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. ###