Chapter 6

Again I was ignored for the rest of the day, except for right after supper, when Dad was in the living room channel surfing and Mom was putting things in the dish washer. Heather pushed me up against the wall across from my bedroom door and kissed me. With tongue.

"Fuck I love that," she whispered.

Then she went into her room and closed the door.

The next morning she looked tired. Mom noticed, and asked her if she was pushing herself too hard. She said she wasn't, and that she'd just had a rough night sleep wise. On the way to the pool she confided in me what was really wrong.

"I had to masturbate like five times last night," she moaned. "I couldn't believe how horny I was. Every time I think about your stupid penis I want it in me."

"Aren't my fingers good enough?" I asked.

"Oh, they feel great," she barked. "But they make me want more. And you're good with your mouth, but not quite good enough to get me there every single time."

"Everybody says it hurts the first time," I said. It was literally all I could think to say.

"I have a dildo, you idiot," she snarled. "I gave Regina the money and she got it for me. She has her own credit card and can order things off the internet that I can't."

"Oh," I said.

"This is all your fault," she complained as she pulled into the parking lot of the pool. "If you hadn't read me those stupid stories I wouldn't feel like this."

"I'm sorry," I said automatically.

"No you're not," she said. "You're having the time of your life. I can tell."

"I guess that's true," I admitted. "But honest, I wish you didn't feel like that. I mean I wish you could get satisfied."

"You're bigger, longer and warmer than my dildo," she said. "All I can think about is how good that would feel up in me. But I'd get pregnant and our lives would be ruined. I came too close to that once."

"You want me to get some condoms?" I asked.

"Yes."

Just like that. It was like I'd stuck my finger in an outlet. She would let me fuck her if I got some condoms.

"But don't," she added. "Because if we start that, and sometime you don't have a condom, I'll let you do it anyway. The only solution is not to start, Bobby."

"Yeah," I said. I felt ... I don't know ... not disappointed exactly. I mean I wanted to fuck her, but only if she wanted it too. And she didn't want it. Well she did, but not really.

That was the first time I realized that, since I had opened Pandora's box (or Heather's box, as it were) that it might be up to me to close it.

I didn't like that idea.

But I would do my best.

Basically, what I did was stop playing. The next day, when I took her swimming, I made sure there was no rubbing up against each other during her therapy. When we went home I ducked out and went for a bike ride. She was mad when I got back, but I told her it was the way things had to be. I spent a lot of time at my friend Tim's house, and got Don to play tennis with me. I was thinking about going out for track the next year, so I went for long bike rides to ramp up my endurance. I started wearing a jock strap to the pool too.

And, of course, I beat off like a fourteen year old boy hiding in the girl's locker room. Except that I was in my room, reading Lubrican's stories on my computer at times I knew Heather couldn't come wandering in.

Heather lasted about a week before things got ugly.

On Friday, after swimming, she tried to physically take me to her room. She was much stronger than she had been, but she was no match for me. I noticed for the first time that I was taller than her too, and managed to render her helpless without touching any of the good parts. That night I informed my parents that the Saturday session of physical therapy could be attended by one of them. They were both surprised. Normally I'm not all that assertive. But resisting Heather required a will of steel. OK, what it really required was jerking the spunk out of my balls at least three or four times a day, so that my desire for her when I was around her was muted a little.

Of course I assumed she was using that dildo to handle her own desires. When she wasn't trying to drag me into her bedroom to have her way with me.

In the middle of the second week, the old Heather resurfaced with a vengeance. She started calling me names again. When she wasn't verbally abusing me, she wouldn't talk to me at all. I complimented her, saying that was making it a lot easier to refrain from all this lust stuff, and she burst into tears and ran to her room.

Of course Mom and Dad couldn't avoid noticing the deterioration in the relationship. It all came to a head at breakfast the following Saturday.

"So which one of you is taking her to the pool?" I asked, just to make sure they remembered that on Saturday it was their job.

"Yeah?" asked Heather with acid in her voice. "Since wimpy here can't get his wittoo toeseys wet, which one of my parents will be required to spend some of their few leisure hours doing their retarded son's chores?"

"What is wrong with you two?" barked our mother. "You've been snapping at each other all week. You were both getting along so well since Heather woke up."

"That's the problem!" yelled Heather. "I woke up!" She glared at me.

All I was trying to do was what my sister needed me to do, and she didn't appreciate it. I don't get mad often, but when I do I have a quick fuse.

"That is the problem!" I snapped.

"You're grounded," said our father.

"You're grounding me for telling the truth?" I wasn't over being mad yet.

"You're both grounded," he amended.

"Why am I grounded?" wailed Heather. "I didn't do anything wrong!" She pouted.

"Neither of you is to leave the house until you patch things up," he said. "We almost lost our daughter, and somehow our son helped us get her back. I will not have the two of them, who should love each other, fighting and bickering and making life miserable for everyone." He looked at Mom. "Dear, you've been wanting to go to the museum for a while now. This morning would be good for that. And maybe we can take in a movie after lunch?"

"I'd be delighted," said Mom, who didn't look very delighted.

"Wear something sexy," said Dad. "I want to show you off today."

"George!" gasped our mother.

