustling with night life - after all, the pubs and cinemas were still turning out - for she had never been out as late in the city before.  Indeed Mum had wanted Dad to pick us up in the car from the dance but as I had argued that it was only a reasonably short walk through reliably safe streets, and Dad had wanted to watch a late-night film on TV, I’d been entrusted with Kate.  Like a fox being entrusted with a chicken.
Except that I could think of nowhere to commit the dastardly deed.
All options seemed to run out when we turned into the street with our house in it, but then I had one of those moments when some kind of Divine finger seems to descend from the Heavens to plant a pure thought, fully formed, in one’s mind with a light tap on the head - though why She should intervene just to enable me to screw my infertile 11-year-old sister when there are millions starving to death in Africa I can’t imagine.  Perhaps that’s why I don’t believe in Her.
“Hey,” I whispered to the little girl floating at my side.
“What?” she asked, waking out of whatever dream she was in.
“Well, you know after the Ball a lot of people will be sneaking into the Park for, you know, a quick screw?”
“Yehhs?” she said slowly and warily.  Maybe ‘a lot’ was an exaggeration but everyone knew some people did.  And usually who they were.
“Well, how would you......?”  I still felt shy of asking my little sister for a screw - in as many words, anyway.
Her voice revealed that she had her nose wrinkled in thought. “But we’ve walked past the Park,” she pointed out.  “It’s miles away now.”  It wasn’t quite miles, but it was away back behind us.
“No, not there,” I assured her.  “But if there was somewhere......?” I asked hopefully.
There was a brief nose-wrinkled-in-thought sort of silence.  Then she said, “I’m not lying on the grass.  It would show.  And I’m not taking my clothes off.”
“No, no,” I assured her.  “No lying on the grass, and you won’t have to take your dress off or anything.  We can do it another way.”
“Then where?” my darling little sister asked.  “And how?”  I knew I’d piqued her curiosity.
“Come with me.”
A narrow alley lay between the ends of the gardens of the houses on one side of our street and those of the street next door.  I led Kate up this and through the gate into the garden of our neighbours the Broughs’.  I knew they were away for the weekend because I had the job of feeding their cat.
The house was in darkness and so was the garden.  Like an S.A.S. sergeant leading a patrol in enemy territory I led Kate across the Broughs’ immaculate lawn to their gazebo.  This was an octagonal affair in fancy wood like something from the Taj Mahal - though not much -  swathed in little climbing roses and a creeper thing with just enough room inside to swing a cat, should one have the desire to do so.  I at that moment didn’t, but I did have an overwhelming desire to fuck my little sister and there was plenty of room for that.
The gazebo held one of those swinging seat things, wide enough for three people and hung by chains from the roof.  I sat on it carefully but it felt solid enough, and when I swung it experimentally there were no creaks or squeals from the chains.
“Here?” Kate whispered.
“Why not?” I whispered back.
“OK,” Kate agreed sotto voce - an ‘on-your-head-be-it’ sort of sotto voce.
I pulled her into my lap and she came gently, which was fortunate as her extra weight made the roof timbers groan quietly.  For what I judged to be at least ten minutes but which felt like sixty and was probably less than five I kissed her little face and lips, (Mum felt she was still too young for lipstick, fortunately), stroked her hair and caressed the firm lines of the little-girl’s body beneath her dress while my eyes and ears did the SAS thing and probed the darkness of the gardens around us for any signs of life.  Especially life that might be watching us back.
Nothing moved in the suburban night but the summer breeze. There were lights in the windows of some of the houses around us, including the kitchen of our’s next door, shadows moved behind some curtains, some windows flickered with TV phosphorescence.  Cars moved in nearby streets while the city further distant hummed to itself and cast an orange glow into the a clear summer night sky speckled with stars.  It was a lovely night.
I eased Kate off my knees.  “Take your knickers off,” I whispered.
The faint white shimmers in the darkness that were my sister’s legs grew taller as she lifted the skirts of her dress to her waist and slipped her knickers down them.  Most eleven-year-old girls are nothing if not gymnastic.  Morrie excepted, of course.
“Here,” Kate handed me her knickers and I tucked them into a jacket pocket, warm and fragrant.
I rose from the seat, slipped trousers and underpants to my knees and sat down again.  My prick rose out of my thighs like a short stick.
“Sit in my lap with him inside you,” I whispered.  When Kate stepped up to me I turned her round so that her back was to me and drew her into my lap.  She put a leg each side of mine and lowered herself until her cleft made contact with my prickhead.  I held it steady for her and she manoeuvred herself over it until it was in the right place.  Then she impaled herself on it.
She was dry and tight, and had to do it slowly although she didn’t have to tear anything again to get my prick inside her.  The hot cotton-wool clouds lining her little vagina enfolded it lovingly and her weight settled across my lap. All but an inch of my prick was inside her.
I began swinging to and fro gently, no more than a few inches.  At each ‘to’ my prick slid a couple of inches up inside her, at each ‘fro’ a couple of inches down. To-and-fro, to-and-fro. No wonder the Victorians had been big on garden swings.  Take a close look at some of those sepia prints with the young man swinging higher and higher with some pretty, virginal young thing sitting happily in his lap, her voluminous skirts and petticoats billowing innocently around them and probably hiding all sorts of naughtiness.
There was no speeding up for me.  If I tried it the roofbeam supporting the seat began to creak so that was my metronome.  To-and-fro.  I could rock my hips slightly with each swing, adding perhaps a quarter-inch to the travel of my prick in my little sister’s cunt, while she had her feet on the ground each side of mine holding her weight just off my lap to give my prick freedom of movement in her.  To-and-fro.
