Keywords: M/F oral, inc.
Author: W R Jenkins
Title: The Funny Thing

  Disclaimer:(standard) Do not screw up. Do not do anything illegal.
 This includes specifically (but not limited to) reading on if you are 
under 18- 21 in some localities  If you are underage you must leave 
now. If you're young and curious, this is not the place to get the 
straight story. You act like this and people will look at you strange 
and give you a wide berth. Also, don't try this at home. Some of this 
stuff is just plain wrong, most of it is unsafe in the present viral 
climate and some of it doesn't work in this universe. They are stories. 
They deal with ideas, fantasies and thoughts that might not even be 
pleasant in real life. Thoughts are like that. Fantasies are there so
we can toy with the sensations without feeling or inflicting the pain, 
despair or humiliation. End Sermon.

	The Funny Thing (about my sister) - (thefunny.txt) So you love
your sister- I mean really love her in the Biblical sense- should such
a perfect pairing become permanent? There's a little more involved but
it would be dull if there wasn't, n'est ce pas? (Caution: sappy romantic
notions within) M/F oral, incest

	I knock and wait even though she's expecting me and she's told me
a hundred times I should walk right in. I feel better when she opens
the door for me and I get to see the look on her face.
	And there it is. Her eyebrows jump up and pull up the corners
of her mouth with them. She launches herself at me and the next thing
I know the smile is an open mouth pressed to mine and her tongue is
pushing into my mouth.
	It wouldn't be the same to be attacked inside the house. For one
thing, there wouldn't be the thrill, for either of us, of our public
passion. I am busy contending with her tongue and holding her tight,
reacquainting myself with her curves and bulges, but in the back of my
mind there's that extra thrill. Her curves and bulges are covered by
the thinnest silky fabric and I get off on how it must look for this
nearly naked woman to be attacking me with such lust right there on
the doorstep.
	Maybe her neighbors aren't nosy, but even so I feel the thrill.
Call that the warm-up. I know all sorts of better things await me
inside, in her flesh and in the all-embracing tingle of being with my
sister. I don't mind being dragged in for the circus to start.
	I push her back to look at her and let her look at me. This time
she hasn't thrown a cover over some revealing tiny lingerie. She is
in a gown or slip of the aforementioned thin silk that clings to every
part of her. She is a bit stouter in her 40th year, yet still shaped
like a woman. Her hips retain the curve and her breasts sway with the
promise of soft pillows to cradle my head.
	Growing older has changed our configurations but left our desires
intact. She gets quickly impatient and pulls at me. I've seen enough,
she's seen enough, she's decided. I know the way to her bedroom like
there's a rut in the carpet.
	I'm not too dressed either. I knew the first thing we'd do. I
take over shedding my shirt and she goes to work on my pants. Underwear
and pants together slide down my legs and I'm naked. We work together
to make short work of her gown.
	"I'm glad you could come," she finally speaks as she crawls onto
the bed.
	"Whoa. I haven't even started yet. I'm just happy to see you,"
I joke.
	That's more than enough conversation for now. I slide right on
top of her and start kissing her again. We'll have plenty of time to
talk when we can't do anything else. Right now my cock is hard, I'm
eager, and I'm grabbing handsfull of her pleasingly crushable tits
to get her as eager as me.
	Down below, her hips are working her increasingly wet slit
against the thigh I've pressed between her legs. I couldn't ask for
a more agreeable partner. It's plain she wants me as much as I want her
and we both feel the extra giggle that I'm her brother. I could,
judging from the sticky damp on my thigh, climb between her legs and
start fucking, but this is the place where eagerness is best tempered 
with a bit a patience.
	As much as I want to feel my cock sink into the hot satin of her
cunt, I want to prolong the razor edge of anticipation and make it last
for a long, pleasurable, memorable while. There is nothing prettier 
than her sighs and soft cries as I move my lips down to her breasts
and make her squirm as I nibble with my lips. Her cunt is gushing as
if she wet herself as I pull on her nipples a little roughly with my
teeth.
	I think she means to stroke me, but her hands pull instead. She
is beyond eager and I abandon the foreplay with the excuse I've done
enough. We're both more than ready, perhaps we were at the door. More
delay would be sadistic.
	I suppose the whole idea of delay is vain. There is not much that
can heighten that first feel of her slippery sex parting around the
head of my cock and the warmth of the reception within. It feels like
coming home after a long journey. Settling into her to our mutual groan
of relief doesn't get better from anticipation.
	It is both familiar and more satisfying than I remember to be 
inside her again. Memory cheats the life that beats in the warm sheath,
the feeling of her urgent need crawling around my cock as I hold it
deep inside her. And memory is never as good as being there.
	"Hard." she says and could be describing the look she turns on
me, "You know how I like it. Fuck me until I scream."
	She does like it slow and long too, but I understand. It's been
too long and she wants me to knock off the regret of the time lost with
a furious reminder that will drive us into the present. I am of a like 
mind. So long denied, I want this cunt to know I'm back.
	Unh! She grunts to let me know she feels it as I pull back and
slam into her. Oof! She feels it, but she's not yet impressed. I don't
care. I don't go from a standing stop to full force in a thrust. The
hard measured stabs into her are a starting point. More important, they
gather my lust as I feel my cock spear into her. I'm taking her deep
into her squishy wet center with thrusts of ownership. Making her mine
will bring the brutality she craves.
	Her knees come up as my thrusts become more frequent. She is more
open to me and I seem to drive deeper as I pound into her. Unhhhh! Her
groans lengthen as I slap loudly into the saddle she has made of her 
groin. I am the raping Hun in my mind. I drive into her with the
intention of driving her up the bed until her head is forced into the
headboard. Then I will pound my fixed target with even more fury.
	This is largely fantasy, a plan too long in fruition. I jolt her
breasts into wave-like motion but, before I can gather the power to
move her, I have my own need to tend to. I settle for going onto my
toes and letting my weight drive me down on her. She is making short
gasps by the look of her face but their sound is lost in the rapid
splat-splat of my groin meeting hers as I pound my cock into her
depths faster and faster.
	Ohh! Unh! Her cries break through the slapping as my hips take
the lead and slam into her with the need her grasping core has stroked
into my cock. I am along for the ride as much as she is as I jackhammer
into her with primal urge. I am cock now. I am in the head of my cock
plunging into the warm wet, seeking some end to the tunnel my primitive
hips are thrusting my cock in and out of so rapidly.
