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I woke up in my own bed.
The slow, lazy feeling of waking up on a fine day with nothing to do is a nice one, being able to slowly wake up, letting your senses turn on bit by bit: the smell of clean sheets, the warmth of the air, the feel of good cotton on your skin. I was naked under the sheets; Mom must have cleaned us both up and put me to bed. I couldn’t complain. I stretched and yawned, and winced as muscles twinged and complained. I stretched again anyway, deliberately. A little workout would get rid of those aches, I was sure. But I wasn’t quite ready to get out of bed yet.
Instead, I let my hands trail over my skin, thinking of the past couple of days. I’d given my virginity to a friend of my parents’, a man named Neil Dodd, who had been a sex ther****t until his wife had died. He’d gone nearly full-on recluse after that, but he was handsome and sweet, and he’d taken good care of me….once I’d convinced him to do so. He’d taught me to deep throat, the pleasures of the slow build — the man liked to take his time — and introduced me to anal sex as well. And I had to confess — I loved it. I loved all of it. There had been some blood and some pain involved, but nothing worth doing is free of effort or cost, and it was worth it to me.
I cup my hands over my full breasts — good sized for my frame, full and round, capped by pale pink nipples that immediately harden against my own palms, reacting to the softness and warmth of my hands. I stroke light fingertips along the underswell, enjoying the sensation, and trace circles on my aureole before tugging on the nipples lightly. I remember Neil’s mouth on them, how he liked to nip with his teeth. A slow heat begins to build lower, but I ignore it for now, tracing lines around the weight of my breasts, the soft skin between, cupping and massaging them with a little more force now.
I’d come home to find my mother waiting for me, and we had showered together while I told her about it all. We’ve always been a close-knit family and we’re a bit odd as well, at least as people outside our home would think of us. She had brushed my hair, and I had found myself turned on, and we’d just …gone with it, right there in the shower, as she assured me that Dad wouldn’t be at all offended. My Amazon mother had tasted of the earth, and her mouth on me had sent me screaming into climax. I had made a joke about seducing Dad or Just, and she’d just told me to be careful, not to be offended if they turned me down, and not to get too tied up at home. The heat pools down in my belly, and I let my hands drift lower, tracing the shadows of my ribs and the taut muscles of my belly, lazy, undirected circles for now, as I close my eyes and let the touch become all.
I’d be lying if I said I never thought about Just, my brother. Hell, I’d thought about Dad, too, but it’s hard to compete with Mom. Just, though, is eleven months older than my nineteen years. He’d been taking college courses at home, I knew, though I wasn’t sure all of what he studied. He was, in some ways, the best combination of our parents — Mom’s height and athletic, powerful build, only masculine, and Dad’s fine, almost noble features. He had Dad’s eyes, a bright, merry blue. I was like the opposite — I had Dad’s medium stature, and a long-limbed, lean build, though with curves that must have owed something to Mom — firm, bountiful breasts that nevertheless fit my body rather than overbalancing it, and a narrow waist that flowed out gracefully into wide, full hips and an ass that turned heads. My own eyes are green, like Mom’s, like grass on a cloudy day, and I have delicate, almost sharp features that make me look elfin according to my brother. Top all this off with a wild mane of red hair that falls in a mass of ringlets, and that’s me. Just’s hair is straight, blond, like Mom’s, and I’ve always been jealous of it. I imagine running my hands through that fine blond hair, and sigh as my hands slip lower, running light fingers over my pelvis, tugging idly at the little strip of hair I keep there. I can feel the heat building between my thighs, the moisture growing, the desire becoming a need, and as I let one hand rise above my head to take a hold of the headboard, the other slips down between my legs and strokes lightly over my lower lips, parting them, coaxing out the wetness inside.
My vagina. I never liked that word. Too clinical, too detached. I like my pussy, my cunt, my vulva, my sex, my kitty, my juicebox, my love nest. We’re good friends, she and I. I’ve been a frequent masturbator for quite a while now, mostly with fingers but occasionally with toys; I was careful never to use anything penetrative, though. I was serious about keeping my virginity until I decided to give it away. It had been the hardest thing I had ever done, and I’d done it, and I was justifiably proud of myself for it, but now….ohh, now those doors were opened. My fingers trace my lips, tugging slightly, fingers becoming slick and wet, and I sigh again, wiggling to get a better angle as I caress myself, slowly building.
