Josh helps his sister Gwen forget about a surgical scar that has kept her from a fulfilling love life.
It was a late fall Friday night and, once again, my older sister and I sat in my living room, contentedly full from the dinner I’d cooked, and stared into the cozy fire crackling away in my fireplace. “Excellent, coq au vin, as always, Josh,” she smiled.
“It’s a trick dinner, really, Gwen; pretty easy to do and just as easy to impress. Remember how Dad always said ‘you need at least two date dinners, and they can’t be pasta’? That was one of my date dinners. Worked like a charm.”
“Speaking of dates…have you got anything going on this weekend? Anything tomorrow?”
I looked into my wine, as if it might offer an answer. “No, nothing on; just happy to spend time with you.” Our Friday evening dinners often ended up, after a bit too much wine, with Gwen staying in my guest room. She was always welcome and was so frequent a guest that she had a permanent supply of her favorite toiletries in the bathroom.
“Nothing going on? Nothing I should know about? Haven’t found The One?” Her raised eyebrow was comically quizzical and I laughed in response, our expressions, gestures, double entendres so well-honed after 30 years that our conversations didn’t always need a lot of words. With only ten months between us Gwen had always been my funny, best friend. Sure, in our teens there were friends, girlfriends, buddies, but Gwen was always my anchor, always my rock. The older of us two, she had my back at school and often acted as my interpreter respecting the opposite sex, my navigator and guide as I began that journey of boy meets girl. And she was funny. She could take a joke and tell a joke better than most.
Neither of us had married; Gwen, at 31 and me at 30. I had had many girlfriends and more than a few hookups but had never met the woman I really wanted to settle down with. Gwen, on the other hand, had had far fewer boyfriends and, to my knowledge (and we knew virtually everything about each other) virtually no serious relationships. In fact, she’d never really had a serious boyfriend and even her casual relationships were few and far between.
That was a constant mystery to me. My sister was, well, if not beautiful, certainly very pretty and, as our Mom would have said, ‘lovely’. Her hair, still tied up in her workaday neat bun, was dark brown and, when released from its constraints reached her shoulders, dark brown eyes to match, full lips and intelligent brow, befitting her work as a high school PE, history and geography teacher. At 5’ 7”, four inches shorter than me, 130 lbs she had excelled on our high school volleyball team and was second string on our basketball team as well. I was envious that in the ten years since college she seemed to effortlessly maintain her weight and fine muscle tone. What sports she had maintained since college seemed to be solitary; running, swimming, weight training. I, on the other hand, had to watch my diet, watch my weight, and keep active. So far so good; I had kept up with her excellent physical shape.
But as our conversation languished, as we remained content in each other’s company, happy to sip our wine and watch the fire die down, my mind would not leave it alone. As she stared into the fire I took a longer look at her, relaxed on my couch, legs tucked under her skirt. I said she was pretty; honestly, had I not been her brother, I probably would have easily cast her as beautiful. And I blushed, glad that the room lights were dimmed, as I remembered all the times I’d looked at Gwen and thought “if she wasn’t my sister…”.
I wanted to understand - to know - why she seemed to avoid relationships. I was sure she wasn’t gay; she’d occasionally shown a spark of interest in guys, had approvingly assessed various celebrities and actors to me, and had never shown, as far as I could see, any sexual interest in women and god knows as a phys ed teacher she probably had enough opportunity in that department.
I wanted to talk to her about it, but I knew a direct approach would never work. I’d have to sneak up on her, so I asked “what do you think Mom and Dad are up to right now?”
Gwen looked at her watch, calculated the time zone differences, and said “well, it’s not even dinner yet in San Diego, so they’re probably having happy hour drinks with their friends.” Our parents, tired of New York winters, had retired to southern California and had never really looked back. As each of our parents was an only child, Gwen and I were the only family either had for 3,000 miles. That was fine for both of us, as we’d been each other’s best friends for our whole lives; even though only ten months separated us, she’d been my protective big sister all through school, had brokered peace with my parents when I’d got in trouble and had always been there for me. And for the last ten years I had worked hard to return the favour.
I directed the chat in our parents’ general direction, musing when we’d see them next, whether we’d go to them or they’d come to us. “Almost certainly, Josh, we’re heading west; can’t see Mom and Dad coming back here, even for a visit. Maybe, just maybe, for Christmas; they always loved Rockefeller Center and the ice rink. Dad would probably risk his life, again, by trying to skate,” setting us off both into gales of laughter at the multiple memories we had of our Dad trying to ice-skate.
“I should call them and see if they have any plans, then. If they’re not coming here I guess we better book a flight to sunny California, no?” It wouldn’t be the first time and each of us knew, without asking, that neither of us had any other plans for Christmas than spending it with what family we had. We chatted in a slow way then about our last calls to our parents, the news and gossip they had and what occupied their time.
All the while in the background of my mind I was watching Gwen…seeing her…and trying to turn off my brother eyes and turn on my potential boyfriend eyes, trying to see her as some other guy might, some guy who wasn’t her brother. That’s not an easy trick, but I made some progress. I saw a lovely, slim woman, glowing with good health, graceful in her gestures, in her body movements; slim, but with entrancing curves in all the right places, her slender silhouette serving to emphasize her amazing breasts, perfectly outlined by her sweater. I saw a woman who laughed easily, joked and cajoled with me, who held her own - no, bettered me - in deep conversations. Again and again my mind rebounded to the question: “what gives, where are the guys? Why aren’t they breaking down her door?”
