The first time I saw my sister Gail naked–well, she wasn’t naked, really, not quite; she was wearing a sheer, diaphanous gown sort of thing–was right during her senior year of high school, right after she’d turned eighteen. She must have had to go to the bathroom pretty bad, all of a sudden, because she hadn’t bothered with the powder blue robe she usually wore whenever she left the sanctuary of her boudoir. The hallway light had been just right, and I, coming up the hall to raid the fridge, caught a glimpse of her perfect body through the thin, transparent material of her nightie.

I stopped in my tracks, my midnight snack forgotten, eyes wide and mouth gaping. Through the sheer fabric of the light nightgown, I could see the dark, shadowy silhouettes of my sister’s tits and ass. I could see the shapes of her thighs. I could see the dark contour of her abdomen. Although I couldn’t see the actual flesh of her breasts, buttocks, or thighs and I couldn’t discern the soft fuzz of her pubic hair, if any were there (she might, I thought, an electric thrill flashing through my groin, shave down there, as she did her armpits and legs), only the complexion of these private parts was left to my imagination; the size and shape of her breasts and buttocks were no longer mysteries; the shadows under her nightie made their dimensions and contours quite clear, even from fifteen feet away.

From the corner of her eye, she must have caught a glimpse of me, standing there, in my white cotton briefs, staring, because her eyes widened, and she gasped, fleeing into her bedroom. The door shut behind her, not loudly–she had the presence of mind not to slam it, awakening Mom and Dad, whose bedroom was at the end of the hallway, opposite mine, but she lost no time escaping my gaze.

I returned to my bedroom, and, as I took off my underpants, I noticed, for the first time, that I was rock hard. A thick, rigid erection jutted from my groin. I wondered, in horror, whether I’d had a stiffy when Gail had seen me. I thought she’d gasped and scurried into her bedroom because she’d seen me ogling her, but maybe she’d done so because she’d seen her brother, who was but two years older than she, exhibiting a hard-on through his underpants. I looked down at the massive member. I have a big cock, just under nine inches, erect, as it was now, and as big around as a golf ball. When I played varsity baseball in high school–the same one that Gail attends–the guys always joked that I was the batboy, because I always bought the bat and balls to the game. Now, my sister had seen this equipment, or had seen the outline of it, at least, poking out at her through my briefs.

My horror deepened as I realized that she may have seen more of my cock and balls than just their protrusion. If the light had been right at my end of the hallway, as it had been at her end, she might have seen of me what I’d seen of her–she might have seen the shadowy outlines of my genitals–my stiff, standing cock and my balls, high inside the tight, risen pouch of my scrotum. I felt mortified. To think that Gail, my sister, my own flesh and blood, had glimpsed my manhood was unthinkable, it was–a smile stole over my frowning lips–delightful!

Unable to resist the overwhelming impulse to masturbate, I seized the framed photo of our family–Mom, Dad, Gail, and me–that had been taken, a few months ago, during a vacation, by an accommodating fellow tourist, as we’d stood before the Grand Canyon. Gripping my cock in my other hand and ignoring Mom and Dad, smiling out of the picture at me, I concentrated on Gail’s beautiful, smiling face, pumping my fist up and down, fast and furiously, upon my prick, and, in mere moments, I reached the most intense orgasm I’d ever had, fighting the urge to moan or cry out as passion swept through me, and ejaculated, the thick streamers of my warm, white semen splattering my gorgeous sister’s face, both in the photograph and in my imagination, where I saw her both as she’d been, standing, chaste and demure, before the Grand Canyon, and as she’d been in the hallway, the silhouettes of her breasts, buttocks, and thighs showing through her diaphanous gown.

My knees buckled and my thighs trembled violently. Panting, I watched another jet, and another, spurt from my convulsing cock, spewing against the glass that covered my sister’s face. The thick fluid coated her brow; her nose; her cheeks; her mouth; her chin; her neck; the cleavage of her firm, round breasts; her blouse and her skirt, making it appear as if she’d been the centerpiece of a bukkake party mere seconds before joining the rest of her family for a Kodak Moment before one of the natural wonders of the modern world.

