Ginny realizes how much she's missed her older brother when he returns home for Christmas...with some special stocking stuffers for her.
Christmas. What does it mean to most people? If you asked, I think folks would say that the three most important things about Christmas are: family, family, and family. And so it was that late on night of December 22nd I was sitting alone by the fire reading a novel. It wasn’t the novel that kept me up; it was some vague expectation - no, hope - that my brother Ben would arrive in time for Christmas. A heavy snowstorm had closed the airports and shut many of the roads, so my parents were beginning to lose hope that Ben could make it home from college and had gone to bed.
For several days I had listened to their “I told you so’s”, that “Ben should have stayed home, gone to the local college.” My attempts to defend his decision based on his choice of pre-med schools seemed to fall on deaf ears. What did an 18 year old girl know, anyway? So with the storm raging 200 miles seemed like thousands of miles.
Suddenly I heard a shuffling sound at our front door. I ran to it and pulled it open to find my brother, suitcase in hand and covered in snow, about to knock. I pulled him in and heedless of the snow hugged him to me, feeling his cold cheek against mine, his chilled ear as it brushed my lips. I shushed him quickly - “the parents are asleep” and dragged him into the house. His coat and hat quickly removed and stowed, he returned my hug, snowless now, and kissed the top of my head.
As I drew him closer to the fire and pulled him onto the couch facing it, I was full of questions: “How did you make it? Did you hitchhike? Was it hard? Did it take a long time?”
He laughed as the questions I peppered at him as I snuggled closer to him on the couch. “I’ll warm you up”, I laughed and then “Ben, I’ve missed you soooo much,” I blurted, all restraint gone and replaced with the joy of my big brother’s arrival. And it was true; the four months of his absence during his first year of college had hit me more than I’d anticipated. Ben and I had always been on good terms. Only a year apart we’d never really had any friction. As kids I pestered Ben, following him at whatever he was doing. He dealt with it by finally agreeing that I was his “little helper”, giving me small tasks to “help” him. While at high school together Ben had always been my quiet protector; no bullying came my way, lest my 6’ 1” brother rain retribution on any tormenters. For very good reason my brother was known at school as “Big Ben”.
“My flight was cancelled, but I was able to get on the last bus that left town before the roads were closed. I was very lucky; must have been fate. Someone must have wanted me to get home for sure.”
“Well, that someone might have been me. I’ve really, really missed you, Ben. It’s like there’s been a kind of hole or empty space here since you left. And I don’t mean just your bedroom; I mean something else. I’ve really missed you.” I felt my blush rising as I’d blurted more about my feelings than I’d intended.
That seemed to hit Ben with as much feeling as I felt. He didn’t reply quickly, he simply hugged me closer and kissed the top of my head again. “I really missed you too, Ginny. Maybe I should have called or emailed you, but I really did miss you. But for me, at least, there were distractions, other things; classes, new friends, getting settled in residence. But on the bus I had time to think and I realized, the closer I got to home, that, yes, I missed home but what I really missed was you.”
We sat quietly as the fire died down and talked about the four months he’d been gone; how college life was, gossip about our friends and old schoolmates, until well into the night by quiet assent we agreed it was time for bed. As we both headed to the stairs that led to the bedrooms on the floor above I suddenly stopped, faced him, and said “Oh; did Mom and Dad not tell you? Dad converted your room into a den. They moved your bed downstairs, to the unfinished suite.” Some years earlier our parents and thought to build a suite in our basement, both to make the space more useful and to offer some income should they ever need it. The project had languished after the basics were done: a bedroom created, plumbing roughed in for a kitchenette, a bathroom completed, and a living room framed and walled in but also unfinished. It had proved unexpectedly useful, though, as Ben and I and our friends were able to gather and hang out there. Mom and Dad had moved an older couch, a few chairs, and a TV set in to the “suite” and Ben and I had spent many happy hours there. The parents had had the foresight to insulate the ceiling for privacy and it proved remarkably effective; often heading upstairs for more snacks or soda we couldn’t even hear the partying going on downstairs. We knew for certain that our parents in their bedroom two floors up couldn’t hear anything that went on in the suite.