She was comfortable in her after-school professional demeanor; makeup very lightly and tastefully applied, highlighting her dark brown eyes and hinting at a bit of blush on her cheeks. Her skirt tastefully ended slightly above her knees, complemented by her high-collared sweater. I threw another log on the fire, a silent signal that I hoped our evening would last a little longer. “I’m assuming you’re staying the night?”
“Sure, if that’s ok. I’ve had a few glasses of wine, so driving is probably not a good idea.”
“Excellent point.” Once I knew she had no intentions of heading home I knew that might help me understand; if nothing else she would have to stay while I talked to her. “Speaking of dates…”
“Who’s speaking of dates?”
“You were a while ago; you were asking if I had anything on tomorrow, remember?”
“Oh…sure.”
“Can I ask, Gwen, why don’t you have a date tomorrow? Or even: do you have a date set in the future? Anything out there?”
It was obviously a touchy question and I knew that had it been anyone but her brother asking her Gwen would have probably called a cab and ended our evening. “Why do you want to know?”
“I…I just don’t get it, Gwen. You’re a really lovely…damn it, you’re beautiful. I simply don’t understand why guys aren’t trailing you like, well, dogs in heat.” I was immediately sorry for my vulgar simile and it didn’t help that her face almost immediately clouded over. I could almost hear her mind slamming a door shut on me. “Gwen, if I wasn’t your brother…”
That got her attention; “if you weren’t my brother…what?”
Now it was my turn to color up, to turn my eyes to the fire. I took a long time to reply. “If I wasn’t your brother I’d probably harass you until you agreed to go out with me. And I’d move heaven and earth to charm you into a second date. And if I got a third date I’d count myself the luckiest guy in the world, like I’d won a lottery. You’ve got everything going; you’re beautiful, funny, intelligent, kind and caring…for the life of me I can’t understand it.”
She watched me intently as I blurted all of this out, her facing now going from a clouded, darkened expression to, briefly, a confused look, and then finally concern. The last didn’t surprise me at all; Gwen had an incredible instinct, an immediate sense if someone was hurting. I think she saw that in me that evening even before I knew it was there.
Another long pause as I held my breath. She would either talk to me or I’d regret my question forever. Finally, looking into the fire, she said “Josh, do you remember my surgery?”
How could I forget it; twenty years before, a school nurse heard a murmur in Gwen’s heart. Our family doctor and then pediatric specialists soon diagnosed a faulty aortic valve. Our parents were told that it wouldn’t have immediate effects, but that in all probability it would shorten her life, possibly by decades. The solution was open heart surgery to replace and fix the valve.
It was early days for pediatric cardiology and nothing was a sure thing. There were risks, very serious risks, but our parents concluded that they really had no choice. Gwen had asked did I remember? How could I forget? How could I forget her frequent visits to specialists, her trip to the hospital, the quiet tension in our house during her surgery and days in intensive care after, and my parents tears when they were told that the surgery was entirely successful and recovery assured. I recalled the special treatment that my sister got when she came back home, the extra ice cream, the release from of all chores and jobs, my juvenile resentment at the special treatment she was getting. But that vanished very quickly when I saw her lying in her bed, sleeping hours longer than she normally did, her pallor very slowly disappearing as she recovered, color returning to her face.
Snapping out of my reverie, returning to the present, I said “yes, of course I remember, Gwen; who could forget? You made a full recovery, thank god, no residual effects.”
“Well, that’s where you’re wrong. There was one residual effect.” I was mystified by that; Gwen had resumed her normal life a few months after the surgery, fully recovered, I thought. She’d returned to her old self, resumed her role in the family, became very good at sports as she grew older. I could think of no residual effects and my questioning look told her so. “My scar, Josh, my scar. Remember it?”
I thought for a second, casting my mind back twenty years, remembering my sister in her bed, her surgical scar trailing below the hem of her pajama jacket. The only response I could muster now was “well, yes, but what…?”
She blushed now and said quietly “it’s an ugly scar, Josh, there’s no other word for it. The surgeons were heart surgeons, not plastic surgeons, and I was a little girl; their number one job was to fix my heart and save my life, not to dress me up and make their work look pretty.”
“But…but…”
“And the older I got, the more I became aware of boys and the more boys became aware of me, the uglier it seemed. I was incredibly embarrassed if anyone saw even a bit of it. I learned nifty tricks to change in our team locker rooms with lightning speed. I often wore a second shirt under my team shirt, one that I didn’t have to take off so that no one ever saw my scar.”
I was shocked and saddened; shocked that Gwen had been so affected by something that never occurred to me, and saddened by the thought of how much living, really, she had missed, how much fun had never been possible, or had been avoided by her. My mind immediately offered counter-arguments. “How do you know this, Gwen? I mean, have you, well, you know, had experiences like that? That some guy dumped you because of that?”
“Early on, before I caught on and adapted, yes; a couple of times my dress or blouse was just a bit too low-cut. What other girls could use to attract boys I had to cover up.”
“There must be some guy out there who wouldn’t care, who’d love you as you are? Surely?”
“And how much effort, how many guys do you expect me to try before I find that guy? Maybe I should put a profile up on a dating site? ’31 years old, brown hair, brown eyes…significant scarring’?”
I could see the pain in her eyes and I was sorry that my probing had caused it. We had always been close and in that moment I thought I could feel just a scintilla of her pain and that was more than enough for me. I was awed by how much she must be hurting. “So that’s it? You’re going to be, what, celibate the rest of your life? Gwen, you’d be a kind of a secular nun. You’re far too beautiful, far too,” and here I could feel myself coloring, “too sexy, Gwen. You’ve got the whole package, sis, and it would be a terrible fate if you missed out on all that love, hell, just sex, could give you.”
