Valentine's Day with Sis

Jen was flustered when she came through the front door.

This was somewhat normal for her since she recently took an office job downtown to help us make ends meet. She's a writer, but a lot of her freelance work has dried up in the pandemic.

I'm home from college for a few weeks, and I've enjoyed being around her. We're best friends, have been for most of our lives. I could tell when something was bothering her.

After years of watching my big sister sitting in the breakfast nook in the morning sun. tapping away on her laptop, humming that odd little song in her head and smiling at her own thoughts, she seemed like a different person now.

My sister is 26, in her prime in every sense, an educated, successful woman who could have any man or woman she wanted, tall and tanned, blonde hair cut in a sexy short, blunt-chop style that accents her blue-grey eyes and falls softly on her shoulders, which she likes to reveal in most everything she wears.

She's a swimmer and has that swimmer's body, long and lean with just the right amount of definition in her upper body and just a hint of swimmer's hair, not so much damaged but not anything you'd ever see walking out of a salon. Not that she'd be caught dead in one of those.

She has that Texas wind-blown look. My sister is drop-dead gorgeous.

Jen dated off and on, once or twice getting serious before cutting off the relationships for reasons she kept to herself. There was a darkness there that I never knew the source of, and I never asked.

But when she was writing, she was the most serene and confident person I'd ever known. This new Jen, this office Jen I'd met a month or so ago, was not my sister.

My name is Malcolm, named for my father. My friends all call me Mal, which was the only opening my sister needed to call me by a long list of names using the prefix "mal" to entertain herself and her friends growing up.

If I was mad at something, she'd call me Malice or Dallas Malice, since we live in Fort Worth, just down the road from D-Town. If I were moody or needed space, she'd call me Malcontent. But the list seemed endless: Malnourished, Malpractice, Malefactor, Malaprop.

Lately, she'd been calling me Malcolm, so I knew something wasn't right.

So when she came through the door irritated and silent, I acknowledged her mood and left her alone. But that seemed to irritate her too.

"Are you just going to sit there and not say anything?" she finally asked, walking past me after having shed her work clothes. I must admit that her new work attire was hot. She wore power skirts with nylons and heels, silk white tops, loose fitting and sexy, dripping with gold from her neck and wrists.

I knew she was getting attention at the firm where she took a job as a legal researcher. I know how lawyers think. Her firm is the oldest in town, and the lawyers there are old money, mostly elderly men in their 60s and a few even in their 70s. Probably no more than a handful are older than 40, and no one other than gophers and clerks are anywhere near Jen's age.

So when she came back downstairs in a tight pair of jeans, a Rolling Stones t-shirt and barefoot, I smiled.

"Welcome home," I said, half kidding and half serious. I could've said "Welcome back," and she'd know exactly what I meant.

She walked straight to the bar, poured herself a Vodka on ice, splashed some tonic in it and took a long swig.

"Yeah, I think I need home more than I realized," she said, collapsing into the chair beside me, throwing her long legs under the glass table and stretching her painted toes while I watched and smiled.

She knew I was watching, but she didn't comment, just taking another long swig of vodka, finishing it off before standing up to go pour another.

"Sure," I said. "I'd love a drink."

"Sorry," she muttered, pouring another strong vodka tonic and placing in front of me, her hair brushing against my face, one of her tits touching my shoulder. She was braless, as she normally was around the house.

We were casual most of the time. I've been home a lot more since the pandemic, and I took full advantage of it. Jen and I settled into an easy lifestyle built around our unique situation.

I'll explain.

Our parents died seven or eight years ago on a flight to Cancun that never made it. We don't know all the details, since the plane crash occurred over the Gulf, and the bodies were never found.

I was 11 at the time, and Jen was 19. Our closest relatives were Aunt Mary and Uncle Jack, who was my mother's brother. They lived in Dallas, so they ended up taking care of us for a couple of years. Jen was in school at SMU, but after a couple of years she moved home, enrolled at TCU and raised me own her own.

When she turned 21, she took full ownership of the house, invested the money Mom and Dad left us and arranged to pay off the house in five years. Which brings us to our current situation.

We still have all of our money we initially invested, most of it in oil and gas. I don't know exactly how much we have, but Jen said neither of us needed to work again for the rest of our lives.