I was quite a mess, as was the photo. Thank goodness it was in a frame, protected by a sheet of glass; otherwise, it would likely have been ruined. As it was, with a wet cloth, I was able to wipe away the thick gobs and rivulets of my semen. I sprayed the glass with some window cleaner, polished it with a dry cloth–a clean pair of my own underwear, actually–rubbing it over Gail’s face and body with a strange sort of satisfaction that made my dick twitch and my balls ache, even though I’d just reached the climax of my life, shooting my load all over the picture of my beautiful sibling. As I set the photograph back on my desk, I noticed that my hand was trembling. I wiped the sperm off my chest and stomach and thighs and, not bothering with a shower, climbed into bed, visions of my sister’s nearly naked tits, ass, and thighs in my mind.

I felt guilty, now that the lust had dissipated. I’d not only seen Gail almost nude, but I’d lusted after her–my own sister! More than that, I’d even masturbated over a picture of her, remembering how she’d looked in the hallway, light illuminating her breasts and buttocks through her see-through nightgown. I’d even enjoyed her startled, frantic look, the way she’d gasped, and her hasty escape into the sanctuary of her bedroom. I’d also enjoyed the thought–after I’d gotten past the horror–that my sister might have seen the outlines of my stiff, jutting prick and my balls, high and tight inside my elevated scrotum, through my briefs, the same way that I’d glimpsed her tits and ass through her nightie. I might have given her as much a show as she’d given me. Now, these thoughts and memories, devoid of lust, made me feel ashamed. How could I harbor such thoughts and feelings about my own sister? Was I some kind of pervert? Was I going to burn in hell for my unclean lusts?

I was all an accident, I told myself. I hadn’t intended to catch my sister in such a state, nor had Gail meant for me to see her in her see-through nightie. She’d merely been answering a call of nature, and I’d merely been going to get a midnight snack. We’d simply crossed paths at an unlikely moment. There was nothing sinful or perverted about our encounter.

But what about afterward? I thought. The decision to masturbate, while looking at a photo of Gail and thinking of her as she’d appeared in the hallway, her tits and ass visible, if only as shadows, through the sheer fabric of her nightgown, hadn’t been an accident, had it? That had been deliberate. That had been a choice. Splattering my cum all over my sister’s face and body hadn’t been a mistake, either. It had been deliberate and intentional. In fact, recalling the thick gobs of my seed, trailing over her face, down her neck, and past the cleavage of her breasts, made me hard again. My traitorous, wicked prick swelled, thickening, and stood upright against my belly, insistent and unrepentant, as rigid as it had been when I’d hastened back to my bedroom just moments after my fateful hallway encounter with my beautiful younger sister.

Maybe, I feared, I would burn in hell, after all; I was certainly burning, even now, with lust for my sister, dear, sweet, gorgeous Gail.


The next morning, Sunday, Gail didn’t join Mom, Dad, and me for breakfast, nor did she attend church with the rest of us, saying she didn’t feel well. No, she’d told Mom, it wasn’t anything serious, just a stomachache–or a tummy ache, as she, even at eighteen, still called this malady. I knew that it wasn’t her stomach–or her tummy–that was bothering her. It was last night. No doubt, she felt as bad as I did about what happened, even though, for her, nothing much had happened. Unlike me, Gail wouldn’t have masturbated, thinking about our encounter in the hallway, and, although she had an identical copy of the photograph over which I’d masturbated, spilling my seed over her face and body, it was unlikely–no, it was unthinkable–that she’d used it to facilitate an orgasm of her own. I’m the family’s demon child; she’s an angel who, as such, wouldn’t entertain such thoughts, even for a moment.

Pastor Lyndon’s sermon was about the unfaithful Israelites who, even after God had delivered them from their centuries-long bondage to pharaoh, had rebelled against him, setting up a golden calf to worship in a riotous orgy while Moses was atop Mount Sinai, receiving the Ten Commandments. The unfaithful Israelites had returned to the evil ways of their former pagan masters, and they’d delighted again in all the sins of the flesh, brother lying with sister and sister with brother, as was the custom of the Egyptians. It was because of such behavior, Pastor Lyndon proclaimed, that God had had to forbid, specifically and expressly, the incestuous union of siblings.

It was such conduct, Pastor Lyndon declared, that had led God to warn his people that “If any man take his sister, the daughter of his father, or the daughter of his mother, and see her nakedness, and she behold her brother’s shame: they have committed a crime. They shall be slain, in the sight of their people, because they have discovered one another’s nakedness. And they shall bear their iniquity.” Likewise, God had decreed, Pastor Lyndon assured his congregation, and me among them, “Cursed be he who lieth with his sister, the daughter of his father, or his mother: and all the people shall say: Amen.” Around me, a chorus repeated the word, and, I found, my lips had moved as well as those of my parents and all the other members of the congregation, agreeing, “Amen,” or so be it.

