Sharing a Bed with Daddy Pt. 05

The fact that the cock belonged to my brother didn't bother me at all.

If anything that made my plan feel even more exotic.

Still in my bare feet I got up and went to my doorway, listening to see if I could hear him moving around downstairs.

I couldn't hear anything but the wind outside, so I quietly opened my door and descended the stairs. I paused at the bottom and listened, and then went down the hall past the bathroom.

I didn't see him in the kitchen and there was no reason for him to still be in the laundry room with the power out.

I stepped quietly to his bedroom door, and heard his bedsprings.

Whatever he was doing, he was on his bed.

I listened for several seconds more, and heard something faint and rhythmic.

Was it his hand sliding up and down his cock? Or was that what my imagination wanted it to be?

Part of me wanted to stay and listen, but I had another even more powerful urge.

I put my hand on the doorknob and knocked softly as I pushed the door open.

Sure enough, he was on his side, a towel spread out next to him, with his hand wrapped around his cock as he stared at a glossy porn magazine foldout.

"Jesus!" he blurted, pulling a blanket over his body.

"So that's why you wanted me to go back to bed." I teased. "I thought maybe it's because my breasts were offending and distracting you."

"They were." He said. "They are. Distracting I mean. I just thought I'd try to take my mind off of them for a bit."

"Is it working?" I asked with a grin.

"Not yet." He said. "I just got started. What do you want anyway?"

"Maybe I wanted to show you my breasts again," I teased, "and I wanted someplace to hang my sweatshirt while I had them out."

"Very funny." He said. "What are you really doing here. Besides embarrassing me?"

"Don't be embarrassed." I said. "I actually came down here because I want to do the same thing that you're doing. So I came to borrow a magazine."

"A magazine?" he whispered.

"Yes." I said. "One of your stroke books. So I can take my mind off of my own distractions."

"One of my......?" he asked.

"Yes." I told him. "I've known about your stash of magazines for almost as long as we've lived here."

"I just have them to....." he stammered.

"Oh come on." I said with a grin. "I know what you do with them. I just saw you doing it. I do the same thing. Except I prefer the stories to the centerfolds."

"You mean you.....?" he couldn't even get the words out.

"Yes." I told him. "I get horny just like you do and I masturbate. And I'm horny now and I'd like to borrow a magazine so I can read some of the sexy stories while I do something about it."

"You do?" he asked.

The poor guy was experiencing informational overload. Not only had he just seen me naked, he'd gotten hard in front of me, been discovered masturbating, and learned that I wanted to masturbate too.

"Yes. I do." I answered him. "Unless there's someone else here who can do something to help me with my problem, I'd like to crawl in bed and read a sexy story or two while I handle it myself."

"Oh. Yeah. Okay." He said. "I guess that makes sense."

I could sense his hesitation. He wanted to figure out how to keep this conversation going. But he didn't know how to do that without seeming like some sort of pervert.

I knew what he was going through because I was experiencing the same thing.

"Unless....." I ventured, suddenly surprised at my own thoughts and amazed at my bravery to even speak them.

"Unless what?" he whispered.

"Unless you want to bring the magazines into the living room." I said. "We could sit in the same room and read together and see what sort of things we're each into."

"You.....you mean?" he stammered. "You want us both to.....?"

"Why not?" I asked him. "I know these books turn you on. I'm telling you that they turn me on. We both started getting horny together. We might as well get hornier together. What else is there to do while we're snowed in?"

"But I.....I don't know." He said.

"Come on." I needled him. "The light is better out there, and I think it's fun to be horny with you. Besides if you get too distracted you can always come back in here if you need to."

"Oh what the hell?" he said, as much to himself as to me.

He rolled off the bed and pulled his sweats up. I noticed that his cock wasn't quite as stiff as it had been when I barged into the room, but it was still tenting the front of his pants nicely.

I grabbed the blankets off of his bed and nodded at the pile of porn magazines under the edge of his bed.

"Grab all of them and bring them out." I said.

"All of them?" he asked while he reached under the bed. "Or just these?"

"You have more than those?" I asked.

He opened his closet door and picked up a plastic container big enough to store a microwave in. I could tell he was straining with the weight of it.

