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I'd been obsessed with my younger sister's sex life for almost twoyears when I finally found the courage and the means to take a part init. In fact, my obsession had probably been developing for quite sometime before that without my noticing it, my teenage unconscious takingin the form of her developing body, her budding breasts, her pheromonesand whatnot since the onset of her puberty; but it was not until onenight at our father's when she was thirteen that I first consciouslythought about my little sister having sex.
You see, our parents had separated early in our lives, realizingshortly after Cristy's birth that even this second child could do littleto heal their strained relationship. From that time on (I was fiveyears old and Cristy barely one) we used to spend every Monday andTuesday at our father's, who was a chemist at the university and workedon flexitime, while our mother did all-day shifts at the hospital. Wehad only one room together at his flat, which didn't bother me until Istarted masturbating at age twelve, and stopped bothering me again afterthe night in question, when suddenly I could think of nothing morearousing than lying just across the tiny room from my sleeping sisterand jacking off breathlessly while watching her chest go up and down. Some nights I even snuck out of my bed and crept over to hers to touchher breasts through the thin fabric of her nightdress, my heart racingall the time at the thought of her waking and catching me in the act,while at the same time hoping that she would, that she would grab me,furious, and force me to make love to her. Such were the contents of mydreams, my guilty pleasures.
But I must explain. That night, the one night all of this began, Iwoke up from troubled dreams around midnight to find her bed empty. Naturally, I should have assumed that she had simply gone to take aleak; but my dreams had been such that more fantastic and sinisterinterpretations immediately presented themselves. I held my breath andlistened closely to the sounds of the night: There was no water running,as would have to be expected if she had indeed gone to the toilet, but Icould make out a rhythmic thumping sound, accompanied by what I quicklytook to be the muted moans of sexual pleasure, from somewhere beyondthe room. I later rationalized that the source of these noises, whichmight in fact not have been sexual at all except to my excited mind,could have been anywhere in the adjoining flats, thanks to the riddlesof sound travelling through walls and ducts and everything; and mysister had probably just gone on one of her pathetic nightly excursionsto the bathroom to cry or whatever it was she did in there when shelocked herself in for hours; but that night, in that momend, I wasutterly convinced that she'd gone to my father's room to sleep with him,and that the two had had it going for some time.
It is not unlikely in retrospect that I was simply jealous of theunderstanding and the intimate relationship I had witnessed blossomingbetween my father and my sister in the months before. After a period ofunbelievable aloofness, when nothing my father (or my mother, or myself,for that matter) could say or do stood any chance of pleasing her,Cristy suddenly appeared to have relented, towards Dad at least, eagerlysnatching him away as soon as we arrived at his place to tell him herdeepest secrets and whatnot, while I was supposed to wait in the kitchen(but of course I'd listen in, until I decided that I really did notneed to hear about every minor fluctuation in her friendships, and myfather patiently comforting her). I hadn't been close, physically, toeither my father or my mother since I'd started school, deciding orbeing subliminally told that it was improper for the grown boy I sawmyself as to indulge in cuddling, kissing or hugging his parents; so theonly association I had with behaviour like this was the sexuallycharged intimacy between people my own age, where holding hands wasactually paramount to having sex, as you (as a boy anyway) would neverwant to be caught holding hands with anyone that you were not 'togetherwith', as in 'sleeping with' or 'going to sleep with when the time isright'. It shouldn't be surprising, therefore, that I interpreted thephysical intimacy between my little sister and my dad accordingly.
I did not get up and sneak into the hall to confirm mysuspicions, maybe simply because I expected to be disappointed, insteadjacking off in my bed at the thought of Cristy and Dad going at it. Iresolved to stay awake till she came back, probably panting and sweatyand smelling of sex, but I came at the thought and quickly fell asleepsoon afterwards. In the morning she was back, and as inscrutable asever.
From that night on, I watched my sister for traces of sex, forall the little signs which to my mind had to show when and where andwith whom she had had, or was going to have it going. A rosy face in themorning, a particularly drowsy look when she came home from balletclass, a certain smell around her I would later learn was the perfumeDad had secretly given her for Christmas; black underwear in the clothesbin, because I remembered having read somewhere that no girl ever wearsblack underwear unless she wants it to be seen; every noise of herturning in her bed in the room next to mine when we were home, and everybreath that was a little louder than her usual sleep-breathing spoke tome of secret masturbation. As I said, I was obsessed.