Kate was leaning back against my chest, her head under my chin and her lovely hair like a lush blanket falling between us into my lap.  My hands were free to stroke it and run my fingers through it, to reach round and frame her face, stroking her cheeks, outlining her nose, toy with her ears.  Her eyes were closed and she was humming softly in time to the swing - I recognised The Eton Boating Song.  To-and-fro. To-and-fro. Unhurried, rhythmic oars dipping into the sparkling water of the Thames in time to the gentle, regular stroking of my prickhead in her soft vagina. To-and-fro.  To-and-fro.  In-and-out.  In-and-out.
I was free to caress her chest, seeking without success my sister’s fledgling breasts under the silky, flat material of her bodice.  To-and-fro.  In-and-out.
I could climb over the rumpled cloth of her dress around her waist and lightly explore between her wide-spread thighs, following her cleft under and beneath her body to where the hard rod of my prick burrowed into it, sliding gently in and out of the hole just an inch or two like an oar-shaft dipping into water. In-and-out.  To-and-fro.  I could squeeze her little lips between a V of my fingers and the sliding shaft of my prick, and tickle her little clitoris.
My sister orgasmed like a skiff gently running up a sloping bank, a slight thump and judder in her little body then a minor rolling, trembling shiver running through it to fade into stillness.
“Oh my,” she breathed.
“Good?”
“Mmmmm.”
“Want me to stop?” I hadn’t broken my lazy rocking rhythm though her weight had dropped into my lap as though her legs had gone weak.
“Don’t you dare,” Kate hissed.
So on we went to-and fro, to-and-fro, in-and-out, in-and-out.  Something boating weather, dee dee deedum. Dee dee de deedee, dee dum dee dee.  Swing, swing together, with our backs between our knees, swing, swing together, with our backs between our knees.
My prickhead was on fire like one of those matches with the bulging red tips flaring up except that the pain was so sweet, so exquisite as my little sister’s soft cuntwalls hugged it and stroked it to-and-fro, in-and-out, swing, swing together.  My hand cupped under her body tinkering with her genitals.  ‘Interfering with her’, as they say politely of teachers and doctors in the newspaper court reports when they’re caught out with little girls.
Kate orgasmed again, more violently.  Her legs squeezed against mine, her soft cunt closed like gentle trap around my prick, sucking at it like her mouth had so often. Shudders rolled through her, bending her in a taut bow from her bottom pressed in my lap to the back of her head braced hard against my chest.  Breath hissed sharply in her nose and her hands made claws in the plastic cover of the hammock.
“Weeeeeeoooooooh,” she breathed, sagging back against me.  Gratefully and with relief I released the block I’d been fighting to maintain on my ejaculation with increasing anguish and spent it into her.  Pump, pump, pump.  Squirt, squirt, squirt.  My hot spunk spurted against my sister’s cervix and she orgasmed like a torture victim when the power is turned on to the electrodes on their nipples.
“Oh.  Oh.  Oh,” she gasped as I quivered to my own orgasm scouring hotly through me.
I let the hammock swing to a standstill.  My little sister was sagging in my lap, my prick still hot in her, my arms around her supporting her.  “Oh, brother,” she sighed, and I wasn’t sure if she was talking to me or expressing satisfaction.  Both, I like to think.  Anyway it made me laugh quietly.  Orgasms do that to me, you know.
“Quick.”  Kate stirred herself and rose to her feet, leaving my prick behind to flop stickily into my lap.  “Give us your hanky.  You’re spunk’s leaking out of me.  I don’t want it running down my legs.  Mum’s bound to see.”
I ferreted through my pockets, nearly gave Sis her knickers back by mistake and then handed her a hanky.  She clapped it to her cleft.
“Mess, mess, mess,” she grizzled crossly but with no real annoyance.  It was more exasperation - the long-suffering complaint of women.  There’d be no mess with condoms but I wasn’t going to use one in my sister until I had to for the usual reasons, and that was years in the future.
She wiped herself, carefully folded the hanky and wiped herself again.
“Don’t suppose you’ve got another one?” she didn’t suppose knowingly.  As it happened and by sheer chance I did have, so I handed it to her with a superior air.  She said, “Humph”, gave me back the first one and took the second, folded it into a pad and stuck it between her legs.
“Knickers,”
I handed them back to her and she put them on over the padded hanky.  Then she rolled her dress down from around her waist and smoothed it carefully.  I just did my flies up.
“Ready,” she said.
We SAS’ed out of the gazebo, through the garden and back into the alley.  There I dumped the first hanky sticky with my spunk into someone else’s dustbin and we snuck round to the front of our own house where I let us in with the key I had for the evening.
Mum and Dad were watching TV.  I faced up to them while Kate slipped past my back and straight upstairs.
“Hi, son.  Good evening?” Dad enquired.
“Is Kate all right?”  Mum asked anxiously.
“Hi, Dad, great,” I said cheerfully.  “Bit slow to start but got better towards the end.”  I turned to Mum.  “Hurry to get to the loo,” I explained conspiratorially.  “I think the girl’s loos at the Hall were a bit...”  I shrugged incomprehension.  Mum looked as if she understood and sympathised.  I wondered what Kate was going to do with my second hanky when she’d finished with it.  It wouldn’t flush down the loo very well.  She wouldn’t just throw it in the laundry basket.  Would she?
“I think I’ll turn in,” I said, trying to look sleepy - which wasn’t difficult as the peace which passeth all understanding makes you look a bit sleepy even though your brain’s in top gear.
“OK, son.  Goodnight,” said Dad.
