Kiss Your Sister

by Lubrican

Chapters : | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

Chapter Two

Nothing got investigated or even discussed further, that morning. When Mom got back from looking at garage sales, it being one of her rare days off, she decided we needed to go get some culture. Hastings was forty-five miles away, and it had a bunch of museums in it, so we went there. I liked the train museum best. You could climb up on the trains and go inside them and it was really interesting.

We had lunch at Taco Bell, which was a treat, and then went back home so Mom could catch up on laundry while I vacuumed and Emma washed all the windows. Dad got home from his most recent trip around four-thirty and, of course, he and Mom disappeared into their bedroom.

Based on previous situations like this, Emma and I were pretty sure the parents wouldn't surface until late that night (to get a snack) or the next morning (to get breakfast). It didn't bother us that our parents were blatantly sexual around us. It wasn't like Dad was groping Mom in front of us, or she was sitting on his lap without panties on or something. To Emma and me, it wasn't gross that our parents wanted alone time to do ... that. It felt good to know our parents really loved each other.

"You wanna watch a kissing movie?" I asked Emma.

"We don't need any more of those," she said. "We're already good at kissing." She put one hand on her hip. "What I want to do is finish our conversation from this morning."

"You mean the one about how you want to grope my junk," I teased.

"You groped me. It's only fair that I get to grope you back."

"How romantic," I said.

"There isn't supposed to be any romance between brothers and sisters," she said.

"I'm pretty sure there isn't supposed to be any groping between brothers and sisters, either," I shot back.

"That's different," she said. "All we've been doing is educational stuff."

"Watching a TED talk doesn't mean we can act like I'm your boyfriend and you're my girlfriend," I said.

"So you don't want to touch me again," she said. I heard suppressed anger in her voice.

"I didn't say that," I said. "I'm very interested in touching you."

"Then why are we arguing about it?" she moaned.

"Because arguing about stuff is what brothers and sisters are supposed to do," I said.

I grinned at her. I thought I was pretty clever.

I wasn't very clever at all, because she walked up to me and put her face right up against mine.

"I wouldn't touch your pathetic penis right now if you paid me to!" she hissed.

And with that she flounced off to her room.

I was watching the Conehead movie, about an hour later, when my sister plopped down on the couch beside me.

"This is a stupid movie," she said.

"You don't have to watch it," I said.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean what I said, earlier."

"You mean you would touch my pathetic penis if I paid you to?"

"Bobby!" The warning in her voice was clear.

"Okay, okay. I don't know why we were arguing, either."

"I don't want to argue. We used to argue all the time. I like it better the way things are recently," she said.

"You mean with us doing stuff?"

"It's more than that. I feel closer to you than I did before. It's like we're sharing something, and we don't have to fight over it."

"So, do you want to go share something right now?" I asked. "Mom and Dad are home, you know."

"Yes, I know, but they won't come out of the bedroom for hours. Turn that stupid movie off and come with me."

My science teacher told us a story about how if you put a frog in a pot of water at room temperature, and then put the pot on the stove, the frog doesn't feel the temperature change as the water heats up. He could jump out any time, but he doesn't, because he doesn't realize the danger. If you keep heating the water, he'll eventually boil to death.

That's a really good lesson to learn, because I think teenagers are like the frog, and sex is the water. My example of this is that, once we got to my room that night, I ended up lying on my bed with my pants down around my thighs and my dick exposed, and it didn't feel like the water was heating up at all. She looked at my junk curiously, from several directions, but didn't touch it. The situation wasn't conducive to giving me a raging hardon, so my little friend was just reclining, all relaxed like, on his little bed of curly brown hair. I couldn't see my balls, but I could feel them sagging down against the top of my butt. In that situation, the penis can be this little lump, about two inches long, or it can be longer, maybe four inches. I have no idea why it chooses to be either one, but I know it's common. That famous statue of David, from back in ancient times, has him with bunches of muscles and a two inch dick.

She actually noticed the balls first, or at least talked about them first.

"Your balls look like the sack is made of rubber," she said. "It looks like somebody put two jaw breakers in a sheet of hairy spandex."