Of course my sister was having sex. Sure, she was only thirteen (laterfourteen, then fifteen), and according to popular legend good girls werenot supposed to be sexually active before sweet sixteen at the veryearliest, and being my sister Cristy of course HAD to be a good girl;but the sheer lust I felt when thinking about her, when secretly lookingat her breasts, sniffing her bras, taking long and usually frustratingpeeks through the keyhole when she was taking a shower. . . all thatcouldn't just be my fault, my sick fantasies without any basis in fact;or could they? No, I was sure: little Cristy was a slick seductress, afragrant open flower basking in the glow of her own sexual pleasure.
That she had to have sex on a regular basis was the more obviousto me when I considered how much I secretly wanted to have sex with heror with other girls of her age, and then generalized this desire to allmen, because how could anybody not want such a high-breasted, rosy,steaming lump of pleasure? Therefore, I concluded that if every manwanted her, she could have sex where and whenever she wanted; and thatshe wanted it was the other thing I was completely sure of. I mean, howcould anyone wear such a body and not enjoy it to the max?Inconceivable, right?
So I imagined, when she was sleeping over at a friend's, how shewould actually be having a rolling night with some mysterious demonlover, candles and all, in a basement flat; or when she had to stay atschool for drama class while I went home, how she'd knock on the door ofthat arts teacher she appeared to be so fond of and pull up her skirtfor him in his office, her teeth clenched so as to muffle the sound ofher orgasms. And things got worse when she fell out with my mother.
Anyway, that's when it got much worse. I had kept a close watchon Cristy for most of the time during our nights at Dad's, without everreally finding proof for the secret relationship I was sure they werehaving; but there were a lot of what seemed to be clues which Imeticulously recorded and expanded upon, ranging from overly wetmouth-to-mouth kisses to suspiciously long secret conversations andnightly visits to the toilet. When Cristy started spending time at Dad'salone, however, my imagination went completely out of bounds. I begandrawing little comics with awfully detailed anatomy depicting theirimagined trysts: Cristy undressing as soon as she closed the door behindher; my father lifting her up against the wall and ramming his dickinto her to her squeals of delight; Cristy and Dad in the departmentstore (apparently they went shopping a lot together then), she in aflowery skirt, taking underwear into the changing room, where Dad kneelsdown to dive under her skirt and lick her till she has to bite her fistso she doesn't scream; Cristy and Dad having breakfast, she of coursenaked, and when she's eaten up he calls her over for "dessert", openshis fly and has her suck his cock, her eyes bulging a little when hesquirts into her. . . Like that. I used the comics to jerk off, of course,and carried them around with me wherever I went, because I liked to goat it in unusual places such as train toilets or the changing cubiclesat the school spa. Especially the changing cubicles at the school spa. There was one cubicle that was right next to the girls' cubicles,without a slit at the bottom to look through, of course, but still thewall was thin enough to hear their voices and the sound of their clothesscraping against their skin if you put your ear to the wall. And Ibelieve I once actually heard a girl masturbating on the other side,although unfortunately at the time I was much too excited to jack off tothe sound of it myself, and much too slow in getting to the pool to seewho of the girls it might have been.
And then, one day, I left the comics in the cubicle by accident.
Luckily, it didn't happen. We'll come back to what happened tothe comics later. In the meanwhile, something more important came topass.
I found my sister's pills.
This is two years after the fateful night, Cristy's fifteen nowand all things considered it shouldn't have come as a surprise. Butstill my heart stopped when during one of my secret forays throughCristy's stuff I found a decorated box with these small little slipsinside, the aluminum foil stamped with the days of the week so youwouldn't forget to take one each day. It was Thursday (Cristy was indrama class). The pills from Monday through Thursday had been taken.
She was taking the pill.
To understand my agitation at the thought, you have to realizethat this was the first actual proof that I had found for my sisterbeing sexually active. The tampons had been exciting alright, thethought of this little thingy going into my sister's pussy, and I hadeven thought about jacking off on one so something from me would getinto her pussy with it, but then didn't do it for fear of making herpregnant (stupidly, of course, as I realized later) and because Icouldn't think of a way to reseal the plastic jacket after the fact.
