The Two Sisters

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Two sisters entertain a guest.
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"So what did you think of him, sister?" she asks as she takes a towel from a basket and begins to dry herself. Her fine blond hair drips and hangs about her bare shoulders.

Her sister who still lies in her sleeping bag stretches. A breast is pulled out into view. Her darkish blond hair spills over the pillow. The sleeping bag is unzipped down the side, a bit of very white leg can be seen. "Oh, maybe a C-. He did try. Did you notice, sister, that he never even took his shoes off? I think that's so rude. Don't you? Is that how we were brought up?"

"I don't think Mother's little talks covered that one, Mary."

Mary laughs, then sighs, "Poor Mom, how she did suffer." After a moment she says, "I do think that next time you should bring back something a little younger."

"Beggars can't be choosers."

"I swear, he almost fell asleep on me. And sister, I don't thank you for telling him I'm the unadventurous one. I like to be on top as much as you. What do you suppose he's doing now?"

"Just discovering that's he's missed his meeting by a considerable amount of time," as she speaks she wraps the towel around that wet streaming blond hair.

"Don't you think we were kind of mean to him, sister? He isn't a bad man. He's never been unfaithful before."

"He's never been tempted before," she bends, shifts about in a pile of discarded clothing, and fishes out a pair of panties, "And you know that he has been unfaithful in spirit for some time."

"That's an exaggeration, sister."

"You know it's true, Mary, you know it's true," she speaks intensely even as she steps into the panties and slides them up her slim legs. "He said he woke up early this morning because of all the time zone changes, flying here set him back 3 hours. In fact, he was surfing for pornography until 3 and then was so wound up he woke again at 5."

"Mostly pictures of nudes, sister."

"Mostly, and he justifies it by telling himself he doesn't pay for any of it, only looks at what's free or what someone else's pirated, if he gets lucky searching. He got lucky that way last night."

"I don't think you exactly played fair with him, sister."

"And did HE play fair with us?" the girl looks down at her sister Mary almost angrily. "Like it was fair what happened to us?"

"He did pay for it, Em"

"And that matters to us how?"

There is a pause, then, "I do think walking was a commendable way of putting that extra time to use," Mary takes an apologetic mollifying tone, she pushes the sleeping bag down lazily so both her breasts look up at her sister. "Not many would, you know. People do far too little walking these days."

"That's funny coming from you," she bends again, arranges her jeans and steps into them, one leg, then the other, then pulls the jeans up, wriggling a little as they are tight on her thighs. The jeans reach little more than half way over her bottom. How attractively slim she is!

"And sister," Mary stretches her arms above her head so everything down to her navel is revealed, "He hasn't actually hurt anyone."

"He hasn't been tempted there either. Who knows what he'd do if he were."

"That's true."

"Men can be very stupid when they're scared."

"You know, sister, what bothers me most is not knowing HE was carrying on with you."

"And I didn't know he was bouncing your bones either, sister."

"Well, we both knew he was married."

"Just engaged at the beginning, sister."

"Did you ever think he was going to drop her?"

There is another pause. Mary rolls on her side and picks at the sleeping bag's lining reflectively. Her sister picks up her bra. Bending, her breasts swing nicely. They aren't as big as Mary's whose tits show to good advantage now, one above the other, almost like lovers.

"Did you fuck him again, sister?" Mary asks wistfully.

"Yes, sister."

"By the tree next to the south field?"

"Yes, though sister, as I've told you, that field is a parking lot now."

Mary frowns. "Yes, yes. It is so disagreeable."

"It's nice that the river is clean enough for swimming again," she picks up her blouse and buttons it up. "I didn't much like going in when it was filthy."

"Loaded with carcinogen's as I pointed out at the time, sister."

"Not that we have to worry about those. It was the turds that bothered me," she ties the blouse's loose ends in front, her flat midriff seems so much more bare now than when she started.

"You're going back to work?"

"Yes sister," she slips her feet into her sandals and bends once more to tighten the velcro straps.

"You don't have to, you know."

"Well, we do like to eat, sister."

"Yes, and we do like our treats. What will you do when the restaurant closes?"