"I've never seen hairy spandex," I said. "It's kind of chilly, and when it's that way, they kind of tighten up."

"How come it's not stiff?" she asked, changing the subject without warning.

"Um ... I'm not turned on?" I suggested.

"I read somewhere that teenage boys think about sex seventy times per hour. I thought guys had hardons most of the day."

"Nope."

"How do we make it hard?"

I liked the fact that it was "we" who were going to make it hard. That "we", in fact, started the process, though she couldn't see it, yet.

"I think it would help if I could see your tits ... I mean your breasts," I said.

The water got hotter as, without any argument, Emma took her shirt off, and then unclipped her bra.

I had felt them, but never seen them, and they looked ... delicious.

"Wow!" she said. "That was fast."

I looked and my cock was full, not completely hard, but now it was long and lying partway off its nest.

"I really like your breasts," I said.

"I don't get that," she opined. "They're just breasts."

"Do you need to get it?" I asked. "What I have is just a penis, but you're interested in it."

"That is true," she said. She leaned closer.

"The tip doesn't look like the ones in pictures," she said.

This was something I knew a little about.

"I still have a foreskin," I said. I reached and tugged, and the wrinkled mass at the tip thinned and disappeared as it became part of the shaft.

"Circumcision," she said. Apparently she knew a little about things, too.

"Yeah. Mom and Dad didn't have me circumcised when I was a baby."

"Ewww," she said. "I can't believe people would do that to a little baby!"

She leaned closer.

"I want to touch it," she said.

"Go ahead," I said.

The second her slim fingers tentatively gripped the shaft, I felt things stiffen up completely.

"This is amazing," she said. She adjusted her grip and squeezed. "It's warm!"

"Your breast was really warm when I felt it," I said, looking at both of hers.

"It feels hard, but soft at the same time," she said.

I reached for her hand, and made it glide up and down my stiff cock.

"Is that how you do it?" she asked.

I nodded.

"So it's like my hand acts like a pussy, kind of," she said.

"Yeah."

"When will it spit?" she asked.

"Not for a long time if you do it slow. If I want to cum really bad, I speed up."

"Show me," she ordered.

The frog happily started stroking his cock as the water got hotter.

It was easy. All I had to do was stare at her breasts, and in no time I was ready to pop.

"Get ready," I said. "It's going to happen soon."

Normally, I would have aimed it at a sock, or towel or something. This time I wanted to show off, so I made a mess. When it started, I aimed it straight up and it fountained into the air a good ten inches. There were three spurts in a row before it slowed to an ooze as I milked it.

She had backed up when it went off, her eyes wide.

"That's what it does inside a girl?" she gasped.

"I hope so," I groaned.

She reached between her thighs and rubbed the front of her jeans.

"Can I watch you do it, now?" I panted.

"I'm scared," she said.

"Why?"

"I never wanted to get naked with a boy, before," she said.

"Well, it's not like I'll hurt you," I said.

"I know that," she said, dismissively. "It's just that I feel all wiggly inside. I have all these new feelings and they make me feel like I have no control."

"What kind of new feelings?" I asked.

"Like, I always thought that blow jobs were stupid. I mean who'd want to put their mouth on what a boy pees through. But watching that made me feel like maybe it wouldn't be so terrible."

"You're kidding. You'd give me a blow job?" I was astonished.

"No!" she said. "I wouldn't. But how I feel about it changed, somehow."

I arched my back and reached to pull my pants back up. Emma stood there and watched, and then looked around like she was waking up from a dream. She picked up her shirt and shrugged into it. She didn't put her bra back on, though, and left it on the bed.

"That was pretty intense," I said.

"You're telling me," she sighed.

"Want to kiss for a little while?" I suggested.

"I think I need some alone time," she said. "To think about all this."

I was afraid she'd decide the water was too hot, and jump out of it, like Connie had, but there wasn't anything I could do about it.

 She went to her room and I was left to clean up the mess I'd made. I got up and took my shirt off, wadding it up and putting it in the hamper. My pants had escaped the carnage. I put on a new shirt and cleaned up the spots of cum on the bedspread with a tissue. I put her bra under my pillow.