“I’ll have to take your word on that, Josh. I don’t have any real experience to go by.” And she looked away, to the fire, unable to meet my eyes. Again I could feel my heart sinking. I was old enough to know that life isn’t always fair, but this seemed a monumental injustice; that because a 10 year old child needed life-saving surgery it meant that as a beautiful, sexy woman she’d be sentenced to a life of celibacy, forced by events, but not by nature, to be asexual. I simply couldn’t process that and it seemed to me that somehow that injustice had to be rectified. But I had no idea how.
Usually after dinner one glass of wine was enough to accompany our conversations, but not tonight. I refilled our glasses and returned to my easy chair. I began to think past the unfairness, the screaming inequity of my sister’s words. “Can I see it?” I asked.
Her head snapped up, her eyes shifting instantly from the fire. “What…my scar?”
“Well, yes; can you show it to me?”
“Well, obviously not the whole thing” and for once she almost laughed at the idea.
“Ok, a bit, then?” There was a long pause as her gaze returned to the fire, as she sipped her wine, clearly processing my request. Finally she put her glass down and reached up with both hands and pulled the neck of her sweater down a couple of inches. And there it was: the very beginning of her scar, a ridge perhaps three eights of an inch wide, beginning just below her collar bone. She held the sweater down, presumably thinking that the sight would add more than her words and convince me that she was right to choose a life without men, without sex, without love.
“Where is the other end?” I asked. There was an even longer pause as she released the collar of her sweater and took another sip of her wine. More time, more processing. Finally, decided, she sat up straighter on the couch and lifted the hem of her blouse and I could see the scar traversing her navel, seeming to continue below the waistband of her skirt. Gwen seemed to push herself back into the corner of the couch, seemed to draw her legs up closer beneath her, to me seemed like a frightened young animal, drawing back from a perceived threat.
“Let me see it,” I said.
“I showed you, you’ve seen it,” she replied, avoiding my eyes.
“All of it.”
“What? Are you crazy? All of my…”
“Gwen, I love you. You can trust me; whatever I see, whatever you have won’t change that a bit. You must know that. Maybe I’m the only man you’ll ever let see all of it, but you know absolutely that that man, this man loves you unconditionally.” With that I could see, almost hear, the battle going on inside her head, the conflicting thoughts, the years of careful avoidance of men’s sight, fighting with the wish to be seen, to be appreciated. To be loved.
My side won. It took a few minutes, but finally she placed her wine on the table again, stared a long moment into the fire, and reached down, took the bottom of her sweater, and in one slow, sensuous, almost, movement pulled it over her head. And there it was: a scar running from her collar bone down across her sternum, disappearing beneath her bra, and down, down, down. Down across her midriff, her stomach, and navel, eventually disappearing beneath her skirt. I had seen scars now and again; recent, livid ones, small ones, neat ones, but never a scar this long. I wondered idly and irrelevantly if anywhere else on the body could accommodate such a long scar, as she seemed to want to demurely cross her arms across her chest, then dropping them slightly to her lap.
All lividity, which must have been its natural state twenty years ago, was long gone leaving a pale track down my sister’s body. And just as Gwen had said, this was not the work of a plastic surgeon; this was the work of surgeons intent on getting to her heart as quickly as possible, fixing her valve, and retreating. She was right; their stitching reminded me of the stitches on a baseball.
We sat long, long moments now as she seemed to relax and adapt to her new state, virtually the first time she had uncovered herself to a man. Perhaps to mimic a relaxed, devil-may-care attitude or perhaps to actually help her relax, she took a deep drink of her wine. Noting her glass almost emptied, I again rose from my chair and filled her glass. On other occasions we were both conservative, cautious drinkers, even if neither was driving, but tonight I heard no murmur of dissent, no rebuffing of my offer. As I stood near her, consciously avoiding staring at her now near-naked body, I felt an aura of arousal somehow, something I could not recall feeling with any other woman. Mine or hers, I wondered, then, in my thoughts, “this is impossible. Gwen is my sister. I’m her brother,” and returned to my seat, my glass also refilled. As I sat Gwen seemed to relax even more, one arm returning to her side, the other lifting her glass to her lips.
Her lips. It was like I had been looking at a black and white photo of my sister for thirty years and now saw her in brilliant color; her lips seemed the sexiest thing I had seen or felt in memory as they met her glass rim, were wetted by her wine, were moistened by the tiny pink tip of her tongue. I had had my fair share of the wine, yes, but I was far from drunk. Alarms were beginning to sound louder and louder in my head; this wasn’t some beautiful woman I was seeing in a singles bar. This was my sister. This was the one woman, other than our mother, that I knew I truly loved. Now it was I who looked away; I had to, fearing that Gwen would, with a glance at my eyes, read my mind.
To break my train of thought, to act and distract myself, and perhaps to give a clear sign that this conversation was not over, I rose and placed another log on the fire, sat down and sipped my wine while we both watched it flame up and join the blaze. I sat and thought some more, thought about my first request to see Gwen’s scar, how hesitant she’d been, how much it must have taken for her to then remove her sweater for me, despite how comfortable she now seemed in her corner of the couch.
Finally, “All of it,” I repeated.
