Charlie and Mindy Bk. 03 Ch. 07

"Now I'm flattered," Steph said, smiling broadly. And she returned to the kitchen.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It was a little past seven by the time we finished the supper that Steph set out for us. It was a very simple meal, but seemed right under the circumstances. When we began, neither Mindy nor I thought we wanted anything, but once we started, we found that we were much hungrier than we'd thought.

After we finished eating, Mindy looked me in the eye and then looked down at the dishes on the table. I nodded at her, and, together, we moved to clear the table and clean up the kitchen.

"No, guys," Steph objected. "We'll do that."

"No, yourself, Steph," I said, gently but firmly. "If you really meant it, the way you say you did, when you told us that this is our house, too, then we need to help with the housekeeping. And Mindy and I need something to occupy us now, I think."

"I think he's right on both counts, Steph," Buck said. "But that doesn't mean we can't join in." He stood up and started helping us clear the table.

Steph took her defeat gracefully; but she chipped in, too. And the four of us had the chores done quickly.

We tried, after supper, to study a bit. Although Mindy and I didn't need to worry about our coursework for the near future, Steph and Buck needed to keep current on theirs. And I think that—although no one said so—we all agreed that trying to think about something other than what was lost would be good for Mindy and me.

So Steph, Mindy, and I got together in their living room and spent some time on our calculus. After an hour and a half, or so, Mindy and I spent some time on our French with Buck. Mindy and I had some trouble with our concentration all through that evening, and we were probably more of a hindrance than a help to Steph and to Buck—but they put up with us.

At around ten, Mindy and I gave out. Even though it was early, we found that we were exhausted, and we announced that we were going to go to bed. When we told them that, Steph said, "Just a minute." She went into the room she shared with Buck and returned with a pill bottle containing about two dozen white and orange capsules.

She handed me the bottle and said, "We want you to have this. It's Dalmane. Our doctor prescribed it for us after our parents died. If you need help getting to sleep, it's pretty good. It helped us a lot. One pill for Mindy, two for you, Charlie."

Buck added, "Of course, you wouldn't take it at all if you'd drunk a lot before bedtime. We want you to wake up the next morning."

I took the bottle and said, "Thanks, Steph." Naturally, I was thinking that I wouldn't need the stuff, but that Mindy might. She also said, "Thanks, Steph." I learned later that Mindy was thinking she wouldn't need it, but that I might. And, as it turned out, we both took it for several nights—usually after lying awake for an hour or so with our thoughts and our grief.

As we prepared for bed that grief, though no longer paralyzing, still lay heavily upon us both. We turned out the lights and crawled into bed together, naked. Immediately, we sought the comfort of each other's arms. Once again, she lay against me, on her side, with her head on my shoulder, and I felt her pain and her love.

"It's real, isn't it?" she said. "They're really gone. Forever. We'll never see them again, never touch them again, never hear their voices again…" She sobbed a bit before finishing, "…never feel their love again."

I held her naked little body, held her tightly, not knowing what to say.

She sniffled a bit. "Nothing should be that permanent," she said emphatically. "Nothing."

I reached over and stroked her hair; she caressed my chest.

"Don't leave me, Charlie," she whispered. "You're all I have left. Don't leave me."

I raised my head from the pillow where it rested, long enough to kiss the top of her head. She tried to wiggle even closer to me. "I won't, Mindy," I said. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. I need you at least as much as you need me. And now I need you more than ever."

We lay there a while, holding each other close. Every now and then, a little sob escaped her. Only the pain from my grief exceeded the pain I felt from her agony, which I did not know how to alleviate.

My little sister had been right; we would never hear their voices again—never feel their love again, in any of the small things they did for us, let alone the large. We would never even know if Mom had found a time to tell Dad about Mindy and me—or, if she had, how he'd taken it.

I lay there in the darkness, holding my little sister, and memories flooded my mind.

I remembered Mom's struggle, which Mindy and I didn't then understand, to clothe us, to feed us, to care for us, to be a loving mother, after our father's death in Vietnam had left her single and poor, with one child not yet a year old and another child yet unborn.

