Oh Sam, What Have You Done Now?

Sam forgot the golden rule, he didn't breathe. As a result, it nearly cost him his visit to the Misty Mountain. For when he did breathe, it came as a sort of grunt and momentarily, the magical diddling stopped. A brother's eyes went wide with alarm. But no sooner than had the Chinese fire drill threatened to commence, that the diddling resumed. There was a silent sigh, and a bead of sweat resumed its swim down Sam's flushed cheek.

At this point, Sam stops and takes a proverbial step back, right? A young man of 18, a boy til now, must at this juncture consider himself lucky, call himself sated and adjourn. Does he know what lies in store should he continue his dangerous trek? No. Does he realize what adverse effect catching the feminine scent that Becky currently fondles into bloom, will have on his addled young synapses? No. Does he have any clue, whatsoever, the codes that turn like cogs beneath his story's synopsis on the cover page, some chapters back? A resounding, No! The only thing that goes through that boy's mind, fleetingly, mind you, fleetingly, is this question not wholly formed: Do the consequences of my failure outweigh the fruit of my success? The failure, it is quite clear. She wakes up, he is revealed as the dirty boy he is. And more. The success, it's not nearly as clear for that moment or moments remain an intangible. The actual end point, that is, where to celebrate and plot the flag of success, is as yet indefinable. How far must he go before he can be deemed successful? Or worse, to what extreme will his lower brain demand he go?

Sam looked at the hand of his sister, the very hand he once loved then despised, now loved anew. He thinks he does not know the answer to all those questions, except to conquer them all at once, with every ounce of vigor in his 18 year-old, innocence-not-yet-lost, momma's boy, long summers and swimming holes, sunburnt, first beer hangover, first heartbreak, sperm-blurred mind, by demanding: Who gives a good fuck, anyway? And that's just when the churning that has gone on unabated during that brief, personal interlude regains control of Sam's psyche.

He leant in close, but suddenly understood. A scent crept up and entrenched itself in his nostrils. My God, but what an idea it founded. Sam leaned back, he gazed at his sister, seeing her body from head to toe. He could not believe it, how had he missed it? Oh, but wasn't she the most sexy, alluring creature he'd ever seen? The hair on his arms stood on end, his fingers, testicles and nose tingled. He shook his head, ready to reappraise the impossible, those intangibles, the indefinable. One eyebrow raised with cognizant recognition. Hitherto, there is no going back!

Sam reached his hand up and brought it down upon his sister's which lay sheathed by the fabric of her nightwear. There it was placed, his atop hers, feeling as she did her once private, now nameable pussy. Becky's brother took a deep drag off the scent she coaxed up from beneath her hand, his hand. He felt his middle finger upon her middle finger as she ran over, again and again, a certain bump. She seemed to pay particular attention to this bump and Sam realized the legend of the clitoris was be true.

His breath came heavily as his and her tour continued. His middle finger momentarily lost the one it shadowed, and Sam realized with delight that it had gone below, submerged and sunk into his sister's fleshy shroud. Did she produce the liquid he did? As much? She must. He'd heard how it allowed his very vessel to effortlessly penetrate that chasm his finger was perched but centimeters above. The same stuff that allowed her to sink her digit, now. Sam lowered his face again and breathed her in. Her scent was clean, yet heavy. He put his mouth over the heat, over his hand, over hers.

Becky suddenly moved her hand out from beneath her nightwear and just like that, the hand lay again atop her abdomen. Sam's penis pulsed as he brought his mouth closer, down first to smell, then to taste. It was uncanny! The scent was powerful, again so cleanly like the soap from the shower that she used, yet so different so, so, fertile! Mixed with, with. . .her. He couldn't label it, entirely. He put his tongue on her middle finger and slid it up the length. Wow, Beck! he thought. She'd sunk her longest finger, completely. He could taste her pussy up at the knuckle. It sent an electric thrill through the length of his spine, tasting her, being so near her sex.

Sam sampled each of the fingers that had been in or near his sister's honeyed vise and still Becky slept. At last, he stood erect to stretch his back and take a proper breath. He glanced over his shoulder at the clock. Now, it registered fully. How in the world had so much time gone by? Had he truly been at this for almost four hours? It was nearly two o'clock! Then Sam thought of something. When had Becky felt the urge to empty her bladder on previous nights? It seemed to Sam, he was always a light sleeper, that he would wake only to Becky's stepping down from the bunk and a couple minutes later when she climbed up. He would reflexively glance at the clock, a school year gesture that died hard even in the summer. He thought hard. Instantly, an image flashed in his mind: 1:47. Then another: 1:58. And another: 2:04.