	If I could call my state control, she loses control first. Her
legs close on me. They don't retard my thrusting but add sensation as
she bucks under me and the most amazing commotion grips my invading 
cock. She's cumming, I note vaguely. I can feel my own passion build
but I'm lost in the fury of fucking hard and fast. I will explode
when I do. I can only let my needy body carry me on as it continues
its furious thrusting into her quivering slot.
	Her tits fly when I cum. I slam into her with the first aching
spurt and see crimson tips go into the air with the force. Shorter, but
with every bit of the violence, the next jerking stabs into her make
her tits roll in a most pleasing display. This is definitely secondary
to the spasms of cum squirting into her, but they add a sweet memory
to the pleasure of climax.
	"Goddamn. I thought I knew how bad I needed that, but I was
wrong," she says after a pause to let me lay heavy on her body.
	I move up but keep my cock in her. I know she likes to feel it go
soft inside her. I like feeling her cunt when I'm not bedeviled by
need too.
	"Remind me why we don't do this all the time," she asks.
	"Because..." I start and we finish together, "we both have lives
and we don't live close enough anymore."
	And it might get ordinary if we did it every day, but neither of
us says that out loud.

	It never was like that. It was never every day, except for one
week an age ago. It was always short, bright explosions of passion
for a day or two and then longing until the next opportunity.
	But this is where I tell that story and we need to start at the
beginning with some facts. The first fact is that Jules is my sister,
but not really. I mean, at most she's a half-sister and there used to
be controversy about that.
	Her mother claimed my father fathered Jules. He denied it, like
any married man with a kid would, and my mother out of loyalty or
self-interest in not seeing child-support checks leave the family
coffers, backed him up. Her mother didn't make a big deal out of it.
I think she really did just want him to know he had a daughter.
	My conclusions aren't particularly reliable since I was about
five at the time. Most of this is based on stuff I found out later and
my general familiarity with the people involved. But I think Jules's
mom gave up too easily to be the predatory homewrecker my mother said
she was.
	I'm not cutting Mom any slack because she deserves none. I found
out what she was really like several years later when I was about 17.
I was poking around in the secret hiding places because my parents were
out. I came across a box and when I opened it, it was full of letters.
They were addressed in a child's scrawl and were unopened.
	Well, I opened a few and they brought back that tempestuous
period when I was just a little kid. They were from little kid named
Jules and were addressed to 'Daddy'. She was sad she never heard from
him, but bravely went on to tell him things about herself. She hoped
he would like her and that it was okay if he didn't answer, but she
wished he would. It just tore your heart out.
	I put the letters in the box and the box back in its hiding place
like it was poison. I hid in my room and tried to think. Obviously,
no one but me had ever read the letters. Did Dad reject them, not 
wanting to know or did he ever see them? Mom got the mail so it would
be easy for her to pretend they didn't exist.
	I tried to suppose it was kindness to not subject Dad to the
reminder of sins past, but I couldn't help thinking he'd want to know.
And they were hidden- unopened. It was too clear that Mom just wanted
it to go away and didn't care about how anyone else felt.
	Still, I appreciated the complexity of the situation. I certainly
didn't want to confront either of them with a handful of letters and
be the cause of the fallout. There wasn't a good way out of it. But I
did feel sorry for a little girl who didn't know her letters were never
read and who knows what she thought about it.
	The least I could do was collect a pocketful of change and go
to a pay phone. I got the number of the most recent address and called.
That was the first time I talked to Jules.
	It wasn't the best start ever to a conversation, let alone a
relationship, but we got over the stalled, dead place where I told her
the bad news and talked a little. The first thing she said when I told
her I didn't know if it'd be different, but Dad never got her letters
was: thank you. She was glad I told her even if it was sad. So sweet.
	I told her stuff about him, being honest, and she was happy. I
answered questions, but it still left a hole of bad in me. It wasn't so
much that I meant to fix it, but I felt I had to do something, so I
told her she should write me instead and suggested she type the
envelope or have someone else address it so my mother wouldn't
recognize her handwriting.
	It was the letters that introduced me to my sister. Now do the
math. She was about 12 when we started corresponding. There were all
sorts of jerky things in her letters, dreams and child fantasies, but
she was a kid- a kid sister. Mostly she was happy and always cheerful
with an optimistic outlook I thought was sweet. I'm going to call her
sweet a lot because that's the one word I'd choose to describe her if
I only got one.
	I liked her. I liked the idea she was my sister. I saw guys with
sisters that were a pain. I was glad to have one like Jules. So the
first chance I got, the next year, I went to see her for the first
time. Now- math again- she's 13 now and you probably know how bratty
13-year-olds get. I was walking into the worst of it.
	It wasn't that bad. I'm not sugar-coating or painting her as a
saint. She was a bratty little smart-ass, but underneath it there was
a real affection. She might call me stupid or lame, but later in a
quiet mood she'd cuddle up to me and tell me how much it meant to have
a nice brother like me.
	I guess I was as bad in a different way, all full of bold plans
and cloud dreams that I laid out for her, trying to impress her, I
guess. We rubbed along pretty well in that first meeting and she was
bawling her eyes out when I had to leave. I admit I was kind of proud
she'd miss me like that.
	 High school was a chore, college was a chore, we could
commiserate similar challenges and I like to think my insights or at
least my stories about the grown-up world of college gave her guidance
or at least something to brag about to her friends. I saw her a
couple of times in those years and she was much better behaved,
although still a bit flighty. Still, she was my sister and I was there 
to share, not mold her into anything. We laughed a lot and generally
had good times on my visits.
	Then there was the period when the 13-year-old matured. In
between she had seen how childish her conviction she knew everything 
was. About 17 that conviction came back with the force of a young woman
who knew just enough to get herself into real trouble.
	There were wars with her mother and even skirmishes with me. I
wasn't all that happy with having a sister through that. My main
complaint was that she cast me as her rescuing hero and kept hatching
plans to run away to my protecting arms. Only I didn't agree with all
her harebrained resolutions and tended to side with her mother on many
areas of contention.
	More disturbing was her frank discussion about the boys in her
life. Now that didn't specifically fit into the irritating category.
It was more my own squeamishness about discussing stuff like that with
my sister. And it wasn't like she was asking advice. She was just
telling me- in shocking detail- about boys and what she did with them 
and what they did to her.