That didn't sound like much of a plan to me or her, so she supported us on her freelance money until the pandemic. We were one year short on funds, so Jen took the job at Myers, Myers and Dunkirk, LLC.

She can walk away anytime she wants, pull money from one of our 401-Ks or IRAs and we'd be just fine. But that's not how she wanted to do it, for reasons of her own.

Maybe it was none of my business, but I decided she was going to quit that job, one way or another.

My story is simple. After the tragedy, I was a lost soul until Jen would come home from college. I lived for her visits and summertime until she moved back for good. I played baseball and football, finished high school and went to TCU on a baseball scholarship.

I admit I'm not much of a student. None of us athletes are. We travel five months out of the year, take classes on computers, have our own tutors, some of whom do all the work for us, and in my case, I throw a baseball.

I'm a right-handed pitcher with a decent fastball, a curve I can sometimes control and a change-up I learned just this past year. Coach Earl let me start a handful of games, especially near the end of the season after we were eliminated from any post-season hopes.

My record was 4-3 with 4.39 ERA in 62 2/3 innings. I struck out 60 and walked 24. Not great but not bad for an 18-year-old freshman. I'm pretty sure I'll be a lot more involved from now on.

I've grown since last year, a result of regular workouts and a diet provided by the Horned Frogs athletics department. I'm up to 6-2, 215, and let's just say I've grown in every way imaginable. Jen mentioned it the first time I came home in May, and she's seen plenty more since then.

We both walk around at night and the in mornings in what we sleep in. I sleep in a pair of TCU basketball shorts. She sleeps in a long t-shirt with some old rock n' roll band on the front, anything from the Beach Boys or Pink Floyd to the Stones shirt she was wearing, the one with the big mouth open and a huge red tongue hanging out.

Underneath? Well, she never wears a bra around the house. And her panties leave nothing to hide, if she's even wearing any. More than once, I've come downstairs to find her bent over in the floor looking for something in the bottom cabinets or reaching up on her tip toes for something in the top cabinet.

She would sometimes catch me looking, usually with a grin on my face.

"What?" she would feign surprise. "Have you never seen a woman's bare butt before?"

I would turn red and mumble something about her ass in particular, which would make her smile and draw her to me. She loved kissing me on the head from behind, her tits pressed against my back.

She has a perfect ass and a shaved pussy. And from the times she's shown me through the years, whether educating me or just letting me watch her in the shower, I'm more than familiar with her perfectly shaped tits, about 34C, with pink puffy nipples.

Jen has a body to die for.

I would think about it after I went back to school, driving across town in the mornings with a raging hardon. My routine was boring. Classes in the morning, gym workouts after lunch, throwing batting practice in the afternoon then back home for dinner.

But then the Omicron variant ended everything.

Anyway, since I've come home over a winter break that's extended because Covid has rearranged everything, we've become closer. And since she's become depressed or blue or whatever she is, I've become concerned.

So I made the decision to address the situation. Maybe not directly but casually. I wanted to surprise her with something. And then it hit me.

Valentine's Day.

It was coming up, and it didn't look like I was going to be playing baseball before the end of February at least, so I'd settled into a routine with a lot of time on my hands. I needed something to do, something to look forward to. And so did Jen.

I decided that on February 14, I would throw a party for the two of us, maybe get her drunk, get her to lighten up, maybe even convince her to quit that stupid job and live the life she wants to live.

The best-laid plans of, well, Horned Frogs and teenagers.

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Jen taught me everything growing up. And I mean everything.

She taught me how to dress, how to carry myself in public, how to look a person in the eye when speaking and, especially, listening. She taught me how to have conversations with beautiful girls, which is something most guys are either afraid of or overcompensate.

"The prettiest girls don't get many dates," she said. "Use that to your advantage."

But the most important thing she taught me was how to appreciate a woman's body. And just this past summer, she showed me.

It was a hot night, and she'd been to a party of some sort. I'd come home from somewhere, probably a night out drinking with my baseball buddies, and was sitting in the kitchen all hot and sweaty drinking a beer.

She came in the back door, wobbling a little on her heels, dressed in a little black dress with nothing underneath.

