I awoke the next morning to a sunny late spring Saturday. My first conscious thought was food; as usual on a weekend the wonderful smells of Mom’s cooking floated upstairs. We never needed alarm clocks on weekends with Mom at the stove. My second conscious thought hit me like a brick: the memory of last night’s Adventures Of Ann And Her Brother Paul. A frisson shot through my body as my body, as much as my mind, remembered his hands sliding along my curves, gliding up and down my back, the warm cushion of his lips on mine. The frisson changed to a wave that swept the length of my body, warming it from toe to head. I could even feel the blush return to my cheeks and was glad I was alone in my room. And then suddenly everything stopped and my heart thumped as I recalled my implied offer of a reward for any double my brother could hit at his game today, my coy hint of what would happen after the game if he made it to second base…in the game. What had I done? What had I started?
I showered and dressed in my usual weekend garb; cut-offs and t-shirt and headed downstairs to breakfast. I found my parents and Paul already at the kitchen table beginning to eat. I poured myself a cup of coffee, sat with them, and served myself from the plate heaped with pancakes and dished up some scrambled eggs. Avoiding any glances from Paul I chatted with my parents’ about their evening until Mom asked about the game we’d watched on TV. I was struck mute for a second, realizing that I couldn’t recall a single thing about it after the fourth inning. I manufactured a quick reply about the early innings and semaphored to Paul with a glance that I needed help. He smiled and carried the talk from there. As he explained to me later he’d looked the game up on line to see how it ended. No one noticed my sigh of relief.
The morning progressed as most late spring and early summer weekends do; without much discussion we separated to our own tasks. My brother and I each had homework to get out of the way while our parents fussed about the house cleaning and cooking and doing early season gardening and yard work. After a couple of hours at my studies I was finished and headed downstairs to help around the house. After a quick lunch Paul headed to the park; his coaches wanted the team at the field at least an hour and a half before the game, for warmups and pre-game discussions. The field was only about a mile from our house so my plan was to head to the game later; I’d either jog or walk to it.
As I prepared to leave the house I considered my clothes. I could not recall the last time I’d actually given a second thought to what I was wearing, but this time I had a vague plan in mind, so I mined my closet for what I was looking for and finally settled on a pair of shorts and a jogging shirt, the latter picked for its shape-clinging design. No one would think much about a young woman in running gear, I hoped, that might serve two purposes. My ball cap with pony tail tucked through its opening completed my ensemble and I headed out to the game.
I was glad that it was a mile or so to the park, as the walk allowed me uninterrupted time to think. My first thoughts were about my appearance. Had I pushed it a bit too far? Was I looking just a bit slutty? But neither parent had given me a second look as I left the house, used, perhaps, to my usual jogging and exercise apparel. Then my mind returned to my waking thoughts that morning. Had I really made an implied offer to my brother? Nothing in our casual chats that morning and nothing in his glances or attention seemed intended to remind me. As I dwelt on that question I felt a tingle between my legs which confirmed, even if my mind couldn’t, that I had indeed set my brother a challenge. And even as I walked quickly to the park I could feel my face flushing at the thought.
The game was about to begin when I arrived, so I quickly went to Paul’s home team dugout and casually wished them good luck. The second glances I got from a few of his teammates told me my closet-mining had paid dividends. And Paul’s several furtive glances told me even more. The first order of business; the other team’s pitcher. Paul was a good switch hitter, so I wandered over near the other team’s bench and watched their left handed pitcher warming up. Excellent; that meant Paul would bat right, so I headed over to the first base side of the field, found a shade tree not far from the baseline and checked my line of sight; a perfect view of home plate, Paul’s team bench, and vice versa.
The game began with Paul’s team in the field, of course, and I made sure with a wave that he knew where I was sitting. It was a fairly quick at bat for the visitors; only one batter made it on base with a blooping single but was quickly forced out at Paul’s second base for the final out. Paul’s team returned to their bench for their at bats. Paul was one of the better hitters on the team (which made me think, tingle tingle, that my challenge to my brother might well be met.) He often batted cleanup so all I needed was for just one of the first three batters to reach base.
