Secret Hiding Place

I also had this intense craving to reach out and touch my sister's body.

I wanted to feel some part of her body to give some reality to my fantasy. When I looked at her the next day through my sperm filled eyes, I saw a beautiful woman with a body to die for. I wanted to touch her, kiss her, caress her, hug her, fondle her, and fuck her. I saw a woman with a beautiful butt, a butt that would feel heavenly on my naked thighs. I saw a woman with breasts that were oozing out of her blouse and crying out for my hands. I saw a woman whose body was so succulent that I had to be inside her to find the true meaning of life.

It took almost three days for me to come up with a response.

I pictured us looking at the same book together and having some sort of conversation, only through marks in the book, and not through words uttered from our mouths.

Then, my star must have said to her, "I like this position."

She must have heard me saying, "I like this position. Which position do you like?"

To which she responded by putting a mark next to her favourite position. When I saw that mark, I heard her saying, "And, I like this position."

Or maybe, even, "My favourite position is this one."

Now it was my turn to respond to her comment.

If we were having a real conversation, I would probably have said, "Yes, I like that position as well."

Or, maybe, "Yes, that position is also my favourite position."

When I though more about it, my actual response was, "Yes, that position is good, but…"

Once I fine tuned my response, I now had to put it in symbols that she could comprehend.

At first I put a star next to her mark, as if saying, "I, too, like this position."

But that's not all I wanted to say. There was that "…but…" in my response as well. So I put a question mark next to the star. Thus, my response to her mark was a star with a question mark, saying, "I, too, like this position, but…"

Her response was quick this time. The following evening I saw an arrow pointing to my question mark and another question mark at the tail of that arrow. I could almost hear her say, "…but what?"

My answer to her question was a bit involved so it couldn't be conveyed with just a symbol or two. I had to qualify my answer and there was no way to do it without saying something in words. But if I wrote anything in response to her symbolized question, I would catapult our communication to another level. I didn't know what the consequences would be. So far, this could be explained as nothing more than an innocent game, although the communication was anything but a game. But, the words would weigh much more heavily than vague symbols. It was no longer a non-committal communication. I was now on the verge of insinuating something, taking on a clear sexual connotation, maybe even betraying somewhat of the turmoil that was going on inside of me. Was she, possibly, experiencing a similar turmoil, I wondered.

Under normal circumstances, I probably would have said nothing, but the high—almost toxic—levels of sperm in my blood stream, made me respond like this. I first drew an arrow away from her question mark and then put a number in a circle, which referred to another page in the book. On this other page, the couple was locked in a variation of the missionary position. He was buried deep within her, one hand on her breast, other around her neck, while her legs were locked around his waist, and her arms around his shoulders. Both were kissing deeply. I put a star next to this position and WROTE—yes, wrote— "deeper penetration".

There, I had gone and done it. I had said to my sister, "I, too, like this positions, but…I like the position on page so and so because it gives deeper penetration than this one."

I had put words to my thoughts and started an open conversation about our sexual preferences when it came to a position. I didn't know how she was going to take it, or if she was to going to take offence to such openness. If she was, well, so be it. It was worth it.

Her response was equally quick. She put an arrow and a page number next to my words. When I looked at the page she had indicated, I saw her words next to a position where the man was standing with his pelvic area thrust forward, his dick fully inserted inside a woman who was seated on his cock, his hands holding her buttocks and pulling her into himself as he tried to go in as deep as possible, her body stretched backward and away from him as she hung from his neck. She had pulled her knees to her shoulders and her feet were resting on his chest. My sister wrote, "Even deeper penetration, probably the deepest."

Well, there were no holds barred now.

When we met each other in person, we acted nonchalant. We pretended like there was nothing going on between the two of us. I stole brief glimpses of her body, of parts of her body. I even found her doing the same to me. But all that was done—supposedly—in secret. The conversation we were having was in secret, and that's how it was to remain, a secret. We could share that secret in hiding, but there was no pretence to bringing it in the open. There was no accepted protocol to have this conversation in the open, especially because it involved sexual positions and consequently sexual feelings.

It was okay to imagine, it just wasn't okay to do.

My sister and I had exchanged views on the position that would give the deepest penetration. My sperm flowed out of my body that night in the form of a wet dream, where I achieved that penetration in my sister. I knew that our exchange was extremely arousing for me. I didn't know, however, how she felt. I didn't know if she was aroused by our conversation—sorry, communication—or was it just academic to her without any feelings similar to mine.

I couldn't wait any longer. I had to know.

I thought of a thousand ways to phrase my question to her but none seemed acceptable without being too open and direct. Again, subtlety was the key and I had to figure a way to learn how all this affected her without making her hesitate in giving me an answer. Then it came to me. So far, I had taken the first step in our communication. What if I were to stop? Would she then take the first step on continuing our conversation?