"Oh," she said. "I thought you were out for the night."

"I came home early," I said. "Jen, you look incredible. Why aren't you in the back seat of some guy's car right now?"

She laughed and walked behind me, kissing me on the head, brushing her tits up and down my back as her hands slid all over my chest and stomach.

"Men are idiots," she whispered in my ear.

"What happened?"

"Well," she said, "let's just say if a woman in a little black dressed can't get laid in this city, there's something wrong."

I leaned back against her and let her hands wander, feeling her breath in my ear. I moaned quietly and she slid her hand down to my bulge then whispering in a hot hiss.

"Fuck me, Mal."

Her tongue slid into my ear as she massaged my cock in my pants. The harder I got, the more she whispered dirty thoughts.

"I want your cock inside me."

"You're finally going to fuck your sister."

"I'm not wearing any panties."

Just when I was about to cum in my pants, she slipped away, staggering barefoot up the stairs. I heard her throw her heels on her bedroom floor. By the time I made it to her room, she was passed out.

I stood there and stared, her legs apart, her little black dress completely pulled up to her waist. Her soaked pussy glistening. I smiled and leaned down to kiss her.

"G'night Jen," I whispered.

She stirred as I pulled a blanket over her and turned off her light.

The next morning, she was up before I was, wearing a Beatles t-shirt with nothing under it, sitting at the glass table, stirring her coffee, her hair tousled, her eyes closed.

"Morning Sis!" I said, walking into the kitchen.

"Ummmmm, Mal," she groaned. "Did something happen last night?"

I leaned down and kissed her on the head.

"No Jen. You got drunk, you got stood up and you passed out on your bed."

She exhaled heavily.

"I had a dream you were in my bed," she said wearily.

"That wasn't a dream," I said, massaging her shoulders. "But nothing happened. Scout's honor."

She chuckled.

"You weren't a Scout."

"No," I said, "but I am honorable."

"To a fault," she said. "Did I want you to fuck me?"

I poured a cup of coffee and sat down across from her. She was limp. Her legs were wide open under the glass table.

"Jen, I've wanted to fuck you my entire life, and I would've fucked you last night," I said, reaching out and taking her hand. "But I'm glad I didn't. I would want you to remember it."

She finally lifted her head and looked at me, closing her legs and smiling as she cocked her head to one side.

"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

I patted her hand and smiled back.

"Do you have any idea how sexy you look right now?"

She shook her head, and waved me off.

"Stop it," she said. "You don't mean that."

"Oh, I do," I said, stroking her hand, running a finger up the inside of her arm.

And then she was up, taking my half-empty coffee mug and hers to the sink, bouncing on her tip toes as she walked behind me, leaned down and nibbled on my ear.

"C'mon," she whispered. "I need a shower. Care to join your sexy, hung-over sister?"

I didn't answer. I just followed as she took her t-shirt off going up the stairs.

I was out of my clothes by the time I walked into the bathroom, where Jen was sitting on the toilet, peeing.

"Turn the water on," she said, staring at my half-hard cock. "My God, when did you get that?"

I looked down at my cock, turning around with the shower running behind me, reaching down to lift her up, pee running down one of her legs. I kissed her on the mouth.

"I've grown," I said, whispering in her ear and guiding her inside the shower.

She leaned both hands against the wall and let the hot water pour over her as I took a bar of soap and began to wash her body, lathering her from head to toe then taking the hand-held shower nozzle and rinsing her slowly, letting the water jets tickle and tease her.

"Mmmmmmmm," she moaned, her eyes closed, her hands on my shoulders, her legs spread apart as I sprayed water inches from her pussy, watching her shudder, feeling goosebumps on her skin as she leaned her head back and squirmed,

"Make me cum," she said.

I smiled and pushed the nozzle against her clit and rubbed it, grinding the shower head between her legs as she begged for more.

"God yes," she hissed. "Don't stop."

Her body tensed and she moved her hands behind her head, trembling as she had a long, intense orgasm standing inches from me. Then she took the shower head from me and pressed it hard in her crotch, cumming again and again before collapsing into my arms, kissing me, our tongues in each other's mouth.

