Chapter 4

That night, the night after I lost my virginity, I had a strange dream. At first, I felt blind in it. I could feel someone’s hands all over my body, running up and down my skin gently, sensually, and gentle hands at my breast, playing with my nipple. Soft, unhurried lips covered mine again and again, and I squirmed with increasing restlessness as my arousal grew and grew, moving with desperation under somebody else’s body, which was pinning me gently but firmly into a soft bed. But I was denied any sexual stimulation, and unable to see. I was moaning, gasping, when I felt the warmth of a cock pressed against my stomach. Under the man, I writhed and wriggled, desperate to feel him inside me, feeling that if I would not be touched I might explode, or melt. The warm hands, which had been so tender with my breasts, moved to part my legs, to leave me spread-eagled and vulnerable. Then he was touching the soft skin of my inner thighs, ever so gently, and I bucked against him, wanting, wanting, needing.

Finally I felt was I so desired. I felt him move his hips so the very tip of his cock was pressed against my ripe, aching pussy. I moaned and shuddered when he pushed in all the way deep, gasping and sighing all at once, needing only a few strokes to fall into my orgasm. Then and only then was I able to open my eyes, and see who rose above me, whose cock was stretching and filling me, whose touch had caused me to burn with such excitement. As my pussy clenched and spasmed around that magnificent member, I looked up into the sea blue eyes of my older brother.

When our gazes met in the dream I jerked awake, breathing heavily like when one wakes from those dreams where you fall off a cliff and wake just before you hit the ground. The orgasm was real; my body was still shaking and reeling from the strength of it, and my pussy was just drenched. I felt raw and sensitive from it, and curled up in the foetal position for a moment or two.

Alex ... it had been Alex in my dream. What on earth could it mean? I lay there on my back, thinking, somewhat disquieted, and yet—I suspected I was not as disquieted as the average person might have been. I would bet Freud would have a lot to say about both my dream and my reaction to it.

But, in my dreams, I had done some pretty odd stuff with some pretty unlikely people, sexual or no. It didn’t amount to anything; it couldn’t. He was my brother. That would be ridiculous.

Over the next several months Alex brought home more and more women at an almost alarming frequency. Sure, he was a young man, and hungry for sex, as it seemed most were; but did he have to choose a different partner every single time? Why not stick with one for a couple of gos, even if they weren’t doing anything more than screwing.

I continued to listen outside his door, and I began to masturbate outside it too. The noises were the loudest and clearest here, and thus the most arousing. Many a time I stuck a hand down my school skirt—or up, whichever tickled my fancy (it made me feel gloriously dirty to put my hand up my skirt, and not in) and blissfully diddled myself to a shuddering completion, bracing myself haphazardly against his doorframe and biting my lip to stop from crying out. I seemed to usually enjoy my orgasm as they were in the middle of theirs—Alex grunting a little bit, and whatever girl beneath him moaning. Sometimes, though, it happened early. And that’s where shit started to go down. It was a Friday night, a few weeks after my fifteenth birthday, and Alex was vigorously boning our high school’s would-be valedictorian—or, at least, that’s the impression I got from how much the bed springs were creaking. (It was a wonder Mrs Milfoil didn’t ever complain—my brother was a loud stud.)