	In general, they were hot letters. If some girlfriend past wanted
to send me letter with such detail, I would have beat off reading them
and asked for more. But this was the girl I thought of as my sister.
It made me uneasy to know who she planned to give her virginity and how
it went.
	I can say that Jules wasn't a butterfly. The same name kept
cropping up and then another through about three boys in high school.
And only the last two had the pleasure of the final intimacy. Not that
it made it any easier to read her steamy confessions of passion on a
blanket under the white blossoms of an apple tree.
	Of course I know now that part of my problem was my own denied
feelings for the woman that had grown from the sweet little girl I had
first befriended. At the time it was just icky. Sure, I read the stuff
and got aroused and then I felt like shit for it. I tried to keep my
responses light and my reminders to be safe to a minimum. And I didn't
ever go into detail the few times I mentioned anyone I was seeing.
	I went to her graduation because it was a big thing. I was ready
for her to introduce me to this Brian she was fucking as her uncle or
her brother. I let her decide. That frame of mind was my doom.
	Brian? He's an old stick. I like older men.
	That was funny and so like the self-assured, sometimes strident
teen she had become. I thought she was posing and hanging onto my arm
just to show off for her friends. I secretly appreciated having her
show me that compliment, but I didn't think much about it.
	I was much more touched by her mother's gratitude for showing
Jules the compassion she never got from my/our parents. I was a fine
young man and Jules was lucky to have me if she couldn't have a father.
I liked being appreciated and, actually, to have someone else say that
I'd done the right thing.
	The truth of Jules's words came to me in the night after I and
her mother had fallen asleep. They came in her body, barely covered
by a thin robe that came to mid-thigh. I'd never had that kind of dream
about Jules, but I thought I was having my first one when she woke me.
	"We have to be quiet," she cautioned me. "Mother sleeps like a
rock, but we can't get too loud."
	"We have to be quiet for what?" I asked in total denial.
	I hoped my own dirty mind made her intention obvious. I hoped,
I really did, that I mistook her undress for something foul I had
imagined out of my evil thoughts. I was ashamed that part of me, 
particularly the part getting stiff in my pj's, was ready to do what
I thought she wanted.
	"Don't be stupid," she scolded me, "I've wanted to be with you
since I was 12. I'm a woman now and we can finally do it."
	The same part of me that was ready thought she was making good
points. However, it was a very small voice amid the loud shouting that
this was dangerous, treacherous and wrong from most of me. After the
way her mother thanked me for being a good brother? How could I do
anything like this to a kid that didn't know what she was asking?
	"You don't know what you're doing," I said, easily picking the
worst thing to say.
	Her hand went unerringly to the growing bulge in the covers
and she looked me straight in the eye.
	"I know exactly what I'm doing," she whispered harshly. "Why do
you think I wrote you about all the boys I practiced on, waiting for
you?"
	Well, that made sense- sick, twisted sense. I had always thought
it strange that she would share such intimacy with me, but my own
conflicted emotions never let me penetrate to that explanation. She had
been arousing me on purpose, probably arousing herself. It was part of
her plan to share some kind of intimacy as a kind of preparation for
the full intimacy she really desired.
	But fuck her? Where was the line you didn't cross if it wasn't
drawn between us?
	Then again, she had my hard-on in her warm fist and could refute
any claim I was unable or even unwilling to fuck her. I wasn't
weakening. I was weak. I still felt as strongly how wrong it was, but
was devoid of any plan of escape. That entropy was getting a boost
from her nearness and my shameless stare into the neck of her robe 
where two firm, full woman-sized breasts waited for me.
	"But it's incest if we're related," I squawked.
	"Maybe we're not," she said. "Then it's okay."
	I don't think for a moment she believed that. She believed we
shared a father. She was saying whatever it took to make me do what
she wanted. And it wasn't okay even if we weren't related. She was
too young for me, too young to know what she wanted, too young to make
me feel at ease with the idea.
	She proved that, along with her own quick perception, by making
me more uneasy by opening her robe. Those were nice tits. Those were
sweet tits. Her nipples were puckered and hard and they were still
dollar-sized dark spots at the tip of the swoop of her breasts. They
were as nice as any tits I'd ever seen and bigger than most I'd seen
in person.
	Uneasy translated into harder. I know she felt the reaction in my
cock as I looked at her tits. She took her hand off my hard-on to shrug
off her robe and be completely naked and then tossed back the covers 
to grab it again through the fly of my pajamas.
	I said I was weak. With her naked and holding my cock, I was 
trapped. I felt I was terrible to be so weak, but I couldn't think of
anything that wasn't worse. How do you explain to a mother that her
daughter was trying to fuck you? Even if she believes you, how can you
do that to the bond between them?
	All right, I was looking for an excuse. But it wasn't an excuse
to fuck Jules, no matter how delectable she looked. I was looking for 
an excuse for being so spineless I was laying there letting it happen.
That she was so totally fuckable only made it worse. That was like
admitting I'd give in if she was hot enough, no matter what.
	She climbed right over me, keeping her grip on my cock and
settled down between my groin and my knees. There was a naked girl-
woman- sitting on my legs and playing with my hard-on. I already knew
I was going to give in, but I was still resisting in spirit. Jules
paid my dilemma no mind, grinning at me and chattering happily.
	"If you want to do it with me on top, I'll be on top. I like to
be on top," she said in a half whisper. "I think boys like to lay back
and let girls do it for them."
	She had my cock out now. It didn't seem that she was going to
bother with my pajamas. My cock was available for her purpose and that
seemed to satisfy her. She held it between both hands and looked at it.
	"I always wondered what it looked like," she said, still
chattering. "Maybe not the first time, but by the time I was 13 and
knew what they were for. I imagined all sorts, but this is just as nice
as any of them."
	I recognized the same reaction I had when I saw her tits. More
than that, it finally sank in that her nervous chatter masked her own
anxiety about finally fulfilling her dream. I had no doubt she would
conquer her doubt, but I sympathized with her hesitation on the brink.
	She looked up at me and I have no idea what she saw on my face.
I don't know that it was even my expression that made her eyes change
focus and seem to soften as she looked at me. Whatever prompted her,
she took her hands off my cock and fell forward onto them over me. She
stopped a foot from my face and then slowly came down until our lips met.