And it happened, as the visitors’ pitcher, with a case of early inning nerves, walked his first batter. A quick chat with his catcher and he returned to the mound. He quickly retired the second batter, his confidence and pitches clearly returning to him. Batter number three looped another single to reach first base, bringing up my brother. Showtime for Ann! As he walked toward the batter’s box I rose, placed my hands behind me on my butt, and stretched, a slow and languid stretch. To anyone watching it was a stretch. To Paul, eyes widening as he looked my way, it was a move calculated to stretch the fabric of my shirt tightly across my breasts. I’ve said they’re C-cups and normally wouldn’t cause much excitement. But with the right posture…the right stretch…their presence was unmistakable.
Why did Paul’s bat strike home plate a little harder than usual? Why did his stance seem just a bit more aggressive than usual? I didn’t have to guess; my signal had been received and understood. Too understood, I realized, as he fouled the first two pitches and chased a third that was well out of the zone, banging his bat on the plate in frustration. I realized that I had to dial it back a bit; I’d done my job too well, so well that it had had a counter effect. The next batter flied out and the inning was over.
And so the game carried on. They were two of the best teams in the city so I wasn’t surprised that it was a close, low-scoring game. At his second at bat Paul singled and stole second, but was left stranded when his team was retired. In the seventh inning both pitchers were pulled and each team reached into its bullpen for relievers. I was happy to see that the visitors’ reliever was another lefty, so that Paul would continue to bat right and continue to see my obvious (to him) presence under the tree. Batter number three in their order made it to first on a walk, bringing up Paul. It would likely be his last at bat so I didn’t want to distract him again. But as he walked to the plate, lifting his eyes casually to mine, I remained sitting but slowly tugged down on my shirt, stretching its fabric just enough to send a subtle message. It worked. He smiled and turned to face the pitcher.
Pitch number one: ball, outside. Pitch number two: high in the zone for a called strike. Pitch number three: a hanging curve, right in Paul’s wheelhouse and he jumped on it, slicing it deep to right field. The right fielder watched it sail over his head, turned, chased it, and just when it looked like he would hold Paul to a single, bobbled his throw. Paul rounded first, saw the error, and kept on running, sliding into second and leaping up. His team mate, meanwhile, had been waived around third and scored standing up. It was the single run that my brother’s team needed for the win. I’m sure his team mates didn’t understand the real reason for my brother’s jubilant jump on second base as he turned to me, his grin all across his face. I’m just as sure he couldn’t see my deep blush as I sat, smiling, in the shade. Paul’s team held the lead and finished that one run ahead.
I sauntered to the team bench and congratulated the all and turned to Paul, finally. His grin had returned, this time trending toward smirk territory. The dirt and sweat of the game clung to him and I laughed, saying “you’re going to need a shower when you get home.” It almost sounded spousal in my ear.
“Duh, obviously,” he smiled back.
“No, I mean you’re really going to need a shower,” I repeated, quieter, out of his team’s earshot. Now the smile was a full-on smirk.
Paul had one of the family cars at the game so I waited out the post-game analysis and coaching, the equipment gathering and bundling, and finally walked with him to the car. Once in and buckled in he began driving us home. At one red light his right hand began to cautiously slink across the seat until it rested on my thigh. “Oh no you don’t,” I laughed. “That’s closer to third base there,” pulling his hand gently off my leg.
“But at least I got a double.”
“Actually, I’m not sure.”
“You saw it! What are you talking about? Oh…you’re backing out.”
“Not at all. But what I saw, if I was the official scorer, was a single and an error. If right field hadn’t bobbled the ball you’d have been stuck on first.” I could see on his face that I’d landed a punch even if he didn’t see the tease for what it was. I let him stew, quiet, as he drove until I finally said “well, I’ll check the rules when we get home and see what the book says.” He immediately brightened.
It was late afternoon by the time we got home. As Paul headed to the shower I felt the need for a walk; I needed to think things over, so I walked part of my usual jogging route, taking me along the tree-lined streets of our neighborhood. My mind seemed to be playing a ping pong game; it would anticipate the coming evening, accompanied by that now-familiar tingling between my legs and I would smile to myself at the new liberties I would allow my brother. But then the same mind would rebound and visualize an entirely different scene as a slight shiver passed through me. Because I had heard enough tales from girlfriends of ‘handsy’ boyfriends and horny dates (their words) that I wondered: would Paul be handsy as well? Would he be more aggressive, more demanding than I was comfortable with? I had heard my friends describing repelling boys’ maulings. Could I…we…control the situation? God knows my cohort had been lectured enough on the subject in sex ed class and, for most of us, by parents. I was at a fork in the road with my brother, a very important fork. I laughed as I remembered Yogi Berra’s advice: “when you come to a fork in the road…take it.”