Then I went back to the living room and finished watching the Coneheads.

Just like you're not supposed to lust after your sister, when your Mom comes out of the bedroom after your Dad comes home from a long trip, and her hair is kind of messed up and she has this goofy smile on her face, and she looks like what, later in life, you learn to call "well fucked", you aren't supposed to notice how sexy she looks, either.

But she acted like "Mom" and so I stopped looking at her chest and went back to ignoring her like a regular teen would. She asked if I had eaten, and when I said I had not, she said she was going to make a pot of chili. It was about seven-thirty, but chili sounded good, so I said I was in.

My father appeared, and he looked tired. It was better to think he was tired from the long trip, than it was to imagine his recent energy output in their bedroom, so I tried to ignore him, too.

"I remember the Coneheads," he said, sitting down beside me on the couch.

"That's because you're old," I said.

"I can still take you, so don't get feisty," he teased.

Emma came out of her room when the scent of the chili permeated the whole house.

We ate together and the rest of the night was completely normal.

Well, I spent a good deal of time watching the nipples of Emma's braless breasts make dents in her shirt, and then disappear, and then come back, but other than that everything was normal.

Dad said he had three weeks before the next project started. What that actually meant was that he'd be home for three weeks before he had to go on another trip. During those three weeks he spent a lot of time in his home office, doing prep work on his computer, and Mom always had a long honey-do list for him. That old farmhouse needed a lot of maintenance. Sometimes she even helped him. Mom had been pulling double shifts at the hospital, because they were short of staff, but when he was home she turned down the overtime.

When you're a horny teenage boy, you don't really pay a lot of attention to external things. You have to go to school, and externalize there, but when you're home, and not having to do chores or whatever, most of your thoughts are on internal things. Like how horny you are, and how you wish your sister would get finished "thinking about things" and get back to touching your cock again.

What we'd been doing, however, had somehow caused me to pay more attention to what was going on around me. And what I noticed most of all was that my mother and father slipped away to their bedroom a lot. By "a lot" I mean every day. And that didn't count the nighttime hours. I was quite sure they'd been doing this for years, and I just hadn't noticed it.

Now, I felt a lot better about being horny all the time, because it appeared my parents were horny all the time, too. Or at least "a lot" of the time.

Other than when they were supervising chores, or talking to us about school and whatnot, they usually did their thing and we were left to the whims of teenage fate. In this case, fate caused me to get tired of waiting for Emma to process watching me beat off, and go to her room. She was painting her fingernails when I tapped on her door and then entered without permission.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Painting my nails," she said.

"I can see that," I said.

"Then why did you ask me what I was doing?"

"I didn't come here to argue with you," I said.

"Okay. Why did you come here?"

"I wanted to ask you if you thought about things."

"You mean about watching you masturbate," she said.

"Yeah."

"I did think about it," she said. She concentrated on painting a perfect nail.

"Okay," I said, patiently. "What did you decide?"

"I decided I'm not going to try to have a boyfriend until I get to college," she said.

"What?" I was confused.

She looked up at me.

"I feel strong things for you, and you're just my brother. If you were a regular guy, and you were my boyfriend, I'd be in big trouble right now."

"I am a regular guy," I said. "And why would you be in big trouble?"

"Because if you were my boyfriend, I'd be very tempted to do lots of dangerous things with you."

"Really!" I was surprised. "Like what?"

"Are you saying you don't have an imagination?" she asked, still looking intently at the nail she was working on.

"Of course I do, but it's a guy's imagination, so it doesn't count."

"I didn't know that," she said.

"Yes you did," I said. "Girls think about romance and flowers and guys saying sweet things. That's what goes on in a girl's imagination."

Before I could go on, she broke in. She looked at me first, which made me shiver for some reason.

"And what goes on in a boy's imagination?"

She looked back at the nail, as if the answer was of no matter.

But she had asked me, and I was going to win this argument.

