Shear Pleasure

That breakfast combo was my absolute favourite way to start the day, but I rarely got it at home. Sort of like I've heard about blow jobs and marriage.

Mom wasn't a fan of pancakes, and she usually did all the cooking. So breakfast restaurants were my supplier to get my pancake fix. And during the social distancing, the restaurants were closed. So what the fuck had gotten into my sister, giving me a special treat? And when did she learn to cook?

"Smells good," I said. "Want me to fix you a coffee?"

"That'd be sweet," Emma answered with a waifish grin, her clear green eyes twinkling as she turned toward me. She looked so natural in what she was doing. Downright domestic. Shit, she was even wearing an apron.

"Black?" I asked.

"Yep. Dark roast. Timmy's," she said brightly.

Tim Hortons coffee is the absolute best. And they've finally added their dark roast flavour to their Keurig K-cup selections, so I could now feed my Timmy's addiction in the privacy of my own home.

I fixed coffees for both of us while she finished cooking. We sat together in a comfortable silence as we ate, consumption taking precedence over conversation.

"So about last night..." Emma said as she pushed her plate aside.

My dream came immediately to mind. Could she know about that?

She saw the question in my eyes. "I was a little outta line with my texts," she explained.

"Oh. That. Yeah, well, at least it's out there. Better to face the devil you know than the devil you don't."

"You're no devil, Shame. I just needed to let you know that..."

"That what?"

Emma blushed. "Um... that... that I, um..." Emma is never flustered. My bullshit sensors were on high alert.

"Um, that... that I knew. Yeah, that's it," she said haltingly. Emma has always been a terrible liar.

"So that I would stop making you uncomfortable?"

"Uncomfortable? Oh. Yeah. Yeah, so that things wouldn't get - um, get weird."

"And things aren't weird?"

"Well, maybe a little weird. But at least - clearer."

"And it's okay? Your brother has a thing for you, and you're not grossed out?"

"Like I said, it's a little flattering. You being such a - a great guy and all."

A great guy? More like a hopeless perv. "But now I'm on notice, right? No leching after l'il Sis?"

"Well, if that's all you feel, then - yeah, lusting is off limits."

All I feel? What the fuck? But then it hit me: What do I feel for Emma? Sure, she gives me instant boners all the time, but is there something more?

My brain couldn't process this with her sitting across the table, a look of intensity creasing her brow.

"I'm sorry, Sis," I said, rising from the table. "Thanks for the breakfast." I took my dishes to the sink and ran water in them, then headed up the stairs.

Once inside my bedroom, I turned on some music and laid back in my bed with my laptop but nothing productive on my mind. A few hours on League of Legends would clear my brain of its confusion.

By noon I was sick of the game and sick of my emotional bewilderment. I had just turned off the game and the music when I heard my phone ping. It was a text from Emma.

What'cha doin', Shame?

I hesitated, then decide to lob a humour grenade at her.

Masturbating to thoughts of my baby sister.

Ewww... Perv! 😉

Yeah... spunk for the punk.

Ewww! I can't believe u have the testicles to say that to me! 😉

Well, they're somewhat involved in the process...

So ur getting good at texting 1-handed?

Thank God. She understood my warped sense of humour. But then, come to think of it, Emma "got" me in almost all of my peculiarities. And somehow she still seemed to put up with me.

Naw, I've trained the vacuum cleaner to take over when I need to communic8.

Sicko! I'm never going to vacuum again! 😉

U never do anyway, twerp.

☹

But u cook a mean breakfast...

😊😊😊 <3<3<3

Yeah, well don't get the big head.

I'm not the one sporting the right equipment for that... 😉

Shit! She just had to turn it sexual again.

Geez, Enny. Just when I was getting over my sister fetish.

KK, goober. I'll stop.

Yeah, yeah. Just like I've stopped sniffing your panties.

I held my breath and waited for a reply. Then I heard a knock at my door.

"Pull your pants up, perv - I'm comin' in," Emma said from the hallway.

She turned the door handle and strode in, stopping in front of my bed. I dropped my phone on the bed and locked eyes with her. Then, ever so slowly, I raised both hands in the air.

"Vacuum cleaner's in the closet," I deadpanned.

Emma burst out laughing. I smiled and began to giggle. Her shoulders heaved with laughter. She fell awkwardly onto the bed beside me and curled up in the fetal position, her body wracked with merriment.