So it was that I took Ben’s hand and led him downstairs to his room for the holidays and when we reached it I realized its basic, spartan aspect was slightly disheartening. It felt to me, almost, as though Ben wasn’t really welcome anymore in his own home. I took him into a hug as we stood in the doorway and said again “Ben, I’m so glad you’re here” and, rising on my tiptoes, kissed him lightly on the lips. A sisterly kiss? I meant it as such, but the softness of his lips, the slight pressure with which he returned the kiss, the light drifting of his hand down my back gave me a slight tingling, and not in my heart. The tingling I felt was more closely located slightly below my hips.
Surprised, I drew back from the kiss and felt my color rising to another blush. Somehow by instinct I was afraid to look Ben in the eye and distracted myself by looking instead to the bed. Then, thinking it safe to look at Ben, I looked up only to see that he, too, was staring at the bed, then looked back to me. And now there was a message in our glance, and it was mutual. But what was that message? It was like a distant radio station’s sound. Words and sentences broken, but somewhere in the hiss and static of that message my brain heard the words “…us…love….need…”. And I realized I wasn’t the only one blushing. My inexperienced 18 year old body sensed a brooding danger, though, something else in the room lurking close to these siblings still holding each other. In a quick movement to remind us of my sisterly and his brotherly affection I kissed his cheek, broke our hug, and turned to leave the room. But as I turned to leave what was that that my eye caught? Was that a slight bulge in my big brother’s jeans?
Upstairs, lying in bed and clad in my usual night attire of panties and overly long t-shirt, sleep refused to come as my brain tried to make sense of what had happened in the suite, what my feelings had been, what that “message” had been, and what it all meant. And as I tried to process all that the tingling returned. With a vengeance. As my brain replayed the event like a video tape in my head, as the scene in which we each looked first to the bed and then to each other, the tingling demanded my attention. As I saw my brother’s face again and again my hand drifted down, caressing my midriff and then arrived at its destination. My fingertips drifted lightly through the soft curls that adorned my mound, and then my hand gently cupped my mons and began squeezing lightly, the tingling becoming more and more insistent. I felt the heat rising, felt my juices flowing. I was hot and moist within seconds, it seemed. My hands and my pussy were, of course, old friends, but there was something different this time as my hand, now having awakened and aroused my pussy, found my opening and slipped first one and then two fingers into me, their instant wetness confirming that I was by now well aroused.
I thrust my fingers in deeper, withdrew slightly, and pushed in again. And now in an instinctual wanton gesture I kicked the blankets off, drew my knees up and spread my thighs apart creating a soft valley of flesh. As my fingers continued their happy work my other hand caressed my thigh, drifting up and down, loving the softness of my inner thigh.
I paused my fingers’ work while my index finger ranged about, slipping up between my labia and found my clitoris. I gasped as my wet fingertip lightly brushed it and then began circling it, joined soon by my other finger as they made tiny walking motions, brushing my clitoris between them. It was all too much and within seconds my body was bucking on the bed, my orgasm ripping through it like a freight train. My body was no stranger to masturbation, but I’d never had an orgasm like this as the waves of ecstasy kept roaring through my whole body until I rolled onto my side and curled into a semi-foetal position, feeling the waves slowly reducing. And with that the broken radio message seemed to return but, somehow, with more clarity and to the words I’d “heard” - “…us…love…need…” I heard a new word: “…Ben…”. The shock of my realization was mingled with some other very strong emotions, ones I’d never felt before. As I tried to understand them my brain, tired of its unprecedented processing and my body, tired by the most profound orgasm I’d ever felt, fell into sleep.
