The Christmas Present

As I sleepily descended the stairs I discovered my sister hard at work at the stove. Not that I hadn't smelled the coffee from above, or heard the banging and cursing as she apparently tried to throw a Christmas breakfast together.

I paused in my bare-footed tracks to stare and admire. I hadn't seen Chrissy in over two years—the longest sibling separation of our lifetimes. Now, after a disastrously short second marriage, my older sister had returned home to spend Christmas with me. I was ecstatic! I was floating on air! My beautiful sister was back home! It also meant I wouldn't have to endure the torture of spending my second consecutive Christmas alone. (Our mom had died in a mysterious accident a year ago last March, and I'd inherited the house, and her relative fortune.)

Coming up behind sis I placed a hand on the silk waist of her flowery kimono and kissed the little glimpse of pale skin between her left ear the tuck of her thick blonde hair.

"Merry Christmas," I whispered.

"Hey!" a thrown hip knocking me back a step. "None of that!"

After the kiss I'd let my right hand slide down the silky slope of her sumptuous right ass-cheek. Now that Chris was pushing 40 (something she denied) her body had begun to thicken up a bit. But the thickening only enhanced the beauty—to the eye and the hand--of her firm, full buttocks.

"You've been working out," I said, from the fridge. "And you're not wearing any panties."

Chris stood over a small pot on the stove holding a wooden spoon. Her other hand mounted a jutting hip. She wore a look that matched.

"Your business?"

"I'm just being...observant."

"Asshole. I think I put too much water in these grits."

"Merry Christmas to you too."

At the crack of a beer can she looked over at me again. "It's not even nine o'clock yet."

I held the can up after taking a foamy swig. "This stuff? No carbs, no calories...It's like drinking deer piss."

"You would know..." Then, changing her tune: "Where's my morning mimosa?"

"Oh."

"Fuck this," Chrissy said, tossing the pan aside and turning off the burner. "I'm too depressed to cook."

"And too untalented." I'd removed a carton of OJ from the fridge door along with a half-empty bottle of bubbly left over from last night's drunken, welcoming extravaganza. "What are you depressed about?"

Hand on hip again: "Like...I just went through a divorce? Duh-uh!"

"I told you that guy was no good for you."

"You say that about every guy I get involved with."

"He was a drone pilot, Chrissy!"

"So?"

"So he sits in a bunker in U-fucking-tah and murders people five thousand miles away!"

"We're at war, bro."

"It's murder!"

"Got one hell of a joystick," she said wistfully.

"Never should've married him..."

"Thank you mister personal fucking marriage counselor. Who himself has never been married."

"It's called...intelligence. Merry Christmas."

I'd handed her a brimming flute. We clinked glasses. Then, after she drank, I leaned in uninvited and kissed her. On the unpainted lips. They were juicy with champagne and orange juice. Delicious!

"Bee-HAVE," Chrissy said, pushing me away. She pointed, downward. "And do something about that, please? Go in the bathroom? Whatever?"

I looked down at the bulge in the front of my pajama bottoms. "I could wrap a towel around it."

"How 'bout a hand?"

"How 'bout yours?"

"How 'bout you..." And with that a lumped kitchen towel hit its target. I jumped.

"Shoulda been a drone pilot," I joked, mimosa spilling to the floor.

"Enough with the jokes about my ex, OK? All right already? Hey," she said, abruptly switching gears with a foamy wipe of the mouth. And with it I detected the slightest of slurs: "Did we ever do it in the kitchen?"

I was stunned. Speechless. Was this, like, an invitation?

"We did it lots of places," I replied, after a gulp.

"No, but in the kitchen? I can't remember..."

"Probably," I said, with another nervous gulp. "Why, do you want to--"

"Refill!" my sister cried, flute thrust out (as was my pajamaed cock). Her sudden motion caused the upper half of her kimono to open up a little, baring some B-cup cleavage. My sister had the modest, though round and perky breasts of an angel painted on a Baroque ceiling. All that was needed was a background of blue sky with puffy clouds. I took a tempting step forward but hesitated. Then, seconds later, watched a fresh bottle of champagne orgasm as I popped the cork.

Three mimosas later my sister and I were necking furiously in the kitchen space between stove and sink. When I wasn't trading snaking tongues with her I was bending down, nearly to the floor, and taking turns kissing and sucking each of her little pinkish-brown nipples. I wanted to continue down and tongue her shower-fresh pussy as well, but for some reason she restrained my head and said, "Unh-unh. No."

I was kneading her generous ass (still in the kimono) and we were necking again when Chrissy pulled away and said, with a breathless smile: "Let's do it on the counter!"

What's with you and the kitchen, I thought.

"No, it's Christmas," I said. "Let's do it under the tree!"

"More cham-plain!" my tipsy sister said, leading the livingroom charge with an arm-chop.