	I don't know what happened then. I still can't explain how the
charged, uneasy situation became a fiery kiss. I know I opened my lips
when hers opened and greeted the onslaught of her tongue. I put my arms
around her and she hugged my neck as we kissed and everything changed.
	I did want her. I loved her. Holding tightly to each other, that
was more, so much more, than any of the other external things. I wanted
to show her how much I loved her and even more desperately to feel how
much she loved me. The kiss was a wonderful start. It came so
naturally, without thinking or effort. Our tongues anticipated each
other. It was not some showy duel but the start of merging into one
perfect being that seemed meant to be.
	I stroked her back, her butt, her legs as far as my hand would
reach. Every part of her seemed erotic. My lips slipped off hers and
went to her ear, down her neck. She sucked at my neck, pressing those
firm breasts into my naked chest. My cock was leaving slime on a trail
along her lower belly and we held each other tightly.
	"Kiss them, please," she said with a half sigh as she arched up
to bring her breasts to my mouth.
	At the distance of memory I know it was a real plea for
stimulation, but I interpreted it as a most wonderful gift for her to 
offer me breasts I dearly wanted to suckle. Again, there was no craft,
no intent to arouse her to get my dick in her. It was the most natural,
deepest desire of my heart to kiss the firm orbs, to toy with the
rubbery resilience of her taut nipples like the most precious toy
of a child.
	She decided it was time because I could have mouthed her tits 
forever. I started up as she pulled her breasts away but settled back
with a thud as I felt the warmth of her buttocks press on my straining
cock. She adjusted easily- she hadn't been lying about her experience-
and I was slipping into the wet velvet of her cunt for the first time.
	By then it was a holy experience. I let my hands stroke her
thighs as she started gently and then worked them up to cup her
marvelous breasts as she found a quicker pace. It was still the kiss,
the wondrous kiss in some way. Whatever spell was cast by the meeting
of our lips was still making this some heavenly experience outside the
bounds of mere real life.
	"You feel so good inside me," she said, still the chattier of us
two. "Better than anyone before."
	I told her I loved her. It was the sum total of my feeling and
thought at that point. She felt as good around me as I did in her,
surely, but there was something more happening to us. As epic and
unprecedented as our pleasure might be, there was that connection 
beyond the physical pleasure that romantics talk about and everybody
else scoffs. But it was real on that bed with Jules. There was more of
me becoming a part of her than my cock giving her a hard peg to grind
on. There was more passing between us than the delicious friction of
our bodies.
	"I want you to make me cum," Jules told me, her hips more urgent
as she moved on my cock.
	I would be making myself cum. I felt so merged with her that hers
would be mine and mine hers. And I knew somehow, from some instinctive
wisdom deep in my brain, that I had to pull her down and roll on top
to make the collision or our climaxes spectacular enough to befit the
singular import of our coming together.
	That is one proof that I hold to mean our love was meant to be.
I had never been with her before. We had not had that discussion. Yet
I knew, from some mysterious knowing, that I must be the actor in the
finale of our passion.
	Jules can make me cum riding on top of me, but she fails at the
peak of passion and we work hard to keep the momentum. That is not a
complaint because it's fine for what it is. But for the most explosive
of mutual orgasms, I take the lead because I will charge through the
explosion and only falter in the fading blaze after the apex.
	That was mostly true on that first night. When I rolled on top
of her, I took her harder, faster than she had been riding me. We had
been bathing in the warm waters of lust and it took little of my
enthusiasm to start the gasping, heart-pounding ascent. I felt her move
with me in the same way our tongues anticipated. In the same way, I 
knew that she was at the crest as I reached it. For her part, she 
pulled my face to hers, hard. As our faces collided, her body burst
into motions as she screamed into my mouth.
	My charge did falter at the imperative clench of her cunt on my
cock, but my hips were still trying to drive me on without the benefit
of letting me withdraw. Our bodies floundered together in the throes
as I tried to jerk deeper inside her and she quivered and grasped at
the spouting cock within her.
	I may not have thrust proudly on through our orgasm, but it was 
still momentous and worthy of that special night. It was very much
the culmination of the feeling of merging. We wriggled on the hook of
passion like co-joined bodies stuck tightly together in shared bliss.
	For once, Jules didn't speak. She looked at me for a long time
and then lifted from the bed to give me a kiss- a sisterly kiss. I knew
exactly what she meant. She was saying thank you in a grateful sisterly
way. Sure, she was thanking me for fucking her, but as someone with
more ties to me than the simple sharing of lust and bodily fluids.
	"I'm glad you didn't keep arguing," she said as we lay there
talking as if we hadn't just fucked.
	"So am I, but I was mad at myself at the time," I confessed.
	"That's because you're such a good big brother," she said. "You
didn't want me to fuck up. But I knew I wasn't."
	"I'm still not sure of that," I told her, "but I can't say I'm
sorry. You feel it too? Like something... bigger was going on?"
	"I only felt really happy and content for the first time in my
whole life," she said.
	Yeah, she was hot and she was right there and we'd already done
it. But the urging, maybe only the passing thought, to fuck her again
passed by. It didn't seem to be in her plans anyway and I'd feel like
some perve to bring it up.
	Besides, how do you top making her happy and content for the
first time in her life? That was too touching to mar. Except for the
part about fucking my sister, I felt like I was the good big brother
her mother said I was. 
	The incident strangely dropped out of even my mind by the next
day. We were the same old big brother, kid sister we'd always been.
It didn't even trouble me that it was so easy. The only twinge came
in Jules's big grin when she said she'd have to visit me soon. I knew
what that grin meant.

	That grin meant we could be as loud and as wild as we wanted when
we fucked at my place. It was freedom from everything except a certain
caution about whom we told she was my sister.
	That didn't really come up. We went out with my friends a couple
times and I introduced her as Jules. That was enough for them. They
were more interested in our sexual bond than relation and that only
because most of them wanted to fuck her.
	She had a cute way of blowing them off. She'd find me and attach
herself to my arm and defy them to keep trying. They got the hint
pretty quick, but not without regret, I'm sure.
	I still wasn't completely clear on this whole fucking my sister
thing, but it made it harder to resist that she looked so good on my 
arm. Sure, she was a kid and I was older, but she was a hot kid and
I don't think anyone that saw us didn't envy me.