"All these." He said.

He set it down on the floor and put the magazines from under the bed into the box with the rest and hoisted the whole thing again.

"Holy shit." I said. "If I knew you had that many I'd have kept some, rather than always putting them back."

He followed me to the living room, and I put the blankets on the couch, crawling under them and making myself comfortable underneath the pile.

He set the box down and stood there awkwardly for a moment, as if he was unsure of what he should do.

"Grab one and get over here." I said, lifting an edge of the blanket. "Let's snuggle up and read."

He grabbed a handful of magazines from the box and joined me on the couch. I lifted the edge of the blanket and he slid over to join me and pulled the blanket over his lap.

He put the magazines onto the blanket between us and looked at me.

"Well," he said, "help yourself and start reading. Or looking."

He picked up the magazine on the top of the small pile he'd made and as I watched as he self-consciously opened it.

"How do you usually start?" I asked him.

I wanted to look through the magazines, but I was even more intrigued by the possibility of being able to pick the brain of a sexually aroused male who was right next to me in the flesh.

Even if he was my brother.

"Start?" he asked.

"Sure." I said. "You're horny and you want to make yourself cum. How do you decide which magazine to start with? Or do you just randomly pick one and stick with it until you're finished?"

"I guess it depends on what I'm in the mood for." He answered.

"Do you mean what sort of mood based on what's made you horny? Or what you want to be seeing or fantasizing about?" I asked.

"Yes." He said. "To both questions. Sometimes a certain dream, or thought, or whatever will sort of catch my imagination, and that makes me want to experience or fantasize about something specific."

"That makes sense." I said. "I'm sort of the same way, although I never really stopped to think about it."

"And sometimes," he continued, "I don't have a specific fantasy. I just keep looking until something catches my attention."

I leaned forward and peered into the big plastic box of pornography. I reached out and grabbed about two inches from one of the stacks, fanning through them and looking at the covers without taking them out of the box.

There were probably one hundred different magazines in there, and in addition to the ones whose titles I recognized, there were a handful that I'd never heard of. And that was just the top layer that I could see.

"What sort of different moods do you have?" I asked.

I sat back up. It had occurred to me that in addition to sharing his stash of porn with me, he might be a great source of research into the mind of males.

"Well sometimes I just want to cum quick." He said. "Something like this works best for that."

He opened one of the magazines to the centerfold, showing a blonde with perfectly big hair sprayed into place, enormous breasts, toned body, and wearing only knee-high tube socks as she faced the camera.

"Is she your type?" I asked him.

"She's exactly my type." He answered. "Naked."

"Typical male answer." I laughed. "But seriously, don't you have a preference as to body type?"

"Not really." He replied. "Beautiful is beautiful, and I haven't yet seen any skin color, or hair color, or body shape that changes that."

"So as long as she's good looking that's all you want?" I asked.

"My biggest preference is that she's nice, if you're asking about real life." He said. "I'm totally willing to trade physical attractiveness for personality if it's someone I'm going to spend lots of time with."

"That makes sense." I said. "I'm the same way I suppose. Not that I'm above hoping for a great personality and physical perfection."

He grinned.

"So can I ask you a question?" he asked.

"Of course." I told him. "We just took a semi-incestuous shower together, and then you got hard staring at my boobs while I got wet staring at your boner. I think the ice has been broken."

"What body type do you want the most?" He asked.

"There isn't really one specific answer." I said slowly, trying to figure out how to word my response. "I know what I'm attracted to when I see it, but I don't have one specific kind of guy that I lust after more than others."

"What about...?" he trailed off.

"What about...what?" I asked back.

"Size?" he said.

"You don't mean how tall of a guy I'm looking for do you?" I teased him.

"No." he laughed. "I don't."

"Are you worried about your size?" I asked.

"Aren't most guys?" he replied.

"I guess they are." I agreed. "Although I don't know too many women who actually care."

"Really?" he asked.

"Sure." I said. "If a guy could be written up in a medical textbook for being abnormally huge or abnormally small that might make a difference. But mostly girls are interested in what he can do to make them feel good, rather than his size."

"So in all honesty you don't care about size?" he asked, avoiding my eyes and looking at my chin.