“Sleep tight,” said Mum in their fifteen-year-old double act.  I smiled happily.  I felt happy.
“Dad?” I said, turning at the door.  “Do you know the words to “The Eton Boating Song?”
Dad looked suitably startled.  “Er, no.  I don’t.  Something about ‘all pulling together’, isn’t it?  I’m afraid I only know the, er, dirty version.  And I expect I’ve forgotten that by now,” he added hurriedly as Mum glowered at him.
“OK.  No matter,” I said lightly, turning again to the stairs.
I bet I know a dirtier version than Dad.

12

If you’re interested, the correct words to the clean version (first verse only) are:
	‘Jolly boating weather, hay harvest breeze.
         Blade on the feather, shade off the trees.
         Swing, swing together, with your backs between your knees,
         Swing, swing together, with your backs between your knees.’
But I don’t suppose you are.  Interested, that is.

13

The long summer vacation from school began, with lots of jolly boating weather and probably a hay harvest breeze or two.  I certainly did lots of swinging together with my little sister Kate, but usually with my back between her knees rather than my own.
For Mum had a part-time job at a local supermarket, 10 a.m. - 4 p.m. three days a week, and on those three days I could take my little sister to bed like civilized people do with plenty of time for a leisurely screw and a bit of experimentation.  Kate underneath and Kate on top.  Kate doggie and Kate on the dining room table.  Me behind Kate on the bed and standing face to face in the shower - or rather me standing in the shower and holding Kate against the wall for her feet were a foot above the floor.  If it was in the book - my dirty book, anyway - we tried it.  Most we only tried once as there didn’t seem to be any great benefit to be gained from the contortions involved.
I didn’t try buggering my little sister.  She didn’t have those times of the month yet and her little puckered anus seemed to small when I saw it, which I did quite a lot, that I was sure it would be uncomfortable for her.  There were several pictures in the book of a prick taking that route but Kate never suggested it, so I didn’t.
For her twelfth birthday I gave her the pendant I found that most closely resembled one worn by one the girls in the book (all she was wearing) and which Kate had admired.  It broke my bank and placed me in debt for a month’s car-washing and lawn-mowing at home and around the neighbourhood, but I think Kate appreciated it.  Had Mum and Dad known what it had actually cost rather than what I told them it had I think they would have been greatly surprised, and might have started wondering why I should suddenly choose to spend so much on the sister I’d previously regarded with such contempt.  As it was, though, like most parents they saw only what they wanted to see.
I acted to further head off suspicion by cashing in on one of the dates I’d made during the School Ball.  I brought Jill home as soon as I could so Mum and Dad could see her as I was sure any faint suspicions they might have about my new-found concern for my sister would be laid to rest by the certainty that I was hormonally bound to be far more interested in a pretty girl like Jill who was about my age and size and had real tits, than I could be in my baby sister who wasn’t and didn’t.
Jill herself proved quite ready to let me check out the reality of her tits with hand and mouth but gently stopped me when I tried to get into her knickers with one of those ‘maybe when we know each other a bit better’ ploys which I was quite happy to go along with as I was getting all the sex I needed with my little sister.  Not that I wouldn’t have screwed Jill had she given me the chance.  She just didn’t and I wasn’t climbing the walls for it.
That my ploy was successful was confirmed when Dad, soon after meeting Jill, sat me down and gave me a father-to-son talk about sex, the need to be responsible, treat girls with respect and not get them pregnant, that kind of thing, while I tried to look suitably interested and embarrassed at the same time.  He then, to my horror, moved on to Kate, my little sister wasn’t a child any more, would soon by turning into a young woman, difficult times for her, he and Mum would be happier to know her big brother was keeping an eye on her, making sure no-one took advantage of her, that she didn’t do something silly, you know what I mean, and I saying I did and promising to watch out for her.  Talk about giving the fox the keys to the hen-house.  I had to suppress the powerful urge to laugh I’d gained when I and my little sister had shared orgasms on my bed only a few hours earlier, but fortunately the peace which passeth all understanding that had accompanied mine enabled me, I hope, to look suitably serious, solemn and responsible.
On one of the days Mum was at home, so Kate was round at one of her class-mates not, I hoped, discussing my sexual techniques with her, that Mum answered a ring on the front door bell and then yelled upstairs to me, “John?  Someone to see you.”
I clicked the PC in my bedroom/den into suspend mode and clattered downstairs, stopping short when I saw that the someone was Jen’s brother David.
I hadn’t thought about Jen for a while, partly because I’d been too busy inventing new ways to screw my little sister but mostly because I hadn’t wanted to.  Thinking about her made me feel bad.
“Hi, John,” David said cheerfully when he saw me.  “Brought you this as I promised.  I’ll give you a hand to install them.”  He waved a writeable CD in his hand and I remembered he’d promised to let me have some utilities when we’d talked at his get-together.  I knew that was not why he was really there, though.
“Come on in,” Mum beamed, always ready to meet a friend of mine.  “Would you like a coffee?”
“No thanks, Mrs. C,” my visitor beamed.  He was probably just old enough to start flirting with women my mother’s age, and certainly had the cheek for it.  I knew with a sinking heart that it wouldn’t be any good telling my mother that he’d come to kill me.
“Where’s the computer, old lad?” he asked brightly, skipping up the stairs past me.  “Up here?”  He knew it was in my bedroom.  I’d told him.  With no option but to follow I followed.
He was waiting in my bedroom.  As I entered he flicked the CD in its case onto my bed.  “I hadn’t taken you for a prick,” he said conversationally.  “Just shows you how wrong you can be.”  If there is an answer to that I don’t know what it is.