I hadn’t seen my sister’s nakedness, I told myself, not quite, anyway. I had seen merely the outlines of her breasts, buttocks, and thighs through her nightgown, entirely by accident. Likewise, I had not lain with her, sexually or otherwise, so I was guiltless of that crime as well. I had lusted in my heart, though, for her, and Jesus had said that lusting in one’s heart was the same as committing the act of fornication itself, so, perhaps, I was guilty of fucking my sister, after all. Masturbating hadn’t been an accident. It had been a choice.

“One would think,” Pastor Lyndon intoned from the pulpit, “that such acts of sin, hideous and abominable as they are, would be a thing of the past, but, sadly, as we know, they are not, and there are those among us, even now, who would succumb to the desires of the flesh, even when those desires involve his own flesh and blood, his own sister or mother or aunt. . . .”

Yes, there are, I thought, feeling condemned. I looked at the cross at the front of the sanctuary, a symbol of my faith, but I found no comfort in the sight of the empty cross which showed that Jesus had risen. If anything, I felt, rather, a sense of hopelessness and dread.

After the service, I joined my parents in the long, slow-moving line that led past the pastor, who waited patiently, to shake our hands and exchange a word or two with each of his congregants.

“Wonderful sermon, Pastor,” my mother said, smiling, as if she were reviewing a staged performance.

“Thank you, Mrs. White,” he said, returning her smile.

“Pastor,” my father said, gripping the clergyman’s hand.

“How are you, Howard?”

“Fine,” Dad said, “fine.”

I stepped up, taking the pastor’s hand in mine, hoping that, by a miracle of God, he wouldn’t be able to detect, just by the touch of my sinful hand, that I’d committed the very abomination which, just minutes ago, he’d publicly denounced. His eyes had a hard, piercing look, and I gulped, afraid he’d announce my sins to everyone within the range of his voice.

“Brad, it’s nice to see you.”

“Thanks,” I croaked.

“Where’s your sister, Gail?”

“Home,” I muttered. “She’s not feeling well today.”

He looked concerned. “Nothing serious, I hope?”

“Just a stomachache,” Mom volunteered, before I could reply.


On the way home, Mom asked, “What did you think of Pastor Lyndon’s message today, Brad?”

Seated in the rear of the family car, I squirmed inwardly. For a moment, the way she’d hastened to interrupt Pastor Lyndon and me to assure the minister than Gail had “just a stomachache” and the way that, now, she queried me about his “message”–not “sermon,” I noticed, but “message”–made me wonder whether she–whether she and Dad–knew about last night. But how would they? I asked myself. They hadn’t seen Gail and me in the hallway, and, besides, nothing had happened between us. Remembering my sperm on my sister’s face, as she peered out of the photograph taken at the Grand Canyon, I swallowed. What had happened had happened strictly with me, not between us. Feigning indifference, I shrugged. “It was okay.”

“Just ‘okay’?” Dad asked. I could see, by the reflection of his eyes in the rear-view mirror, that he was watching me.

I shrugged again. “Sure,” I said. I hesitated, then blurted, “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” he said, after a slight pause.

I was beginning to know how Gail felt–or said she felt: I was getting an upset stomach myself.


It had been my own guilty conscience, I decided, not my parents’ suspicions. They hadn’t seen Gail and me in the hallway, my sister’s boobs and buns on display inside her flimsy nightie and me naked but for my underpants, my cock stiff and swollen inside the front of my briefs. They hadn’t known about me masturbating afterward, either, and spurting my sperm all over Gail’s face in the photo of our vacationing family. I’d cleaned up the evidence last night, before going to sleep, and, this morning, I’d showered, eliminating even the hard, brittle flakes into which my semen had dried overnight.

Mom’s manner and Dad’s demeanor hadn’t been suspicious. Mom had interrupted me before to answer questions others had asked of me, maybe fearing some asinine comment from her insolent son, and Dad frequently paused, considering his words, before replying to any question I asked. Probably, on a father’s part, such a tactic was instinctive. One day I’d be asking questions, such as could I have a loan or could I borrow the car or what did he think of this girl or that, and he’d have to weigh his thoughts and calibrate his words before answering, as he’d done this morning, on the way home from church. There had been nothing mysterious to my parents’ behavior, I decided–or, at least, nothing more mysterious than usual. My guilty conscience had given significance to innocent gestures, words, and mannerisms which were not, in themselves, significant at all.

