tagIncest/TabooSex on the Beach

Sex on the Beach

byCal Y. Pygia©

Stephanie is beautiful. She's intelligent. She's hardworking. She's kind and compassionate. She even has a sense of humor (rare in itself among women) and the capacity to laugh at herself (rarer, still). She has a lot to offer a man, but she has poor judgment when it comes to picking out which of the many suitors shall become her one and only lover. "You need to take your time; choose carefully," I tell her.

"I know," she sobs. "I will."

Then, she meets Mr. Wonderful again, and the cycle is repeated.

Between rounds, she usually stays with me, in my two-bedroom condo's guest room, the bathroom of which is a few steps from the doorway, just to her right as she enters the hallway. The master bedroom, which has its own bathroom, is down the hall to her left, opposite the washer and the dryer.

"Thanks for letting me stay with you, big brother," she'd said, last week. She and her latest Mr. Wrong, Brian Edwards, or Brian the Bastard, as she was calling him these days, had just broken up.

"You need to take your time; choose carefully," I'd told her.

"I know," she'd agreed. "I will."

I'd kissed her forehead, as I always do, and we'd stood together, holding each other close. Stephanie had been wearing the faintest scent of a delicate, but heady, perfume; her breasts had been soft against my chest, and, despite the cold of the night out of which she'd emerged, suitcases in hand, her tight, slender body had been warm.

"Do you want to talk?"

"No, thanks."

She'd kissed my cheek, and we'd parted. I'd carried her bags down the hall, to the guestroom, or to her room, as I'd begun to think of the bedroom in which she'd so frequently slept over the last three years, since she'd turned eighteen and moved out of Mom's and Dad's house to start her "career" at Hotdog-on-a-Stick while looking for Mr. Right. It was a good thing we'd parted, too, because my cock had stirred, stiffening and swelling; her breasts had felt wonderfully warm and soft against my chiseled pecs, and a man's manhood, even if it belongs to the brother of a beloved sister, knows nothing of right and wrong, permissible or impermissible, proper or improper.

At the doorway, as I'd left, having set her bags on the bed, Stephanie had offered me another chaste and sisterly kiss, and said, "Thanks for being here for me, Brad."

I'd smiled. "What are brothers for?"

* * *

Now, a week later, Stephanie's bruised and battered soul was still healing. When she wasn't selling Hotdogs-on-a-Stick, she was holed up in her room, watching chick flicks and fantasizing about unlikely vengeance scenarios involving Brian the Bastard as her victim.

"You need to do something," I told her as we broke our previous evening's fast over plates of pancakes, bacon, and eggs that Stephanie had prepared. In addition to being beautiful, intelligent, hardworking, kind, compassionate, and having a good sense of humor, my kid sister's a superb cook. I told her as much.

"Thanks," she said, with a grin, "but making pancakes hardly qualifies me as a world-class chef."

"You didn't make just pancakes," I reminded her. "There are eggs, too, and bacon."

"Yeah," she agreed, "and plates and everything."

"You've never been a bachelor."

"That's true," she concurred, playing along. "I'm a bachelorette."

"Not the same."

"Why not?"

"Well, for one thing, bachelorettes are girls."

"Thanks for noticing."

"And, for another, they can cook."

Stephanie pretended outrage. "Brad Thomas! What a sexist thing to say!"

"You can, anyway."

I sipped my coffee, looking at Stephanie across the round, glass-topped table.

She saw me looking, averted her eyes, looked back, saw me studying her, laughed, a little uncomfortably, and said, "What?"

She was wearing a fluffy, powder-blue terrycloth robe. Fastened around the waist with a fluffy, powder-blue terrycloth belt, the top of the front of the garment, the lower portion of which extended only a few inches below her crotch, was parted enough for me to see that she wasn't wearing a bra. The smooth, round cleavage of her breasts were brazenly displayed, and I could see an expanse of her firm, tight midriff between the upper halves of her robe. Unfortunately, the belt was tied snugly, forbidding any further view of my sister's charms.

My cock had more than stirred at the sight of my sister's cleavage; it was standing fully erect, so stiff and swollen that it throbbed painfully. Inside the risen pouch of my tightened scrotum, my balls ached as well.

"What?" Stephanie repeated.

"Nothing," I said, averting my eyes.

"You were staring at me," she said, her tone light, but with an accusatory undertone that maybe wasn't playful.

"I was just thinking how lucky a guy--any guy--would be to have you as his girlfriend." I felt myself blush as I added, "You're incredibly beautiful."

