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After we were done, and I’d dried her, both of us shaking body and soul, Mags retreated away from me to her room upstairs.
Time moved, passed.
A few hours later, I had dinner ready. Steak tips and potatoes on skewers, a salad of sour greens. I even cut up the steak into manageable pieces before I called her.
She came into the kitchen. Sweat pants and a t shirt. Her admirable (once, hard-nippled) breasts moving inside the t-shirt as she sat.
“Aw, you even cut the meat into bite size pieces for your invalid sister. That’s so nice.”
I nodded acknowledgment of my good qualities.
Then, sitting. She fixed me with her blue-green eyes, said – with far more import,
“Wow, dinner?” I asked. “Or wow, I just frigged you off in the bathtub a couple hours ago?”
“I think, yah, that’s more the wow I was thinking of.”
“You okay with that?”
“With that wow? The frigging come-in-the-bathtub wow? I think so. I mean, you don’t suppose we can just pretend that didn’t happen? Go back to just brother and sister?”
“I dunno, Mags. The topic might come up again if I give you another bath.”
Her smile at this is both sad and radiant.
“Yeah,” she says. “It’s kinda like, you sleep with somebody from, I dunno, school, or the team or work, that’s my whole frame of reference, and it, like, happens because you’re both drunk. And then you see each other the day after and it’s like, I don’t know if we can go back to being just friends.”
“I’ve had it happen where you could. Where it was just a hookup.”
“Yeah, but sometimes, it can’t just be just a hook up. Like if you cry or something.”
“Or, like, if you’re brother and sister?”
“Yeah, that’s an officially complicating factor, I guess.”
“So did you? Cry?”
“No. I just went to bed. I slept. I was, like, so – emotionally – spent that I had to just have a coma for a little while. How ’bout you?”
“Me? Nothin’. I went out, I took a walk. I forgot how early the sun goes down back here. Then I just made dinner. I mean, normal stuff. So I wouldn’t have to think the whole time about …” And I stop, unable to name it.
“So what are you thinking now, Johnny?”
“I dunno, Mags. I’m sure as shit not sorry. I mean, I’m glad that I could give you that. What you wanted. That I could make you feel …” I stop again. Unable, maybe afraid to give us a name.
“Good?” she asks. “Beautiful? Known?”
“Yeah, all of that.”
Then after a moment, I ask,
“What about you? How you feelin’, Mags?”
That sad, radiant smile rolls like momentary sunshine across my sister’s face.
“Good,” she says. “Beautiful. Incredibly known. I feel like, …, like, wow. So much wow. Like, there’s the you’re my brother wow. And there’s wow, that I don’t care about that, not really. Not at all. Because, wow, there’s no rules for this, for us, For this broken sister you have to feed and dress and wash.
“And then there’s this overwhelming wow, that, Johhny, I have never come like that in my life before. I mean, god, it was so intense, I thought I was gonna die. Or something. And it wasn’t ‘coz of these (she looks briefly at her broken arms and all they mean) or how unhappy I am, oh, I mean, it was because of all of that, but it was you, Johnny. It was because I know you and I can trust you with how unhappy I am and why and then somehow, you were washing me and I just trusted you to do things to me. I know that’s like all kinds of abnormal, Johnny, or at least it’s supposed to be. But you know me, Johnny. We know each other better than anyone, I think. I mean, I know you know me better than anyone I’ve ever slept with. It’s like you know me down to my soul. And right now, you’re the only person on earth I want to show my soul to. And god, Johnny, when you touched me. I mean, you touched my body. But I feel like you made my soul come. Does that make any sense at all?”
“Yeah,” I tell her. “I think it does.”
“But how did it feel for you, Johnny? Washing me? Touching me like that. How are you about all that right now?”
“That’s two questions, Mags. Right now, I’m okay. I’m fine. I always said I’d do anything for you. I guess now we know that really means anything. But at the time, while I was moving that washcloth between your legs, and you were … I guess for a couple minutes there, I didn’t feel like your brother, or your soulmate or anything. I just felt like a guy about you, Maggie. And I couldn’t get past that. Not completely. I’m not sure I can right now.”
