Little Things Ch. 02 of 04

A grin spreads slowly on his face, teeth shining through straight and just off-white, and I briefly wonder how anyone can avoid loving him. Such a simple, honest charm, sparkling in his expression...I'd give a lot for that smile. Maybe more than I should. But he hastens to obey, and then he's climbing into the bunk with me. The both of us laying down beneath warm, heavy blankets, our bodies sliding into place together, my back against his chest. His strong arm coming round my side, his hand resting upon my stomach, and I feel gently cradled in his grasp as we softly spoon. Pressed together with just this perfect tightness.

It's comforting, exciting, all at the same time. His breath rustling through my hair, running warmly down the back of my neck, a caress like that from a velvet glove. A feeling like I had out there at that snowy rest stop, a pleasure in almost surrendering myself to him, finding refuge from the world in his powerful embrace; a honeyed sweetness in this sensation of his body surrounding me, a trembling thrill in the touch of firm, rippling muscle, pressed into my back, my side. In this sanctuary, the chatter of worry recedes, retreats into the distance...and my earlier arousal, cooled to mere embers by our time apart, surges forth again, stoked by the heat of his body, by the feeling of his fingers slightly spread as they rest lovingly at my abdomen.

David speaks in the darkness, a gentle whisper, his mouth close beside my ear. "Good night, Samantha." And the timbre of his voice...gone, now, the squeak and rasp of puberty, of vocal cords still struggling in growth. His voice has a richness, a depth like old vinyl on a record player; it tickles in my ear, tingles down my spine, and I wonder how on earth I failed to notice it before.

Hesitation. I don't answer back yet, distracted by the smouldering desire that warms my insides, by the faint trickle of wetness I can feel within my folds. Stupid; he isn't even doing anything, just holding my, but my body's reacting like we're about to fuck. Sending up its demanding little signals of need: feed me, touch me, taste me fill me...like it doesn't know that this is my brother, that we can't. Or like it doesn't care. Just whispering rhapsodic into my mind about how delightful if he slipped his hand down into my panties, if his thick digits probed inside me...god, I can imagine it, his palm rubbing softly on my clit while his middle finger hooks up, pressing past swollen, sensitive lips, swallowed up to caress me from within. Strong hands tugging my panties down to my ankles, and his cock firm and solid, slipping between my legs, rubbing back and forth with exquisite slowness as it smears the slowly leaking juices at the top of my thighs, mixed with his own pre-cum. The sudden surge of pain and pleasure as he enters me, the bulbous tip of his cock spearing inside. My nerves, my flesh screaming in protest and in delight.

A shiver runs through my spine, and I can feel the dampness spreading at the top of my legs, a little flood just from this brief fantasy. Fuck. I can't sleep like this, not when I'm this horny. "It's not fair, you know." I murmur back to David huskily. A belated answer, my breathing shallow, my skin hot and tingling.

"What's not?" Concern in his voice; he sounds normal, calm, maybe just a little tired. His manhood limp still in his briefs despite my daydream, despite even my rear so close beside his groin, and I suffer a frustrated flash of almost anger - how dare he not be turned on, when here I am fairly squirming with arousal.

But then, that's sort of the point. "You got off, and I didn't." I wriggle a bit in his arms, my ass pressing back against him, and smile in faint satisfaction as I feel his cock stir, begin to reawaken. "Makes it hard to get to sleep."

"Oh. Um..." His voice abashed and slightly strained, perhaps distracted by the organ that grows and stretches with new life, faintly pulsing with his heartbeat as it lies trapped between us. "Well, it's okay if you wanna, y'know...do what you have to..."

My grin widens, hearing the soft tension of desire in his tone. "What, you're saying I should masturbate right here? Next to you?"

His fingers curl at my hip. A new assurance, a cache of confidence found and forced into service. "I did it for you, right?"

"You did." Laughter, brief and quiet. My fingertips running thoughtfully atop the back of his hand. "Maybe you should do it now, too. Um, do me now, do it for me." Clumsy words, stumbling around the idea. The hot haze of arousal clouding my thoughts. It's about the same either way, right? Whether he touches me, or I touch myself... "I'll bet you'd get it done faster."

A pause. I can hear him breathing behind me, the rise and fall of his chest against my back. A nervous swallow, his arm clutching tight upon my waist. It's long moments before finally his hand drops down, anticipation thawing to delight in my heart as his fingers drift across the damp cloth of my panties. Sticking to the outside, obeying scrupulously still the hastily-considered rule I set what feels so long ago. A slow, slight pressure, two fingers tracing out the shape and the swell of my mound, running slowly down my slit. Provoking an instinctual sigh of satisfaction as pleasure roils up in heady waves, as a fresh trickle of my nectar oozes forth like blood from a wound.

Fuck, I ought to be embarrassed at how plain it is, my body putting its reactions so clearly on display for him. But I don't. Instead I almost glory in it, excitement pounding in my heart. "Feel how wet I am." Whispered back in the darkness for him to hear, soft and teasing, and an exultant skip in my heartbeat as I swear his cock pulses against me, just at the words. Again, too, as he obeys, dropping his hand further to slip between my closed thighs. Cupping my pussy, with his palm clasped firmly at the bottom of my panties. Thin showers of ecstatic sensation shooting through my body at the infinitesimal flickering of his fingers on me.

"Yeah..." He whispers faintly, absorbed in his action. "Um, you must really...really need this..."

"It's for you. Because of you." A thin line of yearning threaded through the words. An admission to myself as much as to him. I never need it like this, not so badly, so soon after my last release; I'm losing my head with David, pulled so readily into arousal by his body, his touch, his scent. Driven into mad desire, where impossible thoughts start to sound so sweet... "I need you to finish it, Davey." No affectation to the tone of almost pleading that's crept into my voice. His other hand rests softly at my shoulder; I grab it and bring it to my lips, touch them there...a gentle kiss, just at the hinge of his thumb.