I realized that this was going to have to work in both directions. I couldn't pump him for information about how the male mind worked and then sidestep his questions about my own preferences.

"Okay." I said. "I'll answer. In complete and total honesty. But I think that entitles me to be able to ask you questions and get honest answers too. Alright?"

"It's a deal." He said softly.

I turned sideways on the couch to face him, the magazines forgotten for the moment.

"In total honesty," I said, "whatever you think I've done, I probably haven't. I'm still a virgin."

"Really?" he asked.

"Yes." I said. "Really. I'm not completely innocent mind you, but you're the first guy I've been totally naked in front of, and you're the first naked guy I've seen."

"Same for me." He said. "Except for all the women in these magazines."

I laughed.

"But to answer your question," I said, "no. I don't care about size. What I care about most is....well.....I care most about....hard."

"Hard?" he whispered. "Just a cock being hard?"

"Sure." I answered. "In my fantasies I don't fantasize about my partner being a certain size. But I get really turned on thinking about him being really, really, really, hard."

"I never really thought about it that way." He said. "I always assumed that size would be the attention getter."

"I guess I might change my mind when I actually have sex with someone, but I think feeling a cock that's really stiff and erect would be more fulfilling than just feeling one that's big." I said.

"That makes sense." He said. "I think I'm the same way with breasts."

"How so?" I asked.

"I mean that I don't care about size." He said. "In my fantasies what I want the most is for her to want....to need....for me to touch them. Or kiss them. Or suck on them. That arouses me more than how big they are."

We sat like that for a moment, both of feeling close and relaxed, but aware of a certain erotic electricity in the air.

"So what do you do next?" I asked him, really into this question and answer session we were having.

"Next?" he said.

"Sure." I said. "You've decided you want to jerk yourself off. You've picked out some pictures that you know you like to stare at. Or some to look at while you decide what you want to look at. What do you do next?"

"Are you sure you want to know this?" he asked.

"Yes." I said. "I do. If you're comfortable telling me."

"I get a towel." He said.

"A towel?" I asked.

"Well yeah," he said quietly, "so I can....you know.....when I.....when it happens I can.....you know....so that it doesn't......"

His face had grown red and I suddenly remembered the towel I'd seen spread out on the bed next to him a little while ago. I'd registered seeing it, but my eyes had been drawn to his erection, and I hadn't really paid attention to too much else.

"I get it." I said, reaching out and touching his arm. "To wipe up your orgasm when it happens."

He nodded.

"Do you do it into the towel, or do you just use the towel afterwards?" I asked, suddenly curious.

"Well onto." He said. "Mostly. It's easier to aim and clean up. I prefer being on my back but I usually don't do it that way."

"Why not?" I asked.

"It's harder to aim that way, and if I just let it fly it gets everywhere and I might end up having to change my sheets or take a shower." He said. "Plus it's harder to cover up that way if someone walks in."

"Does it feel better when you're on your back?" I asked softly.

"I don't think so, but I think it's sexier to think about it going everywhere when I cum, and if I feel sexier then it feels better." He said.

I understood what he meant. I thought of how I loved to orgasm laying face down while up on my knees, imagining someone looking at or touching my ass while my fingers stroked back and forth over my clit.

"Do you cum a lot?" I whispered, my belly tight with curious lust.

"I don't know if it's a lot, but sometimes I make a pretty big mess." He said. "The longer I let it build up the more there is."

"You mean the more days you go without?" I asked him.

"No." he said. "I mean the more time I spend stroking and taking my time. The longer I make myself wait to cum and the more I let it build up pressure, the better it feels and more I actually cum."

"Does it go far?" I asked. "When it shoots out?"

"The more time I take the further it goes, and the more comes out. The better it feels too. I once hit the wall over my head when it happened." He said.

"I wish I could see that." I whispered.

I blurted that out while picturing him on his back with his cock in his hand, spewing his orgasm up into the air. I hadn't really taken time to think about what those words could mean, and they hung between us awkwardly.

Talking was fun.

And we were almost sort of flirting, but we could lie to ourselves and pretend we were just having a conversation.

But saying out loud that I wished I could have seen my own brother spurt his semen over his own head and onto his bedroom wall was impossible to pass off as a normal conversation.