As I awoke the next day it took several seconds to recall first the events and then the feelings of the evening before. For long minutes I lay in bed trying to accurately remember and process those feelings, my reactions. Finally I thought it time to get up and start the day.
After a shower I dressed and headed down to breakfast, surprised to realize that neither had Ben risen nor had my parents realized he was home. I didn’t let on but took my toast and coffee to the table and awaited as, I knew, events would unfold. We all remember the phrase “shock and awe”? Well, on the morning of December 23rd it was shock and joy as Ben ascended the stairs and sauntered into the kitchen. Our mother actually dropped her spatula into the omelette she was preparing and rushed into Ben’s hug, laughing. Dad wasn’t far behind, giving Ben a manly welcoming hug.
Ben quickly slipped into the banquette that formed our kitchen nook as I slid along the bench to make him room and just as easily slid into our morning breakfast routine. Nothing in his manner seemed out of the ordinary. He didn’t seem abashed or shy toward me as we told our parents of his late arrival the night before. I sat back with my second cup of coffee, drinking in both the coffee and the familial warmth that filled the kitchen. As Ben began to dig into his eggs and hash browns I began a tease we’d often use as kids; I used my foot to tap against and slide along his nearest leg. Getting the joke, Ben laughed and continued to eat, but as the tease continued he first glanced to ensure neither parent was watching, and then slipped his hand down to my leg, gripping my knee to, ostensibly, stop the tease, but then lightly slipped it up my thigh, an unmistakable caress and gentle squeeze. I felt my blush rise instantly and turned away lest the parents notice.
I slipped my hand down under the table, found his, and pressed it, all the while pretending an unusual interest in our mother’s cooking activity. Was it a coincidence that Ben’s fork dropped to the plate as I squeezed his hand? Fearing parental notice, we both quickly withdrew our hands as Ben returned to his eating and I finished my coffee and slid away on the bench to leave the table. I avoided Ben’s eyes as I left the kitchen, afraid of my reaction if we sent each other another staticky broken radio message.
The day proceeded much as I’d expected; our traditional neighborhood party was planned for Christmas Eve so that the day was to be spent with final decorations, shopping, and best of all, installing and decorating the tree. The busy activities were a welcome distraction as my mind - and body - rebounded to the breakfast tease and its result. Ben and I by unspoken agreement, it seemed, avoided close proximity but on the few occasions when we passed closely in a doorway or retrieved and delivered boxes of decorations from the basement was it just my imagination, or did we actually slow our pace, drift closer together, and brush bodies “by chance”? Did I imagine that Ben was as culpable as I was? Was he actually glancing my way from time to time when the parents were not near? Was he - I recall blushing at the thought - actually checking me out?
Our annual Christmas Eve dinner party one day hence was for friends and neighbors; for many it was a genuine Christmas tradition. We had done this for as long as I could remember and everyone was well familiar with the unwritten schedule: welcoming and introductions for any new guests, drinks and chattering catching up, then a buffet (our mother had finally broken down a few years earlier and agreed that guests could add potluck dishes if they wished) and then a carol sing. The singing was always interesting; accompanied by a musical neighbour on our piano, the chorus typically began quietly, many voices hesitant. But mom’s tradition of inserting The Twelve Days Of Christmas always raised the enthusiasm. She would arbitrarily assign lines to individuals or couples around the room (“…Betty and Harry; you’re Five Golden Rings…Janet, you’re A Partridge In A Pear Tree…”) so that as each line arrived someone in the room would leap up and sing it out. The song always ended in much hilarity and the enthusiasm continued into the final two or three carols of the evening. The final stage, as with all parties, was a winding down, hugs, promises to meet soon, wishes for a merry Christmas, and a progressively quieter and quieter house. It was a sweet and laughing kind of annual chaos and I looked forward not only to it, but to the regimented preparations for it that would now consume our day. I loved the annual exercise, but this year I knew the tasks might help keep at bay those broken radio messages.