When her giggle fit ended, I spoke up. "Sorry, Enny - I couldn't resist."

"Couldn't resist - sniffing my panties?" She started laughing again.

"No, buttface, joking about sniffing your panties. No way I'd admit to it if I really did it."

"So you might have done it - you're just not admitting it?" she asked, a hint of a blush colouring her cheeks.

"I might have wanted to - but no, I haven't done it."

"Perv," she said, then took on a serious look. "Flatterer."

She was doing it again. Making me hard just by proximity. And banter.

"Hey, kid," I said, "what's that I smell?"

"Not my panties. Mom's cooking lunch."

"So that's why you're here?"

"Sorta. I'm s'posed to get you. But I'm mainly here to remind you about your haircut. Right after lunch."

"Now remind me what's in that for me..."

"Blissful distraction for your beloved sister," she answered, flipping some errant strands of auburn out of her eyes.

"Just promise me one thing," I said.

"What's that?"

"No photos. And no social media," I insisted.

"So you want to keep our little rendezvous private?" she said with a saucy grin.

"Now who's the perv?"

"You might be surprised, big bro," she taunted. "Meet me in my room after lunch."

Holy fuck, that girl knows how to get a rise out of me, I thought. I'm doomed.

*****

All through lunch, I kept stealing glances at Emma. Mom and Dad were talking about whether our university courses would be held online if things weren't back to normal in the fall. And about how life as we knew it would probably never be completely the same. I'd chip in with a comment every now and then, but my mind was squarely on my sister. She remained mostly quiet, too. A time or two when I looked her way, she was already looking at me. And biting her lip. Indecision seemed to cloud her cool green gaze.

Lunch mercifully ended with Mom solving the coronavirus problem and Dad rebuilding the economy, at least in the storybook of their own self-delusion. In truth, nobody knew what was going to happen, or when. But isn't that just the story of life itself?

As I took my dishes to the sink, I felt a pinch on my butt. I jumped, then turned to see my sister's impish grin.

"Mom and Dad are going down to the basement to finish the workday. Meet me upstairs in 10 minutes," she said in hushed tones, barely above a whisper.

"Haircut time?" I asked.

"Yeah. No wimping out on me, dork."

"Takes one to know one," I replied.

I knocked tentatively on her bedroom door 15 minutes later, fashionably late and appropriately indifferent.

When she opened the door, Emma uncharacteristically looked as nervous as a virgin bride on her wedding day. Or some such simile. Somehow long-tailed cats and rocking chairs aren't nearly as sexy.

"Got your machete?" I asked flippantly.

"The scissors are in the bathroom," she said, motioning toward the other door with a tilt of her head.

"But I thought we were doing it in here..."

Emma froze. She looked even paler than usual. She caught the innuendo, but she wasn't going to acknowledge it.

"Um, yeah. We'll finish up in here," she said. "But we'll get the nasty stuff out of the way in there."

Nasty stuff? This was just too easy. But Emma's nervous aura cautioned me to leave it alone.

"Sure, Sis. No hair clippings in your bed, let alone crackers. Makes complete sense to me."

"Unfortunately, though, it means you'll have to sit on the toilet while I work," she said with a chuckle.

"Long as I can keep my pants up," I said, then flashed an evil grin.

"You can shit in your pants if you want," she teased. "Just wait until I'm pretty well done with your hair."

Emma led the way into the bathroom. Being the only daughter, she had been given the bedroom with an adjoining bath. I was stuck with going down the hall and sharing squatting quarters with the guest bedroom.

Her clipping utensils and electronic gadgets were splayed out on the counter. I caught a whiff of rubbing alcohol.

"You've disinfected the equipment since your last client?" I asked sarcastically.

"Be happy, big bro. It was all pretty gross lying down there under the basement sink for so long. I'm pretty sure I even saw some mouse turds among the buffet of horrors."

I couldn't contain a hearty laugh. My sister has an incredible ability to tickle my funny bone. And, to boot, she undoubtedly has the highest IQ of anyone I know. And a heart of gold. And she's hot as hell. But don't get me started.

"Happy it is," I said. And at that moment, I was indeed happy just to be here letting my sweet Enny test her coiffing skills.