Sam bit his lip, cogitating. He could not simply go back to bed and let sleeping dogs lie, though his sister was hardly a dog. A bitch in heat, perhaps, but not a dog. Meaningless expressions aside, Sam made a difficult decision. He would have to pray that his efforts to this point could be bypassed and that the current status quo, post-temporary exile, would be the same at such time when he could return to the throne.

Quite reluctantly, and not quite certain it was even necessary, Sam ceded his place atop the Misty Mountain. He moved the chair aside, not entirely, as he was relatively sure a drowsy sister was unlikely to notice something an innocuous as a displaced chair. Or a feather duster! Before slipping back into bed, Sam grabbed the duster and tossed it under his bed, lest his sister step on it and the sheer awkwardness create a sensation. He took a deep breath, exhaled and closed his eyes.

Well, damn if his excitement and horniness hadn't entirely veiled the fact that he was extraordinarily tired. Sam awoke suddenly to find that things were much as they'd been before he'd fallen asleep. He had fallen asleep, hadn't he? He looked at the clock, his eyes very heavy. The time did not immediately register, a dead giveaway that he'd snoozed. When his eyes focused, he was shocked. 4:19! Indeed, when he rolled over he could see out his window the faintest, insiest bit of brightening on the blackened night sky. He shook the cobwebs of sleep from his head. The question of the hour was a sour one: Had Becky peed? Oh, what a bizarre question one should be asking one's self at 4:20 in the morning. Had Beck peed? Had Becky peed? The double pox to falling asleep on the dirty job. There was absolutely no way, in Sam's figuring, that he could tell.

The sweeping answer to old questions resurfaced and buzzed around the boy wonder's brain. There's no going back. Who fucking well cares, anyway? Well, certainly Sam had begun to care again. His nervousness had returned and the fear of capture beyond enemy territory sat once more like an unchewable food item on his palate. OK, drab simile, but one that rather foreshadows Sam's reawakening quite well.

See, Sam had replaced the chair, even moved it a bit farther south. If anything, his subconscious had remained alert even while his primary had not. In other words, his penis had never really softened. And when the brother of a sleeping sister ascended his throne yet once more, the flag raised in customary salute. Then, when he leant in once more, now aligned evenly with his sister Becky's pearl, his reluctance collapsed in on itself like an ancient star. The scent triggered the endorphin rush that toggled off his fears, obscured his war wounds and sealed his fate.

Only, this was curious. Something blessed and newfangled had unfolded within the land of Up Here. Sweet little Becky, older sister by mere contractions, seemed to be having, in the words of a former Super Bowl entertainer, a wardrobe malfunction. Her shirt was nowhere to be found. Oh wait, there it was, hanging from the curtain rod over the window. That little scamp, thought Sam. She, who always rises before me, one wonders why, must become overheated late in the night. She sheds her shirt only to don it before I've wakened! Which begs the question, what else might she shed?

Unfortunately, Sam did not have the luxury of keeping an extended vigil atop his pulpit. Firstly, it was not the most comfortable seat of power, requiring its occupant to stand. Who ever heard of a throne that required that? And secondly, out the window beyond the gray Duke t-shirt dangling within a sister's easy reach, the blackened sky was losing the darker features that had made it his nearest thing to an ally. Sam laid his eyes upon his sister's bare body, well, save for her bra. And what about that? She hadn't been wearing that before? That's so, I don't want my tits to sag when I'm old, cliche. Or rather, Becky must have donned it upon returning from the toilet, specifically permitting removal of aforementioned shirt. Nevertheless, Sam had prayed for a return to the status quo like an out-of-office Republican, and had been granted what amounted to an unexpected budget surplus. He took quick stock of Becky's eyelids. No flickering, no staring at dirty brothers. That was a good sign. Plus, she was lying directly on her back. Another bonus. There was only one small problem. She had placed herself farther away than before. No longer did she dangle. Her body, the whole damned thing now occupied that latter half of the mattress. Sam sighed.