Even Pastor Lyndon’s sermon concerning sibling incest had been a mere coincidence. He planned his “messages,” as Mom had called his preachments many times before this morning, weeks in advance of the particular Sundays upon which he delivered them. I smiled. Like lust, guilt was a powerful emotion, I thought. It could twist things into new shapes to suit itself.

I decided to check on Gail, to see how she felt, and, well, just to see her. Maybe, I hoped, she’d be wearing the same flimsy nightgown she’d worn last night, and I’d catch another glimpse of her full, firm tits and her shapely, round ass.

I knocked at her door.

“Who is it?”


“What do you want?” Was there a harsh tone to her voice? I wondered. She’d sounded irritated.

“Can I come in?”

“No. Go away.”

“I just wanted to see how you’re feeling.”

“Awful. Now, go away.”

“What’s wrong?” I knew, of course, but I wanted to extend our “conversation” as long as I could. Even the sound of her voice was sexy, although, before last might, I’d have never thought so.

“I have a stomachache, if you must know. Now, go away. Please!”

Dad appeared at my side. He’d been coming down the hall, from his room, and, so intent had I been on the through-the-door dialogue that I was having–or trying to have–with Gail, that I hadn’t heard or seen him until now. “Brad,” he whispered, sharing a confidence, man to man, “she’s on her period.”

I gulped. “Oh,” I said, “I thought she had a stomach–”

“That’s just a euphemism that women use, sometimes, when they don’t want us men to know what’s really the problem.”

Feeling foolish–and boyish–I nodded. “I see.”

“Let your sister be,” he advised me, “until she’s feeling better.”

Again, his words seemed to signify much more than they might have, had my chance encounter with Gail, last night, never occurred. I gave him a quizzical look.

“When her period’s over,” he whispered.

I nodded, going to my own bedroom and leaving my sister alone, until she felt better. Maybe her irritation had nothing to do with last night, I thought. Maybe she hadn’t even noticed my erection. She’d seen me, all right, at the end of the hallway, which was why she’d gasped and retreated into her room, but she’d only seen me from the corner of her eye, at a distance, and it was doubtful that she’d seen much more than my overall figure, just her lame brother standing at the end of the hallway in his underwear, staring at her as if he were a moron. Most likely, she hadn’t seen my dick making a tall tent out of the front of my underpants, and, most certainly, she had no idea that I’d masturbated, fantasizing about her naked.

Dad had given me good advice: “Let your sister be, until she’s feeling better.”


While Gail “recuperated,” I decided to do a little Bible study. Visiting the local college library to consult an array of annotated Bibles, I discovered some interesting verses and some even more noteworthy speculations on the part of Bible commentators. Adam and Eve must have committed incest, one expert reasoned, because, with no other human beings available, they’d have had no choice but to do so, especially since they’d been commanded to “be fruitful and multiply and replenish the earth.” Their sons, Cain and Abel, and all the children who’d descended from them–the entire human race–were products of incest. God, it appeared, had had no problem with such an act, at least at that point in human history.

There were several other instances of acceptable incest in the Old Testament as well, I found. After the flood, with only Noah and his family left of the human race, upon whom could the offspring of Noah’s own sons sire children except their sisters and cousins? No other women, except their own mother, would have been available to them. Surely, God would have known that such would be the case, even before he’d unleashed the flood upon the earth. Therefore, it seemed that he must have considered incest an acceptable means of replenishing the postdiluvian planet.

While they were dwelling in caves after fleeing Sodom, Lot’s daughters got their father drunk and slept with him, believing that the rest of humanity had been destroyed along with Sodom and Gomorrah. Although their intercourse was not sanctioned by God, as had been that of Adam and Eve’s family and of the descendents of Noah, it had occurred and was duly noted by the author of Genesis. Moreover, Abraham’s son Isaac married his father’s niece Rebecca, and Esau married not one, but two, of his first cousins, the sisters Mahalath and Basemath. Jacob, likewise, wed two of his first cousins, Rachel and Leah.

There were other instances of Biblical incest as well, several of them, and not until after Moses received the Ten Commandments and the priests had instituted the precepts recorded in the book of Leviticus and Deuteronomy did prohibitions against incest become law among the Israelites. Even then, these prohibitions were not binding on neighboring tribes. In fact, some scholars contend that the purpose of the Israelites’ laws was not so much to condemn some actions as abominable in themselves as to separate the Israelites from the pagans by ensuring that God’s chosen people did not do as the heathens did. Thus, incest, which had been all well and good only a generation before, suddenly became an “abomination” in God’s sight.

