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o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
o The 'Bookshelf collection' offers a very wide variety of o
o stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the o
o world. Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups). There is no o
o particular order other than offering them to you in alpha- o
o betical directories. o
o I don’t believe in categorizing things. "I don’t want to o
o be typed therefore I don’t type things myself." I think it’s o
o a lot more fun to browse around and find 'little' surprises o
o that you might not have even thought of looking for. o
o Lest we forget!!! This story was produced as adult en- o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors. Kristen o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
Siblings - The Early Days - 1 (family, inc)
by Michael Kalen Smith
***
From SIBLINGS -- a novel in progress
("The Early Days")
[NOTE: I've posted seven more or less complete chapters from this novel
so far, under individual titles. Some readers have gotten interested in
the background of the main characters -- how they came to be who they
are and so on -- and have asked enough questions to prompt me to post
the following, which are key excerpts from the first five chapters.
There are no sex scenes as such, but you'll find plenty of romance, a
dollop of amateur psychology,... and plenty of more subtle eroticism.
SIBLINGS is a full-dress novel -- or will be when it's finished -- and
I've gone to some effort to make the people and the situations four-
dimensional, to provide motivation and logical results, and to avoid
'deus ex machina' contrivances of the sort that are rife in many of the
stories posted in a.s.s. Comments, criticism, and discussion are
welcome,... but PLEASE post them in a.s.s.D!
If you haven't read the previously posted sections, please be aware that
the overriding theme throughout the novel is *consensual sibling
incest*, about which my basic feelings should be obvious by now. If the
very idea turns your stomach, you're more bent than most of the readers
hereabouts, and you should change the channel NOW....]
[...from chapter 1...]
My sister, Alexandra, and I had (and have) an unusual relationship,
and it was the direct result of birth order and our closeness in age.
At least, that's what I prefer to think -- that it was circumstances
beyond our control.
I was born in Mendocino County, California, at 3:45 a.m. on January
6, 1955. Alex was born at 3:52 a.m. on the same day in 1956. One year
and seven minutes difference. We looked very much alike: dark auburn
hair, gray-green eyes, lots of freckles, a certain sharp narrowness in
the nose. We were about the same size, too, especially as teenagers.
People frequently assumed we were twins, we were so similar. And
especially because there was only a single digit's difference when we
had to fill out bureaucratic forms that required a birth date. More
than once, some clerk increased Alex's age by a year or shaved a year
off mine. Before we were even in school, we had begun to think of
ourselves as twins, too, in all the important ways, identical twins who
happened to be of the opposite sex.
We weren't the only kids in our family. Jack was five years older
than me and Philip was eight years older -- post-World War II babies,
both of them. They had half a decade in which to become mutually
supportive before Alex and I showed up, and the difference in age
between them and us was large enough that we were almost like two
separate families.
I don't mean they picked on either of us. I realized later that
they could have made our lives hell, but both of them behaved well
enough toward us. They were just too far ahead in age to have anything
in common with us. So they practiced benign neglect toward "the kids"
and Alex and I stuck more and more to each other's company.
More important, our parents naturally were more concerned with the
school activities and career plans of their two oldest boys. When I was
starting junior high, Philip was a year away from finishing his college
degree and was beginning to interview with company recruiters. Jack was
about to go off to a good college on a scholarship and had his own
ambitious plans. Nobody was much interested in what I was learning in
seventh grade. For whatever reason, I never developed any bitterness
about this casual disinterest. I didn't throw tantrums or break windows
to get my parents' attention. I was proud of my brothers and they did
give me their attention when I sought it out (which wasn't often). But
they could have been uncles instead of brothers.
Alex had it a little worse. She wasn't "planned," of course, being
so close to me in age, and she became aware early on that her conception
had been unexpected. When we were little, we both heard Dad making what
had obviously become a standard joke to friends and relatives -- that
their only daughter had arrived postage-due, "but we kept her anyway."
And he didn't mean it maliciously, which was almost worse. It was an
unconsciously hurtful thing to say, and Alex WAS hurt by it. That
stupid joke made me angry as well, and it bonded me even closer to my
sister. I was only eight or nine years old, so I could hardly say
anything to my father about his unfeeling jokes, but I comforted Alex
when she cried in her room. We began about that time to think of
ourselves not even as twins, but in some way as one person.