That's when I knew I had to do something.
Up to this point some part of me had always told the other partsthat all this smut about my little sister was probably only myimagination, and surely I had no right to assume anything and act uponthose dirty fantasies by, for example, trying to seduce Cristy for real. For all I knew, she could really have been the Good Girl, clean anduntouched by anything sexual while unfairly made into a sexual fantasyby myself, the Bad Pervert; but now I was sure that she was actually theHot Seductress, the steaming rosy panting sex girl of my dreams. I hadto do something. She had a sex life, and I longed to, I had to insertmyself into it in some way or other. Only how?
You see, I never believed in rape. In the porn stories I used toread over the internet (cleaning the cache immediately after jackingoff, of course, paranoid as anyone) it seemed to be a general assumptionthat if you wanted to fuck your sister or anyone else you're notsupposed to, you needed to rape her one way or the other for her torealize that it actually feels good and become your willing sex toy forever and after. That is, if she didn't want it herself from the startand take initiative on you, which was even more commonly the case inincest porn. So naturally I started being on the lookout for signalsfrom her that she was interested in having sex with me, but no. Irealized quickly that no matter what the porn theorists said, not everysister is beneath it all and always secretly hot for her older brother. Not my sister, anyway. If there was anyone she appeared to be hot for,it was still my father, though I'm sure that would have pleased the porntheorists as well.
But I had to do something.
That's when I came upon an ad for Seduction, Incorporated.
In the security and silence of the loo I went on to examine thefolder more closely. The claims it made struck me as ridiculous atfirst: it advertised a drug which could allegedly turn any woman into asex-crazed nymphomaniac for a couple of hours, ready to have (and enjoy)sex with any willing partner, regardless of sympathy or attractivity orwhatever. And probably regardless of family ties as well, I thought,shaking my head. This couldn't be real. Maybe it was some kind of wickedsatire, probably intended as a gender-political intervention, or even atrap to lure out abusive men; if this were real, I was sure, it wouldhave been illegal. Even if anybody had managed to pull off somethinglike this pill, which I for all I knew might well be possible, what withall the artificial pheromones and stuff, they surely wouldn't advertiseit via mailshot folders.
Ironically, this was probably the only thing I would have found more credible if I had found it on the internet.
And of course, I jerked off instantly after making the decisionto the image of the peaking woman on the flyer and the thought of mysister wriggling and panting under me. They looked at me kind ofsuspiciously when I came out of the toilet, which was hardly surprisinggiven how long I'd been in there and how dishevelled I must have looked,but I decided that it didn't matter. It was of no consequence whatCristy thought of me now, when I was sure she would be lusting for mydick not long from now.
I'll make it short now. Yes, I wrote that e-mail, from ananonymous address, of course, and I got an answer. Apparently thecompany had not expected anyone to apply for the beta testing so soon,but they seemed pleased enough with it and offered to send a sample ofthe drug to whatever address I provided. Again, with the possible meansfor living out my dreams so close at hand, I wasted some days angstingover whether this might yet turn out to be a trap and whether I couldrisk giving away my real address, but then did it anyway, jerking offquite literally at the thought of what a big and risky step I'd taken.
The pills came with a disturbingly straightforward manualdetailing exactly how many of them you had to crunch and sprinkle oversome meal, or dissolve in a drink (non-alcoholic) to induce a sex-crazein your victim for a given time, with a given intensity. My heart waspounding at the prospect, and of course I took every conceivable measureto ensure that nobody would ever find the pills in my possession.
The first opportunity presented itself only a few days later whenmy mother was on night shift and Cristy and I were home alone. Ioffered to make sandwiches, which she accepted with a grunt, and withshaking hands I sprinkled her sandwich and mixed some of the powder intoher apple juice as well for good measure. I couldn't help staring asshe ate and drank up, but this time she hardly seemed to notice it, asif she was preoccupied with something else entirely. She was probablylooking at her own reflection in the kitchen window as her cheeks slowlyturned even rosier than usual, her pupils expanding and contractingwildly, and her breath audibly deepening. When she finally turned herhead to look at me, all of my blood seemed to rush from my head and intomy groin, where my penis was standing up as hard as ever.