The ping ponging lasted the entire walk, so much so that I stopped at a boulevard bench and sat for a few minutes, thinking. Was I crazy to do this with Paul? Had we started something we couldn’t control or stop if one of us wanted to? Or was I investing far too much in this; after all, all we had done was have one make out session the night before. And, sitting, my legs crossed, I continued to feel the tingling, as if my body was trying to get in on my mental discussion. And then I wondered: is a man’s equivalence to my tingling…a hardon? Is that what men felt when they were thinking what I was thinking? Then I laughed; was walking a mile with an erection a mile long boner? I knew that if I could ask that of my girlfriends it would be met with raucous laughter. Still laughing to myself I rose and finished the walk home, knowing at the back of my mind which fork I was going to choose.
The day was fading when I got back and I found my family well into early summer Saturday mode as Mom fussed in the kitchen and Dad fired up the barbecue while Paul, freshly showered and clad in polo shirt and gym shorts, lounged on the patio reading a sports magazine. It was my turn for the shower so I went upstairs, tossed my clothes into my laundry hamper, and headed to the bathroom. Under the hot jets I felt the day’s sweat washing away and luxuriated in the feeling of my soapy hands speeding the process. Then, remembering the thoughts on my walk, I tentatively reached up and cupped my breasts, then soaped them up and squeezed them. The shock was immediate. It was as if somehow there was an exposed electrical wire left in the shower, as my entire body seemed galvanized by the shock of pleasure that emanated from my breasts. It was so sudden, so unexpected that I gasped at the feeling. My god, I thought; if I let my brother get to second base…what will his touch feel like?
Towelled and dried I dressed myself again, this time in a short summery skirt and a light, short-sleeved blouse and sandals and headed downstairs. Dinner almost ready, my Dad was the first to notice me and smiled as he said “My, my, don’t we look fetching this evening; do you have a date that we haven’t heard about?” I could feel the blush as I replied that, no, I didn’t have a date but that I just felt like dressing nice for a change, eliciting laughter all around and an inscrutable glance from my brother, looking up and holding his inspection just a little longer than a brother might. I felt myself getting suddenly shy, my blush deepening, and looked away and hoped our parents hadn’t seen either my brother’s or my reaction.
Dinner was a welcome distraction as I calmed down and realized how hungry I was. Paul seemed even hungrier, his athletic batteries drained after his game. I often marveled how my brother could consume the calories he did - he had two burgers for dinner - and stay as trim and muscular as he did. “Genes,” my mother used to say, “and you’ve got them too; look at yourself. You could eat anything, Ann, and never get fat. I’m envious of how slim you stay.” But I wondered that would that slim me be as slim at, say, 30 (which seemed unimaginably old to me). Our parents announced their plans for the evening; “dinner and a drink after,” our Mom said and asked our plans. Probably another game on TV, I said, avoiding Paul’s eyes. Then, suddenly wanting to tease, I asked pointedly “are you interested in the game, Paul?” I smiled to myself at the consternation that briefly crossed his face as he gave a noncommittal shrug.
Dinner done, I had time on my hands and worried that my idleness might somehow give me away. Our Mom, more than our Dad, had a spidey sense around the house. If any of us were down or worried she very soon knew, so to avoid her radar I returned to my room and lay on my bed reading a magazine. I heard steps outside and when Paul poked his head around my door he smiled, then, pointedly raked his eyes up and down my reclining body as his smile changed to a cartoonish leer. I tossed the magazine at him as he pulled is head back, laughing. When his head reappeared I asked “are they gone yet?”
“Almost. Mom’s gathering her purse so I give them three minutes.”
“Copy that. I”ll be down in five,” as a sudden shiver passed through me. A couple more minutes and I heard our parents’ car leaving as I rose from my bed and headed downstairs. I don’t know why, but all of a sudden our house seemed unnaturally quiet; looking back I’m sure it was just in my imagination, but all I could hear was the quiet hum of the TV in our den. Paul had already turned the game on. The tingling was now joined by butterflies in my stomach as I walked to the den and hesitated outside the door. Taking a deep breath I walked in and found, as expected, my brother already on the couch, already actually watching the game.
