Chapter 3

Becky’s turn:

Widow woman in bed with a man for the first time since her husband passed away.

I have his arm pulled around me and I’ve got the most wonderful warm glow centered in my muffinal region. I always styled my pubic mound as a muffin. It’s kind of plump. And if I want to be coarse, it’s had the shit fucked out of it. That ‘muffin’ thing, that’s me. I guess I’m strange. I never really liked the graphic terms some people use about sexual parts

I don’t talk like that, but I know some of the language. Departed husband, whom I really did love, had the need for a bit of porn to get his engine running, so I know about cocks and pussies and blowjobs and facials and creampies and reverse cowgirls and sixty-nine. Gotta give Keith that much. I wouldn’t have received that education on my own. I was a good girl. Keith was a good boy. Except for that.

Wasn’t particularly imaginative, either.

Of course, I didn’t know that until tonight, which is my first step to Hell. The arm around me is my brother’s. The dick that pushed me right through three known galaxies is his.

Okay, it was a pee-pee growing up and Mom and Dad made us stop bathing together when he was five and I was four and ‘Little girls do not play with their brothers’ pee-pees’.

That, people, is a rule we just violated the daylights out of.

Brad’s my brother. His divorce is final. Stupid skank of a wife thought MY brother was boring. I remember my brother as being the guy who could always help me and my friends with homework, the guy who’d lounge under a shade tree in the summer with a book.

I know because I was often under the same tree with a book of my own. I grew up to be a librarian. He grew up to be an engineer. He married. I married. At least, for the most part, Keith and I were compatible. Keith was a good provider. He climbed quickly within an organization to become a vice-president. We lived comfortably and that means that I’m not worried about money right now. Insurance. We both wanted the other to be cared for in the event ... He had the event. I still live in the house.

Kids. Didn’t. Kept saying we would, but as we hit our thirties, we never could agree. So, three bedroom house in a great neighborhood. And no kids.

Brad’s marriage ... Brad wanted to stabilize, Linda wanted to BE places and DO things ... Just wasn’t compatible. I knew it was wrong from the start, but my brother ... Couldn’t tell the difference between ‘Miss Right’ and ‘Miss Right Now’. Married the second one, honestly quite possibly the first woman he ever slept with. I guess that’s not bad. I married the first guy to bed me.

She cheated on him. All Keith did was get some kind of galloping cancer.

So I did what I considered an adequate period of mourning. Thought about dating. Kept getting an image.

You see, the day of Keith’s funeral, Brad and Linda were in attendance. During the service, I looked over at him. His eyes met mine briefly. She was there beside him, dressed, as Grandpa used to say, ‘to the nines’, an ensemble with matching dress, hat, purse, shoes. Made up and coifed. She looked like she was there to be noticed. Brad looked like he was completely sad. For me. For Keith. And because, I later found out, he knew she was cheating on him.

Every time I thought about dating some guy, Brad’s face popped up. I mean, I’m an adult, and I know that the logical progression for adult dating is that sooner or later you go to bed with him. And every time I thought about the face I’d see, for some reason, I saw that sad, strained look on Brad’s face.

That’s why, when he called me a couple of weeks before Thanksgiving, I jumped at the chance.

First, I really do love my brother. He’s great for conversation. Second, my house. Every corner I turned, there was a reminder of Keith. I needed to get away and think about my own future. I was sure that Brad and I would at least have a calm, quiet weekend together, reading, talking, reconnecting.

Did I premeditate what happened?

I dunno. NO. Really. But we were running through a grocery store buying the perishables for the week and we happened to go down the wine aisle.

I like a glass of wine or two in the evening, and honestly, at this point, I was starting to get a little excited about the cabin.

I told him to get some. “I like a glass or two in the evenings. We can share...”

“Sounds genteel,” he said.

“It is.”

“I’ve never been much of a wine drinker.”

“Good,” I laughed. “We’re not drinking much wine.”

I bought a bunch.

That ‘not drinking much’ thing? Violated that promise pretty bad.

We split three bottles over the course of the evening leading up to bedtime. I was very pleasantly buzzed when I finally went to my bedroom. Buzzed. Needed just a little something to knock the edge off and let me go to sleep.

I slid my hand inside my panties. Hey, it’s mine and I can play with it any time I want, right?

Couple of diddles that for some reason just fell flat. Me and the wine had a conversation.

Me: That’s not cutting it.