Yes, those doors were opened. I’d told Mom, when she’d asked if I was bisexual, I think I’m just sexual. Having sex with Neil had been like finally sating a need I hadn’t known I’d had. That’s what it had felt like; I’d heard other girls talking about scratching an itch or sating a hunger, but for me, it had fulfilled a need. And I wanted more. God, did I ever want more. I had some idea of just how much was out there, too, and I wanted to explore.
Granted, I had to be careful. There were dangers out there. People could be horrible, and a girl had to watch out for herself. Even so, the possibilities alone were enough to raise the heat between my thighs up a few notches, and my seeking fingers find my best friend, the little button, the man in the boat, the guide to the canyon, and begin rubbing slow circles around it. My breath begins to hitch, my hips to rock, pushing my pelvis into my fingers. I consciously keep it slow, pulling my breathing under control, though it deepens. In through the nose, out through the mouth, feel and taste the air as it flows through you; I can smell my rising arousal, and it makes me smile. My free hand comes back down to stroke and massage my breasts; the hand playing at my clit I keep moving in slow, stroking circles, teasing myself, letting the wanting, the need, the desire, mount. I want more. But not yet.
Eyes closed, I picture Just in my mind, tall and muscular and blond, smiling that devil’s smirk of his, and a groan escapes me as a bolt of pure want races through me, sizzling through my nerves. I saw a video once of an electric current burning patterns into wood, searing curlicues and fernlike curves as it followed the paths of least resistance, and that is how it feels, a heat that sparks along my nerves, leaving them charged, energized, needing more. I rest my palm on my clit, curling two fingers in, and slip them inside, curling them up, and I exhale, losing my breathing rhythm as I do. Muscles tense and my hips lift, as I start to work my hand, but it isn’t right, it isn’t enough; the need is mounting faster now, and I don’t have the discipline or the desire to hold it back. I need both hands.
My left hand — I am left handed, in case you are curious — continues to drive fingers into me, but I arch the wrist and slide my right down my body, letting the two hands focus on different jobs: the left penetrates while the right rubs the pearl. I’m still imagining Just, picturing myself licking his chest, his abs, running my hands over his skin, his hand in my hair as I pull down the ridiculous board shorts he always wears, and I picture his cock, the glorious tower of maleness, and I imagine how it tastes as I take it on my tongue, slide it into my mouth, taking control as I suck on my brother’s —
It hits me like a fist to the gut, as every muscle suddenly pulls taut, my abs contracting like they were electrified. I’ve experienced several different types of orgasms by this point; Neil’s slow build had almost made me pass out a couple times, and my mother’s touch had felt like a slow tightening of a spring, followed by a gentle release. This one is sudden, shocking, powerful, and the sharp contractions force a heavy grunt from me, a sound that would be embarrassing in company. But oh God, it feels amazing; that sizzling feeling just under my skin as white light sheets across my vision, and I curl in a ball, shivering at the pleasure of my release. Usually, I don’t get orgasms that intense from masturbation….but I am so not complaining. Maybe it was imagining Just, his cock in my mouth. I wanted it. Badly. This was no real surprise to me — but Just and I had a good relationship as siblings, not especially close but not distant or hostile either. I wanted to be careful.
Or….I could trust him. Isn’t that what Mom had said?
After a while, I peel myself out of bed — have to change the sheets again — and head for the shower. I don’t use the big room; our house has a couple private bathrooms, and my Dad remarked more than once that a happy home required at least one more bathroom than it had female residents. I personally agreed with him, and politely never pointed out how long Just took sometimes.
I wonder suddenly if he had been masturbating all those times, and again, I experience a shock of lust, coupled with an aftershock from the weirdly powerful orgasm I had had a bit ago. I shake my head; if I kept going like this, I’d be too raw to enjoy myself by afternoon. Pace yourself, Kady.
