A Night With My Sister

I guided Sandy to the front door, ushered her inside, and retrieved a flashlight. "Have a seat," I invited, training the beam on the sofa. Candles were easily accessible in the living room, butane lighters as well. I had lived here long enough. Soon the room had a dim, candle-lit glow. After hanging up our wet coats, I joined my sister on the sofa.

"Very romantic," she said, ironically.

"Alas, we can't have Mozart playing softly in the background," I apologized.

I opened the power company's app on my phone. After a little typing and swiping, I learned as much as they were going to tell me. "They know about it," I reported. "It's pretty localized. They're predicting less than 12 hours for the outage, so figure 18 at most."

"Do they say what the problem is?"

"No, they never do. Probably the same thing you get in Westchester County. A car skidded into a pole and knocked out a transformer. A branch fell and took down the lines. A tree toppled and took down the lines. Welcome to Connecticut. The water heater will keep working, so you can still have a hot shower if and when you like. The gas furnace won't operate without electricity, but that woodstove over there will keep us alive. We've got flashlights and candles galore."

Sandy smiled. "I'll survive. I've had a few adventures already today. What's one or two more?"

"'Or two'?"

"Just thinking aloud," she said. "What do you think about sleeping arrangements?"

"The guest room currently lacks a bed," I explained. "Plan A was to give you my bedroom. The sofa beneath your pretty little bottom--not that I noticed--unfolds into a bed: I was going to take that. But let's do Plan B instead: we'll fire up that woodstove, you can have the sofa bed, and I'll take the bedroom."

"Without any heat?"

"I'll bundle up."

Sandy gave me a look. "We'll talk about it when the time comes," she said.

* * * * * 5

An hour later the woodstove was crackling, the room was warm, the sofa bed was unfolded and made up, the bedroom bed had extra blankets, we had each freshened up in the bathroom, and several more candles were burning. The two of us sat on the sofa bed, facing each other, shoeless, same clothes. The coffee table, along the side of the bed, held cheese, crackers, grapes, a carafe of vintage port, and our two glasses. We were feeling mellow and perhaps closer to each other than we had ever felt. Today our relationship had evolved extremely quickly, though; and while my heart, soul, and some lower regions were saying, "Full speed ahead," my head was saying, "Let's stop and process things a bit."

"We do make a good couple," I began.

"Mmmmmm."

"I think we crossed a few boundaries today."

"Didn't we. Thank you for that. Too many boundaries constrain my life.... Want to cross a couple more before morning?"

"Sandy..."

She smiled and took my hand. "I hear you, Richard. I'm just teasing you a little. Yes, we've sailed full-speed into uncharted waters, haven't we. And you do not want me to get hurt. And I feel the same about you."

She kissed me then continued. "But we didn't start loving each other today, Richard. We always did. Today we just stopped denying it. Incidentally, you were right this afternoon... about girls being trained all their lives to deny nature. But not just girls: boys too. Trained to deny not just sex but love too. Don't affectionately touch the people you love; don't say, 'I love you' to them; ideally, don't even realize how much you love them. That's how we were brought up, isn't it? That's how we do it in Vermont... north of Bennington, anyway.... 'Taciturn,' that's us.... Tell me, in fourth grade, how would your schoolmates react if they ever saw you kissing your sister?"

"Oh, God, I'd never live it down. I'd be lucky if they didn't call me anything worse than 'faggot.' I can hear them taunting, 'Ritchie loves his sis-ter! Ritchie loves his sis-ter!'"

"The ultimate insult for a boy: 'loves.' And in self-defense you'd shout back, 'I do not!'"

"Yes. Not now, but then, yes."

"Exactly. What kind of sick culture produces children like that? Like us.... I'm picking on Vermont, but I doubt it's that much different in Ohio, Texas, you name it.... We're damaged, Richard.... Even sane people have enough trouble keeping a marriage going. Is it any surprise that neither of us could?

She looked like she was on the verge of something unpleasant: crying? screaming? collapsing? I moved to her and hugged her firmly, which seemed to reduce her agitation. Richard, the Human Xanax. Sandy continued to reflect, though, if somewhat more calmly.

