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And in those days eighteen had been a tender age.
Helen felt a distantly familiar warm, tingling feeling spread though her lower spine as her fingers toyed with her increasingly swollen clitoris. Her ears rang with the soft moans of her daughter's approaching climax merely inches from her head as her own body began to climb the steep steps to a wonderful, self induced orgasm that they had not taken since before the children were born.
But time had not dimmed her desire. As her passion rose, Helen clearly pictured her beloved husband's face above hers, his mouth twisted as it always was when he came. She heard soft noises, not unlike those emanating from Sara, in the back of he own throat and, as she surrendered herself to her first masturbation for thirty years, the picture in her mind alternated between her husband's warm, kind features to the young, handsome face of her brother Steven as he had looked when they had made love so many times in the old air raid shelter in the garden of their parents' house.
She remembered so clearly the first time they had gone there. How Steven had persuaded her to undress. She had not made it a difficult job. How they had seen each other, touched each other and then, overcome with curiosity and fuelled with desire, had clumsily taken each other's virginity. They had made love often and had fallen in love – the same forbidden love that her own children had discovered and were even now enjoying only inches from her.
The tapping on the wall had become a fast, hard knocking as Sam reached the short, rapid thrusts that would bring him to a climax to match the one his sister was so obviously enjoying at that moment, if the animal sounds coming through the wall were a guide. Helen spread her legs wider and, as the knocking drew to an end, her body shook with the heat of her own self-induced climax, so long forgotten, but so pleasurable. She fell back onto the pillow, exhausted and fell immediately asleep.
Behind the wall, the knocking slowed and stopped. The house became silent.