He just grinned. "That summer halter dress I like so much," he said. Then he mouthed the words, but nobody in the world could have missed them: "No panties."

"George! You're awful!" she moaned. But she looked a lot more cheerful than she had a few minutes ago. Of course she was beet red. I was exceedingly disturbed that I noticed my own mother's nipples poking through her dressing gown as she got up.

I glanced at Heather, who had a deer in the headlights look on her face. She blinked a couple of times and looked at me. Her eyes filled up with tears and I was afraid she was going to lose it right there. If she did, the parents would delay leaving and all it would do was drag things out and ruin everybody's day.

"Okay," I said softly. "I give up. You win."

Our parents were gone. My sister and I were still sitting at the kitchen table.

"I haven't won anything," she muttered.

"What's that mean?" I asked.

"You were right."

"Say what?" I closed my mouth before a fly flew in it.

"You were right to do what you were doing. It was the best thing to do," she said reluctantly.

"Then why the hell did you torture me about it?" I groaned.

"I just hated it, that's all. I can't help how I feel about that."

"Well," I said, disgusted with her. "What do we do now?"

Her eyes brightened. "One last time," she said. "Then we'll go by your rules."

"I don't see what good that's going to do us," I groused. "It was hard enough to stop the first time. Now you want to remind me of what we're giving up."

"Come on, Bobby," she pleaded. "Just one more time. Just let me feel good one last time and I swear I'll leave you alone and we'll get along. I'll get a boyfriend," she bargained.

"Great," I said. "I can hardly wait to imagine some guy like Brad sucking your nipples and rubbing your clit."

"Not Brad!" she said firmly. "Not like Brad. Somebody who cares about me ... the way you do. Please? Just make me feel good one last time?"

"I think this is a bad idea," I said slowly.

"Why?"

"Because I'm mad at you," I said.

"Why are you mad at me?" she squeaked. "I told you I was sorry. I said you were right."

"I'm mad at you for wrecking the car," I complained.

"What?"

"If you hadn't wrecked the car, you wouldn't have been in a coma. I wouldn't have had to read to you. There wouldn't have been a sleeping princess in my sister's room. If you hadn't wrecked the car I'd still be trying to hide my stiff dick from you and your lame friends when you raided the bathroom to see it. You'd still be my boring, bitchy sister, going out with Brad and fighting him off. If you hadn't wrecked the car I wouldn't love you so much it hurts and I wouldn't want to fuck you!"

She frowned and thought for a few seconds.

"You know what?" she asked.

"No," I said glumly.

"You're absolutely right."

"Great," I said listlessly.

"Wrecking that car was the best thing that ever happened to me."

I stared at her.

"You said it all," she said calmly. "If I hadn't been in that coma, you'd never have told me the things you did. I thought I needed Brad, but I was wrong. I thought I needed to be popular, but I was wrong. I was a bitch, and it took all that time thinking about things for me to realize it. And if I never crashed the car you'd have never read dirty stories to me, and I wouldn't have also realized that I loved the way you made me feel. You make me cum so hard I wish it would never end and it's not because you're a stellar lover."

I frowned, but she didn't notice.

"It's because I love you, and I can't do without you, Bobby. I need you. It's not what you do to me that makes me feel so good. It's that you love me enough to do it."

She whipped the T shirt she was wearing over her head. She was only wearing a pair of white panties with little blue bows on them.

"And you think that after telling me all that ... we're only going to do this one more time," I said heavily.

"Just once more, Bobby," she pleaded. "I promise I'll never ask you again."

Then she took off the panties, spread her legs, and started sliding one finger in and out of her pussy.

A guy can only take so much ... you know?

When I get mad I don't think too clearly. Like I said, it doesn't happen often, but when it does it's a lightning quick super hot flash that consumes my entire mind. I just react. Usually I say something. Sometimes I say something really wild or stupid, like the time my best friend, Don Hamner did something - I can't even remember what it was now - but it was the straw that broke the camel's back at the time, and I went off on him and threatened to stuff ice cream cones up his ass until milk came out his nose. Then I tried to de-pants him. Some of our other friends stopped me, but you get the idea. I don't know where the ice cream cone thing came from. What I do know is that there was no ice cream anywhere around us at that time, and even if I'd gotten his pants off there would have been nothing further I could do. That's what I mean by doing crazy things when I blow up.

I remember very clearly thinking that Heather wasn't playing fair ... and it made me mad.

I don't, however, remember very much else that happened for the next probably twenty or thirty seconds. What that means is that I don't remember standing up (I'm assuming I did) and taking my clothes off. I can't tell you if I said anything, or if Heather did either. I don't remember grabbing her and pulling her off the chair. I don't remember pushing her down on the floor and covering her with my body.

And I for sure don't remember sticking my cock in her pussy.

But that's apparently what I did.

I say apparently because that's what Heather said I did, once things were all over. There was quite a bit of evidence in her favor, because when I did regain the capacity to think rationally, I was naked, on top of Heather, and my cock was firmly embedded in her pussy. By firmly, I mean all the way ... balls deep ... and her body was scooting along the floor as she wailed bloody murder, because my cock and the groin it was attached to was pushing her. I still remember hearing the skin on her back squeak on the linoleum, like tennis shoes on a basketball court.

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