Wine: Your finger? There’s a real live man in the next room and you’ve seen him naked.

Me: Not since that glance when he was seventeen. And he’s my brother.

Wine: Your safe, boring brother.

Me: My completely safe, pretty good looking brother. Suppose he rejects me?’

Wine: That’s what I’m here for. I’ll take the blame.

Me: Well...

Wine: Go for it...

And I went into Brad’s bedroom, whining about the mattress feels funny and the room is cold and I can’t sleep by myself in a strange room and come on, girl, how obvious can you be?

Sober, Brad would’ve seen right through it. Three bottles of wine. He had half.

Went into his bed. Got huggy. And somewhere along there, the seed of an idea that I’d been repressing came bubbling up. Who better than Brad?

One more bottle of wine and he wanted me and I wanted him and I found out some things, like how much I missed intimacy and how poorly I’d been kissed, and then I’m getting kissed and eaten to mind-blowing orgasm. After orgasm. After orgasm.

And how much I WANTED to suck Brad’s pee-pee. And how good it felt to ride him and come and feel him pulsing life inside me.

I’m thirty-six and this night in bed with my brother, I just had the best sex in my life.

We went to sleep. Last thing I said was, “Blame it on the wine.”

I woke up as light just started coming in. Through the window I saw a gray, dreary day. And in the bed next to me is this guy who just gave me a tour through the stars, and he’s still pantsless, as am I.

I got brave. Scooted back under the covers to locate ... soft, pink. Still smelling of US from the night before.

I never was exactly a fan of doing oral sex. Keith was never quite able to come in my mouth unless he was watching porn over the top of my head. I would just as well NOT participate like that.

Brad, though, had DONE me. Enthusiastically, lovingly, I’d been DONE. And here’s this pink thing, flopped just a little to one side.

Time to find out if it WAS the wine for him.

Sucked him in like my new favorite toy, spongy, salty, musky ... And hardening, so now I could get down his shaft, then pull back...

He tossed the covers aside, exposing me.

“Mornin’, sleepyhead,” I said.

“Beck...”

“Brad, last night was NOT a mistake. You can call it that if you want, but if it was a mistake, it was the best mistake I ever made.”

We argued. I learned that if you want to win an argument with Brad, argue while you’re in a position to suck him. He lost bad. Or good. Good good.

I needed him and he needed me.

“I had sex with my sister,” he complained.

“Wrong. We made love. Toss that ‘sister’ stuff aside. I needed you, Brad. Not some random stud. I could’ve hit a bar and had one of those in an hour. I needed YOU. Safe. Caring. Responsible. You, that I’ve known my whole life.”

“You think of me like that?”

“I do.”

“But I’m your brother.”

“Nope. Man that I’ve known and respected and adored my whole life. This is just the final level.”

We made love. Got out of bed, went to the bathroom – he sounds like a deluge – and got back in bed together. Kisses. Then got up and fixed breakfast together, picking and bickering in the kitchen just like when we were kids.

We ended up on the cabin’s porch, drinking coffee together, talking.

From the outside I’m sure it looked sane and, honestly, romantic – one of those scenes right up there with romantic walks on a secluded beach.

Inside, I had turmoil. I suspect that my brother had it, too.

We did small talk. We talked about marriages, his painfully failed one, mine that was good enough, tragically ended.

“I wanted what you had, Beck,” he said.

“You wanted what you thought I had. Little holes. Wasn’t perfect. Was good enough.”

I told him how I’d known she was wrong for him.

“You sure that wasn’t one of those ‘jealous little sister’ things?”

I smiled. “Maybe. You know I wanted to marry you when I was eight.”

“Yeah. Your public announcement. Everybody thought it was cute.”

I smiled. “Back then I did ‘cute’ really good, I think.”

His eyes twinkled for me. “You still do, Beck. More like ‘pretty’, actually.”

“That’s sweet, Brad.” I sighed. “Life would’ve been better if I’d had my ‘little girl’ dreams.”

“Marrying your brother when you were eight?”

“Yeah, maybe, maybe not. Could’ve had our own yardfull of retarded kids.”

I giggled at his expression. “Yeah ... like ‘There go all them Bennett kids with the six toes’...”

We laughed, I reached to touch his hand. Our fingers interlaced.

“Would have been interesting,” he said.

“Would have saved you a bad marriage,” I said.

“Would’ve caused you to miss a good one.”

I tossed back, “Wasn’t exactly paradise. I loved ‘im, Brad...”