	This goes back to the trouble with me. The trouble with me is 
that I knew what was going to happen, but I whined anyway. I had this
whole 'I don't want to' pout despite knowing I was going to.
	I'd like to say it was moral fiber fighting a losing battle, but
I'm afraid the truth is that I didn't have the guts to accept the 
consequences of my actions. Someone might be shocked! Someone might
call me names! The part that whined was the pussy part of me.
	Jules, the ever buoyant, ignored that part of me. She didn't give
my sour face a look as she marched in and put her things in my closet.
She was staying in my room, sleeping in my bed- when we weren't fucking
that is. She was the chipper little saleslady assuming the sale.
	Well, I got to, was my attitude, hang-dog expression and all as
I got ready for bed. Looking back, I think the domestic setting Jules
chose was a masterstroke. There she was, in my bed, covers up to her
collarbones, waiting for me. I knew she was naked, but she looked like
some ordinary housewife ready for bed.
	I guess I had a right to be apprehensive because it could have
turned out badly. We were walking on the wild side and it could have
become a disaster. Perversity could have overwhelmed sense and blown
up into a scandal of life-altering proportions. I dwell on this to
excuse my gallows attitude sliding into bed beside her.
	"I know it's a pain to have a little sister, but that's tough,"
she said.
	She could still be a brat. More irritably, she'd put a pin right
in my over-inflated woe is me. I glared at her and raised my hand like
I was going to slap her.
	That was pretty much the last time I dragged my feet jumping into
bed with my sister. It was great sex. It was fun. We liked each other
and that translated into some of the best times with our clothes on
or off.
	That was the visit I learned she was a screamer and that she
dared me to fuck her harder than she wanted. It was also the first time
I got the benefit of all the things she did with boys before she let
one fuck her. She hadn't sucked a lot of cocks, according to her
letters, but she had sucked cock a lot and I could tell.
	With typical little sister mischief, she used her experience both
to my delight and my regret. She delighted me to aching and squirming
and then blew cool air on my throbbing cock to make me suffer. I guess
I could have pushed her over and jabbed my cock into her to get off,
but I knew that would throw a chill over her fun.
	Call me a softie, but I didn't want to break her spirit even
if it meant suffering her teasing. And what teasing it was. She 
followed the chill air by smashing her face in my balls and really
pouring on the torment.
	Another reason I didn't over-react was how exciting she could
make the torture. My cock wanted to go off- if it had a mouth instead
of one eye, it would be screaming. At the same time, her lips and
tongue on my balls felt really good as a consolation to my delayed
climax. If she sucked my cock some more it would be over. It would be
a blessed eruption of great pleasure, but it would be the end. Her
tongue-play over my scrotum was torturously good even if I was
straining with unfulfilled desire and it kept that fantastic spurting
in the future. Jules was the master of that sort of dilemma.
	She was even sensitive to how long was enough. I hardly knew why
I wasn't tensing so hard, but Jules	recognized that my poor nerves
just couldn't keep firing with the same intensity and had about reached
the limit of serotonin or acetyl-choline or whatever.
	"Would you like me to stroke it a little now?" she asked
devilishly as her fingers traveled too lightly up and down my pulsing
shaft.
	Where neuro-transmitters failed, Jules knew how to engage my
brain in her devious play. 
	"No- suck it. Just suck it... please," I went all humble.
	Sad to report, it wasn't a burst of skyrockets to rival our first
orgasm together. There was a burst all right, a big hydraulic burst
of my cum finally letting go and spouting pressurized out of my cock,
but for all the relief and pleasure I felt alone. Yes, her greedy 
mouth still held the tip of my cock to tease out more aching spasms,
and to swallow my cum as he poured out, but she was down there and
seeming to slip farther away as I was lost on the lonely crest.
	Then again, how many times can you hope to touch the stars? It
was good. The climax was fine. More special was that all the commotion
leading up to it might have been even better. Cumming was like
surrender after what Jules's mouth put me through.
	I think part of her scheme was to get me in the right frame of
mind to slam fuck her. I know I was thinking payback when she told me
I couldn't ram it in her hard enough to make her ask me to stop. By
now we all know I couldn't. We know she likes it and I like helping
her.
	We did get near to hard enough by my devious arrangement. I've
been praising the wiles of my sister all along here, and not without
reason, but the old dog knew a few tricks of his own. I got her to
stop taunting me and lapse into grunting on impact when I folded
her knees up by her ears and started dropping weight and hip flex
on her defenseless proffered pussy. Clear shot- full impact, she didn't
stop me, but she declined the option to make that our preferred 
position when she wanted it hard and fast again.
	It was good-natured fun. That it was sexual and highly personal
seemed more a result of the bond we had to forge between us. It wasn't
like we were normal siblings, and I don't mean that we fucked. We
were raised apart, I was nearly adult when we first met and the bond
between us was of our manufacture and, more importantly I think,
because we wanted that brother- sister bond. It was important to us and
much more elective than most siblings.
	I think because it was mostly our creation it was deeper and
more important. I also think that we could express it sexually for the
same reason. Just like it wasn't a bond that seemed as inescapable
and as constant as two siblings raised together, one that was there
no matter what, it wasn't a bond that contained the same instinctive
repulsion at the idea of intimacy. And because it was created by us,
we had to hold it together, unlike other siblings that can rely on the
deep sense of relational bond to simply exist.
	Which brings us to the trial period. No, I didn't consider it
that while it was happening. I considered it a vacation with my sis.
Only reflection makes me call it a trial run.
	Sunny California- wild Venice beach- touristy Hollywood- sleepy
Orange County- languid Long Beach: there was much to explore and all
the time in a week to do it. We were just about to settle into life.
I was 25 and she had just turned 21. It was like a last chance to get
away before responsibility really set in.
	Of course we'd go as boyfriend/girlfriend or fiancé fiancée
according to who was asking. And of course we'd fuck like it had been
a year since the last time because it very nearly had been. I no longer
had reservations about that. We'd been fucking- not often but over the
course of three years now and I was used to the idea.
	I didn't have any qualms being her boyfriend when I visited her
with roommates. It was the way we were and it hadn't ruined us or
driven us mad. I'd come to terms with it, even romanticized it a little
when lesser relationships with other women broke down over silly
things about sex. However 'wrong' it might be, I knew that some spat
over who sleeps on the wet spot was not going to end my feelings for
my sister or hers for me. I was confident that even if the sexual
part one day went away, we would remain just as close.