She chuckled. "If you weren't my brother, I'd marry you," she quipped.

Although she'd obviously intended her comment as a joke, I found myself wishing she'd meant it both literally and sincerely. I blushed again, more deeply. "Wouldn't that be nice?"

She reached across the table for the syrup, and the front of her robe parted farther, revealing a perfect breast, including the nipple, ringed by its puffy areola. I couldn't be sure, but it seemed to me that the nipple, like my prick, was erect--despite the bright sunshine that streamed through the window before which she sat, warming her, as it did the dining room. The air conditioner was off, too, so, whatever it was that had stiffened her nipples, it wasn't cold temperature. Butter dish in hand, she sat back, sliced off a tab with her knife, and, poised to spread the yellow substance across her pancake, said, smiling brightly, "Yes, it would, Bradley dearest."

We finished our meal in relative silence, me furtively glancing at the front of my sister's robe, hoping against hope that another movement or gesture would reveal, again, one magnificent breast or the other. I had no such luck, although her cleavage remained as much in evidence as ever, teasing me to near ejaculation as I sneaked peeks at the tops and sides of her breasts.

She stood, gathering her plate and silverware. Crossing to my side of the table, she set her plate beside mine, and asked, "Finished?"

I hoped she wouldn't notice my erection, which jutted up, against the front of my robe, beneath the glass tabletop. I nodded, fearful that my voice would be husky with lust, should I respond verbally.

She removed my plate, stacking it on her own, and added our cutlery to the stack. Carrying them into the kitchen, she treated me to a glimpse of her round bottom, which swayed and rolled with her gait.

"You don't have to wash the dishes." I cleared my throat. My voice was a little husky, as I'd feared, but it sometimes was, in the morning, anyway. "Or cook, for that matter."

"I want to," she answered. "It's nice to have a man to spoil, even if he is my brother."

I pushed the chair back from the table and rose.

From the kitchen, as she scraped our dishes at the sink, prior to placing them in the dishwasher, she asked, "Where are you going?"

"I have to get ready for work."

"Work? On Saturday?"

"Not usually, but the company just landed a new contract, and my boss wants me to meet with him to outline a production strategy."

"Oh." Stephanie sounded disappointed. "I'm hardly ever off on Saturdays, and I was hoping we could do something today, just the two of us."

"Maybe we still can. What'd you have in mind?"

"I don't know, a drive up the coast, maybe."

"That's doable, sis," I said. "I should be home by noon."

"I'll be ready," Stephanie promised, "and waiting."

* * *

In the master bathroom, standing naked before the full-length mirror, I studied myself critically, the way, I imagined, a woman would--the way that my sister might, were she interested in me in the same way that another woman might be. I'm not vain, but I don't suffer from false modesty, either, and I know I'm handsome. Plenty of women have told me as much, and, well, the mirror doesn't lie. God or nature, or both, was good to me. I'm tall and dark-haired, with dark brown, almost black, eyes; a straight nose which is neither too imposing nor too retiring; a square chin; high cheekbones; a clearly delineated jawbone; small ears; a bull neck; broad shoulders; a deep chest; tight abs, a narrow waist; a nine-inch, circumcised cock; big balls; muscular thighs; a tight, compact ass; and a powerful, sculpted back.

I've never been able to understand what women see in such features, but most find them attractive, I've found. Maybe it's hardwired into them, the way a man's love of feminine attributes is genetically encoded in him, if he's straight. In any case, as I say, women find me attractive, and, were I not Stephanie's brother, I suspect that she would also think me worth seducing. I smiled, thinking, Hell, she flirts with me, as it is. If I weren't her sibling--but, unfortunately, I was. "Down, boy," I chided my stiff, upright cock, which didn't give a rat's ass about familial relationships.

The shower was hot, although it should have been cold, and I enjoyed the hissing needles falling against my naked flesh and the caress of the warm water sluicing down my chest and belly, over my soaked pubes, and along my thick thighs. I luxuriated in the sensations of the steaming water showering my back, my buttocks, and the backs of my legs. The rain of water felt good on my shoulders and neck, too, and I stayed under the shower as long as I dared.

The water felt wonderful, warm and wet against my bare flesh, running down and around the shaft of my still half-erect prick and the front and sides of my tightened scrotum. After ten minutes, I stepped, reluctantly, out of the shower and dressed in white cotton briefs, a white shirt, black socks, a gray suit with black pinstripes, a maroon tie fixed to my shirtfront with a diamond-studded tie clasp, and a pair of black wingtips. The mirror approved of the transformation from a stubble-chinned, robed bachelor to a clean-shaven, dapper young project manager. I found myself hoping that Stephanie would approve, too.