Her surprise was instant as her head snapped around, her eyes moving from the fire to me. “I’ve done that, I’ve shown you all…”
“No,” I interrupted, “you haven’t. A small part is still covered,” and I let my eyes drop very slightly, now unmistakably focused on the bra covering her breasts. As any woman would, she understood my focus immediately and blushed, hers quickly catching up with my own blush.
“No, no way. Nooo bloody way,” she said.
“How do you feel, Gwen? Right now, I mean, in this moment? Embarrassed? Flustered? Or better yet; right now, at this instant…do you feel different than you did ten minutes ago? When you first showed me the very top, the tip of your scar? Seriously, Gwen, how did you feel then and now?”
“I, uh, I…honestly, Josh, that’s a good question. I was embarrassed, even a bit shamed at first, but now, I don’t know what I’m feeling. Different, yes. You were absolutely right; I trust you. Right now I think you’re the only man in the world that I know I can trust right now, right here, sitting,” and here she gave a short laugh, “in my bra. Thank god it’s my brother who’s looking and not some guy I just hooked up with.”
“That’s good, Gwen; I am your brother and right now I think you should see me as, say, a doctor who’s simply here for you. Does that make sense?” And I was hoping against hope that my mind, my body would believe that as well as Gwen, because that aura, that sexual mist, seemed to be expanding, creeping toward me in my easy chair. “Back to the topic, Gwen: all of it, please.” And with that Gwen relented, reached behind her and deftly unsnapped the clasp on her bra, sliding it off her and laying it gently on the couch beside her.
There was a clasp…and there was a gasp. From me. I’ve read porn, of course I have. I’ve read de***********ions of women’s breasts: “melons…34D…36D…” but nothing, either literature or my own experience with the women I’d known, prepared me for what I saw sitting calmly, if shyly, a few feet across the room, lit softly in the light of the fire. I saw two breasts, proud, firm, almost challenging in their pride. All the words I’d ever heard about a woman’s breasts vanished into nothing, leaving only one word in my mind: magnificent. I had somehow managed to look at…to see…my sister as my sister, the child, the girl, the adolescent, the teenager, and now the young woman that I’d grown up with. But now I was looking at the most beautiful and, again, magnificent breasts that I’d ever seen; seen in pictures, seen in reality, or seen in my imagination.
I had assured Gwen that I was seeing her almost clinically, aloof, from a dispassionate distance, but I was totally speechless for those long moments when we both tried to absorb what was happening. Finally I was able to tear my gaze from my sister’s breasts and lift my eyes to hers. What I saw was her eyes fixed on my expression, her face clouded with questions, her shyness fighting her realization of the effect her body had on me. “My god,” I said, and repeated “my god; you…they…you’re…fantastic, Gwen, I’ve never seen anything…” and trailed off as again words failed me. As her blush rose again I could now see it beginning high on her chest, rising through her neck and finally coloring her face, the most beautiful rising tide I think I’d ever seen. “I don’t know why you even wear a bra, sis; you obviously don’t need one,” I blurted out and relaxed when her laughter relieved our building sexual tension.
But her laughter was brief and the relief short as she turned her head from me, from the fire, and tilted her head to the ceiling, her hands now beginning to nervously rub the arm of the couch and the cushion beside her. I thought I could see tears beginning, glistening in the firelight. Without thinking I rose from my chair and sat again, this time on the couch, sliding over quickly next to her. She didn’t look at me, only lowering her head to look again to the fire, our chosen neutral corner, it seemed. Reflexively I took her in a quick hug, still the clinician, still the brother. “It’s all right, Gwen, really. You’re beautiful…really.” And then, reaching for some lightness, I said “in fact, if I wasn’t your brother…”.
Suddenly her head snapped around, her eyes aflame. “If you weren’t my brother…what, Josh? WHAT?”
I knew beyond doubt that all joking, all attempts at light banter were gone. I knew that my sister needed more than anything the truth and I knew she would know a lie if she saw it. “Well, for one thing it doesn’t matter one bit that I am your brother, Gwen; you’re beautiful. And incredibly sexy. And hot. And I’m ashamed of my gender, of all the guys that apparently haven’t given you a second look, even if you didn’t want the second look. There must be some guy out there somewhere who wouldn’t even notice your scar, who’d want to be with you, who’d want to make you happy. To please you in, well, every possible way. And if I wasn’t your brother, Gwen, I’d be that guy.” And with that I leaned over and kissed her hair while at the same time finding and removing the pins that held her hair up, freeing it to tumble to her shoulders.
We sat like that for a few long minutes, my cheek on her hair, her face buried against my neck, her eyes tearing and wetting my neck. Finally I said “All of it.”
“What? I’ve shown you all of it, Josh.”
“Not quite,” I said, drawing back so that I could look pointedly at her navel. Then I reached out and delicately placed my fingertip on the exact spot where her scar disappeared beneath her skirt’s waistband.
“What? I - oh, no - I’m not going further. You’ve seen enough, bro, more than you should be seeing, in fact. Oh, no.” But I hadn’t removed my finger tip and she hadn’t pushed or pulled it away. I kissed her lightly again on the crown of her head, slipped from the couch to kneel before her, reached out and gently pulled one ankle, indicating what I wanted her to do. With a quizzical look she understood and slipped her legs from under her and placed her feet on the carpet between us.
“All of it,” I smiled, reached up, found the zipper on the side of her skirt, and quietly, decisively, lowered it as Gwen’s hand first moved to stop me and then withdrew, giving her unspoken permission. “Up,” I commanded, feeling my clinical distance rapidly vanishing, feeling it being replaced by stirrings that I knew a brother should not have for a sister. I sensed her breathing quickening and knew she had the exact same feeling, the exact same thought. As she lifted herself very slightly it took only a light tug on my part to slip her skirt from her hips, down her legs and onto the floor. I lifted her feet gently and pulled the skirt away.