I took two couch cushions and tossed them on the wood floor in front the tree. The tree. It stood about eight feet tall but would have been closer to nine had it not been for the lean. And it was only half-decorated. Sis and I had gotten drunk on champagne (Good thing I bought a case!) and lost interest about halfway in. Or should I say, the coordination and competence it takes to climb on a ladder and decorate a nine-foot Christmas tree. Then Chris had—literally—crawled up the stairs to the master bedroom I'd ceded to her for her visit, while I passed out on the couch. There'd been no talk of sex on Christmas Eve, or threat of it, though I had kissed her cheek and mouth and even her restrained B-cups through her crisp, Christmas-red blouse a few times, while delivering refilled flutes.

Now my sister, kimono discarded, lay naked and waiting on the pillows. I, meanwhile, was transfixed by the sight of her completely shaved pubes (is this how her ex had liked 'em?) and the glossy lips of her vagina. Was there anything more beautiful, more erotic than this? Your own sister? She looked on as I pulled my pajama bottom down (no panties) and my erection sprang back up.

"Hooo boy," she said, a little less enthusiastically than I might have liked. Adding "Ride 'em, clawboy," or something slurry like that.

"How long has it been?" I asked, climbing on top of her and guiding my cock toward her sisterly hole.

"I dunno. Two years? Tree?"

"You're drunk," I giggled.

"No not."

"Definitely more'n two."

"Fuck me," my sister said with closed eyes. And as I penetrated her she wrapped those sumptuous thighs around my skinny back. "Fuck me!"

"That's...the idea, baby."

"I haven't had a man in, like, two years."

"Hunh?"

"Mumps, I mean," meaning months.

"Must be some kind of record..."

"Screw you," she said, giving me a vise-like thigh squeeze.

As I moved in her we locked lips again. The sensation—the sensations—were heavenly. Pure heaven.

Heaven lasted about 30 seconds.

As I pulled my lips away Chris frowned up and said: "You didn't finish already did you?"

I didn't answer. Or rather, my silence was my answer.

"Jeez, no wonder you don't have a girl. Friend, I mean."

"Thanks for that encouragement," I replied.

As I pulled away, somewhat guiltily (I wondered if this was how a drone pilot felt, after a dubious long-distance kill), Chrissy rose up on her elbows and looked between her legs with something approaching panic.

"Oh shit," she said, "I just got my period. No wonder I've been feeling so cranky."

As I got unsteadily to my feet I thought to myself: And what's your excuse the rest of the time? Then I looked down at the sudden confluence of sisterly blood and brotherly cum on my couch cushion and thought: this is either the grossest thing I've ever seen or one of the most profound.

Chrissy, pleading: "Would you...?"

"Sure, babe," I replied.

First, heading to the kitchen, I dampened the same wad of cloth she'd hit me in the balls with earlier and tossed it to her.

"I think I ruined your cushion," Chrissy said.

"It's just a cushion."

"That's what I love about you, baby brother," she said, pawing first her leaky vagina and then the cushion edge with the cloth. "You're so...anti-maternalistic."

Materialistic, I think she meant.

Upstairs, I fished through my sister's luggage until I located a panty (Yum!), a panty-liner and a tampon. Oh, and my iPhone.

I arrived back at ground zero to find my still-prone sister lying with an arm slung over her eyes. Her knees were bent and her thighs still spread in the receiving position—perhaps to avoid the wet spot. The cloth I'd tossed her lay a bloody clump on the wood floor. Thanks.

At the snap of my camera-phone Chrissy jerked up, perhaps from a short doze.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," I grinned.

"No, what was it?"

"Nothing!"

"Did you just take a picture of me lying here nude?"

I grinned. Chrissy rose up higher on her elbows.

"Did you? Cause I swear to god if you did I'll...Let me see it," she said, holding a hand out. Vanity having got the best of her.

I brought the pic up and handed her the phone. "Don't get blood on it."

"Screw off!" Chrissy, needing her readers, speaking of vanity, screwed her face up trying to focus. "Jeez I look fat!"

"No you don't."

"Yes I do. I look...hideous. Well maybe not hideous...Delete this. Like now."

"Nope," I said, taking my phone back.

"What are you gonna do with it?"

"Nothing."

"Then delete it."

"No way. I want it for a keepsake. Christmas 2025."

"I swear to god if you post that anywhere I'll..."

"I'm not going to post it, sis."

"...I'll," she continued, despite my assurances, "I'll get my ex to launch a drone attack on this house. Not while I'm in it needless to say..."

"That's a nice thought."

"Do you have a heating pad?" switching to more immediate concerns.

"I got you one for Christmas."

"Bullshit."

"I'll go upstairs and dig it out, OK?" I said. "Calm down. And no, I don't keep any Midol in the house."

"How did you...? Anyway, another mimosa would work just as well."

"Coming, dear," I said with an uxorious roll of the eyes.

"And clean your penis off," she added, presumably referring to the dried blood. Her blood. "It's disgusting."

On the way to the kitchen I sighed. I also pulled up the fresh image on my iPhone's screen. There, in front of half the tree's static blinking lights, lay my sister's pale, beautiful, naked, thickish, spermy body.

Could a brother ask for a better present?