"We think about you being naked, and imagine sucking your nipples and fingering you. And we imagine getting on top of you and getting in you, and about how you love it and want more.  Guys think about a girl becoming his sex slave, and her wanting to have sex all the time."

It was shocking. It had even shocked me as I said it, but all she did was carefully apply polish with the brush. She didn't respond, and time seemed to jerk, as if I were caught in a science fiction movie. Finally, she leaned back and held up the hand she'd been working on, staring at it.

"So girls can't dream of becoming a sex slave to a guy, or about spreading her legs for him as often as he can get it up. Is that what you're saying? Girls can't have an imagination that includes the guy being on top of her, weighing her down and making her helpless as he puts his baby seeds in her?" She looked at me. "Girls can't dream about the guy they love getting them pregnant half a dozen times? Am I right? Girls can't imagine stuff like that because that's guy stuff and we're not guys?"

My intellect told me there was a trap in her questions. But the stupid, male caveman in me grunted and whispered, 'Yeah. That's what guys dream of, not girls.'

"Pretty much," I said. I was sure I had won, but then I remembered I hadn't come here to get in an argument or win anything. It was confusing.

"So, since you seem to understand women so well, what do you think my imagination came up with when I thought about what we've been doing, and where it might go?"

I had no clue. Literally not one single thing came to mind. She certainly wasn't thinking romance and flowers and Valentine's cards. And she certainly wasn't thinking about crawling in bed with me naked, at night, after our parents were asleep, to wiggle around against me and somehow let me fuck her. She'd actually said I wasn't getting a blow job. So, basically, I had nothing. I was out of downs and it was time to punt.

"We're going to practice kissing a bunch more?" I suggested.

She laughed! She actually laughed.

Then she told me to go away so she could finish painting her nails.

I stayed up late that night to binge watch a documentary/reality kind of show about these guys who find old tanks and rebuild them. They find battlefields where tanks were abandoned and sat rusting for decades and when they're finished, the thing looks brand new and drives around and everything. It was amazing.

This was not the kind of thing my sister got interested in, and I didn't see her all night. My dad sat down for one episode, but then my mother came and got him. She was dressed in one of his old business shirts, and the tails weren't long enough to cover a whole lot. It was a white shirt, and, for the first time in my life, I saw a darkness through that shirt where the tips of her breasts pushed it out that I realized was her nipple. She had great legs, too, and I got really confused as I developed a boner. Not only did I think my sister was hot, but now I was having sexual thoughts about my mother, too?!

I missed a bunch of the next episode because I was thinking about this instead of paying attention to the show. I felt better, though, because I didn't want to get in bed with my mother, naked, and do nasty things with her. She was pretty, and I liked looking at her, but it was kind of like looking at naked women on the internet. I liked looking at them, but there's this internal messaging system that tells you, "Never in a zillion years would this woman let you fuck her." It's not that you don't want to, you just know she's so far out of your league that trying to pursue it would be like banging your head against a restored tank.

If you think about it, you might not be willing to go to the effort it would take to even try to have sex with a woman like that.

If she was a total stranger, you'd have to meet her, and get her interested in talking to you, or being around you, or letting you be around her, and then you'd have to woo her, as my grandpa would have called it.  The idea of a grown woman being interested in a sixteen-year-old was ludicrous to begin with, and I wasn't even sixteen, yet.

Now, when it came to my mom, a lot of that applied, as well. She didn't need any kissing practice, and she didn't have any sexual questions she wanted to explore the answers to. My dad boffed her regularly, so she wasn't lonely or frustrated. Her veins weren't coursing with teenage hormones that might encourage her to do something wild.

And, to be honest, what would our relationship be like if we did have sex? It would be tense all the time. That's what. I'd be worried about Dad finding out, and killing me. She'd be trying to be a mom and a lover at the same time, which wouldn't work. It would just be weird. So no, I wasn't interested in getting my mother in bed.

My imagination turned to Emma, and a lot of those barriers and problems vanished. She could be my sister and my lover at the same time and I didn't see that causing major problems at all.

But she'd said that wasn't happening so I stopped thinking about that and watched them refurbish a British Chieftain tank.