“Jen is really cut up,” he said, softly in case Mum should be listening.  “You wouldn’t know it unless you knew her really well, but she is.  Not because you don’t want sex with her.  I know that was her idea, just her poor, pathetic attempt to make you feel a little bit the way she does just by your bothering to talk to her.  She knows that she isn’t the sort of girl a boy might want to have sex with but she understands that sort of thing isn’t intellectual.  It’s a gut thing you can’t control.  It hurts, though, when she offers it and the boy turns her down.  She offers it in the dark so he won’t have to look at her, offers to do things maybe other girls won’t if he’s curious, and it hurts if  a boy rejects her even on those terms.  But she can look at herself in the mirror and understand even that.
“She’s proud of her brain, though.  Proud of her brain the way Madonna is, was, of her body.  Her pride in her brain helps her cope with the pride she doesn’t feel in her body.  And you come along and are the first boy to see that brain.  Appreciate that brain.  You make her feel six feet tall and the equal of any girl at that school.
“And you dump her.  You ditch her.  You take from her brain what you want, you use her cunt like a tart’s and you walk out on her without even a thank-you.”
David was nearly shaking with white-faced, icy, suppressed fury.  I was scared, and angry, too.  Angry at him for making me see what I already knew.  Angry at myself for having done what I had.
“The other kids just laugh at her,” David snarled.  “But you did the worst possible fucking thing you could have done to her.”
I knew that.  I wanted to scream at him that I knew that.  But he knew I knew that.  I watched him let the fury go with a sigh.
“What I don’t understand,” he said quietly. Wearily.  “Is why. With your prick in her mouth you could close your eyes and pretend it was any girl you wanted bobbing about down there.  Not poor Morrie.”  I was shocked that Jen knew her nickname.  But of course she did.  “Fucking her might not be the same as fucking the girl of your dreams but it was better than nothing, surely?  Jen never pretended it was the first step on the path to the altar.  She didn’t want you to pretend you loved her or anything. You knew you didn’t have pretend either, surely.   Were you so repulsed by her that you couldn’t bear even that?  That’s what Jen thinks, you know.”
He sighed again.  “And she did improve your grades, didn’t she?  You did get a lot of help from her just as she did from you.  You could have done the same next year.  Next year is more important than this one for you.  Did you think you could just snap your fingers at Jen next term and she’d be there carrying your books for you, tongue hanging out eagerly” Her shook his head, regarding me closely.  “No.  I don’t think you did,” he said.  “So why?” he asked gently.  “Tell me so that I can understand, and then I can tell Jen so maybe she can understand and pick herself up off the floor again and face up to the next bastard who’s going to come along and put her heart through the mincer.  Were the other boys taunting you about her so much that you couldn’t put up with it any more?  I think Jen might be able to understand that, though not why you couldn’t even say ‘goodby and thanks for all the cunt’.”
It wasn’t that I found Jen too repugnant for sex.  In fact she was rather cuddly.  Nor was I particularly bothered what other boys said about us any more.  If I really had been so desperate for sex and couldn’t get it from anyone else that I had to get it from poor Morrie I guess I might have been, but everyone knew I had Jill- though not to what extent I did or didn’t have her - plus I was having brilliant sex with my sister which I hoped nobody knew about.  Jill didn’t seem to think whatever relationship I had with Jen in any way affected mine with her.  Poor Morrie, after all, was hardly competition.
I didn’t want to pretend with Jen that either possible excuse was the true one when it wasn’t.  I felt I owed her the truth.  Even though she might not like that any better. I was also still angry with the man facing me and wanted to lash out at him.
‘It wasn’t that,” I said coldly.  “It was her and you.”
At the end of ‘Hamlet’ there’s a sword fight between Hamlet and another guy.  Ask Morrie if you need to know his name.  At one point Hamlet stabs the other guy, or the other guy stabs Hamlet, and someone says, ‘A hit.  A palpable hit.’  Why I should be able to remember that particular line I’ve no idea, but I knew I’d just scored a palpable hit on David Andrews.  I might only have been 90% sure he’d had sex with his sister before that, but now I was 100% certain as he stared at me shocked.  And a little bit afraid.
“How did you know?” he asked eventually, making me 110% certain.
“I worked it out,” I told him loftily.  Now I held the moral high ground and we both knew it.  He stared at me.  Doubtful.  Unsure of himself.  He shook himself.  Not literally, but the way you do.
“OK.”  It was a ‘cards-on-the-table” sort of OK.  “Inside, Jen’s just a girl like any other.  But she can’t be a girl just like any other.  Other girls treat her like she’s a girl but not like them, and boys don’t treat her like a girl at all.  So all she had were her two big brothers to play with.  To be herself with.  To forget herself with. And she was as curious about sex as every girl is.  But who the hell was she going to play those games with, eh?  ‘Doctors-and-nurses’.  ‘Dares’.  ‘Truth-show-tell’.  Blame us.  Blame her big brothers who should have known better.  How could she say ‘no’ to us, eh?  Please don’t blame Jen,” he was staring right at me, to my astonishment begging me.  “Please don’t make her carry the can for what we did to her.”
He looked away, lips tight.  “Jen says you have a sister. Very pretty, she says. What is she?  Ten?  Can you honestly say you’ve never thought, ‘I wonder if, in a couple of years, she’d......’?”
Had he been looking at me I’m sure he’d have known from my reaction that I already was.  He wasn’t though and after a moment, before I could reply or even gather enough thoughts to frame a reply, waved away the question with an angry hand.