I did not have to be asked. Shaking a little, I got up and walkedover to her side of the table, bending down awkwardly to be able tolook into her eyes, and desperately trying to think of things I couldsay or do that were innocuous enough to explain away if it didn't work.
I had to suppress a grin as I laid a hand on her shoulder andsaid, softly: "Come on, let me help you up. We should probably get youto bed or something. " I believe her eyes lit up a little at the mentionof a bed (and at the thought of what it is you can do in a bed, mostlikely), and she took my hand and rose. I didn't step back, so that whenshe was upright, her body brushed against mine, and shaking off my lastdoubts about the efficiency of the pills, I put my arms around herslender body and hugged her, the way I hadn't hugged anyone anymoresince I'd been five or six. She felt surprisingly small at the touch,but also warm and soft, and I could feel her heart pounding both throughher breasts into my chest and in the palm of my hand through the backof her ribcage. Slowly, I drew back, tracing my cheek along hers untilour foreheads touched.
Her lips were burning, moving softly, longing to be kissed. Ipressed my mouth against hers, closed my eyes and gave in to thefeeling. I had not had much practice in kissing, but she was passionateenough a kisser to make up for both of us. Almost without consciousthought my arms moved over the backside of her body while we made out inthe kitchen, pressing her to me, feeling her up and gently stroking herat the same time.
"I. . . I'll get you to bed", I stammered breathlessly when shefinally broke the kiss and stared at me with inscrutably deep black eyesand flaming cheeks. She simply nodded and went along with me as I ledher by the shoulders, like some silly kid, through the hallway and intoher bedroom. Kicking the door closed behind me and praying that mymother wouldn't come home early from her shift, I led her to the bed andlaid her down, almost surprised how easy everything was going, howquickly it was devolving. We had already kissed like any pair of lovers,and there was no question of what was to follow. She opened her armsfor me as I bowed down towards her to kiss her again, and in a matter ofseconds I was halfway straddling her, kissing her mouth and face andneck while rubbing my hand around her waist trying to find a way underher shirt. She helped me, finally, pushing me away for a second andsitting up to pull off her vest and shirt in one deft movement, thenstaring at me for another heart-wrenching moment and reaching behind herback to open her bra. When we went down kissing again, hergrapefruit-sized breasts seemed to melt into my hand, pushing themselvesagainst my palm, nipples like rubber stoppers catching between myfingers, wanting to be tweaked and rubbed and kissed and licked, when Ifinally left her mouth to pant away and made my way down her glowingbody, licking up traces of sweat that had already collected in the smallcavity at the bottom of her ribcage, while my fingers fumbled at herfly until she couldn't bear it anymore and opened it herself, prying hertrousers off her like she had the shirt and struggling with the socksin a weird little moment of prenuptial humor.
Again, she helped me, lifting her pelvis so I could pull the lastpiece of clothing off her, leaving her naked and exposed. When shenoticed that I was staring at the patch of dark hair covering her mons,however, she reached up and dragged me down to kiss her once again, herhands running over my bare chest and back no less lustfully than mineover her hips. When I finally dipped a finger between her legs to whipup some of the warm moisture there, she spasmed, pressed her thighstogether only to spread them again split-seconds later, even lifting herknees to allow me better access to her most sensitive places, and herarms clung to me, drew me closer, her kisses grew in agitation, teethbrushing against my lips, her tongue drawing mine deeper into the wetcavity of her mouth; and then suddenly I was above her, my hips slidingeffortlessly in between her legs, my pelvis thrusting against hers in aninstinctive movement before I even had time to realize that I was justabout to really enter her.
I didn't stop. Her looks and kisses told me unambiguously thatshe was ready, that she wanted it, and when I finally thrust my penisinto her, it didn't take me more than three or four pushes to get it allthe way inside, and would have taken less if I hadn't been stillsomehow afraid of hurting her. But she was just about as wet between herlegs as she was in her mouth, and as my dick slipped in and out of her,my pelvis crashing against hers, driving her to screams of delight, asurging happiness unlike anything I'd ever experienced boiled up withinme; not simply a more satisfying orgasm than any to date, but somethingdeeper, not purely physical but truly all-encompassing: the knowledgethat this moment, or the moment after that, the moment I would spill myseed inside my little sister was not only the fulfilment of my dreams oftwo years, but also merely the beginning of something much greater, apossibly endless affair, a life of free, unbridled sensuality. When Ifinally came, I pressed my eyelids together as tightly as I could andheld my breath while my body exploded into her; I wanted the moment tolast forever.