I sat down on the other end of the couch and glanced at the game, surprised to feel a shyness and to see it reflected, I realized, in my brother. He glanced over at me and once again did a quick scan of my body and, once again I cursed my quickness to blush. I was struck by a rush of thoughts, but the dominant one seemed to awaken a kind of sexual competitiveness, a sense that many of my friends were leaving me behind in their sexual maturation. I thought of the number of giggling conversations I had been part of, friends recounting make out sessions from their weekend dates and I a simple bystander with nothing to contribute. Somewhere in the back of my mind I realized that I was about to even the playing field, about to take my sexual experience to another level, to choose that fork in the road. And the fact that I was about to do that with my brother, to break a major cultural taboo, and that I had no idea how to begin…didn’t seem to bother me at all.
I waited until the inning ended and the ads began and then turned to Paul and said “Well? Is it time to practice again?”
“Did you consult the rule book? I don’t want to break any rules.”
“Yes, I did, and while your particular situation is open to interpretation, I’m prepared to score it as a double.” And with that I slid across the couch to sit with Paul as he easily placed his arm around me. I was immediately pleased to see that he didn’t seem to be in a hurry as his smile remained. I decided to take the initiative and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, a very sisterly peck. He turned to me and immediately returned the peck with a decidedly un-brotherly kiss. I was happy to welcome his soft lips on mine, happy to be reminded of their warmth and cushiony touch.
“Ready?” he asked, almost shyly.
“I’m always ready to practice,” I smiled, “and every good ball player needs lots of practice, right?” His smile met mine as his shyness disappeared and we leaned into another kiss, this one longer than the first.
Our kisses accelerated, coming much more quickly than they had the night before, each of us much more confident, much more trusting as our lips found each other’s, found necks, hair, chins, ears, and as my brother’s lips traced soft lines down my neck to my breastbone, lingering there until he moved slightly and his cheek brushed against the fabric of my blouse covering my breast. It wasn’t a gasp, but certainly a sudden inrush of my breath that gave me away. Paul said nothing, content to continue letting his lips and kisses do the talking for him.
I had wondered all afternoon; would he virtually attack me? Would there be an attempted mauling? Would I be facing something like the marines on Iwo Jima? But nothing like that occurred. Paul was gentle and kind; even, as I realized for the first time, loving. He seemed in no hurry and as our kisses continued I wondered if he was having second thoughts, that he wasn’t prepared to cross that taboo line with his sister. My spirits dropped slightly at the thought.
But our tongues had now been brought into the kisses, like reserves called to the front. Less tentative, more confident, they danced and celebrated their reacquaintance until I finally broke one particularly long, deep, wet kiss and laughed, burying my face against my brother’s chest. “What’s so funny?” he asked, stroking my back.
“I have no idea,” I replied, “no idea at all. Maybe I’m just happy to be sitting here with my brother, doing this.” At that he drew back and looked at me, really taking in my face, my expression, for the first time that evening.
“You’re serious? Really?”
“Absolutely. You’re a great kisser, bro, and I think you’re going to make a lot of girls happy. Brittany doesn’t know what she’s missing.” And at that he blushed and joined in the laughter. We resumed our kisses, his hands continuing to stroke and caress my back through my blouse’s fabric, my hands mimicking, gliding up and down my brother’s back, thrilling to the muscles there, dancing lightly along his backbone.
After probably thirty minutes of our heavy make out session I drew back, breathed in deeply, and told Paul I needed a short break. In fact for about twenty-nine of those minutes that old familiar tingling had returned and I felt myself getting hotter and hotter and more and more moist; I needed to come down from my rising sexual high. As he groaned quietly I rose, pulled on the hem of my skirt that had risen up my thighs, and slowly left the room. But not before I noticed the obvious tenting of my brother’s trousers. Once again I felt the nascent power of sex, the power that I was just beginning to realize I held.
I went to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror, surprised at my high color. I splashed some cool water on my face, dried it, gave my hair a quick brushing. I passed through the kitchen on my way to the den and grabbed two sodas from the fridge, offering one to Paul as I reentered the den, sniffing the air as I entered. “Paul,” I said, standing and sniffing, “I think you should go out of the room for a second.” His face was immediately quizzical. “Just go outside and come back in in about ten seconds, ok?” I think by now Paul was ready to do anything I asked so he reluctantly rose from the couch, blushing at his now-obvious erection, but did as I asked. I sat back down on the couch and waited. He returned, stood as I had, confused for a few seconds, and then his expression cleared immediately with that “Aha” moment. “You smell it, don’t you?” He slowly nodded. “That’s the funky smell of sex, bro, even though we haven’t…you know…done anything. If we’re not careful and Mom or Dad wanders in they’ll know immediately.” And with that we learned an essential and important lesson. Paul stepped to the window and opened it slightly before sitting down again.