I remembered those days, too, rare but filled with happiness, she had spent with two little children doing things together—trips to playgrounds, to parks, to the library, to the zoo, to the museum—when she didn't have to work.

I remembered, from when I was nine, the undercurrent of joy—which I had recognized only in retrospect—that had filled her heart at the knowledge that a man she was interested in returned her interest. And I recalled how that undercurrent had come to fill her heart as the knowledge grew in her that he loved her as much as she had come to love him. I recalled how hard that had been for Mindy and for me; we had been afraid to share her with someone we didn't know, and therefore didn't trust.

I remembered the sense of growing wonder she'd felt, not only at his love, but also at her realization that he was a successful attorney and that their decision to marry meant that the days of financial hardship for her children were over.

I remembered getting to know and love that man myself after they'd returned from their honeymoon. Mindy and I had been afraid, but I remembered how Mom's transparent love, trust, and happiness had almost—but not quite—convinced us. And his evident concern for us had done the rest. He had treated us with care and respect that, I knew, again with hindsight's perfect vision, had quickly turned to love. And, busy as he was, he had always had time—or made time—for us, and for each of us. We had responded with our own love, and we had soon called him "Dad."

I remembered msyself, in my early teens—not yet quite a man, but no longer altogether a boy—day-hiking with him in Colorado's mountains, and learning from him to love the high country. I remembered how, when I learned of the Mountain Odyssey Learning School, he had encouraged me to follow my dream and to take one of their courses. And I remembered the look of deep longing on his face when, in a private moment together, he told me how he wished he'd had such an opportunity when he'd been a teenager.

With each memory, my sense of loss deepened and my grief broadened. My own tears accompanied my thoughts. They were sparser then Mindy's; I'm a guy, and I've forgotten how to cry as freely as she does. But as we lay there grieving, I felt tears roll down across my temples from the outer corners of my eyes.

But even in my grief, the shapes of Mindy's curves, the close warmth of her body, the feel of her soft skin against me, the fragrances that rose from her—all worked to arouse me. And I found that I wanted her and I needed her as I had never wanted or needed her before. I needed the respite from my grief that her body could provide. And, even more, I needed the intimacy of physical connection with her that would reaffirm that our spiritual connection was not gone, too. I seemed to know instinctively that in our bodies' loves for each other, we would find anodyne—short-lived though it might be.

But there was still a lot that I did not know about how love between a man and a woman works, and I thought that my little sister would be offended if I came to her then, in the midst of her own grief, wanting her body. My cock was throbbing—rising now to what it had stupidly decided was another opportunity. No, I thought to it. She's too sad. She doesn't need you tonight.

I couldn't have been more wrong. As, in my thoughts, I scolded my cock for its rash behavior, she came to me and her lips sought mine. Hungrily, I accepted her kiss, responded. Our tongues wrestled with each other, and I felt her tits, nipples erect, brush against my chest.

After that kiss, I felt her face hovering above my own in the darkness of the room. She whispered, "Can we make love, Charlie?" And I knew it for a cry from the depths of her grief into the depths of mine. "I need you tonight. But if you're too sad…"

Mindy and my cock had together voted me down and overruled me, so I did the only thing I could—I changed my vote. I answered her by taking her hand and placing it on my shaft—which was stiffening rapidly. She took me into her grasp and pumped me a bit.

"Mmmm," she hummed. "You do want to, don't you?"

"I do," I said. "I need you, too."

"I couldn't tell," she answered. "You touched me, but not the way you do when you want me. Why did you wait for me to tell you I need you?" There was no reproach in her voice—only curiosity. And she was still, gently, pumping my cock—enough to keep my interest, but not enough to interfere with my thinking.

In the darkness, I felt her return her head to my shoulder; her body now rested once more against my side.

"I thought you were too sad to make love," I said. "I was afraid that if you knew I wanted to, you'd think I was being a self-centered jerk."