By the time I was twelve, Dad had reached a moderately successful
level as a regional sales manager in his company and he began to travel
much more extensively and frequently around his enlarged territory. He
was often gone two or three weeks at a time.
At about the same time, Mother's arthritis, from which she had first
begun to suffer at the age of 35, became increasingly severe in her
legs. Now, she was confined to walking only very short distances and
was often in a wheelchair. She chafed at the inactivity forced on her
and discovered new ways to do her shopping and cooking and laundry. She
hated it when people tried to do things for her that she could still
manage to do for herself, so she didn't demand our sympathy and constant
attention.
Looking back, I admire her for that determination not to be a
burden. At the time, however, it had the principal benefit for us that
she almost never came Upstairs. It exhausted her and she showed up
above the ground floor less and less often. After Jack abandoned his
room and went off to college, Upstairs became *our* territory, Alex's
and mine.
Dad usually came up for a few minutes when he returned from a trip,
so we kept our rooms as clean as anyone has a right to expect from
active adolescents. We hauled our laundry down to the washer and took
turns mopping out our bathroom once a week. We folded and put away our
own clothes and changed our own burned-out light bulbs. We made sure
Dad was satisfied with our attention to our living quarters and he
pretty much left us to manage the upper part of the house to suit
ourselves, which confirmed our territoriality. And it gave us an almost
adult sense of privacy.
Again, looking back, I realize Dad just wasn't much interested in
the two of us. Philip and Jack together formed the focus of his
paternal instinct. They were born in the lean years following Dad's
discharge from the Army, when he drove a cab and sold furniture while
going to college on the G.I. Bill. He and Mother lived in a tiny
apartment and scraped along through the tail end of the 1940s, first by
themselves and then with a son. In 1950, almost 30 years old, Dad
finished college and landed a good sales job with a company that
wholesaled office machines. Jack was born a few months later.
By the mid-'50s, when I showed up almost as an afterthought, my
older brothers were in school, riding the forward curl of the Baby Boom
wave. Apparently, Mother and Dad had intended to stop at two children
but took a chance on a third, and never expected a fourth at all. So
our parents weren't cruel or even deliberately unkind. Just not
terribly involved with their two youngest. As Alex and I outgrew
clothes or toys, they disappeared from the house, passed on or donated
somewhere, with an air of relief hanging over them.
* * * * *
When I went over to some friend's house to play, we usually did
things in his room -- especially if he also had brothers and sisters.
Any younger sibling who entered the room uninvited was pushed out and
the door shut behind him or her. I accepted this as natural and normal
at the time. It wasn't until I was entering adolescence that I realized
that very few of my friends or Alex's had ever seen the upper half of
our house. We had a large den and TV room downstairs where the family's
supply of games was stored (now used only by the two of us), and that
was where we usually played with our friends, whether separately or all
in a group. Since Alex and I were so close in age, we had several good
friends in common. Those few were the only ones ever invited Upstairs,
and then only rarely.
When children begin to enter puberty they become physically very
self-conscious. Bathroom doors are shut and even locked. Boys
discovered sorting their sisters' underwear out of the dryer are
tongue-lashed by its owner. One of my friends once playfully hid his
younger sister's first training bra, and she nearly had hysterics when
she realized her brother had actually touched it. Anyone who's not an
"only" has had similar experiences, I'm sure, especially in a
brother/sister mix.
I mention these things only to say that Alex and I were different.
When Alex was standing in front of the hall linen closet in her first
bra and panties, digging out the fluffiest towel she could find, I
didn't make snide cracks. The first and only time I hooked a finger
under the back strap of her bra and snapped it (doesn't every brother do
that?), she ignored me ... until I turned and began to walk away. Then
she snapped me with a towel with such accuracy and finesse it felt like
a needle had been jabbed in my ass. I jumped, she giggled "Gotcha!,"
and that was all. We were even-up and there was no escalation.