Our brief intermission over, we resumed our “practicing” and I wondered what our neighbor Brittany would think now, Brittany who refused to let Paul get past first base. But now our hands were more and more involved. I introduced a new phase as my hand slipped beneath my brother’s shirt, thrilling at the feel of skin on skin, my fingertips gliding along his back’s muscles, moving to his chest and tracing his ribs lightly. He was very close behind as his hand slipped beneath my blouse and repeated the traces it had made earlier, no longer impeded by even the thin layer of cloth.
Somehow, even being the younger sister, I sensed that I had to take the lead. Already my brother had shown a restraint that surprised me, a gentleness that gave me real heart, but I knew how badly he wanted his reward for his game double. The evidence was strikingly obvious, still, in the bulge in his trousers. So I broke a kiss, took a deep breath, reached down, and slowly pulled his shirt over his head as he, understanding immediately, lifted his arms to help. He then began unbuttoning my blouse. It would not have surprised me if his fingers shook, but they didn’t. But his fingers were slow, almost agonizingly slow for me, and deliberate, so that I finally smiled and placed my hands on his. He glanced up immediately a querulous look on his face. I kissed him lightly and quickly began finishing the job until all buttons were undone. He immediately slipped both hands beneath the fabric, his hands gliding around my sides to my back as my entire body shivered. A long and deep kiss followed before he easily slipped my blouse off, letting it fall to the couch.
Perhaps it was a sense of time flying, that our parents would not be away for very much longer that moved Paul and me to our next steps. He had cleared first base easily and now was headed for second. His gaze was locked, frozen as my breasts and bra were uncovered. I had given some thought to whether or not to even wear a bra and decided that yes, that would be ‘normal’, and that any girl or woman that my brother subsequently made it to second base with would almost certainly have one. Like any good coach (a new role for me) I reasoned that he needed to learn, to practice.
I had several sports bras and often favored them, even if not jogging or competing. I simply found them more comfortable. But definitely not sexy, I thought. So I’d dug out one of my conventional ones, the only one that was just a bit, well, lacy. And now I was glad I did as my brother’s sustained gaze took it in, took the breasts that it contained in as well. “You know,” I whispered, “you don’t just look at second base, you actually have to tag it,” and with that his chuckle, my giggle relieved all tension and seemed to shake him awake. My fears of a mauling were proved entirely groundless as he glanced up at me, our eyes saying volumes, and then bent down slowly and kissed each breast through the fabric, his lips brushing lightly along the fabric. I could feel and hear his deep breath as he breathed in my scent. Several kisses on each bra cup followed, light, fleeting, traversing my mounds, before he leaned more and took first one nipple and then the other between his lips. I gasped as I felt the delicate squeeze of his lips, each nipple now hard and erect, their condition obvious even through the fabric. His lips pressed harder, moving back and forth between the nipples as my breath came faster and faster, panting as hard as if I had jogged several miles.
I had not worn that bra very often; I thought it was too ‘girly’ and, as I said, often preferred my sports bra. But tonight I was glad I had it on and for once appreciated its light filigree of designs on it as my brother’s lips continued to drift lightly across it, as my hands cupped his head, my fingers entwined themselves in his hair. “Eat your heart out, Brittany,” I thought, as another current of sudden pleasure coursed through my body. As his lips seemed now to fully know the contours of my C-cup breasts, my brother drew his head back and returned to kissing me, his hands continuing to drift along the contours of my back, then my sides and then, his fingertips lightly grazing my midriff, glided upwards, upwards, upwards as my breathing stopped, waiting. Until his hand lightly cupped my breast and my breathing resumed with a gasp.