He could still reach, he supposed. Although, there was another solution. He had to admit, it went hand-in-hand with the, "There's No Turning Back" banner slung across his greater field of vision by the optimistic well-wishers in his head. There was really no other alternative. Reaching, craning one's neck, had gone out of fashion in Sam's compromised mind. He would have to climb up there with her, next to her, beside his beloved sister. Now, how to execute this without waking the beautiful beast, was not something Sam could easily conceive. So, like any 'head' strong adventurer, and like those before him, Sam simply didn't give it a second thought. He put his load-bearing hand on what served as the upper bunk's headboard, for posterity's sake, laid a steady leg onto his sister's mattress and slid onto the boat just as it set sail toward a dawning horizon.

There he was, lying at his sister's side. Suddenly, a completely counter-productive and needlessly annoying thought smacked between his eyes, just as he was gazing upon Becky's stunning bra. How much easier this all would have been had he told Becky she could take bottom bunk, last night. He could have assured her he would not fall. It had been so long since he'd done such a silly thing. This would be the scene in the movie where the handsome, lead actor looks into the camera and makes a goofy face.

Sam, as it happened, made no goofy face beyond the possessed look of lust already firmly lodged beneath and above his flaring nostrils. Beck's leg was touching his. Normally, no big deal. But ever since the sighting, or smelling rather, things were considerably different for young Sam. Every touch was, in a word, Vesuvius. He leaned up on one arm and gazed down at his lovely sister. He watched her tits rise and fall, her taut stomach trailing down past an adorable innie. He sat up and gawked at her bare vagina through the nightwear, or rather wished, and saw what he imagined to be lying in wait for his wandering. . .everything. Why couldn't she have shed her bottoms? Lord knows, there was an easy answer to that. She wore no underwear. He felt their non-presence earlier when he'd lain his hands atop hers whilst she explored her succulent cavity.

Sam was seized by a sudden desire. He formed his hand into a fist and stuck out his index finger, as if to make a point. He aimed his pointer at where her crotch ought to curve blessedly under, and lowered his hand over his sister's pussy. When he made contact, he stopped and looked up at her face. Good. He applied gentle pressure and realized he was off. He moved his finger, keeping it pressed lightly against the sheer, thin fabric of her nightwear, until he felt her crease. He pushed inward, slowly, painstakingly slow. He felt her outer folds part, slightly, and rolled his eyes, delirious with untoward expectation. He lowered his aim a bit, guiding the tip of his finger southward and angling it as he guessed her canal ran. He pushed inward, finding much less resistance here, Becky's loose fitting nightwear pulling in past her outer lips.

A sound escape his sister's lips. Sam froze. What was that? Did she say something? He looked at her, wide-eyed. Still heavily lidded, but hadn't she said something, made some sort of noise? Stop? Did she say stop? Wait a minute. Sam released his breath. Remember to breathe! He boldly pressed in with his finger, a tad deeper this time, making the cloth of her nightwear sink a centimeter further. He watched her lips and pushed. There it was! She moved her mouth. No, wait. Smacked her lips. That's what it was. A soft moan abruptly escaped, and Sam's mouth fell open. And there went her hand. Sam pulled his finger back. Becky's hand went down. Full dive! Only, it did not penetrate the fabric of her nightwear. Instead, she merely grabbed the cloth being stuffed into her pussy and yanked it out. How dare she! Ah ha, but then on the hand's retreat it stopped short of full withdrawal.

Sam watched, his breath baited as the tips of her fingers dipped, then the tops of her knuckles and viola! Becky was re-initiating radiant sex sequence. Sam sighed to himself. How he wanted to climb on top of Becky and let her take it, let her guide it home. Suddenly, the boy wonder twisted his lips. Hmm, he thought. Interesting notion. Perhaps he could take advantage of Becky's current delving. Moreover, could he possibly assist her somehow?

Sam leant in and watched Becky spelunking by dawn's early light. He could only make out a sort of telephone version of her adventures as relayed by the ripples in her nightwear, but it gave him an idea. He extended his hand down between his sister's legs and gently caressed her inner thigh through her nightwear. Using the backs of his fingernails, he traced up and down, from where he felt her fingers milking her mons, to her leg a few inches back. He then traced low, between her legs and up the crack of her ass. Becky issued her first certifiable, definitely a moan, moan. It crept from her lips like an Ooh and finished like the back end of Boom. Like Oohhmm, with the Mmmm being dragged out five or six bars.