"Take your seat on the throne," she instructed, pointing toward the toilet. I couldn't help but notice the way her breasts strained against her V-neck sleeveless blouse when she pointed.

"Lid up or down?" I asked, trying not to stare at her tits.

"Just a li'l too creepy to leave it up." She caught the direction of my glance but made no comment.

"Weird either way," I countered. "But down it is."

After I was seated on the toilet, Emma went over to the counter. She fussed for a moment with the shears, clippers, electric razor and other sundry items beside the sink. She bent over the tools, inspecting them carefully and picking up a pair of scissors. Then she looked back at me, seemingly perplexed. She made no comment about catching my gaze on her beautifully shaped, taut little shorts-covered ass.

"I think this will work better if your hair's wet," she said.

"Not sticking my head in the toilet," I replied with a grin. "No swirlies for me."

"Aww, foiled again," she answered without missing a beat.

I grinned again at my beautiful sister, enjoying the repartee.

"I'm going to wash your hair in the sink," she said. "I'll get the desk chair out of my room."

She was only gone a moment, rolling her chair back with her as she returned, still holding a pair of scissors.

"Come," she said.

Cum? But I'm not even hard yet.

Get your mind out of the gutter, Shame.

I stood up and walked over to the linen closet. After grabbing a towel, I sat down in her desk chair by the sink. I made a show of carefully wrapping the towel around my neck to protect my shirt.

"Good idea," said Emma. "I'd'a soaked ya for sure. Still might."

"Just didn't want any wet t-shirt contests spontaneously breaking out. Mighta embarrassed you if I'd won," I teased.

"Ooh, you're askin' for it, Mister! Don't forget I'm the one holding the sharp objects." She raised her hand in the air, clutching the scissors. Her tits were so sexy in that position, looming large from their perch above her flat stomach.

"And sporting the prime rack," I replied, staring blatantly at the mounds protruding under her blouse. "I concede my crown."

Emma's jaw dropped in mock horror. But then...

"Flatterer," she murmured.

"I calls 'em like I sees 'em, Sis," I said.

She smiled spontaneously in delight, then feigned a glare. She placed her hands on her lean and all-too-luscious hips.

"Enough of that, Mister," she said, wagging a finger at me. "Time to get started!"

Emma placed the scissors back on the counter among the other coiffing tools. Then she turned the chair so that my back was to the sink. I heard her running the tap, presumably to get the water the right temperature. She pulled the chair close to the sink and leaned it back.

I felt the stream of warm water pulsating against my scalp. Emma's fingers worked their way through my hair. I realized right away that this was my first time to have my hair washed by someone other than myself. I was a hair-washing virgin.

If you've never had someone else wash your hair, you may not be able to relate to what I'm going to say about the feelings it evoked. A few choice words come to mind: Relaxing. Intimate. Sensual.

After thoroughly wetting my mop of black hair, Emma turned the water off and squeezed shampoo into her hands. She rubbed it through my strands with fingers that seemed to gyrate to the beat of an unsung song. I was lost in the sensation. I involuntarily let out a primal moan.

Not daring to open my eyes with shampoo dripping down, I listened for a reaction from Emma. She said nothing, but she spoke with her hands. Her manipulations became almost erotic. She was giving me a massage. Not a full body massage, but an erotic massage nonetheless.

She worked her way from my scalp to my temples, then back over my scalp and down to my neck. I discovered that I have an erogenous zone behind and below my right ear. I was getting hard from my sister washing my hair. I felt for the front of the towel and unwrapped it slightly, positioning the lower portion of it over my crotch.

When Emma was finished with my scalp massage, she lifted my head up and turned the faucet knobs, again finding a comfortable temperature before pushing my head back under the stream. After rinsing my hair completely, she wrapped a second towel around my head and began lightly drying my dark locks.

"There!" she said, turning the chair toward the mirror so that I could see her accomplishment.

"Um, looks like I just got out of the shower," I said lamely.

"Of course, doofus," she answered. "Just wanted you to see the 'before' picture. Especially since you refused photos and social media attention. We'll see the 'after' in probably 20 minutes. Half an hour tops."

"Oh, I'm sure you could wreck it in less time than that," I joked.

"Careful, careful, dear brother. You just might cause a self-fulfilling prophecy with an attitude like that."

She attempted a stern look. Then she wagged that scolding finger at me again, this time in the mirror.