Right. Cold shower.
Necessaries taken care of, I head to the kitchen, where I can smell breakfast cooking, after throwing on an old sports jersey of Just’s that was just long enough to pretend to decency. Nobody really cared about a little casual nudity around the house, but Mom demanded clothing in the kitchen or at the table, claiming sanitary reasons. I have on panties underneath as well, but that was as far as I was willing to dress today. I’d graduated high school earlier in the year — it was late summer now — at nineteen (late year birthday), and the rule was that I could stay under my parent’s roof for up to a year without worrying about a job or college — cooldown time, they called it. After that, I’d start paying rent, unless I went to college. If I chose college, they’d support me, as long as I kept my GPA up. I never wondered about my family’s financial state; we always seemed to have enough, and never wanted for much, but I suppose had I thought about it, I’d have realized that that deal? Required a lot of money on my parents’ part.
But none of this is on my mind as I slide into my chair at the long table where we share meals. Mom’s cooking, eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, God knows what else but it will taste amazing, and Dad’s already at the table eating a bagel and reading something on his tablet. Mom also has a rule about electronics at the table, but Dad gets a pass because of work, and because Dad. I’m not sure she knows how to tell him no.
Just breezes in from outside, slipping a shirt over that beautifully muscled chest I had been imagining licking earlier (down, girl), and sliding into the seat across from me. He’d been outside swimming in our pool; his blond hair is slicked to his head, but he’d made some effort to dry himself. The urge to just stare at him is overpowering, so I don’t fight it; instead, I decide to play with it, and I prop one elbow on the table, rest my chin on it, and lock my green eyes on him, devouring his features with my gaze.
I’ll give him credit; he ignores me with great fortitude for several long minutes. I just stare and stare, and ignore Mom’s snicker when she puts our plates in front of us. Finally, as he’s salting his eggs (ew), he stops, salt shaker in one hand, and looks up at me.
“You know, that’s really kinda creepy,” he tells me, setting the salt shaker down.
I just grin widely at him, adopting a slightly vacant look. He reaches across the table and steals one of my pieces of bacon, and that breaks my act. I grab my fork and make as if to stab his hand. “Hey!” I protest. “Not the food! And definitely not the bacon!”
Without even looking, it seems, Dad reaches out and plucks the threatening utensil from my hand. “No bloodshed at the table, please,” he says in a calm, even tone. “Just, you know how she feels about her bacon.”
“I’d expect her to be a bigger fan of sausage,” Just says mildly, and Dad looks up from his tablet, favoring his eldest c***d with a level gaze that makes Just blush. Meanwhile, after the brief moment of startlement the comment causes, Mom and I burst out in near hysterical giggles. Dad passes a long-suffering look at us, then sighs and goes back to his work on the tablet.
“Well played, bro,” I compliment Just, and offer a fist-bump across the table. He takes it — giving me the opportunity to steal one of his slices of bacon. His protests are ignored, and I smirk at him as I devour my prize.
All’s fair in love and bacon.
It’s a hot, lazy day, and I decide I’m going to spend it sunning. After a couple of hours of yoga with Mom — which does not devolve into lesbian shenanigans, sadly; Mom’s capable of pretty intense focus — I grab some sunscreen and head out to the pool. We have high fences and a lot of foliage and no real neighbors, so Mom and I, and sometimes Just, will often sunbathe nude out here. Mom and Just tan. My pale skin simply crisps, unless I use a really strong sunscreen, but I like the sensation of warmth and light on my skin. So I head out and bake, slathering sunscreen all over my front. Maybe, if I’m careful, I can work up some sort of tan. Mostly, I just seem to grow freckles.
The sun feels so good. I lay there with a cloth over my eyes to block out the glare, feeling heat sink into my breasts and belly and thighs, relaxing and soothing. I hear the door slide open and shut, and then Just’s voice — his feet make no sound on the deck.
“Need some help with your back?”