She put the shower head on the hook behind her, then turned back toward me, going to her knees as the hot water poured over us, taking my cock into her mouth and giving me the greatest blow job I've ever experienced.

I came in my sister's mouth as she purred and tickled my balls, drinking every drop spewing from my cock then sliding back up, her tongue tracing a line up my body to my lips, kissing me, letting me suck my cum from her mouth.

It was the most incredible morning of my life.

After we dried, stood staring at each other, smiling lecherous smiles, slightly red from the hot water but flushed also from what we just did to one another. She leaned against me, our naked bodies embracing.

"Mal," she whispered.

"Yes, Jen?"

"When you fuck me, I'll never forget it."

"Nor will I," I said.

Then she slapped my ass and feigned surprise, covering her tits and pussy like a shy girl.

"Get out of my room, you perv!"

I laughed hard, as she turned and bent over, her naked ass shining pink.

"Do you think I have a good ass?" she asked as I stood in the doorway.

"You have the best ass," I said.

Then she threw the towel at me.

"Go make me some breakfast, Boy Scout."

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That morning was the first and only time we'd had real sex, or whatever that was. We've kissed and fondled each other since, teasing and pretending, her constantly saying things like, "When you fuck me..." and "God, I can't wait to feel that big cock sliding in me..."

But we never did it. It was more of a game than anything else, a way for her to de-stress after another miserable day at a job she hated.

All of that bounced around in my head as I planned our Valentines party, dropping little hints along the way, telling her to not make any plans, to not go to work that day or the next.

She would smile and tease.

"Are you going to fuck me? Is that my Valentines gift?"

I would smile and tease her back.

"You wish," I said.

At nights, we'd sit on the couch side by side, her in a t-shirt and nothing more, me in basketball shorts, which she slid her hands across, making me hard while she teased me more.

"You're going to fuck me aren't you?" she asked over and over. Then gleefully shuddering, "My little brother's going to fuck me for Valentine's Day."

It became a song, a recurring, playful little song as the days wound down. One night I sucked her tits on the couch while she whispered to me in her sing-song voice.

"My little brother's going to fuck me for Valentine's Day."

Over and over.

One night she jacked me off, licking my cum from her hands, then kissing me on the mouth, letting a strand of my cum string from her lips to mine.

We played and teased more and more as I let it build, making her horny and impatient. Some nights I wouldn't touch her at all, which left her frustrated but still playful.

"You're going to fuck me," she said, somewhat irritated as she walked upstairs and went to bed. Finally, it happened just as I had hoped. And then some.

The night before Valentines, she drank too much wine and passed out early on the couch.

I went to work, busily going up and down the stairs, carrying items from the living room to her bedroom.

Then I woke her up at midnight.

"Wake up, Jen," I whispered.

She stirred and mumbled something.

"C'mon Sis, time to get up. It's your day."

Her eyes opened wide and she smiled a wicked smile, slowly rising, shuddering as I slid my hands behind her and took her t-shirt off, taking her hand and pulling her up from the couch.

"Follow me," I said.

She was like a kitten, a little girl again, giggling as we went up the steps. I stopped at the top and pushed her gently down the hall, then stopping her in her bedroom doorway.

She gasped.

Her room was bathed in pink light, sheer lace draped over the lamps on her nightstands, strung from all four bedposts hanging to the floor. Roses were scattered around the room, on her dresser, her cushioned chair, in the windows and in front of her full-length mirror.

In her bed were rose petals, hundreds if not thousands I'd picked all evening, spreading them all over her pillows and her sheets. She shrieked as I pushed her to the bed and helped her into it.

"Lie back," I said as she looked at me without saying anything.

I opened the drawer of her nightstand and pulled out a bottle of lotion and a blindfold. She smiled and shook.

"Is this it?"

"Shhhhhhh, I said as I slipped the blindfold over her eyes then squirted lotion across her belly, her tits, her legs. Slowly, I began to massage her as she cooed and moaned. I lathered her from her neck down, sliding my hand across her mound without penetrating, then whispering to her.

"Roll over."

She did as I said, the roses sticking to her as she held her arms to her side and spread her legs. I poured lotion from between her shoulders to the small of her back, down her legs and finally across her bare ass, pouring extra into her ass crack as she shook and raised her bottom.