Her hand left my cock as her arm came up to embrace me. She pulled herself more tightly against me, raised her head from my shoulder, and her lips softly touched mine for a moment. It was a short, gentle kiss, and when it ended, she said, "Ohh, Charlie! I can't decide whether that's sweet of you or just plain dumb. Probably both!

"It's really sweet of you to try to protect me. You've always done that. You've always made me feel so safe when you're nearby. And I've always adored you for that. But Charlie Magness is the last person in the world that you need to protect me from, and it's pretty dumb of you to think otherwise.

"Do you think I don't get anything from making love with you? Or that it isn't enough? Or that I don't need you when I'm sad?"

I had no verbal answer. I squeezed her, sought her lips with mine, found them. She returned the kiss, but again kept it short. She had more to say. She pulled her lips away again to speak, but I felt her—soft, naked, warm, and so very feminine, against me.

"Charlie…love…my love…my wonderful man…I need you, but maybe even more, I need to be yours. I need to know when you want me—even when there's some reason why I can't or won't make love. Maybe even especially then. I need you, and I need you to want me. I promise you, I'll never think there's something wrong with you because you want me. Any more than you would ever think there was something wrong with me because I want you."

She had me there. For one thing, it wouldn't ever occur to me that there was something wrong with her because she wanted me. She was supposed to want me.

For another thing, I was barely twenty years old. I had figured out that Mindy generally liked it when she knew that I wanted her. But I hadn't quite figured out that she really liked it. And the notion that she might think it was necessary that she know it was one that my brain hadn't even tried to wrap itself around.

And then, as if to say, "Enough talking," her lips found my neck, kissed and nibbled. She rose up onto her knees at my side, and the covers slid off of us to lie across my knees. Slowly, she kissed her way down the center of my chest—her hand again on my cock, again pumping gently. I found that I was moaning a bit.

I reached, as she knelt facing me, to find her boob, to cup it and knead it. But she moved beyond my reach as her mouth continued its journey down the centerline of my body. She reached my bellybutton; her tongue swirled in it before her lips continued their downward journey. And still her hand stroked, slowly, steadily, up and down the length of my shaft. It continued to stroke, as her lips reached my pubic hair, and her tongue probed through the thicket in search of underlying skin. I gasped at the contact when it found its target, and I reached down to stroke her soft fine hair.

Her stroking hand partially relinquished its grasp, retained just enough of it to guide my crown into her mouth. I stiffened at the clasp of her lips, the moist warmth of her mouth, and the heated caresses of her tongue. My hips bucked at the contact and drove half the length of me into her. I heard her welcoming moan, as her head descended and she swallowed me—so that I felt the tightness of her throat around my crown. I groaned.

She held me there, penetrating her throat, for a while before she released me with a gasp. My hands sought her head, nestled into the softness of her hair, cradled her, brought her up again to my lips, and we kissed deeply. Her hand slid under my head and held us tightly together. Again I felt her tits rubbing against my chest, teasing me. Seeing that she didn't intend to break that kiss soon, I released her head, and my hands moved down along her cheeks, over her neck, toward her shoulders. Stroking, caressing, tickling, possessing, they moved downward until they reached her tits. There they cupped, kneaded, tweaked—and she moaned into my mouth from the sensations they gave her.

I brought a hand around from her breast to her side, where I stroked down to her waist, across her hip, to the middle of her body. Down, down my fingers traveled, across the lower part of her flat little belly, through her little fur patch, seeking her cleft and the treasures it contained. Finding what they sought, they tickled and caressed the hot wet slipperiness. Again she moaned into my mouth, into the unbroken kiss we still shared. Her hips responded to the touch of my finger on her clit.

At length, she broke that kiss, and her hips moved away from my hand, breaking that contact, too. I felt her hand slide out from under my head, and her lips moved again to my neck. "Mindy," I said, tears flowing again from my eyes—tears now of mingled joy and sorrow, "I can't tell you how much you mean to me…how much I love you…how much I need you—"

I felt her finger pressing against my lips, silencing me. From the darkness came her whisper. "You don't have to tell me, sweet, lovely man. I know, because I know how much you mean to me, how much I love you, and how much I need you. And I know that you're mine—because I'm yours. And I'm yours because you're mine. Now and always."