	 It was a dangerously vulnerable headspace to be in when
embarking on a week-long love fest with Jules. I say that because I'm
glad I was at my most susceptible because it proves we were right and
made our decision based on reality and not some wishful dream.
	It was idyllic. The sex, not the vacation. The vacation was one
long list of not going places we planned and ending up in places we
didn't want to be- and drinking-- lots of drinking.
	I suppose the drinking contributed to most of the rest, but since
that includes the idyllic sex I'm not too disappointed. It was the most
fun a lousy vacation can be. I mean, we hardly noticed what a disaster
we were making because we were enjoying it together. Whatever, no 
matter how lame, we shared it and that made it good even when it was 
bad.
	Bad didn't come knocking at our cabana door when we were in bed.
It wasn't all screaming, I dare you to top that, sex. There was some
of that and some sleepy, gentle 'were we fucking?' sex. There was hard
sex and gentle sex, languid sex and hurried sex, exciting sex and
plain old 'this is pretty nice' sex. And mostly it was all comfortable
'I could take a lifetime of this' sex.
	It didn't matter if we fucked all day and missed a tour and then
drank ourselves silly and fell into drunken sex that left us somewhere
on the floor short of the bed in the hangover of the morning. I guess
the vacation was idyllic by our standards. We were doing stuff
together, even now picking up little things we didn't know about each
other. We knew most of it, but that made the smallest details a
discovery and discovery was really what the vacation turned into.
	"You know how much I love you, right?" Jules turned one day near
the end of our time toward introspection.
	"Yeah- sure I do," I told her. "Just like I love you."
	The funny thing was I wasn't lying. Not that it was some flat-out
lie, like a pass to get some ass, when I'd said it to other women. It
was just that with Jules it was true- completely and indisputably 
true in a way I could never be sure of with the others.
	Look at the facts. I said I love you. She said I love you.
Something came up. It grew into a deal-breaker. One of us said we
didn't love the other any more. I didn't mean it was a lie when I said
it, but history made me a liar. I knew, just knew that wasn't the same
with Jules. I loved her and always would no matter what.
	"That's awful special, isn't it?" she asked me.
	"You're awful special," I told her. "Even if you weren't my
sister I would feel the same way. I've never been closer to anyone."
	You expect me to say I didn't know where this was heading. I did.
First clue: Jules wasn't being chatty Cathy. She was thinking a lot
and saying little, the exact opposite of normal. Second clue: I had
been there the whole time with her and I felt it too. We had something
there was little hope of finding in anyone else.
	Being together was perfect even when the rest of the world was
the very definition of imperfect. Everything about our vacation pointed
that out with exclamation points. And on top of it, the sex was great
and always our mutual joy.
	What did that mean? Did we slip from pretending out of
convenience to telling one big lie and making our pretended
relationship real and permanent? It would be very easy. On the
practical side, there were no records that we were related. We had 
different names. There was nothing connecting us except her mother's
word and that wasn't official anywhere.
	"We don't know for sure I'm your sister," her words echoed the
path my thoughts were taking.
	There was the sticking point. It was so unreal- intangible,
invisible, but it was the crux of the whole thing. We could become
lovers, man and wife. The only thing we had to do was deny the reason
we were together in the first place. We called her mother a liar, we
robbed her father of a face and then it could be.
	"But don't you want to be?" I asked. "Isn't that the point? If
everything we've ever believed is a lie what do we have?"
	I wasn't over her head. She got it, maybe more strongly than I.
I had two parents and it was a misty bit of wishful that made me take
her for a sister. She had a mother and a faded picture of a man she'd
never seen. Me being her brother gave her something to fill an empty
spot. That was always at the bottom of everything for us.
	"Then I'll be your sister and we can be horrible sinners," she
said with growing heat.
	"Yeah- I like that better," I told her.
	She looked at me to check I was serious. I didn't say it to calm
her down. There was a real point to this discussion. I'd never find
anyone that fit as well. Even with the infamy and the dirty secret it
would probably be better than anything else I could hope for.
	"I'd never have children," she said almost defiantly.
	"Were you planning to?" I asked.
	This was another of those little things that had never come up in
all the sharing. I was interested beyond how it could end our
discussion.
	"I don't know," she said seriously. "But I guess I'll have to
think about it."
	"If you want them... you know... we're just talking. It isn't a
big thing," I struggled with the words and then felt compelled to
clear something up, "I mean, you're my sister. That's more than enough.
It's more than most people get- a sister like you."
	A stray comment- a tenuous hint had grown a hard edge pretty
quickly as we talked. From a dreamy what if we had gotten down to cases
in long strides. I felt like we were deciding our fate. I tried to pull
back to a more reasonable place to take this hypothetical conversation.
	"Damn it!" she exploded. "How can you be like that?"
	I was puzzled until she went on, "How can anyone ever measure up
to you? How can I even think there's any reason not to be with you
forever? You're too good- too perfect for me. I could never love anyone
the way I love you because no one will ever love me like you do!"
	Her fury was bubbling over into tears. She wasn't crying but
tears of emotion were streaming down both cheeks. I knew she had
spoken for me as I looked at her. I'd never love anyone like this
sister that loved me the way she did.
	It was a pretty climactic scene for having a day and a half left
of our vacation. There was hardly anywhere to go from there. So we
went to bed.
	If you think our sex habits border on obsession and there's an
element of avoiding the cares of the world in our taking refuge in the
good old in-out, then you're not paying attention. You might also have
a lousy sex life, but I'm not going to start insulting you now.
	Sex was- and is- a holy thing for us. More so because it might
be called unholy in the eyes of some. It was never simply the pursuit
of pleasure. At its simplest and least examined, it was an exchange of
love between us, Jules showing her love for me and me for her.
	Other times, even most times, it was a sharing of who we are as
much as how we felt, one with the other. I don't want to get
metaphysical and say we melded minds and understood each other through
the connection between our bodies, but some kind of understanding did
come out of it. Even if it was just that we were still there, still
available and still willing to support each other, something came
from fucking.
	That confusing day, it was that whatever came, we were better 
off because we had each other. However we worked out this puzzle of
where life would lead, we could count on each other being there to
ease the pain and share the joys. We were so close that fucking was
a pale expression of how deeply we were inside each other. It was 
balm and refuge and permission to decide what we would, because it
could never be bad as long as we had each other.