I’ve known my share of women, of lovers, of sex partners. And I’ve known my sister all my life. But this was terra incognita; I had never mixed the two. I had never once seen or looked at my sister in any sexual way. Suddenly my mind registered that the separation of the two may have vanished, as I knelt before her reaching up and gently caressing her thighs, pressed together, her hands now gripping the couch tightly. And it occurred to me, somewhere in the sturm und drang of my brain, that kneeling was a perfect posture for me, as I felt almost worshipful to the beautiful woman sitting before me.
“How are you feeling now, Gwen?”
“I…I don’t know,” fingers still digging into the couch’s fabric. Then, suddenly, she looked at me, her eyes lit with surprise, and said “liberated. Free, Josh. I feel like I’ve been freed somehow, I feel like a bird that’s been let out of its cage” as her fingers relaxed and released the couch’s fabric and as her thighs calmed, softened, and parted slightly.
“All of it,” came my repeated incantation once more as my finger reached up to the place her scar disappeared into her panties. Fed perhaps by her new sense of liberation, her freedom, she lifted herself once more to allow my fingers to draw her panties down, down her thighs, down her calves as my hands removed them, treating them as the sacred object that, truly, I felt they were. But a profane part of me still noticed the dampness I found there.
And now my sister sat before me, fully unclothed at my request, entirely naked before a man’s gaze the first time in probably ten years. My clinician’s resolve had dissolved but part of my anatomy was doing the exact opposite of dissolving. I was getting hard. Quickly. I raised myself, still in my kneeling position, and reached out with my index finger and placed it at the very top of her scar, Gwen’s concerned stare watching my every move. I slowly began to trace the scar, gently dragging the fingertip down.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m tracing the Nile,” I said, smiling, as my finger continued to descend. “You’re a geography teacher, you must have noticed its resemblance.” Warming to my analogy I continued “maybe your body is like Africa, the Unknown Continent,” and then, much quieter, “and maybe it needs exploring, Gwen. It’s been unexplored for far too long.” My finger had now reached the beginning of that holy place, the darkness of the cleft between those magnificent breasts and as I continued my exploration I suddenly felt the perfect warmth of her breasts embracing my presumptuous finger, felt her sudden gasp, the slight shudder of her body as my finger continued its descent, reveling in the heavenly abrasion her breasts offered. As it emerged from her cleavage I smiled again and looked up at her and said “I’m like those great explorers, Gwen; I’m going to find the source of the Nile.”
As my finger continued its journey, feeling every bump, every tiny corrugation along its way. Gwen’s posture had changed. Her body was beginning to stiffen, to twist slightly as my finger descended her body. Finally I reached the scar upon her navel and, as she looked down to me, I bent to her and kissed the scar. My finger ended its trek just above the fur that covered her mons. We stopped then; I in my digital traverse, she in her shaking. My hands caressed her outer thighs, sliding gently up and down, calming her further, feeling those thighs relaxing under my touch.
I straightened again, making myself as tall as possible in my kneeling position, reached up, and pulled Gwen toward me. Her quizzical expression returned as I leaned in toward her and kissed the very top of her scar, my finger’s starting point. My hands held her upper arms as I continued kissing her scar, slowly descending, across her sternum, down to the cleft of her breasts and as her muted moans began my hands left her arms and reached in, cupping those beautiful breasts, her body now jolting with its first real spasm. My hands gently separated her breasts to give my lips access and purchase as they continued their unbroken trail of kisses along the scar. Her back began to bow as my hands reached around and held her from behind, pressing her to me as my kisses continued down her midriff to her navel and ended where my finger had ended its exploration.
I looked up at my sister, back bowed, body shaking quietly, her head craning back and eyes closed. “I think I’ve found the source of the Nile,” I said, as I lowered my hands to the base of her spine, wrapped my arms around her, bent down, and buried my face in the forest of fur that covered her vagina. Now her body jerked with a small convulsion, and her thighs reflexively separated. I pressed my face, my lips, my nose deeper and inhaled the intoxicating musk of her arousal. I nuzzled her mound as she shook again, and my tongue replaced my finger, my lips as my exploratory tool. I held her tightly in my embrace as I began to taste her, to taste my sister for the first time in our lives. My tongue probed gently until it found her opening and as it began exploring its goal Gwen allowed herself to slide down a bit, to recline on the couch.
Now her quiet moans had become loud groans, gasps, and occasional spasms as the pleasure I was giving her began to shoot through her body, euphoric jolts of electricity. Her hands had found my head, her fingers had buried themselves in my hair as she held me to her, as her quiet utterances drifted down to me; “ohhh god, Josh, oooh god. Don’t stop, please don’t stop. I’m…aarrghh…I can’t…UUNNNGH.” And, finally, “JOSH!! I’M…I’M CUM…CUMMING…” and as her body began to convulse with her orgasm, as my arms tightened their embrace, as my tongue found her clitoris and began mercilessly making lingual love to it, I felt every cell in my own body suddenly light up with the knowledge that I’d given my sister the ultimate sexual gift, a shattering orgasm.