It didn't, of course, but I can't say that I was disappointed. Slowly and almost painfully I slid out of her and laid down beside her,my hands still stroking her body, which was wet all over now andpulsating with blood and her excited breathing. I must confess now that Ididn't know exactly when she had peaked while I'd been fucking her, hermoans and cries and pushes and drags having provided the backdrop formy own orgasmic experience rather than occupying the centre of myattention. But when she turned her head to stare at me as if indisbelief at what we'd done, I made her close her eyes again instantlyby slipping my hand between her legs and gently rubbing at her clitoris,which was easy to find now in its swollen state. My sister clenched herteeth and pressed her thighs together for an instant; but it didn'ttake long for her to peak again, noisily, clawing at me and themattress, biting her pillow and shivering in spasms of ecstasy. At somepoint, she actually tried to pull away from me, half-panting somethinglike "enough!", but her voice and the movements of her pelvis told methat it was the exact opposite she wanted, and her cries as I whipped upa fingerful of my sperm and her juices running out of her and rubbingit into her clit confirmed that what she seemed to have thought of asher climax and "enough" hadn't been anywhere near it.
Now I can honestly say that I can think of nothing more excitingthan my sister wriggling and moaning beside me in her bed, knowing thatit's my finger driving her into these far-out realms of pleasure andknowing that pills or no pills, she will want to do it again and again.
Finally (that is, after something like her third post-coitalorgasm in a row) she really pushed my hand away and rolled over to lieon her belly so I couldn't get to her pussy anymore; but I was not yetfinished. My dick was already quite hard again, although my balls feltsomewhat sore, so when I lowered myself down over her back it slideffortlessly between her thighs. Its tip must have brushed up againsther anus, because she let out a little protesting scream, but when Iworked her legs apart with my knees and let my hip slide down a littleto enter her pussy from behind, she actually helped me, getting up toall fours as I pulled on her hip and started thrusting inside her again,reaching with one hand under her body and massaging her clit againuntil her vaginal muscles contracted in a final fit, milking what littlesperm was left inside me out of my dick and into her juicy pussy. Itwas painful and incredibly exciting at the same time; it was likesomething in me reacted very strongly to the animal nature of taking awoman from behind. After that, I was spent for good; I curled up in hersweaty bed and fell asleep in a matter of seconds, only dimly noticingmy sister getting up and staggering out of the room.
She woke me the moment she came back, still smelling of sex andsperm but wrapped in a dressing gown and with a curious wrinkle on herbrow. "Are you crazy!", she hissed at me, grabbing my arm and draggingme up to my knees. One last drop of semen fell from the tip of my penisand landed in the middle of her pillow; I don't know why I even noticedit among the mess we'd made. "I'm your sister!", she hissed on,apparently at a loss for words to describe the utter impossibility ofwhat we'd done. "And you're just lucky that I'm on the pill,otherwise. . . " Apparently she didn't have a word for the alternative. "Iknew that", I said, clumsily getting to my feet.
She glowered at me for a second, her jaw set, and for the spaceof three heartbeats I feared the worst: that she would expose me, haveme tried for rape and incest or something, that she would tell Mom. . . but no. "You better get into your own bed", she growled, the insecurityshe'd hidden so well by whispering now clearly audible in the shaking ofher voice. "Mom could be home any minute, so hurry!"
She was right, and honestly I was even in a way relieved at theexcuse to leave her, to hastily wipe the thick residue of her pussyjuices and my sperm off my dick and then slip into my own, cool, cleanbed, instinctively holding my aching balls as I curled up and went tosleep.
I will not tell you of my dreams. In the morning, my sister shotme what she probably thought was a warning look, although again I couldsee all the self-doubts, all the insecurity and angst to be expectedafter something like this, after having done something so clearlyillegal and immoral for no reason you can think of, and having enjoyedit way more than you should have by your own or any other standard. Whather dreams had been that night, I would have liked to know, but shewould never tell me.
(To be continued - if you like it!)