"Get a job with one of the companies up there in the office park, I guess," she unwraps her hair from the towel and begins brushing it. It is so blond it seems to catch all the available light and shine like pale gold.

"Better you then me," the reclining girl yawns, "You don't feel bad about this one?"

"No," her sister says shortly.

"I guess I don't either," she rolls onto her front. Her back, shoulders, narrowing waist with the rise of her bottom just hidden by the sleeping bag look very entrancing. She crosses her arms above her head. Her skin is so white. Her eyes close lazily, "All that activity has tired me out and left me a little achy you know where."

"You did give him a ride."

"So did you, sister. Off with you, I want to get back to sleep."

"See you later Mary." Her sister, now dressed, ducks under the low rock and out into the open early summer air.

"Bye Em," the voice is slow low and sleepy, so muffled by the pillow and the plump arm that it can barely be heard.

--------------------------------------------------------------

The man walks on the narrow bit of sidewalk over the bridge. He is tall and graying. He wears a dark gray suit, his shirt is blue, its collar open. His shoes are gleaming black wingtips. He has a large black laptop bag thrown over one shoulder.

The last fifteen minutes have been the worst of the walk. The highway planners clearly never expected anyone to actually use the sidewalks they were forced by law to provide. He'd had to dart across an entrance ramp to the beltway, cross the bridge over the beltway, then dodge across another ramp, then walk along the narrow sidewalk on the bridge over the little river, cars whizzing quite close.

Rush hour is now in full swing. It's so different from when he'd started out, 2 hours earlier, then it had been quiet with almost no cars.

He looks over the railing. The river here is narrow, so narrow it can hardly be called a river, not wide and tidal as it'd been near his hotel. It's flowing here too, he can see white about the rocks where it comes out from under the bridge.

He looks further over where he's been. He can see River St winding for some way. Houses line one side of the street, behind them is the tall cement sound barrier and then the roaring beltway. The brambly river edge boarders the other side of the street. On the opposite bank of the river stands a large Victorian era house, all on its lonesome, surrounded by an asphalt parking lot. The house has evidently been turned into a restaurant and bar. Between the house and the river is a large deck with tables and beyond the deck is a grassy stretch and then the mud of the river bank.

A restaurant employee, a young blond woman, is hosing off the deck. The sun turns the spray from the nozzle into a cone of sparks.

He looks ahead along the road. He still has a bit more nasty walking. He has to cross the four lane highway at a light at what looks to be a very busy intersection. If there's a walk light, it'll probably give him time to get marooned in the middle. Then he has to walk along what will probably be dubious sidewalks past a Ford dealership to River Rd. He glances at his watch. It is still really early. 8 AM. He figures he only has another mile at most to go. His meeting doesn't start until 10. Coming to the end of the bridge he steps over the low guard rail and the works his way down the steep grassy slope to the restaurant's parking lot. Toward the end he lets himself go and hits the asphalt running, his feet barely keeping up with gravity's acceleration. He feels exhilarated, like a kid. He skirts the house and the deck and crosses the grass and stands looking at the river.

The noise of the water is barely audible over the roar of the highway. Rocks stick out here and there, one could almost make it across. He'd considered doing that fifteen minutes before. But the opposite bank is brambly and he'd been unsure of the rocks. He'd figured it safer to walk over and around and keep his feet dry. He could've taken his shoes off, he realizes now. It doesn't look very deep. Still, going around was probably wiser.

Surprisingly he feels really good. A night with little sleep and then six miles of walking should have left him at least a bit tired.

"Beautiful day," a voice behind him says.

He turns and is stunned. The woman, the young woman, has turned off the hose and come up beside him. She's blond with clear, almost translucent skin. Her eyes are greenish. The low morning sun is behind him, full on her. She is slim and clean looking.

And, she looks very much like one of the pair of women captured in a set of pictures he'd stumbled upon the night before in his hotel room. He remembers one shot of two young women on the steps of a white sided church, both wearing blue and white checked gingham dresses, white socks and flat laced leather shoes. The resemblance of one of them to this girl leaves him breathless. Her skin has just the same crystal cleanness and shown just as warmly in the sun. He longs to reach out and touch her bare arm.