As I continued to kneel before her Gwen’s orgasm slowly ended, after several of its echoes returned, each shaking her body a little less, each eliciting slightly quieter moans than the last, until her body finally fell back onto the couch. I arose then and quickly returned to my seat next to her, reached back on the couch and found a blanket. As her body shook less and less I wrapped the blanket around her and took her into my arms. I rocked her gently as her body calmed, as she leaned into my hug. Again I felt her quiet tears on my chest. I remained silent until she finally said “Josh, that was amazing. That was the most amazing, the most fantastic thing I’ve ever felt. I was…my god, it was like an out of body experience; I felt like I was dying…of pleasure. I don’t think my body could have stood any more.”
“Gwen, the universe owed you that. At least my gender owed you that. You should have felt that hundreds, a thousand times in the past ten years. That’s a huge debt that you’re owed, and that was just a very small payment on it.”
“Josh, I’m so grateful. I never, ever thought of you that way. I can’t believe how good that felt, but Josh, we can’t do this. You’re my brother. Sisters can’t have sex with their brothers. That’s incest; what we just did was, well, I don’t think it was incest. But we can’t do it, it’s wrong, it’s…criminal.”
I knew everything she said, agreed with every word. I continued to caress her back as I said “you’re right, Gwen; I never looked at you or thought of you that way either. I’ve always loved you as my sister and never felt anything else. But I have to say that giving you that pleasure meant more to me than any sex I’ve ever had with any other woman.”
“‘Other woman’? Josh, you didn’t have sex with me, so you can’t include me in that,” and we both laughed.
“Seriously, Gwen, it was amazing for me too. I wanted you to know, to really know, that there’s at least one man in the world who isn’t bothered one bit by your scar, that he loves it as much as he loves you. Can you see that?”
After a time she replied “yes, I can. And when you asked how I felt I told you I felt somehow free, liberated. Josh; you’re the one that freed me.” And for the first time she lifted her face to mine and the kiss that followed seemed as natural as breathing. And I could no more stop myself from returning her kiss with my own than I could stop breathing. It was delicious, sublime, to hold her head, to bury my fingers in her hair, and to bring her, unresisting, to my lips. As this second kiss persisted, neither wanting to end it, my lips separated slightly, my tongue gently sought a new goal as it pressed hers. I could feel my heart thumping inside my chest, or was it my sister’s heart thumping against me as she parted her lips to allow my entry, welcomed my tongue with hers. Our first shy touches quickly turned to probing, exploring, dancing until we finally had to break for breath and I laughed out loud.
I laughed and clutched her to me as I whispered “I love you, Gwen, I really love you.” And, with my eyebrows raised, I gingerly began pulling the blanket aside, my hands reaching into its folds.
“Oh, no…no you don’t…Josh…JOSH! What did I just say? What did you just say? Sister and brother; we can’t…can’t…” and her protests grew more muted as my hands found her soft, warm skin, found and caressed her beautiful curves and then, prize of prizes, cupped each of her breasts. As the blanket fell away I leaned down and took her left nipple between my lips, kissing, licking, sucking lightly as she threw her head back, her gasps returning. I quickly turned to her right breast and repeated my ministrations. Again her body was shaken with gentle shudders. I lifted my head and began kissing her; her shoulder, her neck, her ear, her hair and then, again, a long and deep kiss as our tongues resumed their acquaintance.
“Josh…we can’t do this. We REALLY can’t do this.”
“You’re right, Gwen. We can’t do this. But maybe just this once? Maybe just once you’ll allow a man to love you, Gwen, to make love to you?” And with that I rose to my feet, neither of us surprised at the tent now in my trousers, Gwen giggled as she glanced at my obvious erection. “That’s your fault, Gwen, so now you’re going to have to fix it,” as I took her hand and led us to my bedroom, my heart leaping as she followed, unresisting.
We entered my bedroom and, rather than turning the light on, we simply left the door ajar enough to permit a sliver of light to enter. I brought her to me as we stood next to my bed, leaned down, and kissed her softly, slowly, deeply, my hands drifting up and down the beautiful curve of her back. Finally breaking the kiss, she said “Josh, this is wrong, really wrong…”
“I know, Gwen. It’s incest.”
“No, silly; it’s wrong that you’re fully dressed and I’m totally naked,” inciting gales of laughter from us. I was overjoyed; my funny sister had returned to me, had banished all tension and hesitation from my - our - bedroom. I was allowed one brief kiss before the two of us together began to tear my clothes off. I doubt I’ve been disrobed that quickly ever. Another kiss and then, as one, we fell gently onto the bed, our embrace continued, our kisses uninterrupted. Lying together, our heads on my pillows together for the very first time, our hands began their first serious exploration of each other, each learning the contours, the curves, soft and hard places, the warmth, the smoothness or roughness of each other’s skin. As our hands became bolder, more probing our moans were mixed into a lovingly discordant song of pleasure.
I couldn’t restrain myself and my lips were drawn to my sister’s breasts as a meteor is drawn to earth, her sexual gravity overpowering any resistant force that I might have tried to muster. My fingers and lips again traced her scar, growing more and more familiar, loving it more and more with every touch until I reached her terminus, again kissing it. I then drew myself up again, kissed her, and caressed that terminus with my fingers lightly before sending them down, drifting first through the fur of her mons, then cupping it, squeezing lightly to the music of her moans, and began my examination of her entrance, feeling its heat, its wetness, her body’s slight spasm as I traced her opening until, lubricated with her vaginal juices, I teased her vaginal opening, eliciting a gasp from Gwen and then drifted up until I found her clitoris; another spasm, another gasp. I circled it playfully with my finger, touching, caressing as her shaking increased until she suddenly grasped me in the tightest hug of the evening and began shaking with her orgasm, carrying my own body along with her tremors. I continued to gently tease her clitoris, occasionally returning to her true opening, gently exploring, as her body shook with wave after wave of her climax. “Oh god, Josh…no more…please, no more. I can’t take it,” as I smiled, kissed her, and withdrew my hand.