“You don’t mean you had a …”
“The size of Detroit, yeah. For you.”
She thinks elmadağ escort about that for a moment.
“Well, I guess that’s the only normal thing that happened all day, isn’t it? I mean, if you look at it objectively. I mean, I’m naked in the bathtub and you’re washing my pussy, for chrissake, and I’m sexually, you know, aroused like no tomorrow and then, you’re touching me, I came and I was probably just like this pheromone volcano, so it had to be, like, just human for you to … I mean, how could you not, you know, at least react?”
“Oh, honey,” I say. “I reacted. I thought I was gonna bust my zipper or something.”
That half-sad smile flickers across her face again.
“So, did you do anything? While I was asleep?”
“What, you mean like …? No, that woulda felt too weird. I mean, all the stuff in the bathtub, it was like you gave me permission, you know?”
“A little more than that. I kinda begged you…”
“Yeah but, still. I didn’t feel like, I mean, masturbating to you? That just woulda felt like it was beyond the bounds, whatever those are. Not without you knowing. Or something.”
“So now I know.”
“So do you still want to?”
“Jesus, Mags, I don’t know.”
“I mean, it’d be okay, okay? Look, I feel kinda bad. I mean, you gave me an orgasm, Johnny. You gave me one so bad I could barely walk afterwards. And I can’t exactly reciprocate. So if … washing … me, gets you, you know, all hot and bothered, maybe you just should. Like I said, we’re in a place where the rules don’t count. Maybe they will again someday. When these casts are off my arms and you’re back in Seattle. But right now, this month that we’re together and I can’t do anything for myself, I mean I need you to wash my pussy for god’s sake. So they’re off. The rules are all off. They have to be. And I think, no, I know I’m gonna ask you to do what you did for me today again. Coz’ I think that’s gonna help to keep me alive, to tell you the truth, as weird as that fucking is. So, no rules, Johnny. And if it helps if you know you can, I dunno, relieve yourself or whatever, then you’ve got my permission, bro. Whatever you want to do, it’s alright.
“And besides,” she says, smiling demurely. “I think you might get another chance tonight.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, there’s something we didn’t do this afternoon, that I kinda need to.”
“Meaning, I’m kind of behind on my grooming, you might have noticed. Down there.”
“You mean your …”
“Yeah, dude. My pubes. Among other things.”
“Yeah, okay, I mean, felt some stubble. I didn’t know if that’s how you …”
“Well, I don’t. I shave, y’know. And I thought for a while, maybe I’d just go all hippie chick till my arms healed. But now it’s been three weeks and it’s getting, like, my pits, my legs and, you know, down there in southern Gloriana, it’s getting uncomfortable.”
“And you wanna?”
“Well, yeah, if you don’t mind. And, if you have to do my pussy and you get … then I guess I wouldn’t mind.”
“Maybe I’ll try not to.”
“I thought you said I had great tits.”
“‘I said, good,’ I said. ‘admirable,’ even. ‘Great”s a pretty high bar.”
“Okay, so my not-so-great tits,” Then, striking a mock-sexy pose, asks, “But, what did you think about my pussy, big bro?”
“I didn’t exactly see it through the soap water. But it did feel kinda stubbly, to tell the truth. So maybe check with me after.”
“Maybe I will.”
No rules, Maggie.
No rules at all.
In the bathroom again, where just a few hours before I had touched my sister through a washcloth and made her come.
Maggie sitting now on the rim of the tub, her sweats shrugged off. Azure panties and a t-shirt, those long legs of hers dangling inside the tub. I turn on the hot water, step inside the tub and turn to her, razor and a spray can of Barbasol in hand.
“You’re gonna get soaked,” Maggie says, pointing at my blue jeans with one broken arm. “Maybe take those off.”
And when I don’t respond immediately, she says,
“Johnny, I’m sitting here in my panties. And where am I gonna put my legs?”
The logic of it seduces me. I sit on the back edge of the tub and strip my jeans off, toss them across the room. Sit.
“Plaid boxers,” Mags chuckles. “Fashionista.”
“Shut up,” I tell her. Pat my knee. “Leg, please.”
Obedient, Maggie stretches her left leg across the bathtub, plants it across my bare knees, smiles.