"That night you yanked Ben off my body... There I was, looking like a total slut... pants unzipped, breasts exposed... and you didn't yell or scream at me, didn't call me a whore.... You just silently hugged me and stroked my hair and caressed my back.... I was so grateful, and I could feel how much you loved me and, I guess for the first time, I realized how much I love you.... But of course I was well trained not to tell you any of that... not to come to you, later, and stroke your hair and caress your back and say, 'Thank you again.' Certainly not to say, 'I love you too, Richard. Every bit as much as you love me.'"

By now we were both getting a little choked up. I stretched and retrieved a box of Kleenex. We both blew our nose. Very romantic, as my sister would say. What next?

Reaching behind her, Sandy pulled down the zipper of her dress. She eased the dress top forwards, pulling her arms from the sleeves. Then she unhooked her bra and shrugged that off too. Once again, she was naked above the waist in my presence. Her breasts were much as I remembered, from two decades back--perhaps just a touch larger now, with a touch more sag. Still a perfect size and perfect shape, still with those beautiful thick nipples of pinkish brown. "Nothing you haven't seen before," she said. "Right?"

"That's true."

"And I've seen you shirtless many times," she said, unbuttoning my shirt. Then she placed my two hands on her breasts and brought her hands to my chest. I fondled her areolas and beyond. No man could have resisted doing that, though probably I should have tried harder. She fondled my chest too, then brought her lips to mine and gave me a kiss that was a fair distance from "sisterly."

"Sandy..."

"You're wondering what I'm doing and where this is going. The answer to the first is, I am addressing my crying need to give and receive physical affection with a man I love. At the moment, only one or two men qualify. Second: where is this going? I can only guess."

She moved her face very close to mine, moved a hand from my chest to my lower thigh, and caressed me, sliding her hand gently back and forth, gradually working her way upwards. I wanted her both to stop and not stop.

She gave me a long, sweet, loving kiss that practically took my breath away. I couldn't help responding in the same spirit. Somewhere in the middle of the kiss, her hand moved over my trousers to my cock and gently caressed that. Then she spoke again. "If my guess where this is going is a good one, and we do wind up in the place I guessed, can I imagine any real problems with being there? Answer: no. Can you? Keep in mind that marriage is not in the cards--I already have more husbands than I can deal with gracefully--and I'm on the pill."

Sandy rose to her knees and worked her dress over her head and off. The moments that took allowed some more doubts, or maybe sanity, to work their way back into my head. For a few seconds, though, I was distracted. She was now wearing only earrings, elastic-top stockings, and panties--low-cut white cotton briefs. She looked stunningly lovely and wholesome and female and incredibly desirable. At that instant I wanted her more than I could even believe. But then my mind recovered from its near-stall.

"Sandy, we're brother and sister!"

"Nobody's perfect."

"There's a name for what you're talking about."

"Love?" she said. "Physical display of affection? Satisfaction? Communion? Consummation?"

"Keep guessing."

She didn't appreciate my sarcasm. She shifted into hyper-rational mode. "There are all sorts of un-useful but scary-sounding names one can haul in to scare people away from doing beautiful and appropriate things," she replied. "I think you've been smart enough not to fall for that ruse, so far. Who was the gorgeous Black girlfriend you used to have?"

"Winona."

"When Winona first opened her legs to you, did you say, 'Oh, I couldn't do that. That would be miscegenation'?... After Wendy moved out and you took up with quote 'some little blonde thing' unquote--that's how Mom described her--did you say, 'I won't touch her until the divorce is final: that would be adultery'? How about self-abuse and onanism? Did those scary-sounding but bullshit names ever lead you to take a cold shower instead of jerking off?... In three cases the girl loves you and wants you, and you love the girl. Tell me why incest is so much worse than miscegenation and adultery!"

I couldn't begin to answer that. Logically, she was entirely right. If logic has anything to do with sex, which I doubt. I suppose I could have come back with, "Well, in our case it's incest and adultery"--but even I could see how lame that one was. What I wanted to say was, "Sandy, you can't badger a man into making love to you." But I didn't say that either. Her body now was wracked with sobs, and my heart broke. I took off my shirt--it was unbuttoned and untucked, anyway--and eased her down onto the bed with me, hugged her, chest to chest. As she cried, I caressed her hair once more, caressed her back once more, told her over and over how much I love her, how much she means to me; listened as she told me the same.