It was not the first time his sister elicited a creeping shiver that went crawling up her brother's spinal column. Sam kept his gesture afloat, bringing his face low to breathe Becky in, to add to his own lust-filled drunkenness, to the point where he thought he might have to take his penis out and finish, then and there. But that was not how this was supposed to end. His penis had long ago decided that. Jerking was great. A fine past time, but that was the stuff of boys. What lay before him, them, was the stuff of men. Sam set his jaw the next time his sister's moaned, taking note of the accelerated pace at which she rubbed herself. It was lay it on the line time. Pun, asserted.

Sam turned over and knelt on his knees beside his sister. He looked down over her, her eyebrows furrowed, heavily lidded, beating away at herself. How sadly incomplete she looked. He took a deep breath and raised his leg, carefully extending it over his sister's body, bringing the foot down between her slightly spread legs. He reached his left hand across her chest, bringing it down between her underarm and rib cage. Her right arm dangled between the wall and the bed. At last, raising his right leg to join his left, side by side between those delicate legs. He was perfectly aligned, now directly over top Becky in an ass-high pushup pose.

Dammit, he'd forgotten the most important part. Well, there was no way to go back now. He could already feel his muscles beginning to burn. Using his head as a crutch for his right hand and pressing it into the bed at his sister's side, he took his hand up and lowered his sweat pants and underwear enough that his rigid cock could be pointed down at its incestuous yin of yearning. He replaced his hand again and lifted his head, stretching his neck to drive away the discomfort having used it as a crutch, caused. He breathed, careful not to do so in Becky's face. He could hear her own sharpened breath, smell her, hear her hands working still beneath the fabric of her nightwear. He lowered himself, his forearms burning, being powered by lust and the miraculous sense it offered, telling him not to save any strength for the return journey. His penis made contact with her middle knuckle. He was just above the digit buried inside her body.

Sam went lower, burning and arching his back to give his penis the preferred trajectory. He moved forward, the instant contact and softness, the thinness of her nightwear sent adrenaline coursing through his veins. His penis lurched with pleasure, a thumbs up to the E-LAM who must now, have clearly seen the wisdom in waiting patiently before turning loose that mojo juice. Becky's brother undulated forward, pressing his mushroomed tip against her thinly veiled vagina, eliciting a more forceful moan than ever before. The second state-certified groan of approval made Sam's eyes blur. His eager penis oozed pre-cum and dampened the thin fabric separating it from his sister's gash. Sam moved against her again, this time a little harder and Becky's hands balled up and pushed out on her nightwear. Sam froze as Becky arched her back and nearly lifted her breasts up under her brother's chin. He watched her lids and they flickered. He was certain the gig was up. Remarkably, she did not wake.

The miracle he'd traveled so far, journeyed over mountains and through valleys to bear witness to, seemed suddenly possible. Sam looked down his chest to see Becky's other hand go down to her bottoms and stop short at the elastic band. The thumb on the other hand, the one beneath appeared, too, and hooked over the band. As the Israelites must have felt at Moses' parting of the seas so, too, did Sam as he stared down with wide-eyed wonder. His aching penis, sandwiched on either side by Becky's hands, was passed by as the unconscious sister began pushing down her nightwear, revealing a dark shadow, the faintest trace of dark hair made out in the mounting morning light. Becky's push ceased, the band and bottoms were now just over her hips. She retrieved her right hand and laid it firmly upon her clitoris, high on her velvet pussy.

The thin strip of hair pointed the way for younger brother Sammy, and shaking, he arched his back and lowered his penis. When he made contact with a plush wet pussy, his eyes rolled back into his head. His quivering legs and forearms nearly gave out. He was on the very verge of collapsing atop his sister, certainly ruining everything. With every ounce of determination, willing himself to hold, he gritted his teeth and rolled his pelvis ever so gently, staring down into his sister's serene, peaceless dream. Her lips twisted and she rolled them over between her teeth. Sam opened his own mouth wide, sucking in breath as his tip slid in between the silken outer folds of Becky's slit. With tremendous effort he held, watching his sister's lips quiver, feeling her hand moving faster over her button.