I try not to smile. Just has seen me — and Mom — laid out like this often. He’s a genuinely good person, as far as I know — he’s taking online courses and occasionally attends actual classes. I don’t know what he’s studying. I’m pretty sure he’s mostly unaware that he’s handed me a line straight out of porn.
“Sure,” I tell him, and reach down beside the chair I’m laying on to hand him the sunscreen. Then I turn over, pillow my head on my hands, and wait for him to get to work.
From the first touch of his hands on my back, the cool lotion contrasting with the warm skin, I know I’m in trouble. I want my brother. Badly. And oh, God, is he good with his hands. He’s not just rubbing the lotion in, he’s giving me a good relaxing massage too, kneading the muscles into loose melty slackness, and he’s pulling little sighs out of me that I hope he keys into. If he catches those little signs, he gives no indication. When his hands begin to knead and stroke my butt, however, I can’t help it; I raise my hips a bit, pushing back against his hands. He chuckles, pushing me back down, and I moan as he continues. He can’t possibly miss my arousal; I can feel it, heat and wetness between my thighs, my pussy wanting. He’s kneeling beside me, and I wish he were kneeling over me, astride me, so I could push my hips back against him, feel his cock under his shorts.
I turn my head, finding him with my eyes. He’s barechested again, and that sends another little spike of lust through me, but he doesn’t see my face; his attention is on his work, as he strokes and kneads my thighs, which spread for his touch like an opening flower. He’s smiling, and I know: he knows. He knows exactly the effect he’s having on me, and he’s enjoying it. Even if his smile weren’t an indication, the tent in his shorts would be. I can’t quite reach it in our current positions.
“Just,” I breathe, and he looks at me, sees my face, and stops, his own expression going slack. The physical response, he expected. The look of naked desire on my face, in my eyes, he wasn’t prepared for. It makes me smile, slow and lazy.
“Kady?” he asks quietly.
“Do you want me, Just?” I ask softly, heat in my tone and my gaze.
He takes a long time to answer, blue eyes meeting my green, and the held stare crackles with heat and want. “Yeah,” he says, finally.
“Good,” I tell him, and close my eyes. “Take me like this. You’ve made me too relaxed to move. But I want you too, Just. Please. Now.”
He hesitates. I almost think he’s walked away. Then I hear his board shorts hit the deck, and feel him straddle me, his cock — god, it feels even bigger than I imagined — settle between the cheeks of my ass. I murmur and push back against him, and he leans forward, his breath on my ear.
“You’re sure, Kady?”
“I’m sure, Just. Slow, please. I want to….I want to savor it.”
He moves my hair and kisses the back of my neck, then reaches between us, and then I feel him, seeking, and I arch my hips, and there. We both sigh as he slides into me, and I realize, he is big. Bigger than Neil was. My hands clench on the frame of the chaise, and I hiss as he stretches me on the inside, a deep groan following as he goes deeper than I had realized he could, and I let my head fall, my hair making a curtain around me.
“Kady?” I hear him ask.
“Good,” I sigh, with a little mewling note to the word. “So good. Full of you.”
“You feel amazing,” he whispers, and begins to move, and I am lost. The length of him, the breadth of him, stone hard and burning hot, drags against my slickened flesh, which grasps at him, seeking to keep him, to draw him deeper. God. It feels so good. The slow pace is necessary; I think he would kill me if he went faster.
I’m making little noises, hitches and sighs and gasps and mewls, as he moves within me, stroking into the core of me, stoking the fire within me. Once again, there is the sensation of being completed, fulfilled, of something missing being finally restored, of being whole, and I sink into it. I’m not sure why I ask for what I ask for. I’m not big into domination games. Occasional spice, sure, but I am a powerful and beautiful person and I do not bow; that’s not my kink. But the little things — having Neil hold my wrists down, for example — add spice. I’ll never call any man Master nor any woman Mistress. But I trust Just.
“Cover my mouth,” I whisper to him. “Cover my mouth with your hand.”
