In the shafts of light coming in between the curtains I see her, lying asleep, and what I see are spheres and slopes and sweeps of skin. The streetlight's glow outlines suggestions of hills and mounds, tied together by shadow-cloaked valleys. She had been my land of dreams and now I float offshore, as it were, gazing at my dreams made real. I am home.
Karla is a large girl, pleasingly rubenesque, lush in her proportions.
I used to think as society had programmed me to, that anorexia, bulimia and heroin-chic were 'beauty' and 'desirability', but another woman had changed that opinion for me, and I began to see beauty all around me.
I see it in the undulations of womanly flesh as these ladies move through the world like majestic cruise ships, every deck packed with delights. I see it in full breasts, no matter their size, a lack of slackness, a rich impression of fruit at the height of succulence. I see it in bottoms so round and full that they call to me to wrap my hands around them and hold them for hours. I see it in women with figures, with tits and asses that look like what they are, instead of infected insect stings, bare bumps upon a board-like body.
And the personification of all this beauty I found in Karla.
I had to have her, I had to love her, I had to make love to her, I had to fuck her, I had to explore every cleft and crevice of her, I had to lose myself in her flesh and her mouth and her cunt, I had to devour her and be devoured by her. She obsessed me.
The fact that she was my younger sister only postponed the inevitable by 6 months.
I was 19 and Karla 18 when our mother moved us all to a new city, although calling it a 'college town' would be more accurate. And it's a good thing it was a college town. The college employed Mom and that helped her afford our enrollment and allowed us to have certain luxuries.
Our father had said his goodbyes when I was 6, and Mom had put her nose to the grindstone and kept it there ever since, leaving Karla and me to raise each other, with only occasional guidance from her. Overall, we did well. We could go out in public together or separately and not embarrass each other, or our mother. We got compliments on our manners. We probably were closer than other siblings but reciprocally, our fights were probably fiercer. Karla's size had helped her win the physical portions of those fights for years, until my hormones decided they were tired of me getting my ass kicked and decided to give me a few more inches and more muscle mass.
I had endured a lot of grief because of my sister during our high school years.
Karla craved love, physical affection and acceptance. But as an overweight girl in high school, she got derision, a collection of friends in the same boat as she, and hoards of dates where the guy refused to be seen in public with her, but would let her blow him.
And after each disastrous night out, I would find myself with the unenviable task of comforting her, trying to help her put her psyche back into some kind of functional shape, mouthing words about her physical attractiveness that I didn't believe at the time.
And while I felt I had the right to say negative things about her physical appearance, although I never did, I was, by God, the only one allowed to. So, teenage males being the way they are, I got in a lot of fights. I racked up a lot of visits to the principal. The only saving grace was that Mother was on my side. I could tell her I took offense at comments someone made about Karla and she'd have my back against any principal, any teacher, anyone. My Mother saw a lot of herself in Karla, as they were both very similar in build and appearance.
And now that my sister had joined me in college, the whole cycle was starting again. She had a date with a guy I'd run across in one of my classes. I knew she was in for another bad night.
And that was what I'd been praying would happen.
Once I'd had my sexual landscape changed from the plains of angles and sharp points to the delightfully decadent realm of hedonistic, mountainous excess, I had been hard pressed to control myself around Karla. Her beauty, new to my eyes, blinded me and as my physical desire grew, it changed my love for her as well. I began to love her as a person, a person I wanted to be with, a person I desired, a person I wanted to make happy, a person whose happiness mattered to me to an ever-increasing degree. All this was in my heart, but at the forefront of my reality was my desire for her.
I began to create more friction between us, more excuses to fight, although not pushing her so far as to anger her, just enough to annoy her. I realized quickly that no matter how much I wanted to lose each and every fight, to lay defeated beneath her, covered in the avalanche of warmth and sensuality that is her body, to do so would look suspicious. Although in my heart of hearts I felt I had no chance of my plan succeeding, to tip my hand too soon would destroy any small chance I might conceivably have, and bring the fantasy castle I was building in my head crashing down. So I won about half our fights, and lay there upon her, gloating, for longer than I might have previously, always carefully keeping my crotch out of danger, and out of view. No good could come of letting her see my erection, straining beneath my pants.
I have laundry duty in the house. For years I've had to endure the trials of dealing with women's lingerie, but now I looked at them in a different way. Not a laundry day went by when a couple of pairs of Karla's panties wouldn't go missing along with me up to my bedroom. One pair, clutched in my left hand, crushed against my face, my nostrils slowly breathing in the traces of her, her cunt, her musk. The other pair, in my right hand, I wrapped around my dick as I masturbated furiously. Then, spent, I and her panties would return to the laundry room to finish the chore. If it was a heavy laundry day, the panties and I might make two trips up to my room.
I drilled a hole in the wall of my closet, coming out in the shadows beside her chest of drawers. The angle gave me a perfect view of her bed. I would watch, huddled in my closet, no lights, pants around my ankles, hand on my dick, as she came in from her nightly shower.
On an average night, she would come into view, wrapped in her towel, wisps of pubic hair visible out the bottom, the large bath sheet style towel barely large enough to contain her. And as she removed the towel, beginning to dry herself, turning this way and that, her exquisite flesh began to move with a hypnotic quality, and as she began to dry more vigorously, I imagined that it was my thrusts into her that were moving her so, and matching my strokes to her rhythm I slipped deep into that fantasy. I never lasted until she'd finished drying off. Several times I'd come so hard that I grew weak in the knees and bumped my head or moaned something under my breath. And if Karla had known how much I wanted her, or had a self-worth that allowed for the faintest possibility of someone wanting to watch her, the jig would have been up. As it was, she wondered about mice.
And then there were the special nights, when Karla came in from her shower, stripped the towel off, laid on the bed and got out her toys.
The first time I saw this, I swear I could have died and gone to heaven a happy man. My sister had appetites and she couldn't find someone to feed them, so she'd feed them herself.
I intended, given opportunity, to help her with that problem.
First she'd pull out her butt-plug. She would lie on her side, opening her legs, giving me an unobstructed view of her pussy, covered with hair and framed by thighs so plump and full and soft and smooth that I would be ensorcelled, focusing only on them, and I wanted to be licking them, gently biting them.
She would lube her plug and gently work it into her ass, slowly, sensuously, and I wanted my tongue to trade places with it, I wanted to run gentle circles around that brown, puckered hole, until I swirled my tongue deep into her, my head resting upon her ass cheeks.
Then she'd reach for the control wand and turn it on. When I saw the look on her face, I wanted to give the plug a try myself. The look on her face wasn't one of orgasm, but rather the beginning of an unstoppable count-down to orgasm.
She'd leave the vibration strength low, and proceed to gently insert one end of her double-headed dildo, parting her vaginal lips with the tip slowly, teasingly. I'd pray that if things went as I'd planned, I could be somewhere close to as gentle and loving. I doubted my strength though. To be so close to her, to be free to love her, I was afraid my control would vanish. And as I was reasonably sure that our encounter, should it happen, would be her first sex with another person, I wanted it to be special and gentle and painless.
Occasionally she'd forgo the butt plug and insert the other end of the dildo in her ass, and while it seems she enjoyed it, she apparently enjoyed the butt plug more.
.... There is more of this story ...