The faces are so similar. He remembers one of the close-ups in the set, showing just the bright green eyes, flecked with gray, the arching eyebrows, the perfect nose, the halo of blond hair. If he leaned forward so she was close enough to kiss, she would look just the same. He feels himself becoming lost in her eyes, in the half amused tilt of her lips as she watches him.

He takes a breath and pulls his eyes away. He feels he has to say something so he says, "You don't mind if I stand here a minute?"

"Me? No."

After this momentous bit of conversation he is at a loss, helpless. He cannot in fact remember ever being this close to such a pretty girl. And some of the pictures in the set cause him to flush, the shot of her lookalike's beautiful cheeks bulging around the man's cock, her lovely face distorted and hungry, her fingers clutching the thick base. He'd been so tired when he'd looked at that shot, it'd affected him like a nightmare. And he cannot help imagining this girl down on him, how she would look, all he'd able to see would be her riot of blond hair, and how her warm mouth and tongue and lips and fingers would feel.

The girl says, "I saw you walk along the other side."

"Know where I started?" he asks, hoping to interest her and bring himself back into sanity at the same time.

"No?"

"Down in Lincoln Sq. I stayed at the Marriott there."

"That's quite a ways."

"Six miles."

"You walked all that?"

"Yeah, you see I flew in last night and jet lag's robbed me of 3 hours. For some reason I just couldn't sleep past 5. I have meetings at a company whose offices are maybe a mile up that way. I looked at a map and saw that the river pretty much goes from where I was to where I wanted to be and that there were streets running along it pretty much the whole way. I've only had to dodge away from the river twice."

"It sounds nice."

"Yup. Most of it. At the beginning the river was really wide and there were these abandoned warehouses along the road. I've often thought that it's as interesting looking at the things that people have built and made as natural things. You know? Why should a flower be nicer to look at than an old McDonald's cup?

"Don't know, it just is."

"But why? If you think about it, the cup is the result of someone's design and someone else's use. It should be more attractive than something that's just happened by chance and is mostly interested in suckering bugs."

She laughs.

"Sorry for running on so," he says, "I've been thinking about that as I walked along. Especially when I came to a particularly litter intensive stretch. Though it wasn't all I thought of, I'm giving this presentation this morning, I ran through that in my mind a good bit."

"Loser," he thinks to himself.

He feels hopelessly stupid, she is so pretty. He is intensely aware of her bare arms, the rise of her breasts, her bare midriff, he wants his hands on her waist. He has seen her, well seen someone as like as her clone almost, sit and kneel over her lover, a serious eager expectant expression on her face, take him and guide him so the tip of his cock slips against her fine downy pubic hair and start him on his way into her.

"Why don't you sit down," she waves at the deck. The chairs are upside down on the tables. "You must be tired."

"Not as much as I'd expected," he takes a chair and sets it on the deck. He hesitates, looking at her.

"Sure," she says.

She takes out a cigarette and lights it. She sits beside him and stretches her long jeaned legs. The sun shines on her sandaled feet, he sees that they glisten a bit, wet from the hose. She sees his look of surprise at the cigarette and laughs. "Tell me," she says, "Do you know any old people? Are you friends with any old people?"

"Outside of my mother?" He feels absurdly glad that she doesn't count him as old. "Like you have or want a chance," he thinks to himself. He figures he must be 20 years her senior.

"Outside of your mother."

"No."

"Neither do I, if you met yourself as an old person do you think you'd be friends?"

"Probably not."

"Chances are you couldn't stand yourself. You'd have completely different interests, a completely different outlook. You'd think, here's another old person I can't be bothered with, screw him. You'd get stuck behind yourself on the road and the stupid slow careful way you drive would drive you crazy. You'd blow your horn and whip around yourself. I figure any old lady who has lung cancer because I smoke now is a stranger to me. I shouldn't do as I like now because of a stranger?"

He tries to collect his thoughts. She misinterpreted his look when she lit the cigarette. He's never seen anyone smoke as she does. She smokes like women must've smoked long ago, with pleasure, with a knowledge that she looks good doing it, and regardless of her words, with no consciousness of ill. One of the shots showed her lookalike stretched on her side on a patch of grass, so naked, the man, large and burly in comparison to her slimness, sits beside her, his chest bare, his pants on, but unbuttoned, he is handing her a lit cigarette which they are sharing. Beyond them is a creek, it's water flashing in the sun, showing reflections of the wild roses on its further bank.