“No.  Forget that.  I’m sorry.  It doesn’t make it any better, anyway..”  He raised his eyes to me again.  “But if you do feel anything for Jen, even if it’s just pity, could you at least take the trouble to meet with her again and talk to her.  Forget the whole sex thing.  Her with you.  Her with us.  Forget she’s a girl.  Just realise that she’s got a damn good brain and her damn good brain thinks you’ve got a damn good brain and enjoys meeting it.”
I stared back at him but didn’t see him.  I was thinking too hard.  I hadn’t, I suddenly realised, wanted to stop having sex with Jen.  I’d just been so overwhelmed by the sudden revelation that she had sex with her own brothers as well as me that I’d put the whole thing on the backburner in the hope it would sort itself out.  It hadn’t.  It had bitten me on the bum instead.
“No,” I said sadly in the undertone the whole conversation had been carried out in.  “You’re right.  I was a bastard to Jen.  I ought to meet her again.  To apologise.”
David looked relieved.  I guessed the meeting hadn’t gone at all the way he’d intended once I’d trumped him.
“Good,” he said.  “She’s coming to have tea with Mark and me tonight.  Could you join us?”  I nodded.
“Right.  I’ll pick you up at ten-to-six,” he promised.  “Do you want any help installing that?”  He nodded at the CD on the bed.  I shook my head.
“OK.  I’ll find my own way out,” he said and left the room.  I heard him flirting with Mum downstairs and knew he was fixing up the evening for me.  That plus his offer to pick me up would stop me backing out.
What I still hadn’t worked out was why Jen’s incest with her brothers should have so shocked me that I’d turned my back on her and wanted, actually wanted,  to hurt her.  After all she’d only done with her brothers what my sister was doing with me.  I was hardly in a position to cast any stones.  I sat on my bed and worried at it the way one sometimes has to worry at a computer program to dislodge a bug.
The bug bugging me was the truth that Jen’s incest excited me.  Had I been in the highly unlikely position of having to chose between fucking Jill and fucking my little sister Kate, all other things being equal, I would have chosen Kate despite the fact that Jill had lovely round, firm tits, a lovely soft lawn of hair between her thighs and a warm, full landscape of lush grooves and rolls of female flesh between her legs.  (OK, she hadn’t been able to keep me out of her knickers entirely. She had given me a taste, so to speak, to get me hooked.)  Yet I’d rather fuck my flat-chested, bald (between the thighs), tiny, dry, tight little sister any day.
Because incest is special.  Of all the millions of girls in the world only one is my sister.  There was no other girl in the world I could possibly know as well as my sister, no girl I could understand the way I understood the girl I’d grown up with.  Any other girl I might fuck in the whole world would do so with her own agenda, maybe to try to hook me as her man, may be just to use me as a dildo with its own mind, maybe to make someone else jealous, maybe to bolster her own ego.  And I would fuck her with the same or a different agenda.  
But there were no hidden agendas when I fucked my sister.  We were brother and sister and were supposed to love each other up to a point.  We merely asked, ‘why stop at that point?’  So we added the joys of sex to the love we already had for each other and made both extra-special - the love made special by the sex and the sex made special by the love.
And yes, fucking my sister was illegal, taboo, forbidden, and doing just about anything that’s illegal, taboo and forbidden carries with it a delicious extra spice just because it is.
Sex between Jen and her brothers must be the same for them, and so their sex was special and wonderful in a way my having sex with her could never be.  And I didn’t like it.  I wanted sex with Jen, Jill if I ever got there and any other girl I fucked to be as special as incest and that, of course, wasn’t possible.
It isn’t fair, I told myself.  ‘Life isn’t fair,’ I heard my father tell me.  ‘You’d better get used to it’. He’d said it on the evening Kate first wanked me in the bath.  Life is just circles.
When had they started, I wondered.  Not before Mark had been thirteen, surely.  But Jen then had only been six.  Can you fuck a six-year-old girl?  Even with a little thirteen-year-old prick?  David then had only been ten and Mark even waking up to sex would surely not have been interested enough in a six-year-old to risk a baffled little brother asking at the dinner table, “What were you doing with Jen today, Mark?”  No, let David be thirteen and curious enough to keep his mouth shut, Mark sixteen and knowledgeable but maybe not getting enough and Jen be nine, on the verge of her own awakening if my own sister was anything to go by.  Mark with his superior knowledge showing both David and Jen about sex, his own and theirs.  Maybe Mark encouraging David to put his little newly-stiff prick in Jen’s little vagina by way of demonstration.
Oh, where was Kate when I needed her?

14

David picked me up at ten-to-six in his Mini, one of those cars which become as much a part of any University as The Eton Boating Song has to Eton School, handed down from generation to generation with affectionate distain.
“I’ve told Jen what you know,” he said mournfully as it rattled into town.  “She understands now why your departure was a bit abrupt and I guess that was the hardest thing for her to deal with before.  But,” he sighed.  “Being fat is in her genes and being bright is in her genes and she knows there’s nothing she can do about either, whatever she’d like to.  In those respects people have to accept her as she is, or not.  That she knows she has to live with.  What we did to her, though, wasn’t in her genes.  Well...” he shrugged, “You know...,” Genes hadn’t made her commit incest, but it wouldn’t have been incest without the genes, I think he meant.
“If she thinks she’s suffering for something she did have control over on top of all the things she doesn’t have control over, that’s going to be far, far harder for her to bear.  And she didn’t have any control over it.”  He spat the last at me angrily, though the anger was not directed at me.
“Why?  You didn’t rape her, did you?” I asked, scared stiff at what I was doing.  David shot me a glance in which anger was directed at me.  Then he shrugged it off and stared out of the windscreen with unnecessary focus.