I laughed.

"Okay, where we gonna do this?" I asked.

She paused to look around.

"Better here on the chair than on the toilet," she said. "I can't get behind you there, and I don't want to have you moving around while I'm working. Might throw off my game."

"So, the girl's got game, has she?"

"I can flirt with the best of them," Emma smiled.

"Just don't know what to do with them once you've hooked them, eh? Can't reel 'em in?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" she replied.

I paused.

"Well, actually yeah, I would. I don't think I've ever seen you go out. Certainly I'm not aware of any boyfriends. Why's that?"

Emma didn't answer. Instead, she moved to the sink and picked up the pair of scissors.

"We can talk while I work," she said, moving behind me.

That suggestion momentarily surprised me. One of my favourite things about getting my hair cut is that I can choose to do absolutely nothing while it's happening. Not move, not talk, not think. The guy that usually cuts my hair respects the fact that I'm not there for a conversation. The quieter he stays, the better the tip - assuming, of course, that he gives me a good cut. But tips were not the point here, and I was actually glad that Emma wanted to have a conversation while she cut. Not to mention that I wanted to know everything she'd be willing to tell me about her love life. At least I hoped I wanted to know...

She pulled a large Hefty bag from under the sink and snipped holes in the bottom and the upper part of the sides with the clipping scissors, tossing the plastic remnants into the garbage. I looked askance, giving her my best "WTF" gesture.

"Ta da!" she said. She flipped the bag upside down and showed me that it would serve as a cover for my clothes during the haircut.

"Pure genius," I said. "No wonder you're top of the class."

"You're s'posed to be getting' my mind off of that, goober!" she teased.

After I was fitted with my garbage bag hair cutting gown, Emma began her work. I kept my eyes shut to avoid the flying follicles. My ogling of her beautiful face and body would have to be exclusively in my mind for the moment. No matter - I could listen to her enthralling, sexy voice while she worked. And stand guard for the feel of her boobs against my neck and back as she leaned close to cut. One could only hope...

But Emma didn't choose to re-start the conversation. And I felt no incursions of wayward boobs brushing against me. I stayed silent for a while, letting her establish a rhythm for a few minutes. A hair cutting disaster was not on my agenda.

"So, you were about to tell me about your love life," I ventured cautiously after she seemed to have settled into what she was doing.

"There's nothing to tell," she answered somewhat tersely, continuing to clip.

"But... why?" I said. I waited a beat, then continued. "I mean, like, you're not exactly a troll or anything. In fact, some might think you're mildly attractive."

"Hence, your sister fetish," she taunted.

"Hey, there. I resemble that remark. But that's not all there is to it," I confessed.

Emma stopped clipping.

"So... the attraction isn't just physical?"

Uh-oh. I was a man without a plan. I hadn't thought this through.

"Hey, you. This isn't about me," I re-directed. "This is about why you're not dating. Don't tell me you've sworn off men..."

"Sworn at - yes. Guys can be so annoying. Sworn off - no..." She returned to trimming my hair.

"That answers my next question, about whether you're into girls," I joked.

"Who says you can't swing from both sides of the plate?"

She maintained silence just long enough for me to wonder about possible bisexual proclivities, but then she chuckled at my expression.

"I had you there, doofus!"

"Yeah, you did," I admitted. "Okay, so we've established that you're not even partially lesbian. Surely it's not that nobody's asked you out? I mean - maybe they're intimidated..."

"I've had plenty of offers," she answered, "but most guys are only interested in one thing."

"Football?" I asked, my eyes still closed. I could see her smiling in my mind's eye.

"Getting into my panties," she replied.

"I doubt they'd fit..."

Emma stopped cutting long enough to smack my shoulder. Thankfully she used the hand without the scissors.

"You know how it is with teenage guys," she said. "Raging hormones and all."

"I don't think guys are the only ones with hormones," I said.

"Yeah, but most of us girls have a bit of restraint. Self-preservation is a powerful instinct."

"Well, actually, I'm pretty glad that you're careful about who you date," I answered.

I could hear her lay the scissors down on the counter and pick up something else. An electric trimmer, by the sound of it. I felt her begin to run it along the back of my neck. She made quick work of it, then turned the trimmer off.

"So, Shame - why's that?"

"Why's what?"

"Why are you glad that I'm choosy?"

"Well, um..."