He thinks, "I must be going." She is so pretty though and he is so stirred. He thinks that there can be no harm in relaxing. Again, what chance does he have with such a creature?

"I bet you're thirsty," she says.

"I have water here," he reaches for his bag.

"How about a beer?"

"I wouldn't want you to get in trouble."

"Oh, I always have one after I finish setting up the deck. I figure it's a perk. It's not like I get paid much. I'll be back in a second."

The set he'd found and now can't get out of his head was entitled "The Two Sisters". He'd been lieing on the hotel bed. His laptop open beside him. His head hurt from lack of sleep and the lateness of the hour, he'd felt a feverish sense that he was being stupid and that he should turn out the light. The meetings he has to go to, the presentation he has to give, made him feel guilty and desperate. He will hardly be at his best!

He would've gotten to sleep early but he'd gotten a call from his wife. He heard her voice and he heard the shouting and his heart'd sunk. He couldn't even figure out what they were all fighting about, his wife, his son and his daughter. How often does he get out of his car in the garage, walk up the steps to the kitchen and hear that shouting and want to just turn around and vanish! At least at work, though people aren't more rational, they do follow minimum standards of decorum, he can pretend the fights aren't there. At home, it's gouge the eyes, hit below the belt, especially after proclaiming a truce.

Somehow the fight died down, he heard someone stomping off in a rage. His wife then complained about how much he traveled, she complained about how uninvolved he is, she complained about his son's teacher, complained about her boss. She complained about the rain. Then she said good night and hung up.

He'd reopened his laptop and started surfing through images of young beauty. It was undemanding and it swallowed his mind. There was always the chance of getting lucky and finding something special, something satisfying, something he could look at again and again, something that would let him imagine the possibility of a perfect life at least for someone.

He'd told himself, just one more search. When that didn't turn up anything, he told himself, just one more search.

At some point, in the results, the set's link caught his eye, the fourth down. It's url started with a sequence of digits, not some dreamlike name. He'd clicked it and there was an index of hundreds of thumbnails, cascading and reshuffling on the page as they came crowding up. It was the first of 5 such pages, there were little blue linked numbers at the top of the page, above the thumbnails. He'd clicked on the first thumbnail and there stood the two sisters, in the sun, on the church steps, the resolution so high he felt he could reach through the screen and touch them. They almost looked like if they turned they would see him.

He'd stared at the shot for some time, relishing how beautiful the two young women were. The sister, the other girl, is a little shorter, a little rounder, and her breasts, discreet and subdued under her cotton dress, are larger. Her hair is a darker shade of blond, if the sun wasn't on it it might've been brown. Her eyes are brown too, and don't show the same spirit.

Behind them coming down the church steps is a couple, a large square forbidding young man and a decidedly plain looking maybe older young woman, overdressed to compensate for her lack of bloom.

"Here you go," a beer is set on the table, the bottle has a harpoon on its label, "I'm Emily," she says, extending a hand. He shakes it. Hers is dry and soft. He wishes he could hang onto it.

"Sam," he says, "Sam Welton. And thanks."

"So what do you remember best from your hike?"

He thinks a minute, grateful to her for giving him something to talk about, then says, "Lots of things. There was the sun just rising behind the buildings of the city when I got to the river. It's really wide down there. You could still just look at it, the sun, in longish glances. It cast a wide path on the water.

"A little further along it was really trashy. There were warehouses, mostly abandoned I think. There was this tire in the dirt by the street. Growing up through it was some kind of a lily, it's flower had just the prettiest orange petals.

"Then after the warehouses the street went between a cemetery and the river. The cemetery was more like a garden, flowering trees and bushes. The song birds were raising a fuss in the leaves. I saw a muskrat, ducks and geese. And several dead fish. I saw a heron stalking along the bank and saw it stab a frog. There were so many lilacs along the cemetery fence that the air was filled with their scent, I'd forgotten that air could actually smell good.

"I thought about how you have to be dead before you can stay in such surroundings."