She did, judging by her expression. Her eyebrows shot up, her eyes snapping wide, and her mouth dropped. "Wow, bro! You look like a movie star who's up for an Academy Award."

I was "up," all right--or had been, just a few minutes ago--I thought, smiling, but not for a statuette. "Thanks," I said.

She followed me to the door. Her robe was still half-open, and, intentionally or otherwise, she was flashing even more tit than she had been at breakfast. From the kitchen, I heard the faint hum and splash of the dishwasher. The dining room table was completely cleared, and there was no sign of the breakfast we'd shared. In addition to her many other qualities and capabilities, my little sister was quite the little homemaker, I thought.

"Do me a favor, Brad?"

"Sure."

"Buy me a dozen long-stemmed roses."

She needed cheering up after being dumped by Brian the Bastard, I thought. "Gladly," I said. My hand closed upon the doorknob.

"And, Brad?"

I paused.

"Make sure they're red," she said.

I'd been thinking pink, but I nodded. "The reddest roses ever plucked shall be yours, my dear."

Her hand lit upon my forearm, and she leaned into me, a breast flattening against my arm, soft, but firm, feminine and full.

She kissed my lips. "I love you, Bradley."

My cock stiffening and swelling, I opened the door. "I love you, too, Stephanie," I replied, and stepped outside, into the brilliance of the summer morn.

"I'll be waiting for you," she called.

* * *

The morning was one of the longest of my life.

Oh, the meeting went well; no problem there--it just seemed to take forever, as did visiting the flower shop and buying the roses, and returning home, all because I couldn't stop thinking of Stephanie. She may be my sister, but she is one sexy, beautiful woman, too, and the memory of her cleavage; of her naked, perfect breast; and of her pressing herself into me as her lips kissed mine were images I couldn't keep out of my mind, even when my boss and I were discussing my "key role" in satisfying the demands of a multi-million-dollar contract.

Finally, though, a dozen red, long-stemmed roses cradled in my arm, I was standing upon my doorstep. Heart beating like that of a schoolboy on his first date, I inserted my key, turned it in the lock, and opened the front door.

Stephanie looked up at me from her seat on the sectional couch in the living room. She'd been flipping through a magazine, which she tossed aside as soon as she saw me, and rose, wearing a brief halter top, tied at the front, resembling a bandana more than it did a blouse; the shortest pair of denim short shorts I'd ever seen, frayed about the leg holes; and an impractical, but sexier-than-hell, pair of high-heeled shoes. Her long blonde tresses, newly shampooed, conditioned, and styled, hung loosely about her neck and shoulders, accentuating both her sparkling blue eyes and her tanned complexion. Just seeing her made me want to--

Instead, I shut the door behind me, met her halfway, as she entered the hallway from the living room, and, with a mild flourish, presented her with the roses.

She grinned, her eyes sparkling, as she accepted the flowers. "They're beautiful, Bradley!" she exclaimed, bouncing on the tips of her toes as she kissed me on the mouth, not the cheek, and let her own, soft, full lips linger upon mine before hastening off to put the roses in a vase of water while I changed clothes. It was only half past noon. There was plenty of time for a drive up the coast--the whole afternoon lay ahead of us, golden and bright, lovely and warm.

"I'll be right down," I told Stephanie, as I resisted the impulse to charge up the stairs. "I just need to change my clothes."

"I'll be waiting," my sister called. She sounded happier than I'd heard her sound in months. Living with Brian the Bastard must have taken more of a toll on her than either she or I had realized, but Brother Bradley would make up for the creep's mistreatment, I vowed. Near the top of the stairs, I took the last half dozen steps two at a time.

Another surprise awaited me in my bedroom. Stephanie had laid out an outfit for me on my bed: blue jeans, a wide leather belt with an oversize buckle, a light blue T-shirt, white socks, cowboy boots, a Stetson--and, my eyes widened--a pair of black thongs, trimmed in gold, which, I realized, she must have bought herself, while I was at work, because I didn't own, and had never even purchased, such a pair of underwear!