	I hope your sex is like that too-- and good luck with that. I
blather on and on about it because I know how special, unique it is.
None of my other relationships compare and I've had some good ones
with caring women that were very good to me and not so awful in bed
either. But back to the point.
	I never said it out loud before. I knew that wonderful mood, the
happy manner and her sunny outlook were the exact medicine for my soul.
The beautiful breasts and tight cunt weren't bad either. I knew I was
a very special person to her in a confused mixing of father and brother
and I would be happy to be with her if it was what we both wanted. But
I also knew the perfection we saw in each other made us turn away from
the rest of the world toward a private place that contained us alone.
	That was the sacrifice, like Jules not having children, we would
make to be together. It was something, but not enough to rule out the
decision to be together.
	Jules didn't say it out loud either. The topic dropped off the
face of our earth.
	When we got out of bed, we dressed casual and walked to the bar
down the beach. We were a little subdued, but it had been an
emotionally-draining day. We got just drunk enough to be lost in the
smell of the sea and the feel of sand between our toes as we took a
walk along the dark beach.
	Then, trusting the night and the lack of concern of other
partiers, we dropped our clothes in a pile and fucked on them. It was
a slow, almost mournful fuck. Slow because I didn't want to stir up 
the sand and invite it to invade crevasses where it had no place.
	To get all occult again, I'd say that slow, slightly drunken
meshing of our bodies was the point where my unspoken realizations
swapped with hers. As we lay together, touching, breathing, and me 
moving most minimally inside her, it was like life in paradise. We
didn't speak, but I could hear the conversation in the way her hand
touched my face, the way she responded to kisses on her face.
	It was too perfect- unreal perfect, like a drug. Did mere mortals,
each with our own imperfections, deserve perfection? How did we dare
to be so happy while all around us struggled for just a glimpse of the
dream we might have?
	I was fucking her to the rhythm of the waves breaking on the
shore. She was rolling like the surf in answer. It seemed we could go
on like that eternally, like the sea. It was perfect bliss of flushed
arousal and contentment to hover in that enlivened state. Her breasts
never felt more silky or alert under my hands. Her undulations never
matched the sway of my hips better. It was a cocoon of defense where
we would be safe and happy.
	I don't know how long we rocked there, gently joined, but it was
a long time. I rejected the thought that I should get on with it
several times in favor of the slow maintaining pace of the sea. In
fact, that lazy motion took on the feel of permanence.
	Having rejected the thought of finishing so many times, it came 
as a surprise when I noticed my thrusting had changed. I speak as if I
was on the outside because that's the way it felt. Jules's hands had
found my arms supporting me over her and her fingers were digging into
the muscle. That sign of her passion was the thing that alerted me to
the increased intent of my thrusts.
	Even then I was not driving rapidly into her or with much vigor.
I had only gone up one small increase. I didn't steadily accelerate,
but the time between stages got shorter and shorter. Jules still met
me with the mirror of my urgency, growing more active as I took her
with more need.
	The only things that disturbed the stillness was distant laughter
and our quickening breathing as we worked to completion. And the end
came not in a flurry of thrusting and answering undulations, but with
a kiss. It seemed, from our history of athletic exertion, that it was
not enough to take us to orgasm, but with the kiss and a few urgent 
but not powerful jabs into her deepest recesses we came, meshed as
deeply as physically possible and as merged in mind as body.
	We lay there together for a long time too. Two naked bodies
connected in post-coital rest, still inside each other like one beast
and uncaring about the exposure. Like I had never meant to exceed the
rhythm of the sea, I didn't intend to ever move. This is where I wanted
to be, my dick inside Jules, forever.
	But we moved. We had to finally. We dressed walking toward our
place, daringly naked for much of the way, only reluctantly covering
ourselves when we came to the extent of the lights. We fucked again in
the night and in the morning as if insistent that the events of the
past day were not going to change us.
	Jules didn't say any more and neither did I. We had to pack and
prepare to leave. She waited until we were parting to say anything.
	"We have to see each other right away. We need to talk," she
said at parting.
	We wrote letters instead. We were settling in. Things were hectic
finding our places in the world. There didn't seem to be any time when
we could both get away. The time slipped by.
	It was really decided when we fucked on the beach. That's my
take. We could stay forever in our little world of each other and shut
out all else. If we had wanted that, the cops would have arrested us
still fucking the crash of the waves sometime the next morning. But
we went on, we had the moment and finished it to get on to other
things. I can't speak for Jules specifically, whether it was children
or some other thing she wanted along with me, but I think the general
idea was that we should not disappear into each other's navels and
renounce the world.
	"Come on. We have each other and lots more besides," Jules said 
in response to my perceptions. "Why settle for more than other people
when you can have 'lots' more than other people?"
	As usual, she made as much sense as anyone could of our
situation. And I'm not here to bemoan the loss. I don't think there's
a right or a wrong anymore. You make your choices and get on with it.
Jules and I are as close as ever so nothing was really lost.
	I don't know what to say about Jules's marriage. I'm precisely
the wrong guy to comment. I gave her away and all of that, fulfilling
the father part of our relationship in perhaps its most meaningful
service, but I didn't give her up. I have no opinion about Stan. I
may have been dour, but he was always suspicious, regarding me as some
kind of unknown danger rather than a brother-in-law.
	I guess he had reason, seeing that Jules wanted to fuck me after
the honeymoon. I didn't argue about that. I argued that she was hardly
giving Stan a chance by turning to others so quickly.
	She replied that she wasn't turning to others. It wasn't cheating
to fuck me. She wasn't seeking illicit extra-marital pleasure or taking
revenge on her hubby. She was maintaining her relationship with her
brother and - ha ha, funny- we related best when I had my dick in her.
	It wasn't for me to judge. I didn't feel bad about it because it
was her decision. I might have felt something if I liked Stan more, but
I didn't.
	Stan traveled, not constantly, but enough and it became a code
between us: half gone. Stan's gone- meet me halfway. I seldom refused,
but I refused when there was something I couldn't get away from. She
understood. I wondered if Stan's travelling had anything to do with her
choosing him over a guy that would curtail our relations.
