My sister (Bel) and I are twins. Sort of. I’m Alan.

We celebrate the same birthday. We are in the same grade in school – right now, that’s Junior Year of Waltrup High. Our Moms insist we were born at the same moment. Right.

We don’t really look alike; of course – she’s a woman. She has rich, chestnut brown hair, a turned-up nose. She stands 5 feet 11 inches tall, as opposed to my 6 feet zero. My hair is lighter than hers. We keep our hair short because we swim 50 laps every morning and long hair just doesn’t make sense. Oh, and she has breasts, firm B+, I guess, though she rarely wears a bra. Or much else.

Our home is good sized. We have an indoor pool that extends into the back yard. That’s where we swim. Our Moms do, too.

And our Moms. They share brown hair, good figures. They are lovers and bisexual. They both work at home. Sharon (we use their given names) runs a medium-sized company that’s located in a nearby city. Bev, our other Mom, is a technical editor who works from home as well. Each of them has a man in their lives. Hank and Will are commercial pilots who work on international routes and are away much of the time. The Moms share whichever man is here.

But neither of them is our dad. They never try to be, though they are close and caring. We learned more when we turned sixteen because we asked.

Because we live in a good-size house and don’t have a lot of visitors, our dress code is rather liberal. Unless there are visitors, I only wear briefs; the women wear panties – it’s really just to protect the furniture.

Bel and I share a bathroom between our rooms on the second floor. Since we were out of diapers, we’ve shared the bath and there’s never been any need to dress when we use the toilet or the shower. We routinely use the facilities and shower together and have since I can remember. There’s a tub, and we sometimes bathe or share a hot soak together.

We frequently sleep together, as well. Sometimes in my bed, sometimes in hers. That began early in our childhood. It just felt good to have someone close – skin to skin – in the night.

For a long time as we grew up, our physical intimacy was minimal, but as we grew, we enjoyed touching, caressing, hugging. Kissing, too. Our moms knew this and we talked a lot about what that meant and implied.

Not that we didn’t sometimes disagree. We did. And the Moms taught us to work things out.

You see, our Moms almost never close their doors. Well, they almost never conceal their loving intimacy. They hug, skin to skin, they kiss, they grope. Occasionally they make love on the furniture, but mostly in their big bed with open doors. When Hank or Will are home, we could (when we cared to) watch them having sex in their ground-floor suite. Most of the time we didn’t bother. After all, it’s just normal.

As we got older, of course, our bodies changed. When Bel and I were about 12, she began to become a woman. Moms explained this, sometimes daily. At about the same time, I began to have erections. Bel and I discovered there were places we liked to be touched. We touched a lot. We learned to enjoy giving and receiving orgasms just as our Moms did.

Even before I began to ejaculate, Moms made sure we knew what that meant and Bel and I knew what not to do. Of course, we also knew what was fun and how to deal with messes.

Soon after Bel’s first period, Moms took her to the doctor and got her an IUD. No worries about ‘I forgot to take my pill.’

Soon after Bel got her IUD, we had intercourse. We had told Moms we were probably going to become lovers, and they talked with us about what that might mean in our social lives. Of course, we knew we couldn’t tell any of our school friends or other outsiders about that. It was just that one afternoon Bel pulled my briefs off and climbed on top of me.

“Hold on,” I said. “Turn around and let me eat you.” She did, and I licked and sucked her to an orgasm – just as we both so often enjoyed although this time, she didn’t suck me. When she had calmed a bit, she hugged me and climbed on top again, sliding her pussy down my dick. It was smooth, tight, and absolutely wonderful. No pain, just the joy of loving each other completely at last.

With no restrictions, we were frequent lovers – we fucked like bunnies for weeks. Eventually we became close, intimate lovers as well as friends. Something a lot more than brother and sister.

All this time, we had a social life. We had friends at school. We asked them home to play and swim with us.

With the dress code I’ve described, we had to have a way to tell the Moms we were bringing guests. Fortunately, our smart phones and apps solved that. And, of course, Bel has a bikini, I have a Speedo, and Moms slipped on dresses or robes; bikinis when they swam with us and our friends. Usually, they are school mates. When it is warm, we swim and sun. Often, we play games with our friends – board games, cards, chess (not seriously), computer games...

Bel is pretty; I think she’s a beauty. She attracted boys, though she didn’t find many she’d give the time of day. I discovered that I have impulses like any other boy, though given our way of life, I wasn’t as hormone-driven as some.

I like girls. I lust. (Fortunately, I get laid a lot.) Bel likes boys. She lusts. (Fortunately, she gets laid a lot.) We share what we see in the locker rooms. We share our fantasies so we can act them out with each other.

So, when we were 15, Moms let us date. In fact, they encouraged us to. They drove us on double dates. They let us invite our dates home to dinner or barbecues or whatever. We had fun and the Moms were patient. We usually found enough privacy for a little necking with our dates. And at night we had each other.

When we turned 16, we were eager to get our licenses, to have a car we could share. We took Driver’s Ed. The Moms taught us to drive. We were ready.

We had a big party for our 16^th birthday. Our friends enjoyed it. That night we made love for hours, joyful in our new form of maturity.

The next morning, Moms called a Meeting.

“This is an important moment,” Mom Sharon told us. “You are going to discover something we’ve kept from you all your lives. We had our reasons for that, and we’ll go into that later. For now, you want to get your driver’s licenses and for that, you need your birth certificates. Here they are. Read them carefully.”

I read mine. Date of Birth: May 12. Our birthday – yesterday – was May 15. I looked at Bel. She looked at me. “May 12,” I said.

“May18,” she said.

“Look at the rest of the information,” Mom Bev said. We did.

My certificate said, ‘Mother: Sharon Wellington. Father: Donor SB-15950’. I read it aloud and looked at Bel.

“Mother: Beverly Wellington. Father: Donor RV-9794-68,” she read.

“Here’s the story,” Sharon said. “Back in college, we fell in love. We knew we were bisexual, but that our primary affection was for each other. We lived together for two years, then got married. We knew we wanted children, but there weren’t any men we wanted to have to deal with for the rest of our lives – or yours.”