"Really?" he asked softly.

I was suddenly embarrassed and confused.

I wasn't sure what was happening. I was loving this conversation, and I trusted no one on earth as much as I trusted my brother, and I was closer to him than anyone else.

But at this moment I was feeling things that I was afraid would push him away.

I was wanting things that might creep him out.

And I'd said one of them out loud.

"Well just, you know, to see it." I said, feeling my face burn.

"Have you ever seen a guy cum?" he asked.

We hadn't moved, but it felt like we were suddenly closer under the blanket.

"No." I said. "I had a date cum when we were in the backseat of his car once, but I couldn't see anything, and he was wearing a condom so there wasn't really anything to see."

"I made a girl cum once with my fingers." He said. "But it was the same sort of thing. It was dark and I couldn't really see anything. But it made me so hard I almost came when she did."

"When I masturbate, I usually fantasize that he's cumming at the same time I am." I told him.

"Who?" he asked.

"No one in particular." I said with a grin. "Just whoever pops into my head when I'm doing it."

"Sort of like what I do with the centerfolds." He said. "Just keep looking until one catches my imagination."

"Yeah," I replied, "just like that."

"Do you think that's the best way?" he asked.

"Think that what's the best way?" I asked him.

"For two people to orgasm at the same time?" he asked. "I always thought it might be better for them to do it one at a time so the other person could help them cum, and enjoy it along with them."

"You know," I said, "now that I think about it, that does sound like the best way. But I always thought that feeling a guy shooting cum inside of me would be the best way to enjoy my orgasm."

"As long as both of them cum, there's probably nothing to complain about." He laughed.

"That's true." I agreed. "And one advantage of having someone to do it with is that you can try it over and over again each way until you decide what you like best."

"Can I ask you another question?" he asked.

"Go for it." I said.

Not only was I enjoying our conversation, but it was having a physical effect on my body. Inside my sweatshirt I could feel my nipples flushed with heat. It would take very little stimulation to make them stiff.

The last time I'd shifted on the couch I'd become aware that my pussy lips were tingling.

At night in bed when I was laying in the warm darkness and my mind would wander to sexual things, I'd often have the same awareness. In bed I'd often begin to slowly move my thighs back and forth, savoring the feeling of the erotic warmth spreading through my belly and thighs as the tingle in my pussy grew.

I resisted that urge while sitting next to my brother on the couch, afraid that it would cause me to start dripping that arousal into my pajama pants.

My wandering mind was brought back to focus when he started to talk to me.

"How often do you make yourself cum?" he asked.

"A few times a week." I said. "Sometimes every night though. It depends on how tired I am and how horny I am. How about you?"

"Almost every night, but sometimes less. Sometimes more." He answered.

"More?" I asked.

"Oh yeah." He replied. "If I'm really horny it take a couple times to get myself relaxed enough to sleep."

"What makes you really horny?" I asked him.

"Just any time that I spend lots of time thinking about sex." He said with a grin. "Like this conversation this morning."

"Are you horny right now?" I whispered.

"Since I opened my eyes in the shower and saw your breasts." He said softly.

"Even hornier than usual?" I asked him.

"Oh yes." He said. "Seeing you, and then talking like this....it's driving me crazy."

"How crazy?" I asked him.

"This crazy." He said.

He pulled the blanket down, and I saw that his sweatpants were tented, with a tiny spot of wetness darkening the fabric where his cockhead was straining to poke through and get loose.

I was overwhelmed by an urge to reach out and touch him. I wanted so badly to know what that stiff cock would feel like in my hand, even through his sweatpants.

I took a deep breath and prayed that he couldn't hear the involuntary shudder that coursed through me as I did it.

"Does it.....what does it feel like?" I asked quietly.

"It sort of aches," he said, "but in a really good way. The ache feels good. You know what it's like when you scratch an itch and it's really satisfying? It's like that. I just know when I touch it it's going to feel really good."

"Would you show it to me?" I asked him, in a tentative whisper.

"Are you sure you want that?" he asked me back.

"Is it weird?" I asked. "I just want to know what it looks like when it's so hard like that. But you don't have to if you don't want to."