	I'm pretty sure it had something to do with me trading a series 
of mutually satisfactory romances for marriage. Maybe I feel
differently about it than Jules or maybe it's just a difference between
men and women, but I knew I wasn't giving up my sister and I thought
no woman would be satisfied, even if she never felt any loss of my 
attention or affection, if I didn't abandon all others. Or maybe I was
too busy comforting the recently divorced and missed that special lady.
	In any case, that became our lives. Our parents died, all three 
of them, and took with them all controversy about our relationship.
Jules and I were the only ones that knew of the allegation and
therefore the only ones to decide, and that decision had been made long
ago as far as we were concerned. Jules soldiered on through her average
to shitty marriage for about a dozen years before she tossed Stan out.
	Now we see each other when we can and it's enough, although it
never seems like enough.

	"I feel something stirring," Jules says, hand leaving her lazy
stroking of my chest to check her perception.
	We were talking, stupid things, past things, but now more urgent
matters need our attention. My cock is squirming toward the vertical.
How could it not be when I've been amusing myself with her chest while
she stroked mine and hers is much more exciting in my opinion.
	I'm not going to let her rule me. That can come later. Even so,
I let my cock lay in her hand so she can shake it as if to wake it as
a distraction. I watch her and think I have successfully concealed my
intent.
	"Is that all you ever think about?" I say in another mis-direction
as I pull my hips back and my cock away from her hand.
	Okay, not so smooth, and I've alerted her that I have something 
on my mind. The only thing is to get to it before she has it completely
figured out. I don't worry about arrangement. I can squirm into better
position later. I dive into her crotch.
	Her legs open on attack. I fasten my mouth to her cunt and suck.
She gives a little shriek and I'm satisfied she is at least half
surprised. My tongue darts into her as a tease as I amend my position
to give me better access.
	She would know something was up, though not my cock, when I
pulled away from her. I've never done that. I satisfy myself that there
are many, many things I might do and she did not necessarily anticipate
that I would be forcing my tongue in her cunt like a wriggly cock.
	"All right, if that's the best you can do," she tries to sound
disinterested but her short, quick breaths betray her.
	I have nothing to say. I have finally placed myself in line with
her body, between her legs and with my face buried in her crotch. I can
split the swelling outer lips with my thumbs and rain my attack on the
pink flaps that make her sharp breaths become huffing.
	"You'll... have to fuck me... because... your tongue... isn't
big enough..." she gasps out as I lick sometimes across sometimes 
up and down and keep her reacting in little jerks to the tyranny of
tongue.
	She is partially right, but it doesn't change my plan. I could
lap her clit and make her howl, but it wouldn't be an orgasm fitting
my performance. As she once drove me mad the first time she sucked me
off, I want to ride her along the razor and then give her the climax
that will leave her limp.
	Then I'll fuck her and challenge her to find the strength to
respond.
	For that I'll need some help. I let her vulva close on my tongue
and push a thumb inside her. It will just sit there for now. My
tongue seeks out the tent that hides her clitoris. She bucks
predictably as I encourage the sensitive nub. I slip the other thumb
into her beside the first. Now I can spread her open and attack the
tender flesh just inside her cunt.
	"Bastard!" she huffs.
	I am not the least distracted by what she calls herself. Her legs
move aimlessly and I feel her buttocks clench as my tongue takes it
toll. I am certain she has mounted the razor and I will now make her
dance its length.
	I let her close to reach under one thigh and lift. She goes over
grudgingly but with relative ease to flop on her belly. I clear her leg
to settle between them again and grab her buttocks to spread them. My
tongue spears into her anus.
	"Jeeze!" she cries out, her anus trying to expel my tongue in her
surprise.
	I circle the wrinkled muscle forcefully before reasserting my
right to drive my tongue up her ass again. Her hips surge as if with a
lover as she rubs herself along the sheets. I don't mind the help. She
is keeping herself on that edge. I won't allow her to finish. It's
just what I've planned.
	"My god! That's dirty!" she complains, but I know it's a ploy to
make me let her cum.
	I keep my tongue fucking into her asshole as I lift her slowly
up, up, until she gets to her knees. Then my tongue can slide down and
pierce her cunt again. Thumb replaces tongue in her ass. The palm of
my other hand presses against her mount, deviously avoiding direct
contact on her clit.
	She is saying something about it being good in jumbled syllables
mixed with grunts and groans. I have to exercise great care. She is
indeed on the very brink and I have to keep just that level without
letting her have more. Then even the sounds of her tortured delight
become routine. It's hard to maintain this level.
	She is perfectly positioned for the coup de grace. A pull with
the thumb in her ass, a lift from the hand under her and she topples
onto her back. I withdraw the thumb in favor of two fingers in her
cunt and dive on her again. It is the only way. Two fingers plunging
in and out, my tongue goes direct to her clit. I have to find safe
ground for this because her body goes wild. Her knees waver, her hips
buck and she screams out that I'm everything from an asshole to a
saint to a creeping insect to the bright light of salvation.
	I know its over when her heels beat against the bed, but I don't
stop until she can control herself to grab my hair, painfully, and
pull me away. I come up grinning with my success.
	"One time," she gasps, "one time I tease you a little and you
take revenge on me forever."
	"Revenge?" I ask innocently, waiting only for her to loosen her
grip on my scalp, "I thought you asked for the best I can do."
	She smiles at that and foolishly lets go of my hair. I don't
pretend that she'll be shocked but I don't think she's regained her
senses enough to anticipate me. I make it up her body in a bound and
a half with the half-bound putting me hilt deep in her sloppy cunt.
	"I thought you wanted to do it again," I say as innocently as I
can muster to her scolding look.
	"And you said I only want one thing," she snorts in reply.
	This is not the time to test our muscles or fly into fury. I stay
where I'm at, fully inserted, and rock gently up and back. This is how
we are. That I'm inside her and smiling at her is almost a metaphor
for our connection. At least if a metaphor was the bald fact and some
airy concept was the conceit, instead of the reverse.
	Her breasts are still lovely, even older. Her welcome is still
beyond comparing to anyone. I feel no need to do more than rock with
my cock fully engaged. I can almost hear the sea in my mind. For a time
perhaps we can linger in that place of perfect solitude, a single
being of two minds joined at the groin and perfectly content to pass
eternity in that state.
	Perhaps this is the time there will be no urge to go on. Then we
can linger in our private paradise until the end of all things. But
then, I think that every time we come together, sated, but still eager
for more, satisfied, but never without further desire.
	It should be enough. And it is, but it will also never be.
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