No sadness in her smile this time.
No rules either.
I look at her, think, unbidden of the teardrop breasts beneath her t-shirt.
Maggie says, “You esenyurt escort may begin.”
I reach into the running water, bring a handful up and drop it through my open fingers onto her leg. Use my hands to spread it all around her. Feel beneath my palms and fingers the softness of her skin, the small, incipient stubble of untended female hair. Eventually I spray a line of shaving cream along her shin. And spread it over skin and stubble with both hands. She was right about the jeans. Even this small operation is soaking the legs of my fashionista boxers. She was also right that I might find it hard to do this without getting hard.
Not totally, but enough to feel a warmth and small tumescence growing as I touch her.
Which I do my polite damnedest to ignore.
Instead I draw the razor in long lines up her leg.
And when I’m done, her leg is glistening smooth; and striped by lines of uncollected shaving cream. These, I rinse away with more water from the tap, picked up from the running faucet, dropped, spread by hand and caressing hand.
My undiscussed tumescence grows in size and semi-urgency as I touch her.
My eyes (my prick, to tell the truth) drawn irresistibly toward the azure fabric at the jointure of her stomach and legs, and beneath that moment of color, the part of her that I have touched – (once , through cloth and soap) but never seen.
I think I smell the faint tang of an excitement from her, from there.
No rules, Maggie.
Maggie, what are we doing?
She lowers her shaved left leg, presents the other.
Again: water, shaving cream, razor, water. My hands moving along Maggie’s slicked legs, knees, thighs.
I make her smooth.
I touch her smoothness.
She stirs under my touch, then draws her leg away from me.
Brushes, as she does, the distension in my shorts.
No rules no rules no rules no rules.
No comment though. Her light touch passes.
“Now pits,” Mags says. And lifts her shirt up over her head, exposing again those admirable breasts. “Come over this side,” she tells me. “It’ll be easier.”
I obey her.
She glances downward as I do.
“I’m watching, you know.”
“I know,” I tell her.
“And I think my leg just brushed against a pretty definite erection under them plaids, mister.”
“Yeah, Mags, I’m kind of aware.”
Her smile. Much radiance. But something more. A complicated thing, this smile of my almost naked sister.
“It’s kinda cute, you know. You make me come, I give you a hard-on. We’re, like, so definitely in the no-rule zone right now.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s called incest, Sis.”
“Shh. No rules, no names. And I think only if you fuck me, anyways. Right now, it’s called shaving.”
She lifts an arm.
Let me tell you, there is something about a woman’s armpit: the tender softness, the pretty hiddenness of the flesh as I touch her, lather her, shave her. One armpit, then the other. I move around her in the bathtub to shave each part of her. My boxer shorts are tenting and she laughs.
“Main event now,” my sister tells me.
She stands, there is no shame in her, and pushes down her azure panties into the shallow pooling water at our feet.
“Here’s what you didn’t see this afternoon,” she half-whispers.
There is the mound of her, triangular, inverted. A thickness of lips, partly swollen, already a little parted to expose the inner flesh. She is, as promised, covered by a soft, unshaven down, and she is visibly damp inside her cleft.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. “You have the most beautiful …”
I pause. Unable to articulate the thing that I am looking at.
“Pussy,” Maggie says. “Say, Maggie, you have a beautiful pussy.”
“Maggie,” I say. “You have the most beautiful pussy.”
She smiles again, accepts the praise.
“Wow,” I tell her.
“Yeah,” Maggie says. And then, “Now you.”
A moment, then:
She says, “Then you can shave me.”
She says, “I know you’re hard. I told you it’s alright. I’m soaking wet inside. I’ve got two broken arms, but I’m beautiful. You touch me and I feel so beautiful. Please, Johnny. Let me see how beautiful you think I am.”
I think for a moment, decide. Then step out of my boxers too.
I’m massively engorged. My dick is and straining, almost dancing toward the ceiling.
“Well, Johnny, honey,” my sister says. “Is that really all about me?”
She looks at it and looks at me.
And after a minute, says, “You’re pretty beautiful yourself, you know.”
And then, “Okay, let’s shave me.”