That possibility seemed more titillating. It excited me—not that there was any room left in my excitement section—when I thought of her asking the next question.

I took up silence. I said nothing, marked nothing. I simply waited.

My silence even crept up into the real life. She noticed that and a few days later, while I was eating my dinner, she asked me, "Are you okay?"

"Yes, I am okay," I replied, "Just a little persistent headache."

As I was in bed, she came to my room with a glass of water and a packet of Grandpa headache powder. She handed both to me and said, "Here, this helps me with my headaches."

I didn't know what she meant by "her headaches". Either she had a headache similar to mine, which meant she was suffering from the same ailment, or else she had some ordinary headaches and she was just being helpful.

I stayed in my bed longer than usual the next morning. She came to my room and sat down next to me. She asked, "Are you feeling any better?"

I could feel the heat emanating from her body. She was sitting so close to me that I just wanted to reach out and touch her. I replied, "No, I feel the same."

She felt my forehead, and said, "Well, at least you don't have fever. So, nothing much to worry about."

Her hand felt soft and warm. The softness was quite refreshing. That was the first time we had come into a physical contact of some sort in a long time, and after all of our exchanges, I enjoyed it at a different level.

When I opened the book that evening, I found a little piece of paper stuck between the pages. On this piece, there was nothing accept one large question mark. It was like she was asking me what is going on. The fact that this question mark was big and bold told me that she was concerned about this end to our communication, and the resulting effects on me. Suddenly, we were catapulted to a new level, by her.

She wanted to know, "What's the matter?"

I wanted to say, "I can't take it any longer. My thoughts are running amok." I wanted to say, "These exchanges are arousing the hell out of me, yet I don't know if they have similar affect on you or not. I want to know how you are being affected because I am going crazy with these wild, sexual fantasies about you. Are you having similar fantasies about me?" I wanted to tell her that I was getting these urges to get into one of those positions with her, that I wanted her to wrap her legs around my waist and to take me in as far as physical boundaries would allow. I wanted to tell her that I wanted to fuck her and that's all I had on my mind, all the time.

By just putting that question mark, she had left the ball in my court. She actually had trapped me into revealing my feelings without divulging any of hers.

I did the only thing left open to me. I wrote the word "sleep" on the paper and then drew a circle around it and a slash from one end of the circle to the other, in the universal symbol for no. I essentially answered her by saying, "no sleep".

That evening she came to my room with a glass of warm milk.

All of a sudden, whether she realized it or not, she had done what I thought we couldn't do. She had brought our secret in the open. What I had communicated to her in our secret dialog, she had responded to in the open, in real life.

She said, "Here, this will help you sleep."

I sat up in my bed and took the glass from her. It wasn't intentional, but I became aware of my pose as I sipped the warm milk. I was in her favourite position.

I don't know if she noticed as much. She just sat next to me. Part of her butt was lightly touching my calf. I started to feel real warm.

She saw the drops of sweat on my forehead and reached up and wiped them with her bare hand. She asked, "Are you sure you don't have fever? Malaria may be."

Now she was just being ridiculous, and I noted as such.

There was something happening here, that much I knew. But, the barriers were immense and it required something extraordinary to take them down.

It came with an equally ridiculous ease.

It was one hot afternoon. I couldn't stay with the animals and came home rather early. By the time I made it home, I was soaking wet. I took a quick bath and took refuge in the only room where we had a ceiling fan. She was already there, sitting on the floor in a yoga position, stripped to her bare minimums to keep cool.

She was wearing a thin, flimsy blouse. Her skirt was pulled above her knees to allow the most amount of air to cover her body. She was passing her time by slowly combing her hair. She wasn't really combing them to make them neat. She was just keeping herself busy to pass the time. As her arms stretched over and behind her head, her chest pushed forward like a soldier at attention. I noticed she had no bra on because it was too hot for such a constricting garment. Her nipples were protruding through the thin material and her breasts were faintly visible through the milky colour. The air from the fan was causing her blouse to shift around showing various degrees of cleavage. I don't know what made me do this, but I took a chair and placed it right behind her. I then reached and took the comb away from her. As I sat under that fan, I reached out and started to use that comb on her. I started combing her hair for her and she let me.

As I ran the comb through her hair, I felt her back press against my knees. It was electrifying. I hadn't expected that when I offered to comb her hair, but I welcomed the feelings. She relaxed after a short while, closed her eyes and just let me run that comb through her hair at my leisure. A few minutes passed like that with her body leaning against my legs, her legs stretched away from her and my hands playing with her hair, when suddenly we heard our mother come into the house. She jumped quickly—rather guiltily—grabbed the comb away from me and ran to another room before mom could come in and see the two of us.