We usually helped each other make up both our beds simply because it
went much faster. The first time she noticed the stiff places on my
bottom sheet where I had had nocturnal emissions or had jerked off, and
asked me what *that* was, I flushed in embarrassment. She could have
made capital on that for weeks, but she chose discretion and shrugged.
So, we were normal kids in most respects. We simply never did
anything to hurt or upset each other. "I'm telling!" was not something
either of us ever said to the other. An enlightened and mature
attitude, I suppose, but I know neither of us ever reasoned it out. I
can't remember a time we weren't best friends. That was just the way it
was between us.
We played pranks on each other, and we exchanged the usual teasing
insults, and we argued frequently. We even had occasional fights and
got angry at each other, but it was always over a serious and
substantive issue, not just because "siblings always fight." And we
always made up in a day or so and never carried grudges. It took us
both awhile to realize, from visiting friends' homes, that our
relationship was not the norm.
* * * * *
We were protective of each other in the outside world, too. When
Alex was in fifth grade and I was in sixth, she chanced one spring week
to get on the wrong side on three boys in my class. For several days,
they pushed her around at recess and sabotaged her assignments in class.
She didn't know why they had singled her out but for awhile she was half
in a rage and half in tears most of the day. Typically, she kept her
problem to herself and when I finally asked her what was the matter she
wouldn't tell me.
I lagged behind her the next afternoon, however, and deliberately
spied on her. Our house was only four blocks from school, so we usually
walked home. The villainous sixth grade boys were on bikes, though, and
they charged out of an alley while she was crossing a street in the
middle of a residential block. They circled her like Mongol raiders,
knocking the books out of her hands and jeering at her tears. Several
other homebound students witnessed the raid but most kids learn early
not to draw attention to themselves when one of their number becomes the
focus of unwanted malevolent attention.
I was in a different situation regarding the victim, of course. I
was not a fighter, not in any way. I never picked fights, preferring to
use my already sharp tongue. And if my tongue caused someone to chase
me, I ran. I may not have been physically courageous but I wasn't
stupid either.
But this was something else altogether. I didn't stop to think
about it. I just dropped my book bag and my gym shoes on the sidewalk
and ran the fifty yards to the marauders, becoming more angry with every
stride. My profanity wasn't very developed anyway, so I kept my mouth
shut. I also knew instinctively that taking on three boys my own size
required surprise tactics. I was heading directly toward Alex, though I
had no idea what I was going to do when I reached her.
As it happened, one of the bastards nearly intercepted my course
without yet noticing me, and I jumped in the air knee-high and kicked
his bike with my feet as my body hurtled into his. He never knew what
hit him. His bike and his head bounced off the asphalt simultaneously,
with a satisfying double-crash.
I scrambled up and saw a hand reaching for me with an unbelieving
face behind it as the next rider missed hitting me by inches. I grabbed
the hand and the wrist and hung on, and the boy yanked himself off his
bike by his own momentum. He landed on his knees and tried to grab my
leg with his other hand, so I kicked him hard in the face and let go of
him. Instinct again. Had I stopped to think about what I was doing, he
would have beaten the crap out of me. But he shrieked, went over on his
back, and clapped both hands over his nose and mouth.
The third boy had slewed his bike sideways in a frantic attempt not
to run into his buddy, and now had gotten the cuff of his jeans caught
in the chain. He had his back turned as he tried to extricate himself
from his machine. I yelled wordlessly and jumped on his back, grabbed
his hair, and began knocking his face against the horizontal bar of the
bike. Kids don't fight "fair" when it's a serious contest; they take
any advantage they can get.
He reached behind him, managed to grab my ear, and tried hard to
pull it off. I yelped at the sudden pain and tried to disengage, but he
hung on and twisted himself around where he could get both hands on me.
I wasn't going to get out of this unbruised; some of my anger began to
be replaced by fear.
But all this time, all two or three minutes of it, I'd forgotten
about Alex. She was angry, too. As the third boy cocked his free arm,
preparing to bury his fist in my eye, my sweet sister let him have it
from behind with her history textbook -- the thick, heavy one. I was
focused on that fist and heard three separate thudding sounds before I
realized what was happening. The repeated concussions made the third
Mongol forget all about me. He was crying and yelling and trying to get
away. He finally escaped by tearing his jeans, leaving part of the cuff
wedged in the chain, and falling over his bike. The pointed front of
the bicycle seat caught him square in the nuts and then he was rolling
around in the street, clutching his crotch and moaning.