"Of course." His voice dives so quickly to eager reassurance. To inspired determination, like some noble knight tasked with a quest. Strong lips press at the back of my scalp, buried in my hair as his fingers curl on my mound, nails angling down to gently scrape at skin swollen and sensitive, drawing lines of agonized delight through the thin cloth.

"Fuck." The word escapes me, a note of urgent satisfaction breathed quietly into the covers. My hand slips beneath my shirt, touches upon stiffened nipple, playing slowly in accompaniment to David's melody below. Softly, now; just his index and middle fingers rubbing back and forth at my labia burning with blood and with need, moving at a tempo resonant with my heartbeat, with the palpitations of my soul, each stroke driving me strongly towards the catastrophe of rapture. The damp fabric of my panties sliding slightly with his fingers, and my skin so raw and sensitive that I could swear I feel each individual thread as it gently rasps against me, as the cotton puckers and dips just inside.

"Faster..." A quiet command, my breath coming quick and shallow as I approach the zenith. He obeys, fingers flickering rapidly on my aching pussy, tapping at my clit with each stroke, and my body ringing in response, his pushing back urgent and hopeful, my insides boiling like water in a kettle. I'm not usually a screamer, but I'm suddenly afraid this time that I might, a vague, half-conscious worry about mom and dad downstairs, of being heard. There's only one thing convenient, his hand still touched to my lips; I scarcely have to open my mouth before his index finger slips sideways inside, and I bite down lightly on the thick, calloused digit, taking in his faintly earthy taste. Sucking softly on him with each fevered inhalation, little moans and murmurs vibrating from my throat as I climb towards climax, all else falling away but his hands at my lips, his body around me. Sensation rushing through me in rising, rhythmic waves to wash away thought, worry, leaving behind just a shining rapture in whose light my body stiffens, curves, writhes...

On the edge of perception, I can feel his head shift, his lips a presence in my mind as they drift downward to light strongly on the back of my neck. His breath streaming through his nose to whirl in my hair. His voice comes, trembling and fervent with earnesty, a whisper that still carries past the electric crackle of pleasure in my ears. "I love you, Samantha."

The words settle into my skin, absorbed like a drug, and it's as they do that I'm overtaken. Biting down hard upon his finger as the breath rattles brokenly from my lungs, my legs clamping closed around his hand, every muscle in my body squeezing tight from the ecstasy which explodes through me in long, rolling reverberations, the kaleidoscope of feeling filling my consciousness, dazzling bright and beautiful. Not a short one, this time; it goes on and on, a landscape of euphoria streaming through my soul, my mind carried aloft to rise and fall in its currents for at least a dozen seconds before finally beginning its slow drift back to earth. Before my muscles finally relax again, and I release the firm grip of my teeth on his doubtlessly-hurting finger.

Longer yet - breathing raggedly, limp and sodden in his arms - before I can think of anything to say. With the return of reason, my worries find me again, and there's a cold, crawling panic in the back of my mind over what we've just done. It's all I can do to cling to the fact that I at least had my panties on, that he was touching them, not me. That technically, I didn't just get my little brother to finger me. No - he was only helping me get to sleep. That's accurate, right? I mean, it's true. We don't need to feel bad about it. I don't need to.

With these thoughts, I slowly soothe away the queasy anxiety that trembles down inside my skull, putting it gradually back to rest. Faintly embarrassed by my awareness of David's arousal, his hardness renewed and still pressing upon my rear. It must be uncomfortable for him...as distracting as my lack of satisfaction was, at least it wasn't painful. I know it can be that, for guys - the ones I've been with made sure to remind me, every time I'd put a stop to things before they got off. I don't want to put David through it, really. But I can't do anything for him; already we've pushed the boundaries here. Anything more, and...no. I can't.

There's just his words, then, resounding in my mind. The simple phrase that carried me over the edge - that he loves me. And how like my thoughts of before, that the word 'love' is made to mean so many things...for so many years, I would have met this statement of his with no surprise, returned it without hesitation. Now, though, with all that's happened, I wonder exactly what he means by it. Wonder just how far his love extends.

Does it matter, though, really? The way he feels...I know the shape of it, if not its precise dimension. It's no great stretch of the imagination to think what this declaration of his implies. I should turn it away. Probably. Maybe. Shouldn't encourage this fixation, shouldn't let him think that there's any future here, because there isn't. There can't be. He's my brother. I'm his sister. Whatever games we might play here, in the dark and alone...they're a diversion, not a path that we can choose.

But he's just saying that he loves me. How can I rebuke him for that? I mean, even if that love carries some illicit currents, I can't just reject the whole thing. With all we are, all we have been to each other, I can't cast down his feeling. It is what it is. And me...my feeling...

"I love you too, Davey." Gently uttered in the darkness, an answer long delayed. What else can I say but this truth? Its precise meaning perhaps still hidden behind the vagaries of emotion and of language, but I know that I love him, with greater certainty than I can ascribe to any other fact in my possession. And oh, what empathic joy there is in this response, David's whole body seeming to warm with happiness around me. Even without seeing his face, I can tell that he's smiling - and can't keep my lips from doing the same. Not that I try too hard to stop them.

Nothing more remains. In this pose, with bodies interlaced, David's arms wrapped snugly around my waist and beneath my shoulder, we drift off to sleep - the only crack in my contentment a vague guilt, still, at leaving his revived arousal unaddressed and unresolved. But as slumber claims me, even this seems a paradoxical comfort; his manhood pressing between my cheeks is just another gentle touch, another thing erasing the space between us, bringing us closer into contact. It's a pleasant thought to cradle softly in my mind, as consciousness finally falls away.