I didn't think she needed to rush out like that. Even if my mother saw me combing her hair, there was nothing wrong with it. It was something silly to do, but it was not something forbidden. But the way she jumped, the way she felt guilty, and the way she dashed into another room told me a lot about what was going in her mind.

That evening when my mother went to Precious, my sister came to my room. She was holding a comb in her hands and smiling. I took the hint and sat on the edge of my bed with my bare feet on the floor. She sat on the floor and assumed the position. The bed was slightly higher than the chair and she had to assume a kneeling position to get her head within my reach. I started combing her hair as she closed her eyes and snuggled into my legs. I could feel the taut muscles of her thighs and calves around my feet and ankles as my knees felt the side of her arms. After a while she relaxed and leaned back. The bed only allowed her to come slightly in where a little bit of my thighs rubbed against her sides.

We had progressed to level two. I was able to feel her body against parts of my body and I was able to run my fingers through her hair under the pretext of combing her hair. So far so good—but not good enough.

I wanted to feel her shoulders. I wanted to caress her back. I wanted to cup her supple breasts. But, there was no way for me to advance to that level without any hint from her, telling me that I was allowed to do that. We were teasing each other to what would be considered acceptable level of sexual contact, but anything beyond, and anything blatant had to be qualified. There was nothing I knew that could qualify that.

I guess she was thinking on the same lines and she knew a way to at least increase our contact.

The next afternoon I came home very early. I found her in the same room sitting under the fan. She was dressed in the same blouse and skirt; I guess she must have washed it for the purpose earlier in the day. As I placed my chair behind her, she turned and pushed it away. Then she motioned for me to sit behind her without any chair.

I squatted behind her. She stretched her legs, placed her hands on each side of my thighs and leaned back with her head stretched back to make it easy for me to comb her hair and her chest protruding forward as a result. My knees were touching the sides of her buttocks as I felt her soft and warm body on the inside of my thighs.

It was now or never.

I was breathing very heavily as I reached with my arms around her ribs and placed my hands on her firm breasts.

She held that pose. I slowly and carefully cupped and fondled her breasts. She only cooed a little. I felt encouraged and placed my hands under her blouse and felt her naked breasts in my palms. I was out of breath at this skin to skin contact. I could have never imagined in my life the incredible feelings that real breasts held for my eager hands. She was equally breathless as she writhed against my hands.

Her blouse came off quickly as did my shirt. She turned and stood on her knees against me as I reciprocated her pose and held her against me. Her breasts felt even better on my chest. Our hungry mouths found each other as we kissed and hugged with such a passion that we probably bruised our bodies. Our passion erupted into such a torrid scene that we were soon on the floor rolling, trying to be on top of each other.

We became so breathless that we had to break away from each other just to catch our breath. Of course, I also felt thirsty so I had to grab a drink of water. This pause was just enough to simmer us down and bring us back to earth.

We started to kiss and fondle again, gently at first, but soon we reached a fever pitch. In no time, we were soon biting and sucking each others tongues out of our mouths. We had been holding our fantasies in for so long that mere kissing was not enough. We needed a more violent way to express our emotions. We needed a violent emotional release.

Her skirt was easier to come off than my pants. By the time I was completely naked, she was on the floor with her legs parted wide and her hands outstretched to welcome me inside of her. I moved between her legs as she grabbed my cock with one hand and guided it to her pussy hole. She was wet beyond belief as I was hard like a rock and horny as hell. I made it into my sister with the speed of a superman. I pressed myself deep inside her vagina. I buried myself in my sister's belly as far as the physical limits would allow. Soon I started to pump away with abandon. I fucked her hard. I fucked her deep. I fucked her long. I fucked her like there was no tomorrow.

I don't know when she came or if she came. I know that it took me a while to come, even though I had expected myself to explode the minute I entered her. I was able to fuck her long enough to enjoy the sensations of her pussy rubbing against my shaft, her juices soaking my cock wet and dripping onto the floor, and her body squirming under the pressure I was exerting.

The eruption was violent. I pumped as hard and as fast as I could and when the release started, I jerked and convulsed with both pleasure and pain until I unloaded a ton of my cum inside my sister. She held on for her dear life.

I lay on top of her, exhausted, breathless and fully spent. She caressed my back as she held me locked between her legs, trying to calm me down and bring me back to earth.

That night, and the nights that followed, became our nights. As my mother spent her time with Precious, my sister and I experienced all the positions in the book and we even invented some of our own. Of course, we always finished the night in either my favourite position or hers.