The first boy was trying not very successfully to sit up. Blood was
running down his neck and across his head and he had managed to smear it
across his face. At first glance, he appeared to have been scalped.
The second one was still covering his lower face with his hands and
there was blood all down his shirt front and one tooth lying in the
street. He saw it too, and picked it up and stared at it. The only
blood on me belonged to the other three, though I had managed to rip two
buttons off my shirt.
As I said, I'm not a fighter, and I suddenly began to shake, sitting
there in the street. The thrill of victory was whooping somewhere in
the back of my mind, but it was mostly obscured by growing fear. Mother
and Dad were going to kill me. I'd probably be expelled. Maybe I'd
have to talk to the police. Alex was alternately sobbing and laughing
as she hung onto my arm. When she felt me shaking, though, she came to
her senses more quickly than I did.
"C'mon," she said urgently. "Let's get outta here."
She pulled and pushed me to my feet and quickly gathered up her
scattered school books. We both looked around. Perhaps a dozen other
students of varying ages were standing, frozen, up and down the block,
some in the street and some on the sidewalk. I saw only one adult -- a
man who had been parking in front of his house ten yards away and was
now standing and leaning over his open car door with his mouth open. I
paid attention to him especially. The other kids were just kids, but
adults were a different species.
The man finally found his voice. "I saw it all, kid, it wasn't your
fault. You two get on home and I'll take care of these bullies." He
looked disgustedly at the three losers and I felt some relief.
Alex and I hurried back to where I had dropped my own stuff, noting
the nervousness or fright of the smaller children we passed. Those our
own age mostly grinned, though. The boys in the street were not
popular. Probably nobody here was going to volunteer evidence against
me. We walked quickly down the block and around the corner, making a
two-block detour to get home; I didn't want to have to walk again past
the boys I had beaten up.
That's when I realized, for the first time, that I *had* beaten
them. Three-to-one odds, and I had won. A satisfying thing for an
adolescent boy to discover about himself. But there was also the
sobering knowledge that I couldn't get away with that kind of surprise
attack more than once. The story would be all over school by the end of
tomorrow's classes. And I'd have to be careful or I was going to get my
own self beaten up by kids who had decided I had stepped out of the
pecking order. Not to mention the revenge these three losers would
undoubtedly plan against me.
As usual, Alex was reading my mind. "Michael, don't worry." We
were both out of breath from our attempt to escape the scene. "That man
was Charlene Huff's father. He's a cop, a lieutenant or something. I
don't think he's going to bother us or he'd already have done it.
Besides, he said he saw the whole thing. Maybe those creeps will be in
more trouble than us." It was typical that she said "us" and not "you."
She'd only gotten in three blows and her school dress wasn't even mussed
-- never mind that she was the victim -- but it was still "us."
Then she squeezed my arm and smiled and said "My hero," without a
trace of irony. She made it sound lighthearted but she meant it. I was
no knight in shining armor and we both knew it. She also knew, now,
that I was willing to risk serious trouble on her behalf. I don't think
it came as a surprise to either of us.
We found out later that her estimation of the situation was pretty
much correct. Detective Lieutenant Huff apparently displayed his badge
of office to the three Mongols, which frightened them into giving their
true names and addresses. Then he made a point of going around to each
set of parents to explain how their sons had ended up in such a sorry
condition and why they hadn't better "assault a little girl" again.
Charlene knew the three, of course, and presumably filled in her father
on their previous terrorist activities. Nobody I knew had ever *seen*
the inside of Juvenile Detention and nobody wanted to. So I was a minor
hero for a few days, mostly to earlier victims of the gang. And Alex,
without telling me, made sure through her girlfriend network that the
word went out: Don't start on me or my brother, or Charlene Huff's
father will hear about it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright 1993 by Michael K. Smith. Copies may be made and posted
elsewhere for personal enjoyment, but all commercial rights are reserved.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~