She sits. etiler anal yapan escort I kneel in pooling water in the space between her knees. Beside me, hot water gushes from a faucet. I have a raging hard on in the presence of my sister.
“Washcloth?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
And so it is with my hand and fingers that I bring her water from the faucet, and dampen her where she is already, differently, damp, and cover the soft, dark down of her with cream. I stretch her outer lips with two fingers as I draw, gently, the plastic razor in small strokes along, across the delicate bottom of her cleft. She shudders -it is not a little thing – beneath my touch. While I harden more and more completely. Surprised that that’s even possible.
(But it is
because I am holding, touching my little sister’s pussy, I am shaving my sister’s lovely, sculptured lips. The secret pink of the inside part of her that I stroked through a washcloth only this afternoon, is blossoming outward at my watery touch)
Now I move the razor downward over her mons, watch (feel) thin lines of hair disappearing as the razor passes over her. I bring warm water from the faucet, pour it over her and stroke away shaving cream, hair stubble, water with my hands. She is all smoothness now. I have, it seems, every permission to look, to touch, to know and understand her.
She is so beautiful. And naked.
And I am (I think, I hope), beautiful too. There are no rules between us. Done, I sit back from her, regarding her, my member throbbing against my belly.
Can a man’s unfulfilled ridiculous hard-on be beautiful?
Can I be beautiful in my beautiful sister’s eyes?
“It’s okay,” Maggie says. “You can if you want.”
“Christ, Mags, you saying what I think you’re saying?”
She shrugs, naked.
We are naked in a bathtub together.
We are five years old.
We are twenty and twenty six.
My naked sister, two feet across from me.
“No rules, remember? And you won’t even have to think about me. So we can eliminate that complication. You can just look at me instead. I give you permission, Johnny. Just look.”
I touch myself.
I touch myself.
I am tentative at first, moving my hand along the underside of the poor, dancing thing.
“Is this alright?” I ask her.
“I said it was.”
And so, permitted, allow myself the luxury of wrapping my sex in my fingers and stroking slowly. And looking, as I do, at Maggie, her breasts, her broken arms, her eyes.
She looks back at me.
And puts her finger down inside her own cleft, moves with me, apart from me.
Says, looking, “Hey, let me help.”
And extends first one shaven leg and then the other. Her feet finding, caressing, finally replacing my hands and then,
“Holy fuck,” I say. “Foot job? Where’d you learn that?”
“From a lesbian friend. A teammate, actually.”
“She moonlit as a heterosexual.”
“She was good.”
The vast, incredible softness of her arches.
“And I’m not?”
“You, my darling sister, are amazing.”
“No rules,” she says. Her feet move like silk, like flesh, like water up and down my shaft. Her arches find my frenulum, I flinch and then relax into the soft intensity of her touch. While, across from me, two of her fingers move with a languor that develops its own intensity inside the new-smooth folds beneath her body.
I see her building.
So am I.
Her feet surround me, twist, stiffen with her own excitement.
“I didn’t” she says, looking down briefly at her fingers moving in her pussy, “think I could do this. By myself.”
“You aren’t,” I almost whisper. “You’re doing this with me.”
And then, without warning, she pitches forward, she is coming for the second time in a day, with me, in this bathtub, with the silkflesh soles of her feet squeezing, squeezing me, until I feel her presence deep inside my asshole and my belly and my dancing and contracting balls, an orgasm flows up into me and then I follow her lead and blow off like Vesuvius and I know my sister the deep way she knows me, I come while she touches me and touches, touches herself …
And there are no rules and we have broken them all.
And I love my sister.
And we slide town together from our opposite sides of the tub
until we are tangled, legs wound, still damp and detumescing.
“Oh, god,” I say to my sister; and
“Oh, wow,” she says to me.
And, “Maggie, what the hell are we doing?” I ask her.
And she has no answer
except to lean into, against me
the teardrops of her breasts crushing into her broken arms as they press, hard plaster against my chest
and I am holding her, touching, breathing her, and I am enveloping my sister’s broken, beautiful body inside the circle of my arms.
And I am thinking, O my god, this is incest.
And I am thinking, O sweet Jesus, this is love.
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