"Now and always," I repeated. Our childhood litany echoed in my head, then, and I felt, as she must have intended, some of its magic.

My hands had now moved on to stroke her sides, from her chest down to her waist. I felt her move her body over me as she raised her leg and extended it over my hips. I moved my hand to caress her thigh and to guide her as she brought that leg over to straddle me. And when her weight shifted as she placed her knee back on the bed, my hand slipped up along the soft, sensitive skin of her inner thigh, again to the wet heat I had found there moments ago. My fingers found her furrow, re-entered it, stroked her slippery folds, teased her little jewel, entered her.

"Mmmm," came a moan of pleasure. But her hand sought my arm, and pulled it out from between our bodies. She pulled my hand around to her back, adjusted her position a little and laid herself, face down, on me. She slid herself down my body, slowly, teasingly, until she cradled the length of my cock in the heat and moisture of her cleft. My arms encircled her waist and held her little body against me while we wiggled our hips up and down, sending my cock sliding back and forth along her slippery track—and we moaned at the feelings the motion gave us.

"Your cock feels so good against me, Charlie," she whispered. "It makes me think of how good it's going to feel in me." And she kissed me again—while we continued that delicious wiggling.

"Speaking of in you…" I whispered.

"Hmm. Yes. Let's put you in me," she whispered back.

She raised herself up onto her knees and brought a hand down to guide my cock as she lowered herself onto it. We moaned again as I glided into the tight welcome of my little sister's pussy. When she had completely engulfed me, she bent forward and laid herself down on my chest.

"You feel even better than I thought you would," she said, lying limply, now, on me.

"You do, too," I agreed. "You feel so good that you always surprise me."

My hands were now in motion, stroking her sides, her thighs, her back, her ass. She slid her little hands, palms upward, under my shoulders and clamped our upper bodies together. We lay there, connected, united for a while, my hands playing slowly over the parts of her that I could reach.

Slowly at first, but with quickly growing speed, we began to move, driving my hardness in and out of her wet clasp. We groaned and muttered at each other in our compelling need. The urgency of our passion drove our grief from our minds as we thrust our bodies against each other repeatedly, quickly, more quickly, desperately, more desperately.

Together we strove, and then our mutual needs culminated together in blinding ecstasy. My love flowed white hot again, and again, and again, into my little sister, while my entire body throbbed and pulsed and she writhed and moaned upon and around me.

When our bodies released us, we lay there together, limp, her sheath still wrapped hotly and tightly around me, still contracting in waves that became gentler and softer as time passed. I felt her lips, again, nibbling on the left side of my neck. When they stopped, my own lips found her ear and toyed with it for a while. We clasped our bodies against each other, giving each of us refuge from the sorrow we knew would return when the forces our passion had unleashed had weakened enough.

Eventually, my rod softened and fell out of her with a plop and a small gush of fluid. She rolled off of me, onto her side; our bodies remained against each other.

Spring was near, and the outdoor temperature had moderated from the deep cold of midwinter—but it was below freezing outside that night. Suddenly, I was aware of the draft from the window washing across the bed. She must have felt it too, because I had barely noticed it when she sat up and drew the almost forgotten blankets over us. Once they were in place, she returned to lie against me. As she did, I saw by the luminous face of the clock on the dresser across the room that it was now a quarter before eleven.

We lay there together, body to body, holding each other in the darkness, waiting for warmth to return, waiting for sleep to come. Once again, her body's fragrances, augmented now by the scents of our love, came to me. But the memories of what had been, and the deep, abiding sorrow, returned as well. In spite of the respite our love had granted me, sleep did not come.

Quietly I lay there, surrounded by our odors. The joy I had found in her love mingled with my grief. I felt her breathing against me; the heart within her body—so warm and soft against me—beat strongly, its rhythm mismatched with my own. Every now and then, I felt her move a bit.