Chapter 3

It wasn’t long before my sister suggested we play Olympics again, and it quickly became our go-to game, displacing for the most part Mowgli and Caveman and the rest. We called it “Olympics” but, to be honest, we quickly abandoned the long jump and high jump and all the other trappings of the game; the point was simply to roll around naked on the floor, often for half an hour or more. The game would end when I couldn’t hold back any more and had an orgasm, but once I realized that drawing things as long as possible maximized the fun, I got good at delaying this climax. I was, naturally, stronger than my sister and could maneuver us into positions where my penis wasn’t rubbing up against her until the sensations subsided a bit. Even so, a single game of “Olympics” wouldn’t fill an afternoon, but we tended to stay naked afterwards while we did other things. Often we just read quietly, cuddled up together in the armchair, with a blanket over us. I really loved those quiet, lazy afternoons, my arm draped around my sister’s shoulder, my hand on her bare chest, basking in the nice calm feeling that came after having an orgasm while “wrestling.” I remember once Mom came down while we were sitting together like that, not even that long after we’d finished a wrestling session. We pulled the blanket up and I was all ready with some convoluted excuse for why we were both sitting together naked under a blanket, but once again Mom either didn’t notice, or didn’t care, because nothing at all was said. Today, thinking back on the scene, I really find it hard to comprehend how she couldn’t have realized that something was up. Maybe my nose is unusually sensitive, but I could always sense the faint, but distinct scent of my sister’s arousal while we were playing, and afterwards. And we both got hot and sweaty “wrestling.” I feel like the air down there in the rec room must have been permeated by the odors of our excitement, and if Mom didn’t pick up on our guilty looks or our clothes strewn on the ground, the atmosphere itself should have been a tell. But again, perhaps she just didn’t want to know. Perhaps she instinctively understood that playfully pulling off our blanket would expose her to the sight of her two children, naked together, and force her to ask questions she didn’t desire the answer to. Perhaps she realized perfectly well that we were naked under the blanket but clung to the idea that it was all innocent. Whatever the reason, she quickly retreated and I don’t recall her interrupting us again after that occasion.

Which was fortunate, because after we made one final serendipitous discovery, it would have been essentially impossible to claim that we were playing innocent games. What happened was that I suggested, or maybe it was my sister, that we play Mowgli again for a change. It had been a while and, as much fun as “wrestling” was, I missed using the pretext of being wolves to inspect and sniff at each other. I had noticed that my sister was getting a little bit of hair down there, something that was happening to me too, and I was intensely curious to take a closer look. We both stripped down, got on our hands and knees, and circled each other in the way that we imagined wolves did. I put my face near her behind and stared at the light fringe of hair around her genitals, breathing her musky scent in as I did. I simply couldn’t resist it any more and for the first time, cautiously, almost as if by accident, I pushed my face up against her briefly. She didn’t jump away as I had perhaps feared, so I more deliberately pressed my lips against her swollen vulva, my nose coming perilously close to her anus. She giggled but didn’t move or say anything. Feeling like I was in a dream, I did it again, and my sister asked what I was doing. I stopped and said something inane about wolves kissing this way. It was obvious nonsense, and I expected my sister to protest indignantly, mock me, or at any rate tell me to stop. But after a pause, she said “Do it again.” Emboldened, I kissed her once more, then tentatively took a light lick. It tasted salty. She breathed in sharply, and for a second I froze, thinking she was going to pull away, but after a moment she pushed back against my face and, almost in a trance, I began to lick and slurp with abandon. I could barely process what was happening; I only understood, from the fact that she kept pressing back against my face and tongue, that my sister was enjoying it. My sensory world had constricted: there was nothing but the sight of her chubby buttocks in my face, the salty-sour taste of her vagina, the pungent odor of her arousal, and the slight gasping sound of her breath. My tongue was getting tired, but when I paused, she pushed back against me impatiently, urging me wordlessly to continue. Finally she uttered a little yelping noise and shuddered slightly, then pulled away.