I had overheard one of my brother’s coaches saying that Paul had “soft hands”, an infielder’s skill that allowed him to gather the ball in effortlessly and make the play. Now I realized how soft those hands really were as he gently and softly caressed my breast through the fabric of the bra, squeezed it gently, lovingly, and fondled it, his thumb finding and brushing my erect nipple. My gasps continued as my back involuntarily arched, pressing my body back against the couch and just as quickly sprung back, thrusting my body into my brother’s embrace. I rested my head briefly against his chest, feeling his heartbeat, then raised my face to receive more kisses.
I relaxed slightly as his hand continued to cup and fondle my breast, unwilling to release its hard won prize. I had an almost out of body experience as I heard quiet moans and occasional gasps and was surprised to realize that I was their source. I buried my face in his neck as his hands continued to caress my sides, my back, until one hand began to trace the edges of my bra’s back, occasionally slipping beneath it. I raised my lips to my brother’s ear and whispered “pinch it.”
He immediately drew back, the puzzlement on his face clear. “Pinch the clip,” I smiled, and returned my face to his neck, my lips to kissing him there. I felt the same hand fumbling slightly and recalled a tale one of our group had told, of her fumbling boyfriend, of how she finally had to break the spell, reach back, and unclip her own bra. I smiled to myself as I felt Paul’s finger and thumb find the clip and gently, cautiously, squeeze and with its sudden, almost cooperative, release I knew…we both knew…we had entered a whole new world and I wondered if it would ever be possible to turn back.
Paul let the ends of the bra’s back fall as his hand flattened and drifted up and down my spine for the first entirely unobstructed time. His fingers danced along its corrugation, a tactile learning, his fingertips recording the minutiae of my body inch by inch. I was beyond moist now, I suddenly realized: I was wet. I could almost feel my juices flowing as they’d never flowed in my entire life. I had a sudden thought, a passing fear, of actually wetting the couch through my skirt. But that thought was shoved brutally aside by another; I wanted my brother to touch me. What was keeping him? Girlfriends’ stories of overly eager boyfriends, of hands virtually mauling them…didn’t seem to apply to my brother as his patient, loving caresses continued. I couldn’t understand why he was so tentative. Cautious? Afraid? Hesitant to cross the next taboo barrier?
The answer came as he drew back from me, drew back so that our bodies moved apart. Drew back enough that the bulge in his trousers, larger than I’d ever seen it, was obvious and drew back enough that Paul didn’t care that his arousal was as obvious to me as it was to him. There was a long pause as his eyes searched mine until finally he said “are you sure, sis? We can’t undo this. Are you sure?” he repeated.
It was not a time for glibness. After just as long and thoughtful a pause I replied “absolutely, Paul. I’ve never been more sure.” And, ok, maybe a bit of glibness; “and what’s a double worth if you can’t get to second base?” And I smiled as his hands rose to my shoulders - were they trembling just a bit? - and his fingertips gently pulled on the shoulder straps, only needing to slide them slightly until gravity did the rest and the straps fell down my arms. The cups continued to hold my breasts, so I waited, my eyes travelling back and forth between his eyes and his hands, until he understood and reached up and lightly touched the edge of the cups. They needed only the slightest encouragement before they fell away and landed between us, the bra now just another article of unused clothing. Paul’s eyes were precious, his expressions flitting through an entire collection of them. Watching him I saw wonder, surprise, affection, longing passing like the cars of a fast moving train. We stood together at the very edge of that new world, each of us waiting to cross its boundary. I was surprised then and many times since, remembering and reflecting, that I felt absolutely no shyness, no embarrassment as for the first time in my life a man was gazing at my bare breasts. And I was proud of them and proud that gravity had no effect as they stood before my brother, my nipples harder than they had ever been.
Finally Paul seemed to regain consciousness as his right hand reached out slowly, tentatively until his fingertips reached my left breast and lightly brushed it. I groaned, my hands reflexively slipping behind my brother’s neck, drifting up to his head. The groan came from deep inside, a plea to Paul, begging his hand to do more. And he understood as the hand became a gentle cup and mimicked my discarded bra as his warm hand cupped and gently squeezed the breast. My head snapped back with the pleasure-shock that rocketed through me and my hands instinctively pulled my brother’s head towards the breast. Paul’s instincts were as sure as mine as he bent down, no longer needing the direction of my hands, and softly took the nipple between his lips. The shocks were coming quicker now, small and large currents of euphoric pleasure shooting through my entire body. I could feel them coming from the soles of my feet and shooting up my legs, my navel, to the source; my brother’s soft lips, no, now his tongue, experiencing my nipple and then my entire breast for the very first time.