* * *

Splat! The handful of wet sand, which Stephanie had shaped unto a missile about the size of a softball, struck me in the back, just above the waist, splattering in a messy explosion of muck. I whirled, tossing my own bomb, but my sister, already having retreated into the surf, dove into the sea, escaping the same fate she'd dealt to me. She surfaced a few yards farther out to sea, spluttering and laughing. The line of incoming waves buoyed her up as they rushed ashore, and their white foam crashed around her. My kid sister was quite the guerilla fighter, I thought, laughing as I wiped the sand from my lower back. "You got me all dirty, sis!" I called to her, over the incoming whitecaps.

She laughed. "You'll just have to clean off," she called back.

"I didn't bring a suit," I reminded her.

"Neither did I," she countered.

"Wearing what you're wearing, you hardly need one," I observed. I looked down at the red high heeled shoes on at the edge of the water. She'd kicked them off before dashing into the surf, which meant that she was wearing only the halter top and abbreviated shorts--and maybe some panties.

"You don't need a suit," she declared.

"What am I supposed to do, swim naked?"

"Why not?" she asked. "No one else is here."

We'd stopped on our way up the coastal highway to frolic on a deserted stretch of beach. There wasn't much of a shore--a strip about twenty feet deep, hugging a rocky cliff. We'd seen it from the highway, parked at an overlook, and climbed down a twisting, narrow path. Probably, we'd broken a couple of California state laws and a few federal regulations in the process.

"You're here," I objected.

"It's not like I haven't seen you naked before," Stephanie said.

"Yeah, when we were, like, what? Three years old?"

"And sixteen," she replied, "and eighteen."

I took off my boots and socks, pulled off my T-shirt, and, sitting in the wet sand, tried to roll up the legs of my jeans, but they were too tight. I shrugged. The seat was wet and sandy now, anyway; I might as well wear them into the water. I had an old blanket in the trunk of my Mustang. I could drape it over the bucket seats, so Stephanie and I wouldn't get the upholstery soaked. Standing, I strode into the breaking rollers. The cold water splashed high, drenching my jeans to mid-thigh, and I shuddered.

"You look good without a shirt," Stephanie complimented me as I closed the distance between us.

I eyed her skimpy top. The cleavage of her firm, round breasts, sequined with beads of water that sparkled in the afternoon sun, shimmered. The undulating surface of the water crashed and splashed against the thin fabric. Her nipples were stiff and swollen, poking insistently against the thin material. "So do you," I quipped.

"I'm wearing a shirt," she protested.

I snickered. "Not much of one."

Making a face, she flipped water at me.

I surged forward, caught her wrist, and pulled her to me. She looked surprised. Then, she grinned.

"You deserve a spanking for throwing that wet sand ball at me," I told her.

Stephanie squirmed in my grip, but I was stronger by far than she.

I raised my hand, bringing the flattened palm down rapidly, in a loose arc, and smacked my sister on her bottom. The thin denim of her short-shorts wouldn't have offered her much protection, wet of dry, but the water that tossed and churned between us was an effective barrier, reducing the force of the blow by eighty or ninety percent and transforming the swat into a gentle love tap. It couldn't possibly have hurt, but Stephanie's a good actress--always has been.

"Ouch!" she jumped, as if the spank had stung her, directed a sullen glare at me, and rubbed her buttocks. "That hurt!"

I decided to play along. "And that ball of sand to the small of my back didn't?"

The water rolled and pitched about my waist and Stephanie's all-but-bare breasts as she closed the distance between us, circling my hips with her hands. "Let's not argue or fight, Brad. I'd rather kiss and make up." Her hands slid up my back, drawing my head down, as she lifted her lovely face to mine, so that we kissed.

I drew away. "Stephanie!"

She looked at me, sexier than hell, through her wet and tangled locks, which adhered to her face like blonde seaweed. Her emerald eyes were shining, but they looked deeper than the blue-green sea that dipped and rose around us. "Don't you like me?" she asked.

"Of course," I said, "you're my sister, but--"

As I watched, she unknotted and removed her halter top. Her bare breasts filled my gaze, as if there were nothing else--no sky, no sea, no shore--to see, and I studied the beautiful twin spheres as if I'd never seen a woman's breasts before, for, in truth, I'd never seen my sister's tits prior to this moment, except when she'd been three years old and had had no more on top than had I, at age five.

Her areolas were puffy pink moats surrounding her hard, stiff nipples. I stared, both my eyes and my mouth opened wide. Unable to look away. I swallowed, my hands shaking at my sides, longing to touch my sister's magnificent orbs.

"But what?"

"Like I said, you're my sister."

She looked at me, her eyes deep and murky as the ocean. "Don't you think I know that, Brad?"

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byCal Y. Pygia© 0 comments/ 126380 views/ 21 favorites

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