Chapter 7

She started to leave, but then turned and came back, reaching for my hand and pulling me to my feet. We stood close.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Sure.” I know it was stupid, but it’s what came out of my mouth.

“It will be okay,” she assured me. “Night.”

Then she reached for my face and kissed me.

We had never kissed. I couldn’t even remember her kissing me on the cheek. Her lips were soft, and warm and the next thing I knew my arms were around her, my hands on her naked back, and her hot breasts were mashed against my chest again. It was amazing. I’d kissed girls before, but it hadn’t been like this. There was a tenderness, a warmth, a yearning in her lips that I think might have just wiped my mind clean of anything except that kiss.

I think she was just as blown away by that kiss, too, because she didn’t resist my embrace. Instead her hands came to slide over my back and the kiss went on and on and ... on.

I have no idea how long that kiss lasted. I honestly don’t. My brain was empty of everything except how exquisit it was to feel her lips crushed to mine. All I could think about was that I wanted it to go on forever. The problem was that, with no cognizant thoughts in my brain, that allowed instinct to take over my body.

Somehow we fell back onto the bed, this time with all but our calves and feet on the mattress. Somehow her hand snaked into my shorts I had pulled on - specifically to put a barrier between us - and found my prick was long and hard again. Somehow my hand ended up between her thighs and my middle finger slid into her fiery-hot depths.

And that kiss kept going.

I’m positive it was instinct and not my own volition that got me to push my groin against hers, dry humping her even though her hand was still squeezing my prick, as the endless kiss we were sharing continued to render us incapable of intentional thought. In some misty kind of way, I have a memory of feeling her push at the waistband of my shorts, just enough to get it below my balls. I remember her hand on my cock, pulling. I vaguely remember rolling on top of her.

Then my cock slid into a firely, velvety, tight furnace. Just like that, I was balls deep in my sister’s pussy. That was finally something shocking enough to make us stop that kiss.

“Ohhhh, Bobby,” she whined. “It’s in meeee, Bobby.”

“Fuck!” I gasped, stopping as some shred of perception returned to my brain. I tensed my hips in preparation for removing my offending member from her innocent pussy.

Somehow she divined my intention and her hands came to lay gently on my ass cheeks.

“No,” she whispered.

Then she kissed me again.

That kiss lasted a long time, too, except this time I was fully aware of what was going on.

I’d only seen one girl have an orgasm, and that had been only fifteen minutes earlier in my life. Even so, when she had another one with my lips welded to hers and my penis probing her no longer virgin tunnel, I could tell what was happening. And when it did, it was like an emergency relief valve popped in my groin and I groaned into her mouth as the pressure in my body was released. My semen raced along the length of my prick and leapt joyfully into her vagina.

You’ve been there. You know what I mean. There is nothing better than cumming in your lover.

Normally, you’re happy after cumming in your lover.

This time, I was the one who ended up crying. And they weren’t tears of happiness, like hers had been, earlier.

She shushed me, held me, kissed my cheeks and chest. She had just ‘given up’ her virginity and wasn’t bothered by it in the least. I was the basket case.

She wouldn’t let me talk. She just held me tightly until I relaxed, and then held me tenderly while my breathing returned to normal.

Somehow, we drifted off.

Six hours later I woke up for the first time in my life with a warm, naked body pressed against me.

I just read over that last little bit, where I tried to express some measure of what happened and how we felt. It’s inadequate, but it’s all I’ve got. Describing the next morning is a little easier.

Thankfully, I had set my alarm clock before she came to my room. It woke us up. There was a little panic, primarily at the thought of one of the parental unit finding us there, together, naked. Hannah’s pussy was still messy with creamy, white spunk. My shorts were still stretched under my balls, which was painful. My bladder wasn’t happy, either, and my prick looked like it was ready for round two. Neither of us was ready for that, though. The fear supplanted other emotions, such as guilt. That would come later.

Hannah hopped out of bed and bent over to pick up pieces of the clothing she’d worn on her date, the night before. I saw her pussy through her gap again. This time it glistened with what I knew to be my semen. She wiggled into her panties and put her bra back on.

“You’re getting dressed in last night’s clothes?”

“If anybody sees me leave, I want to be able to claim that I came to talk to you about Steve and cried myself to sleep in your room. You need to get decent, too.”

“Oh,” I said. “Look ... about last night.”

“Later,” she said, brusquely. “We don’t have time now. Get ready for school. Act normal.”

Rather than telling her she wasn’t the boss of me, a habitual response that I would never again use for the rest of my life (at least with Hannah), I said, “Okay,” and got up. She tiptoed to the door, opened it slowly, and peeked into the hall. The coast must have been clear, because she slipped out, leaving the door open a crack.

When I got to the kitchen Mom was there, as usual.

“I have an egg casserole in the oven,” she said. Her back was to me. She was doing something on the counter.

“Sounds good,” I said. It’s what you’re supposed to say in a situation like that. To be honest, it’s what I would have said anyway, if my mind wasn’t consumed by the fact that I had fucked my sister only a few hours before. “Where’s Hannah?” She usually got up before me.

“She had a rough date last night,” said Mom.

“I know,” I said. I had a brilliant idea. It would support my sister’s ruse, if it needed supporting. “She came to talk to me about it.”

“I hope you were nice to her,” said my mother.

I spit some orange juice on my plate and coughed. Mom turned and looked at me.

“Wrong pipe,” I gasped.

“Your sister is going to need your support for a while,” said our mother. “Breaking up from a long-term relationship is hard on a girl.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Good.”

“What should I do?” I asked. That was a legitimate question, one that could be asked on many levels.

“Just be aware she’s in pain. You don’t have to say anything. Just be nice.”

“I can do that.”

“Do you know any nice boys you could introduce her to?”

“I don’t think that’s how it works these days,” I said, trying not to smile.

“I suppose not,” she sighed.

Hannah straggled into the kitchen. She looked rough. There were dark circles under her eyes. Her hair was straight but obviously hadn’t been brushed with the loving care she usually bestowed on it. She did a fair imitation of a zombie walk. Mom turned around and looked at her.

“Hannah,” she said, gently. “Getting your heart broken is no reason to lower your standards. Go back to your room and brush your hair. Put on some makeup. You need to present a happy face today, so that your friends believe this was a good thing. Don’t let him get you down. This isn’t an ending, it’s a beginning.”

Having run out of trite things to say, she subsided. Hannah turned around and left.

By the time we had to go Hannah had repaired the “damage” (which had all been artful makeup in the first place), changed clothes for some reason, and had time only to snag a banana from the counter. Mom was usually gone by this time of day, but had delayed to make sure her daughter was okay.

Her daughter was fine. We walked to school together every day. That was normal. Our father had made that a rule. I was to walk with her to make sure she got there safely. Not that there was danger at every intersection. It’s just the way he was. In the past we had both tried to resist that, carping about each other making us late or whatever. Since I started taking pictures for her portfolio, though, it had become a chance to talk and plan.

“You okay?” she asked, when we were out of earshot of our mother, who had escorted us out the door.

“Isn’t it supposed to be me asking that?” I commented.

“Good. You’re okay.”

“I guess so.”