“In the sense that we held her down and screwed her while she begged us not to, no,” he said thoughtfully.  Almost casually.  “We wouldn’t have forced her had she said no.  But what nine-year-old girl can say no to her two brothers who she adores, and when she doesn’t really know what she’s saying yes to.  We both knew she should have said no.  God knows we knew she shouldn’t have been asked the question.”
“Has she said ‘no’ at any time since?” I asked.  “Even now that she presumably knows she should be saying no?”
David gave me a considering, weighing look.  Wondering where I was going.  I knew because I’d already decided.  I just wasn’t sure how to get there.
“No, she hasn’t” he said.  “And yes, she knows what she’s doing now.  But for Christ’s sake!”  He let the sudden flare of anger die.  “Until you came along she had no-one else to do it with.  And even you didn’t want to do it with her, did you.  She had to hit you with it until you couldn’t refuse.”  It wasn’t a question, it was a statement I conceded with a nod.
“Without us,” he continued quietly, “she’d be a 13-year-old girl with all the usual curiosities and desires, probably too scared to let a boy plant his prick in her except that Jen probably wouldn’t be able to find one to do it if even if she wanted to.  So she’d be fucking herself with carrots and candles just to feel what it’s like, and then keeping on doing it because she’s discovered it feels great.  But she’s got us so she doesn’t have to use carrots and candles, and she’s not scared of pricks because she’s been having them stuck in her since she was nine.  And she doesn’t have to face being laughed at and rejected by boy after boy because she’s got two brothers who both love her. So how can saying ‘no’ now make an difference to what’s happened?”
“And because it’s special, isn’t it.”  That wasn’t a question either.  It was a statement of fact.  David stared at me so hard we nearly drove into the back of a bus.
“My sister’s just turned twelve,” I said, staring at it as it moved away.
David stared at me until the car behind honked at him.  He crunched the Mini into gear and pulled away slowly.
“Yes,” he agreed thoughtfully.  “It’s special.”
We carried on wrapped in thoughtful silence until David parked in front of Mark’s flat.  
I’d looked hard before I’d leapt. I just hoped I’d looked hard enough.  
I like Jen.  I didn’t fancy her, but I liked her.  My prick didn’t leap to attention when I saw Jen even with no clothes on the way it did at the sight of some of the pretty girls at school even if they were fully-clothed and wearing raincoats, but Jen knew very well how to get it to stand to attention which, in its way, was even more fun.  Sex with her was fun.  Simple fun. Sex with a girl like Jill, and even with my own little sister, tended to be a matter of lust - stream-whistling-from-the-ears type lust with one’s body galloping away like a bolting horse and one’s mind hanging on desperately to the reins and concentrating entirely on trying to stay in the vicinity of the saddle.  (Yeah, I’d ridden a horse.  Once.)  With Jen the body takes one look at her and says, “Ok, you can drive for this one,” and you can have sex almost like a scientific experiment.  Like that Indian religious sect that has sex, dispassionate, lust-free sex,  as a way of reaching out to their God - or so school-boy folklore has it.  I wonder what the Revd. Dodgson would have said to that!  Would certainly bring a whole new meaning to Sunday Communion at St. Bartholemew’s.  Would certainly bring a whole lot more people into church, too, come to that.
I liked David.  He hadn’t looked down at me at his ‘get-together’ - a 15-year-old schoolboy amid his intellectual giants - and I liked the way he had passionately defended Jen and genuinely cared for her and what she felt.  I hoped I could do the same for Kate so bravely if it became necessary.
I like Mark.  I didn’t know him well but, well, you couldn’t help but like Mark.  He was just that sort of guy.
I liked Jen’s Mum.  She didn’t pretend things weren’t that were or were that weren’t.  Sex was for grown-ups.  Jen and I were having sex therefore we were grown-ups.  So she’d treat us like grown-ups until we proved ourselves otherwise, and so we tried hard not to prove ourselves otherwise.  With my Mum and Dad it was the other way about. Which made it a lot harder to grow up.
I wanted to be friends again with Jen - the sort of friendship that says hey, let’s take ‘Hamlet’ apart to see if Shakespeare hints anywhere that the Prince was having it away with Ophelia; the sort of friendship that says hey, if you really want to find out what it’s like to put your prick in a girl’s arse, well, don’t forget I’m a girl.  Go for it.  I wanted to be friends with David, a boy at University who didn’t treat me like a kid and who knew so much that I needed to know.  I wanted to be friends with Mark because, well, people just did, and I wanted Jen’s Mum to look at me with that twinkle in her eye and say, “Please come again.”
I wanted to be part of this amazing family but I’d hardly be able to if they thought I was sneering down at them from the moral high ground with my nose in the air, so to speak.  It must be hard to look down with your nose in the air.
But if they knew I was fucking my sister, too....  That I understood why they’d fucked their sister...  That I knew fucking your sister was a privilege, something beautiful, a rare and precious thing...  Well, maybe they’d say....
I didn’t know what they might say, or even what I hoped they might.
I entered Mark’s flat and the first thing I saw was Jen, a tense, white-faced Jen bracing herself to face me and my disgust for what she’d done with her brothers, my contempt for what that made her.  I suddenly knew this meeting had been engineered by her brothers; for her sake admittedly but nevertheless with the intention of getting a contrite me to apologise to her, and she hadn’t even wanted that.  Now it had all blown up in her face.  She was the one in the wrong - she knew I knew she’d had sex with her brothers, for God’s sake - which nothing on earth could smooth over or put right, and she looked as if she’d like the ground to open up and swallow her.