I know, I know: I’ve read enough from porn sites to know that the pleasure from incestuous sex, the forbidden nature of anything that crosses the many lines; kissing, touching, penetration, actual…well…fucking…seems to be increased by the very taboo nature, the forbidden fruit of incest. I get that. But I can say that the pleasure I felt that night, the first time a man touched, kissed, and sucked on my breasts didn’t need a taboo to shoot unbelievable currents of pleasure through my body. Yes, I knew it was my brother’s lips on my nipples and, yes, I knew it was beyond forbidden and, yes, I knew no one, absolutely no one, could know that we did this. But I confess that little of that seemed to enter my mind as my body began to spasm to my brother’s touch.
After making love to my left breast with his lips and tongue my brother moved, almost in a businesslike way, to my right breast and repeated his affectionate kisses, tasting, sucking. Now he was more confident, almost more possessive of my breast and, truth be told, he was right; as far as I was concerned it was his breast, his to do whatever he wanted as my back again arched, my neck bent back with the pleasure, my head facing the ceiling as my hands held him to my breast, my fingers entwined in his hair, holding him, hoping the pleasure would never stop. My fingers left his hair and fell to his chest, caressing and gliding over his ribs, my thumb and fingertips feeling and squeezing a man’s nipples for the first time before drifting to his back, feeling his young muscles and ribs in their travel.
All of a sudden I felt one of his hands moving, now that his lips and tongue seemed to be doing all of the work. The hand drifted down my side, found and squeezed my hip lightly, then drifted more, gliding down to my thigh, caressing and squeezing. My head snapped back to attention and I immediately whispered in his ear, his head bent to its task on my breast, “whoa; you just got caught trying to steal third base,” as I lifted his hand from my thigh and brought it up to my breast. “You’re still on second, remember?” I
My brother lifted his face with a guilty smile and laughed. “At least I wasn’t picked off second,” to which we both laughed. But it was our last laugh, as I glanced at the den’s clock and realized we were perilously close to our parents’ return. Paul followed my glance, came to the same realization, and with the sadness obvious in his voice said “I guess we have to end this inning, eh? We better clear up,” and rose, once again uncaring that his erection so obviously made itself known. We hustled around, I grabbed my blouse and bra, we hurriedly aired the room out, turned off the TV, and headed quickly to our respective bedrooms. As I undressed, my suspicions were confirmed as I removed my dampened panties and tossed them into my laundry pile.
I felt I needed something more before sleep, so I showered, slowly turning the temperature down until it was cool, hoping to cool my body, hoping to quell its need, the need that didn’t stop when my brother and I left the den. Back in bed, lying on my back, it became clear that a shower was not enough as my hands began to mimic my brother’s touch, cupping, caressing, fondling my breasts. My brain seemed bifurcated somehow; half was demanding sexual satisfaction while half was dimly aware of a muted rhythmic sound coming from my brother’s room, a sound I realized was the measured sounds of bed springs creaking, their sounds quickly accelerating. But soon, very soon my light touch wasn’t enough so that my hands went where my brother’s were not permitted. I found my heat, my wetness between my legs. My legs seemed to widen of their own accord as my hand found my mons and squeezed it. My fingers quickly found my opening and almost in haste began their work moving up and down, wetting themselves, playing with my clitoris, and finally entering my opening; one, then two fingers probing, moving deeper and then withdrawing then back in again until I made a quick rhythm, the rhythm speeding as my arousal grew, my orgasm approached until it burst through me, shocking and shaking my entire body, lifting me from my bed. I kept thrusting, more aggressively, more demanding of my body, than I had ever thought possible as my orgasm continued to roll through me.
Exhausted, my body fell back into my bed and, soaked in pleasure, curled into an almost foetal curve as my mind came back to the real world, back to reality and began to ask itself: “Can we stop? Can we control what we’ve begun? Do I want to stop? What if Paul hits a triple? Don’t worry…a triple is the hardest of all hits to make, harder than a home run. Oh. My. God - what if my brother hits a home run before the season ends? That’s incest, Annie, incest.” But somehow the simple thought had me tingling again. And getting wet again. I began drifting into sleep. But as I drifted off I realized that in my own frenzy the sounds from Paul’s room had ceased. But the last seconds before I tumbled into sleep I heard their muted rhythm begin again.