A Night With My Sister

Sandy pulled her head back enough to look at my face. I examined hers. She looked happy. She moved her head in to give me a quick kiss then pulled back a few inches again. In the middle of our first fuck, she was feeling playful again. I was too. She smiled.

"I guess I interrupted you in the middle of a sentence, and you lost your train of thought," she teased. "I'm working on not doing that so much."

"It's all right," I said. "I'm used to it. Wendy would never let me finish a sentence, either."

"Fuck Wendy."

"Never again. Fuck you."

"Do!"

We resumed our lovemaking. That pause in our passion had brought my body down from the edge of orgasm, so a few more minutes of sex were possible. I don't think my performance as a lover was outstanding that night, but I don't think that bothered either of us. Somehow, Sandy came too--either just before I did or just after.

Like most people, I don't actually know what it feels like to be hit by a freight train. Now, after my orgasm, I have at least a rough idea. Though I can't say any pain was involved.

Eventually I recovered my ability to do things like focus my eyes, breathe normally, and speak. Sandy declined my gallant offer to bring her, orally, up to her alleged usual quota of orgasms. She was happy as-is. What we both wanted to do next was spend the night in each other's arms.

While she tidied up in the bathroom I poked the woodstove, put in more firewood, and snuffed out the candles except the big one on the coffee table. Then it was my turn in the bathroom. Soon the last candle was out, and my sister and I, both naked, were snuggling under the covers of the sofa bed in a very dark room.

Sandy was still feeling playful. "Thank you for a lovely evening," she deadpanned.

"The pleasure was all mine," I politely replied.

A minute later, a further thought occurred to me. "Here's our mistake. Outside the Mulberry Bush you proposed, 'Let's be a couple,' and I agreed. Somehow, afterwards, neither one of us remembered to say, 'Okay, we can stop now.'"

I sensed she was smiling though I couldn't see it. "Too late now, Luv," she said, running a hand over my thigh. "Maybe next time...."

I awoke to sunshine and familiar noises: the deep hum of the refrigerator, the rumble of the gas furnace, the rattly whir of the fan blowing hot air through the ductwork, coffee dripping into the pot. And some unfamiliar noises: of someone in the kitchen washing last night's dishes as the radio played softly in the background.

* * * * * 8

During a final round of counseling, Sandy and Claude saw that their next task was to divorce with as little bloodshed as possible and as much charity as they could muster. Sandy stayed in Westchester County during the process--she had leased an apartment, and her job was there--and joined me in Connecticut on weekends. Claude retained the boat, two of the three cars, and the house in Mount Kisco--which turned out to have a ridiculously high market value. Sandy received a very large check representing her half of the couple's assets. She put a few thousand in the bank and the rest in long-term securities. When her company finally agreed to transfer her to its Hartford office, she moved in with me.

The former guest room now has a bed and some female-appropriate furniture and is officially known as "Sandy's bedroom." The bed is a cheap one. We figured it wouldn't see much use--except for sex occasionally, when we felt like a change of scenery. Although we furnished the room mainly to deceive visitors, the extra drawer space and the mirror did prove useful.

Mom, hoping for a grandchild, keeps encouraging us to stop pining for our lost mates and start dating again. We both promised we will when we feel ready. Alas, grandchildren are unlikely to brighten Mom's remaining years. Consanguinity aside, Sandy is feeling that she's getting a bit old for pregnancy, and maybe we're both getting a little old for raising our first child. There's also the question of what we'd put on the birth certificate under Name of father. "Unknown" would cause as many problems as it solves.

Our friends and neighbors are getting used to seeing us, brother and sister, at social events together, as though we were the last of the Victorians. The most clever ones believe they have figured out the truth of our household: my sister and I both must be closeted homosexuals, just sharing a residence for convenience while conducting our secret lives elsewhere. They always suspected that about me. Poor Wendy!

With our two incomes and simple tastes, Sandy and I live comfortably. Besides, the most important things we have can't be purchased for any amount of money. And some of my favorite things in our house cost us almost nothing--like that kitschy little plaque Sandy found at a yard sale and put in her pretend bedroom. It reads, "Catch a wave and you're sittin' on top of the world." And unlike the plaintive singer during our first dance, I have an answer to my question. Do you love me, little surfer girl? Yes, she says. Yes, I do love you, Richard. Every bit as much as you love me. Yes.