I crossed to her, took her into my arms, hugged her and kissed her gently on the lips.  “I’m sorry, Jen,” I said.  “I was way out of line.  I hope you’ll forgive me.”
She hadn’t responded to the hug and had been stiff and defensive in my arms.  Now she was perplexed as well.  It paid her back for the time she’d stunned me with the news her mother knew we screwed in the caravan.  I let her go and looked around me.
“Wow.”  In a corner of the room was a PC I would have killed for.  I was drawn to it magnetically. Mark joined me looking uneasy and defensive.  It can’t be easy being a 20-year-old man facing a 15-year-old boy who knows you screw your 13-year-old sister.
The PC was the latest.  Its graphics card alone had the same RAM as my PC had on its motherboard while its motherboard carried almost as much Mb in RAM as my hard-drive could store.  Its hard-drive could have tucked mine away in a corner somewhere and not even stubbed its toe on it.  Wow indeed.
Treating me more like his boss than a newly-15-year-old Mark took the measure of my awe and loaded up a game I knew had only been out a couple of weeks.  Had I tried to run the game on my machine it would have been on its knees begging for mercy.  On Mark’s the graphics ran as smooth as silk and the audio was seamless.  Awesome.
In the corner of my eye I could see David talking earnestly to Jen and caught the edge of a startled, wide-eyed glance in my direction from her before I ducked away, feeling embarrassed.  After all, Jen knew Kate.  Knew how small she was.  How young she was. How daft she could be.  How open to being taken advantage by the unscrupulous she was.
I was vaguely away of Mark drifting away but I was lost in the game anyway and they left me alone to my devotions for a while.
“John?  Come and eat.”  Jen broke into my religious trance, bending over me.  I became aware of a delicious food smell which must have been trying to attract my attention for quite a while, so hungry did I suddenly feel.  With gear and games like Mark’s there must be a real danger of people actually starving to death at their keyboards.
The table was spread, pizza, - home-made not bought in -, a ton of salad, hot rolls and beer and cold white wine.  Someone was a great cook, and I wondered if it could be Jen - another of her quiet, hidden attributes.
It was an odd meal.  It was like a party having supper while the band played and the Titanic went down - light, inconsequential chat while everyone ignores something huge going on in the background.  Very British, I dare say.  Maybe people in other cultures can chat politely about each other’s incest over  cheese and salami but the British can’t, so we talked about cricket, the weather and clapped-out Minis and only thought about each other’s incest.
After fruit, coffee and a cheeseboard bearing cheeses I’d always assumed were mythical for I’d never actually seen them before, I felt happy, full and delightfully older than 15 - for no-one surely wasted cheeses like that on a mere boy let alone the wines, which didn’t look like the sort you find on supermarket shelves.  I made the guest’s usual half-hearted offer to help wash up and allowed myself to be ritually dissuaded, having had some training in these matters.  Jen and David began clearing the table and Mark led me back to the PC the way one leads an alcoholic to a pub.
“Ever browse the web?” he asked when he’d caught me up.
“Only at school,” I admitted.  Aware of his ignorance Dad had refused to let me connect my computer at home to the phone-line, probably wisely.
“Ah,” said Mark knowingly.  One of his jobs, I’d discovered, was setting up computer systems and networks at schools so he would know how laden down with Internet security and anti-porn programming they were. He dragged up a chair, parked it next to mine at the keyboard and took over the mouse.
He had cable so he could fire up his browser, log on to his ISP and connect to a book-marked site in less time than it took a PC  school to find its modem.  It was a porn-site dedicated to incest.  He relinquished the mouse to me.
“Browse away,” he said and went to help with the washing-up.
It was a porn-site dedicated to incest, some still lucid part of my mind yelled again at the rest of it, which seemed to have frozen mid-thought.  A PORN site DEDICATED to INCEST.
Like a six-year-old driving a tank I blundered about the site.  Fathers fucking daughters, sons fucking mothers, uncles fucking nieces, nephews fucking aunts, whole family orgies and everywhere brothers fucking sisters.  I felt as if I’d just found St. Peter’s diary with his appointments for the next six months.
“It’s not all authentic,” Mark said, slipping back into his chair.  I’d absolutely no idea how long he had been away.  It could have been years.  “In fact I’d say most of it isn’t.  After all, how could the Webmaster check even if he wanted to?  But I’d put my money on about 20% being genuine, most of that the brother-sister stuff.
“Because, John,” he said with a sigh, forcing me to tear my eyes from the picture on the screen and look at him.  “Incest is far, far more common than most people know.  And interest in it goes very deep.  That’s why sites like that exist.  I’d hazard a guess that most brothers like you, and us, with younger sisters have sex with them.  It’s probably less likely where the sister is older than the brother. She’s more likely not to be interested in him as she’s got older boys interested in her, but if she likes her brother and he shows interest in her I’d say there’s a good chance she’ll let him have sex with her.
“The parent-child stuff?” He shrugged.  “I just don’t know.  Father-daughter’s probably fairly common but how much of it is genuinely consensual and how much is abuse I don’t know.  We only hear about the abuse.  I suspect that’s like basing the number of beer-drinkers on the number of alcoholics who get to hospital.
“The uncle/niece stuff?” He shrugged again.  “Technically that’s not incest anyway and I wouldn’t have thought it widespread except where it’s a pretty close-nit family.  Otherwise the relationship that sparks the incestuous desires, the bond that makes it special,  wouldn’t exist.
“And you’re right.”  He wasn’t going to let my eyes go and I couldn’t look away.  “It is special.  David and I both love Jen.  Not like a husband, but like a brother and a lover.  That’s how you love your sister?”