Had God himself forbidden the practice or had the priests who’d acted in his name? Interpretation was open and varied on this, as on many other points, concerning the law of the Israelites, its purpose, and its effects. What was inarguable was that, at one time, incest had apparently been divinely sanctioned, at least implicitly, as a means of populating his creation.


Later that morning, Mom said, “Don’t worry about your sister, Brad. It’s her time of the month, that’s all. Some girls just need a little more time to adjust than others.”

I was eating a bowl of Cherry Delight cereal. I almost choked on the shit. “What makes you think I’m worried about Gail?” I asked. (I wanted to, but dared not, add, “And why the hell are you talking to me about her menstrual cycle?”)

Mom smiled, patting my hand. “She’s your sister. You father told me how you’d gone to her room to ask how she was feeling.”


Mom’s question, like her explanations, her half-smile, and the odd glint in her eye, seemed strange–and a little unsettling. I moved my hand away from hers. Her touch had seemed, somehow, a little weird, too–a little upsetting. I stood.

“Aren’t you going to finish your breakfast, sweetie?”

“No,” I said, “thanks.”

She shook her head, as if there were no accounting for boys’ behavior, and drew the bowl across the table, to her own place. “There’s no use letting all that Cherry Delight go to waste, I suppose.”


The third day after she’d begun to hide out in her room, Gail emerged, wearing a tight-fitting tank top, without a bra, I couldn’t help but notice; short shorts that showed half of her ass–she had to be wearing thong panties (or nothing at all) beneath the faded denim fabric–and a pair of open-toed sandals.

“Hi, sis,” I said, trying not to give her the once-over. “You’re looking well.” (I’d almost said “great.”) “How do you feel?”

She smiled. “Better, thanks, Brad.” She held my gaze, biting her lower lip and looking schoolgirl cute. “I’m sorry I bit your head off the other day. I know you were just concerned about me.”

“That’s okay, sis.”

“No. It’s not.” Her gaze was intense, almost predatory. It was the look, I thought, that she usually used on guys she was interested in romantically, but it couldn’t be, not if she were using it on me, her brother. She stepped close. Her tits were only inches from my chest, and I could smell the sweet scent of her perfume and feel her body heat. She trailed the tip of a sculpted nail down my chest. “It was no way for a girl to speak to her big brother.”

I gulped, stepping back a pace. She stepped forward, maintaining her invasion of my personal space, and I felt my cock stir. “It’s okay, Gail, really.” I swallowed, aware of the fullness of her firm, round breasts, the nipples of which were erect beneath the tight fabric of her halter top. “Don’t worry about it.”

She leaned forward, her boobs flattening between us, and kissed me, softly, on the cheek. It would have been nothing more than a sisterly peck, except I could feel her soft, sleek tits, pressing firmly against my pecs and her kiss, though chaste, lasted a few moments past any she’d ever planted on me before. “I shouldn’t have acted the way I acted,” she said.

“It’s okay, okay?” My tone sounded a little anxious and a little defensive.

She backed away, a smile upon the full, soft lips with which she’d just kissed me. “Any time you want to check on me,” she said, her voice a sultry whisper, “my door’s always open.”

She turned, and my gaze automatically left her breasts to ogle her ass.

She turned back, catching me, and I felt my face flush, warm with my rising blood. “Do you like my outfit, big brother?”

Managing to catch my breath, I nodded. “It’s very becoming,” I replied, a faint smile twitching at my lips.

“I thought you would,” she said, and sashayed down the hallway. At her bedroom door, she paused. “Remember: my door’s always open, and there’s no need to knock.”

I felt dizzy. My head reeling, I half-walked, half-staggered down the hallway, bumping into the walls. I managed to reach my room, and, with a trembling hand, I turned the doorknob, reeled inside, pushing the door closed behind me, and sprawled onto my bed, my cock, rigid, swollen, and pinned between my belly and the mattress, throbbing painfully, and my balls aching.

I felt as if I were Alice, gone down the rabbit’s hole into a topsy-turvy world.


“A week?” I asked my parents, the next day at the breakfast table. “You’re going to be gone for a whole week?”