He does, and with his next thrust, I scream into his hand. Maybe I knew it was coming. I’m not a screamer, as a rule, by my own experience. Oh, I tend to make a lot of noise, but I don’t often indulge in the banshee howls that are so popular in porn. Only when it is so intense I lose my senses do I ever scream, and then it feels as if the sound is pushed out of me. Just’s hand over my mouth is warm, still slightly slick and smelling of coconut, and I close my eyes and just let go, crying and screaming my joy into his hand as he fucks me on the chaise on the deck next to our pool. My brother’s cock in me is the center of my attention, the sensation of penetration filling me, his cock filling me with heat and electricity, and I feel the wave building, and I am a little afraid.
But I trust Just.
The orgasm tears through me like a tornado through a trailer park, and I feel devastated by its passage, my vision going blank, my mind stopping, my body tensing, and my pussy contracts around his cock like a vise. I shudder under him, screaming into his hand — glad I thought of that — and feel him shudder above me, as he swells and pulses, bathing my insides with his essence, burning hot and soothing all at once, and he collapses onto me, gasping for breath, letting go of my face as I too gasp for lungfuls of sweet warm Mississippi air.
“Jesus, Kady,” he says, and his weight on me isn’t uncomfortable; I feel safe and warm and relaxed now, and while I wouldn’t want him there for very long, I don’t want him to move just yet.
“These chairs are amazing,” I mumble, and after a startled second, Just begins to laugh, which does interesting things to the softening cock inside of me. I wish it would stay hard. I squirm a bit, not to get him off me, but in hopes of keeping him inside.
“Really, Kady?” he chokes, and much to my regret, peels himself off me to sit next to my head, playing with my hair. Okay. I suppose that’s all right. “The chairs are what you think of?”
“How did we not break the damn thing?” I ask, and he snickers more. I open one eye, finding him there, playing with my hair, and finally get a look at the cock that so filled me up. It’s impressive, even soft, and Just shaves; his balls look big and heavy, and his cock is circumcised, and I find my mouth watering. I raise my gaze to his face; he’s smiling at me, his teeth strong and white, and I raise up and sit up, ignoring protesting parts, and pull his head in for a long, slow kiss.
Just obliges, and the kiss is warm, soft, loving. He knows how to kiss, and somewhere inside, I feel my personal engine turning over again. I break the kiss, rest my forehead to his, and sigh.
“Good?” he asks.
“Good,” I tell him.
After a few moments, he says, “We should probably talk about this. I mean. Expectations.”
I raise two fingers and put them over his lips. “None. I wanted you. I want a lot of things. I love you, Just. This was a way to express that. I’m not looking to commit to anything, or to make you do so. I want to explore.”
Another few moments. “Is this going to happen again?” he asks.
“I have absolutely no objections to that,” I sigh, “and may indeed put forth vocal encouragement. Christ, Just. You’ve got a cock like a…..well. It’s big. God.”
That makes him laugh, and he leans back on his hands and grins at me. “I’m pretty proud of it,” he says modestly, then stands up, extending his hand to me. “Come on. Let’s go for a swim.”
I take his hand, but don’t stand, instead using the hand to steady myself as I slip to my knees in front of him. This is getting to be a tradition with me, and he looks down at me, blinking, as I reach up and cradle his softened cock, coated and slimy with semen and my own juices, and take it into my mouth, tasting our combined discharge, cleaning him with my tongue and sucking lightly. I love the taste. Earthy, rich, thick, heavy, a little salty, a little bitter. I wrap my small hands around him, squeezing his ass, the muscles like rocks beneath my hands, and Just makes a low sound in his throat, his hand threading through my wild red hair. I hum around the cock in my mouth, and little muscles in his thighs jump and twitch, but it’s too soon — even as young as Just is, he needs time to recover.
That’s all right. I think I do too.
One last stroke of my tongue along his cock and I release him, sitting back and smirking up at him with a devilish expression. He looks down at me, and then the smallest hint of a smile quirks up his lips.
“So I was right,” he says, and waits long enough to continue so I can guess it’s a setup for a joke. I stay on my knees and tilt my head quizzically, my hands resting on his hips. “You DO like sausage.”
Snorting, I shove him into the pool.
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