We lay together long moments, an occasional kiss exchanged, hands idly caressing the other, until I finally leaned to her, buried my face in her hair, and whispered to her ear “are you sure, Gwen? Really sure? Because we can’t go back.”
“Shut up, Josh. I can’t stop now; like I said; you’ve liberated me, made me free. I want this now. To stop would kill me, I think.” And to prove her point she reached down between us, found my rigid cock, and stroked me lightly, the first cock, she told me later, that she’d touched in over ten years. I felt a sudden rush of blood to my cock making it harder than I thought possible as I shifted, throwing my right leg over my sister, moving to the classic position, supporting myself above her, above those magnificent breasts. I paused so that we could look deeply into each other’s eyes, a gaze that seemed to last an hour but was probably seconds. I saw the love she had for me in her eyes and was sure, before she closed them, that she saw my love as well.
I reached down, found my rigid member, and guided myself toward her opening, finding it easily, finding it even wetter, hotter than my fingers had found. I pressed on, my glans meeting her heat and moved it up and down, lubricating myself as her body spasmed with my first touch, my first real entry. I admit now that I played with her, teased her with my cock as her body shook more and more until, to her whispered “please, Josh, please…” I began to enter her, to really enter my sister for the first time in our lives. I’d felt her heat, felt her wetness, what did I feel now? I felt an unbelievably tight passage, her vaginal muscles gripping my cock harder and harder, it seemed, as I pressed more deeply into her. As her gasps came quickly, as her breathing became ragged, as those beautiful breasts heaved with her breathing, I was amazed at her virginal tightness, as if I was her first man, the first to thrust himself into her wet, hot passage.
And in fact I was very close to that, as my sister had had no sexual partners for over ten years and, as she said later, very few even before that. It was to her almost her first time but I have to confess that for me it was almost the same. Yes, I’d had sexual partners but never like this, never such a tightening welcome to my rigid cock. I paused slightly, withdrew mere millimetres to further lubricate myself, and pressed on slowly until I bottomed out, my testicles resting against her. In the maelstrom of feelings, thoughts, pleasure that whirled through my brain I managed somehow to say the most important thing; “I love you, Gwen. My god, I really love you,” and with that felt her sob beneath me.
I’m no stud, no porno star, no nine-inch nail. But I know I’m either average or slightly better. And I fit my sister perfectly. She was so tight, I was so far within her, that I couldn’t imagine her accommodating any more of me. I began then to withdraw, her whispered “noooo,” in my ear and quickly pressed back into her, relieved to hear her protest replaced with a deep “aaahhhh…”. I pressed as deeply as I could and then began my rhythmic thrusts until, very quickly, each thrust was met with “uhh, uhh, uhh” from my sister. Within seconds she found the same rhythm and began responding, lifting and thrusting her hips to me with each thrust, her hands moving more and more actively on my back, my sides, and then gripping my buttocks, squeezing and pulling me into her. Her legs shifted as her knees bent and her feet then rested on the bed, her thighs a cushion for my pistoning hips. I could have come within seconds of entering my sister for the first time, but the one thought that absorbed my entire need, my entire goal, was to give Gwen all the pleasure I could possibly give, to add to that repayment on a terrible debt that my gender owed to her, to somehow try and repay her for all the pleasure that her shame and embarrassment had denied her for over ten years.
So I was able to keep thrusting, to hear her pleasure rising, rising with her gasps, her moans, her abandonment of words as she became almost incoherent with the pleasure that approached, the early tremors of her climactic earthquake. And come it did and cum she did as suddenly her entire body stiffened, seized with her orgasm, lifting us both from the bed and then shaking. It was my signal for my own release and I began to cum as well, feeling my cock pulsing, pumping, as I shot jet after jet of my cum, my seed into my sister’s womb. And she felt my throbbing as it seemed to reignite her orgasm, shaking us both again.
Exhausted, my cock still rigid within her, my sister and I fell to the bed and grasped each other in a tight embrace, each feeling the sheen of sweat on the other, neither wanting me to remove myself from her body. As we lay together, our mutual orgasm like a thunderclap, we felt the echoes of that explosion as the retreating waves of her climax shook her, each one less than its predecessor, until we lay together, my now softening cock slowly slipping from her. “Nooo…” was her quiet protest as I slipped finally from her.
We lay together for probably half an hour, touching, caressing, smiling, occasionally planting light kisses on each other’s lips, bodies. By some kind of telepathy we understood that words were unnecessary, unwanted, even. Eventually Gwen rolled onto her back, raising one languorous leg, her foot flat on the bed, relaxed and sated and looked to me for all the world a classic reclining nude, a sleeping Venus by one of the masters. When we finally ended the silence we spoke quietly, hardly above a whisper, as if we thought someone might hear us. “How was I?” Gwen smiled.
“What? ‘How was I’? You have to ask?” I replied. “You were unbelievable, Gwen; that was absolutely the best sex I have ever had,” seeing her blush. “Seriously; sure, we just broke a taboo, one of society’s last real taboos. We have a dark secret now, Gwen; we can’t tell anyone about this. No one.” And her slight nod signaled her understanding. “So I’m sure that made it, well, really hot. But honestly beyond all of that; you were amazing. I’ve never felt so good, so turned on by any woman I’ve ever slept with. Hell, any woman I’m likely to sleep with. And probably most of that is because I love you so much, sis. I wasn’t telling you that just to get you into my bed. I really love you. That wasn’t sex, Gwen, it wasn’t just fucking; I’ve never made love to a woman like that.”