I understood her pain. Enduring many months of a marriage going down the tubes. Her best friend unavailable, her sole living parent unreachable. A long, stressful drive today and then an emotional-roller-coaster ride with climbs and drops that just keep getting larger and steeper--a ride that still shows no sign of ending. Plus a power failure and the prospect of a night alone in a strange bed.

On top of all those stress factors, she doesn't need a sudden, huge change in a family relationship, right? She definitely doesn't need to cross a line that could make her a social outcast--doesn't need to violate a major taboo. On the other hand, she doesn't need any more rejection either, or any more men in her life unable to give her the intimacy she craves. What does she need now? I realized I wasn't even close to understanding.

* * * * * 6

She rose, took a candle to the bathroom, and closed the door. Eight or ten minutes later she returned, naked, looking fresh, composed, and relaxed, and smelling faintly of Dr. Bronner's peppermint soap. By then I too had settled down and mentally regrouped.

She sat on the bed and smiled sweetly. I smiled back and sat up too. As Sandy ran her hand over my chest I stroked her thigh. Our caresses felt like friendly affection more than foreplay--which was fine.

"Another glass of port?" I offered.

"Thanks, I'm fine."

"You have beautiful labia."

"Thank you.... Do I get to see your cock and balls?"

"Okay." I removed the rest of my clothes. Sandy's hand gently explored my genitals. We were still being playful, but there was no hiding the fact that I was enjoying her touch.

She rendered her assessment. "You'll do," she said.

"Yeah, that's about the best anyone says. At least you like me enough to leave your panties on my bathroom counter."

"Not just my panties," she teased, "my earrings. I don't leave my earrings behind in guys' bathrooms as readily as I do my panties." We both smiled, but then Sandy got serious. "Richard, I'm sorry about the pressure I put on you. Let's just be with each other... and do whatever both of us feel comfortable with. We'll stop if one of us starts feeling uncomfortable. Okay?"

It was my turn to apologize. "I'm sorry I was so unreceptive. I tend to balk at any new idea. But you were right about everything. This is not a time to start running away because we're afraid some stranger will call us a nasty name. Forgive me?"

She answered nonverbally. Our lips met, then we were lying down again, both of us naked, our bodies tangled together.

In part to see just what I would do in this utterly new situation, I allowed myself to live in the moment. It didn't take many moments before I committed wholeheartedly.

Our kisses quickly became less brotherly and sisterly. Sandy's tongue probed my mouth, and mine explored hers. As I fondled those beautiful breasts, Sandy made little sounds of appreciation--growing louder when I replaced my hand with my mouth. I would have fallen in love with those thick, stiff nipples--now even stiffer, thicker, and longer--if I hadn't already been in love with all of her. She sucked on my nipples too, but we had to stop after a minute: that was bringing me too close to climax.

By the time I moved a hand to her pussy she was wet. She opened her legs wide to give me all the access I wanted, and my fingers explored, spreading her thick moisture all around. Her clitoris was very sensitive: I learned to be gentle and indirect with that, touching the back of the hood rather than the little button starting to poke out from it.

Not surprisingly, from time to time through our intimate encounter, a voice would enter my head urging me to cease and desist. It was the voice of reason, perhaps, or my conscience or superego or maybe just a stray neurosis from my sexually repressed youth. Whatever it was, its message was clear: You can't do this to your sister! The message came as no surprise. The surprise was--between nags from the voice--how natural and right our lovemaking felt.

So simple, so clean, so normal.

Besides, it's hard to feel much guilt and shame when your body is basking in pleasure and your heart is rejoicing and your soul--and most of your mind--is at peace. The naysaying voice finally gave up and, like an old general, faded away.

My sister and I were new to each other--at least when it came to sex. One thing I had learned from Wendy: if you're not sure what your lover wants at any given moment, try asking.

"I want to taste you, Sandy," I said. "Which do you prefer: 69 or one at a time?" Turns out we both like the latter. Supine, she spread her legs and I moved in-between. Wanting to see what I had been caressing, I spread her outer labia and looked, gently touching this and that--all of it soft, warm, and very moist--with a fingertip. How simple a pussy looks, usually, when a woman is standing. How complicated it looks when she reclines and spreads her legs for you and allows you to explore.