The next day was Saturday, which was why I was able to stay up so late to begin with. It was after midnight when I finally turned off the lights and used my Braille senses to feel my way to my room. By the time I got there my eyes were accustomed to the dark, so I didn't turn on the room light. There was enough light coming through the window so I could navigate across the room, kicking clothing aside and so forth. I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled my shirt off. I tossed it toward some other item of clothing on the floor and then stood up to take my pants off. I had to sit down to take my shoes off, because I forgot to do them first. I was reaching for a shoe when a hand landed on my bare thigh and lay there.

I think I peed a little, and I know I yelled. I also stood up and backed away from the bed. I was hobbled by my pants around my ankles and I went down, thankfully in the middle of the room, where there weren't projections and hard edges that would have cracked my skull.

My bedside light came on, and there was Emma, sitting up in my bed. I remember thinking, 'she's naked!' and then wondering why, just because her upper torso (which was all I could see) was naked, that all of her must be naked. Then my confused mind was slapped in the face when she said, "Shhhhh! They'll hear us! Do you want them to find us like this?!"

Well, the answer to that was, "No! I do not want them to find us like this!" so I shushed and sat up on my floor. Automatic responses caused me to get my shoes off and I tossed them to one side. Then I sat there, with my knees spread wide apart and my ankles still hobbled by my pants. I looked at her and she looked at me.

"Are you coming to bed or not?" she asked in a loud whisper.

Now this was very interesting, because time suddenly slowed down. I remember taking my pants off in slow motion. I left them on the floor where my feet were and stood up. Emma threw the covers back to reveal she was, in fact, buck-ass naked. I wasn't wearing briefs that night, and as I stood up, I realized my cock was already stiff. That seemed normal, in context, and some form of built-in radar guided me across/around the objects on the floor. I couldn't actually look at the floor, because I couldn't take my eyes off of her, lying there naked in my bed.

My mental faculties were on hold. There was no way I could process what was happening, or why it was happening, or what it meant. All that could be worked out on the morrow, when I could get some blood into my brain. Right now, it was all being sucked to my penis, which I didn't have to look at to know was hard enough that if it was the right shape, it could chop wood.

Her eyes were on that very hard penis as I stepped toward her. She scooted back to the side of the bed she must have been on when I came in, and lay down as I got onto the bed.

"Turn the light off," she whispered.

I did, and settled into the bed while she threw the covers over me.

Then, she attacked me, crawling half on top of me and writhing like she was trying to escape a swarm of bees that were stinging her to death. Eventually that settled into her hot breasts pressing down on me as she kissed me over and over and over.

Between kisses, she scolded me for taking so long to come to bed. She said she'd been there since nine-thirty, and had fallen asleep by the time I "came into the room like a herd of thundering elephants" and sat on the bed.

Remember that caveman I mentioned? Well, he showed up and I rolled her off of me so I could roll on top of her. I was a little insane, I think because her body felt soooo good rubbing up against me, and her hand, reaching to grip my sword, and then going to my back to run her freshly-painted fingernails over it made me go off the rails.

I rolled fully on top of her and started dry humping her. I wasn't trying to fuck her, I swear. I was just going through motions that my unconscious mind told me to do. When, as I lurched forward, and felt heat surround my prick, and then lurched back to find that delicious heat replaced by cold, cold air, it was like I had been slapped again.

I stopped. She was panting like she'd run five miles and her hands were, at that moment, on my hips.

"What was that?" I asked, and realized I had run the same five miles because I couldn't get my breath.

"You went in me," she said, her voice harsh.

"I did?"

"Yes!"

Then I felt her hands on my cheeks and she pulled me down for another kiss. It was a long, tongue-swapping kiss that made it crystal clear that I was not in trouble.

When that kiss was over, I was still out of breath.

"I went in you?" I whined.

"Yes."

"Did it hurt?" I asked. I still have no idea where that came from, or why I was worried about it.

"No," she said. "What did it feel like to you?"

"It was so fast, I don't remember," I said. "Hot!" I added. "It felt hot."

"So ... do you want to put it in me again?" she asked.

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