“I love you too, Josh, and it was more amazing than I could have imagined. You’re right; I’ve been going without for a very long time. The problem now is: I don’t think I can go another ten years without,” as we both laughed. “Damn, Josh; look what you’ve started. I don’t think I can go another week without it.”
“No problem there, Gwen; I think we might have a lot more sleepovers. I don’t think I’m going to be looking for anyone else to date for a very, very long time.”
“Did I say a week? How about twenty minutes?” she smiled, reaching down, finding my semi-flaccid penis, stroking it lightly, squeezing, teasing. We ended our whispered conversation with another long, deep, tongue-dancing kiss after which I rolled onto my back and gently, my hands on her hips, guided her above me. She understood in seconds my intent. “I…I’m not very good at this, Josh, it’s been so long. In fact, this way, it’s been never.”
I laughed and said “no worries, sis; you’re a pretty quick learner. You’re in charge; this one’s for you. I want you to take total control of this one.” And with that she bit her lip, lifted herself slightly, reached down and found my stiff cock, and, guiding it, slowly descended on it, her eyes like saucers, her lips a perfect “O” as her body shook slightly on its descent until she had impaled herself totally on my cock.
“Oh. My. God. Jesus, this is fantastic…I’ve never…” but I broke her sentence by pulling her down, taking each of her amazing breasts to my mouth, lips reminding us both of how soft they were, how hard her nipples where, how incredibly pleasurable it was to kiss, lick, and suck her nipples. I pulled her down further until her hair dropped and formed a curtain around our secret, incestuous kiss. With that she lifted herself and, her hands flat on my chest, supported herself as she began to rock herself back and forth on my cock. “Jesus,” she repeated, now more to herself than to the room. “I’ve never felt…” her words then failed her as her head snapped back with a sudden jolt of pleasure. “I’ve never…” she tried again but was again halted by a shock of pleasure as it shot through her entire body, her tremors conducted like an electric current through my own body. She resumed her rocking but within a minute her voice got louder, higher, “I’m…I’m…I’M…UUNNGGHHH…CUMMING, JOSH. Oh my god, I’m…” and her orgasm arrested all capacity for speech as she suddenly stopped rocking and threw her head back again with the shock of her climax hit her. As the first wave passed she began rocking again, faster now, more demanding, until the second wave, or perhaps a second orgasm, struck her. With that she collapsed onto me, exhausted.
We lay still for a few minutes, my sister seemingly almost unaware of me, of the room, of anything except the receding waves of her orgasms, until I gently rolled her over onto her back and whispered “my turn, sis,” and began thrusting into her, feeling her vaginal muscles still spasming, gripping my cock as her orgasm drifted through her. I began pumping, thrusting into her as deeply as I could, feeling my glans hitting her cervix, hearing her grunts and squeaks with every thrust, sounds I’d never heard from her. Finally I announced my arrival; “I’m cumming, Gwen, I’m…uunngghh…” and again shot rope after rope of my semen into my sister’s womb, my pulses and jets seemed to reignite her orgasm as we climaxed together for the second time that night. One long, deep, kiss after our gasping breaths slowed and I rolled off her onto my back, each of us staring unseeing at my bedroom ceiling.
After ten or fifteen minutes I rolled onto my side and, creeping over to a quiet hug, Gwen still on her back, I asked “maybe it’s pretty late to be asking, sis, but…”
“No,” she answered quickly, cutting my obvious question off. “I’m not on the pill, not on anything. Josh, for years I’ve never needed anything, obviously. We’ll get a morning after pill tomorrow,” she said, turning her head to smile at me.
“Why tomorrow?” I asked, “it’s only Friday. I told you…I don’t have a date tomorrow night.”
“Yes you do, bro, yes you do. The pill can wait until Sunday morning. Or who knows? Maybe even Monday?” as we both laughed, hugged, and kissed. We slept then and for the first time in a very long time I awoke the next day with a woman’s warm body next to mine, warming my bed. Her hair tousled about her, her quiet breathing on my pillow almost broke my heart as I slowly arose from my - our - bed, showered, dressed, and began breakfast. The rest of the day was spent in casual, almost spousal, activities. Chores for me, school marking for Gwen, meal planning, our agreement to head out to dinner that evening “just like a date” Gwen laughed. And I was pleased beyond words to see that Gwen was in no hurry to be fully dressed, content to wander about the house loosely wrapped in one of my old robes, clearly now hers, her scar well exposed.
And that became a bit of the new normal for Gwen. Several new normals, in fact. Her normal weekends were now spent with me. She began to allow a portion of her upper scar to be seen with fewer high-reaching sweaters, with more blouses tastefully open at the top. To her students she was open and forthright, working her explanation into her PE classes, telling - always to rapt attention, a rare thing in high school - of her open heart surgery and pointing out that “despite what you all think, they proved that I really do have a heart,” a joke that always worked and eventually elevated Gwen, in her students’ minds, at least, upwards in the hierarchy of her school. I still date occasionally, if just for appearances. Gwen did eventually find the occasional partner to enjoy, ones who were prepared by her and not shocked by her scar. But she always returned to me and frequently told me that, however nice her dates were, none loved her, loved her scar, or traced the Nile - which became a code for our lovemaking - like I did.