I nodded and he let me go.  To my surprise he offered me his hand.  Weakly I shook it.
“So I suppose we’re brothers in that we understand,” he said.  I knew what he meant.  No-one who hasn’t fucked his sister and known that special joy could really understand.  Those who had and understood were brothers of a sort.  Like men who’ve survived battle together.  Or who have been persecuted for a faith special to them.
“David and I,” Mark said softly, “Will be taking Jen to bed very shortly. We, all three of us, would be very pleased if you would join us.  As an honorary brother, as it were.”
I didn’t know what to say.  This sounded a bit like Premier Division stuff to me and I was still kicking a ball about, sexually speaking, in the Junior Leagues.
“Please John?”  Jen asked.  I didn’t know she’d been listening.
“Well. Yeah.  OK,” I said, trying to sound as though I went to bed with a girl and two other guys three times a week and twice on Sundays.
“Don’t be long, brother,” Mark said, clapping me heartily on the shoulder as he was wont to do with people.  “Or there won’t be anything left.”
I waited a while for decency’s sake - if browsing through a porn site dedicated to incest with fascinated concentration can be in any way decent - quit the site and closed down the system, and in a trance crossed to one of the two bedrooms, the one with the door open and the giggles emerging.  When I entered, wondering exactly what the protocols were for three guys and a girl, Jen was naked on the bed with her two equally naked brothers and David was kissing her, not at all like a brother but like he had his tongue so far down her throat he could taste her cunt.
 I quickly discovered there were no protocols for three guys and a girl.  Just what I came to think of as the Rabbit Rule - if you see a hole go for it.  I was shy at first, backward at coming forward you might say, but Jen and her brothers - her real brothers - the coming was all.  Soon I had had my prick in Jen’s cunt, rectum and mouth, often at the same time as whatever ones I wasn’t in were full of her brothers.  Jen seemed to accommodate us effortlessly at the centre of a kind of rugby scrum, giggling, groaning or panting in a kind of hour-long orgasm with short tea-breaks.  
Still very much aware of my status as guest and therefore on my best behaviour I only allowed myself to come in Jen’s cunt and then only as the opportunity presented itself - though perhaps rather rudely I did so twice - and on the second occasion I had an extraordinarily close view of Jen’s older brother’s prick squirting his semen into her mouth while against my prick in her vagina I could feel David’s prick filling her ass and squeezing against mine.  To have called the moment intimate would have been an understatement.
Mark was the last to finish, rolling exhausted off a limp Jen with his sizeable prick already floppy.  Jen, eyes closed,  lay panting on her back at the centre of the bed with her legs spread wide, looking too spent to close them.  Her vagina was open like a mouth with a white dribble of semen oozing out of it, her crotch and thighs were shining with her grease and a kind of spunk-foam like soap-suds was smeared in her black pubic hair, for I guessed she’d had four or five loads shot into her vagina in addition to the one at least she’d taken in her mouth and, from the look of it, one she’d taken between the tits as well.  She was glowing, too, with a kind of internal light as though her orgasms were still burning like a magnesium flare insider her skin.  Mark was lying alongside her to one side still trying to get his breathing back under control while I was kneeling in awe on the edge of the bed on the other side and David was propped on one elbow across the foot of the bed where he’d been watching his elder brother’s prick at work in his sister.  My prick was exhausted, happy and sticky with Jen’s sex-juice, my own spunk and the spunk of the other two boys.  The fragrance of girl-sex was overpowering.
Jen slowly closed her legs and stretched languidly, arching her back off the bed and cheerfully pushing her younger brother off the end of the bed in the process.
“Anyone else?” she asked invitingly.
Woman!  How she dwarfs us mere males if she chooses.
Sex with Jen is fabulous, alone or with one or both of her brothers.  Even alone it is still an orgy, a feast of gluttonous epicurism (Jen’s words, not mine!)  for it is pure sex, purely about pleasure with no inhibitions, no artifices and no pretences.  It is fabulous but even as an honorary brother it isn’t incest and so lacks that magical, special ingredient that makes a feast a banquet.  Screwing Jill, as she’s finally permitted it, is a delight for she is everything in the lovely girl line Jen isn’t - high, pouting breasts; narrow, smooth waist; flat, firm stomach; long, slender legs; tight, hot cunt in a neat, tidy little slit between icy, hard-packed thighs - and she even surprised me by accepting and engaging in oral sex though never to the point of taking my spunk in her mouth, and sex of any kind is out of bounds for that one week in four.  Screwing Jill is a joy but it, too, is not incest.
Screwing my little sister Kate is incest, and thus is so incredibly better than screwing either Jen or Jill that it shines like a star above mere street-lamps.  If I married either Jen or Jill and spent the rest of my life with them I would never be as close to them as I am now to my little sister, for Kate is of my blood and in it.  This is surely why, as our bodies touch groin to groin and my prick nestles inside my little sister’s vagina, I feel so much closer to her than I do to either Jen or Jill even as my prick is buried in their vaginas.  They are different.  Other.  Kate is what I would have been but for an accident of DNA.  We are complimentary, two halves of that Buddhist design that is like a black six on a white nine (Jen says it’s called t’ai-chi t’u.  I expect she’s right.)  And it’s not just because Kate and I sometimes do a 69.  I do it with Jen, too, though it’s a bit strong for Jill.  
No, I love my sister Kate in a way I could love no other girl in the world, because she is my sister.  And so making love to my sister Kate is like making love to no other girl in the world.
And over the next couple of years it’s going to get even better!

© Rex Antioch 2002