I brought my nose down and inhaled deeply, loving the complex, slightly musty scent of my beautiful, aroused lover. I detected here too a hint of peppermint. At the Bangkok Delight, Sandy had joked about her commitment to personal hygiene--joked but not lied. But I much preferred her own scent mixture to Dr. Bronner's. She tasted wonderful too.

My sister's mound of Venus was hairless--not my favorite style, but I wasn't going to let that ruin my evening. Some women like it when you run your fingers through their pubic hair during cunnilingus, maybe also tug gently on the hairs near the labia. I like it too. But with Sandy I contented myself with massaging her mound a bit, before returning my hands to those beautiful breasts.

Her first orgasm came quickly. She was quiet about it, but the mechanical signs were hard to miss: hips bucking, hands pressing my head tight against her pussy, then deep, slow breaths, a little smile, and a soft, "That was nice."

"Care for another?"

"Oh, God, I want everything, and I have no idea what order I want it in. Everything-all-at-once, if possible. Though perhaps even you aren't quite good enough to do that."

"Not anymore," I kidded. "Ten years ago, sure."

"What would you like, Richard?"

"Everything."

"Everything?"

"Yes."

"It's yours."

* * * * * 7

Sandy eased me onto my back then approached from the side on forearms and knees. Extending her tongue, she bathed my half-erect cock in warm moisture, kissed it everywhere, then bathed it again. Her tongue traced the borderline between glans and shaft, then rapidly flicked the notch. By this point my cock was well beyond half-erect. I reached out an arm and caressed her bottom and the cleft between her outer labia. Her tongue returned to bathing my shaft.

"Sandy," I said, "you do that very well."

"I meant to warn you I'm not entirely a virgin," she teased. "Did I remember to do that?"

"I think you mentioned it in passing, back at the restaurant."

"Are you sorry?"

"I'll adjust."

She helped me adjust by taking my cock deep into her mouth and sucking hard, meanwhile caressing my balls with her hand. My toes curled. Possibly my eyes crossed. Somewhere along the line, this woman had learned to give a serious blowjob. Sometime in the future I might invite the master to tell me about her apprenticeship. Not tonight, though. Tonight only two people in the world mattered in the least.

"Sandy, stop now!" I was on the verge of climax.

She did and gave me a smile. "I'm flattered," she said. "But why don't you men just learn to have four or five orgasms in under an hour, like we women can do?"

I teased back. "Why don't you women learn to do a job right the first time? Then you won't have to go back and do the job over three or four more times."

"Do you want to argue with me or do you want to fuck me?"

"I want to fuck you."

"What's keeping you?"

We threw ourselves into each other's arms, kissing madly while rolling about the bed. I loved the feel of that beautiful, slim body against mine, those wonderful breasts against me, those big, hard nipples pressing against my chest. I moistened some fingers and brought them to her pussy. After only a few strokes the labia parted and her own moisture flowed. As we kissed, her hands caressed my body, too: buttocks, chest, back, face. Knowing I was close to coming, she kept away from my more sensitive zones. What a delight: a woman who understands how to make love to a man.

After a few more minutes of play and a good deal of rolling about, I found myself on my back. Sandy climbed on top, a leg on either side of my body, her weight on her shins and knees. We looked at each other, and the playful mood suddenly changed. We both understood what was happening. Sandy took the lead.

Keeping her eyes locked on mine, she stroked my chest with a hand. "Do you want to play missionary?" she asked.

"We're fine," I said.

"We're pretty close to that place I guessed about. How do you feel?"

"Let's go there together. How do you feel?"

"Transitions are stressful, Richard, as I said--even happy ones. This is a happy one. I'm a little scared, but I'm ready. More than ready." She reached down and held my cock by its base, adjusted the position of her body. "Remind me again how much you love me," she said.

I began. Halfway through the first sentence, she was upon me, and in an instant I had committed both adultery and incest. Adultery technically but incest absolutely. Sandy too. It felt wonderful.

A soft glove of moist warmth enveloped my penis. Then Sandy was lying on me, chest to chest, legs upon legs, our genitals still together, my arms around her as we kissed. It's funny: we weren't kissing desperately, passionately, like lovers consumed by lust. We were kissing romantically, basking in each moment rather than straining towards a climax. But a climax--at least mine--couldn't be far away.