“Don’t panic, Brad,” Mom said. “It’s not like you’re twelve or Gail is ten. You’re both adults now.”

Gail, dressed more discreetly than she’d been the last couple of times that I’d seen her, was wearing pink baby doll pajamas and fluffy pink slippers. She had also donned her powder blue terrycloth robe. She looked wholesome, but sexy, like the classic girl next door, rather than a reluctant nude or a sultry siren, roles she’d played only yesterday and a few days before, respectively. “Don’t worry, Brad,” she told me, “I’ll make sure you don’t starve.”

I gave her my best Big-Brother-Is-Watching-You look, and she stuck her tongue out at me. I looked away, before I could imagine her doing anything more. “Gee, thanks.”

“There’s plenty of food in the fridge and pantry,” Mom said.

“And here’s some money, in case you need it.” He laid a couple hundred-dollar bills on the table.

Gail snatched them up. “Thanks, Daddy!”

“For emergencies,” he added.

“What if we have a really big emergency?” she asked.

Dad looked at Mom, and she shrugged. He laid three more hundreds on the table, and Gail scooped them up, too.

Mom checked her watch. “We’d better get going, dear, if we don’t want to miss our flight.” They were driving themselves to the airport and leaving the Mercedes in the long-term parking garage so it would be available upon their return.

Tahiti bound this time, they were departing suddenly because the airline had called them yesterday afternoon to inform them that two first-class, round-trip seats had become available, at the last minute. Mom and Dad had given up their seats on a flight earlier this year, agreeing to take a later plane, in exchange for two free first-class, round-trip tickets, with the stipulation that they had to be ready to depart with a only day’s notice.

My parents had retired early, Dad having been lucky enough to make a fortune before he turned fifty, and they traveled frequently–Tahiti, Jamaica, Fiji, Morocco, Las Vegas, South Beach, San Diego, Waikiki, and many other places across the country and around the world. Dad hadn’t been born wealthy, though; he’d earned his money, every cent, and, even with millions, he didn’t part with funds easily and he was never adverse to cashing in on any opportunity to earn (or save) more. This was the first time they’d ever traveled free, but it certainly wasn’t the first time that Gail and I had been left alone, nor would it be likely to be the last time. It was the first time we’d be left alone for as long as a week, though.

“We’ll call you when we get there,” Mom promised.

“And from the airport, when we get home,” Dad assured us.

Gail and I saw them to the door, we said another round of goodbyes, exchanged hugs and kisses, and they were gone.

Gail and I were home alone.

She held up the five hundred dollars that Dad had left us for “emergencies.”

“Want to do something, big brother?”

“Maybe later.” It was kind of early in the day to party, I thought, and there was no need to hurry: we had a whole week.

“Okay, later then.”

She started to leave, and I asked, “Where are you going?”

“To change.”

“You’re getting dressed already?” On the weekends, Gail seldom climbed out of bed before noon, and today was Saturday. If she hadn’t gotten up to bid our parents goodbye, she’d probably still be snoozing. As it was, I figured she’d go back to bed, for a nap, for sure.

“No, silly. I’m going to take a swim. I just bought a new suit.”


“Want to join me?”

I shrugged. Why not? It promised to be a hot day. A dip sounded pretty good. “Sure.”


The pool occupied the center of the garden into which Mom, overseeing a company of landscapers, had transformed an acre of our backyard. I followed Gail down the flagstone stepping stones, past artificial waterfalls cascading down custom-carved rocks, through fronds of gigantic ferns, caladiums, and an array of flowering plants and green shrubs she’d imported from tropical rain forests, to the clearing, some hundred paces ahead, where the swimming pool awaited, its placid surface gleaming with the radiance of the morning sun. On the aviary to the right, bright-colored parrots squawked, fluttering their rainbow-colored wings. In the neighboring cage to the right, pink flamingos, strutting on their stilt-like legs, ignored us.

My mind wasn’t much on our surroundings, beautiful as they were. Instead, I stared at my sister’s ass. Her new swimsuit was a thong bikini, and she filled it out in all the right places. I marveled at the exquisite, maidenly pair of buttocks that swayed and jiggled before me with every step Gail took. Trying to remember that this was my sister’s ass I was staring at, not some other gorgeous chick’s, I found that I couldn’t pry my gaze away, no matter what I thought.

It wasn’t a sin, just to look, was it? I asked myself. Even if Gail was my sister? No, I told myself. It was all right to look. Hell, she’d invited my gaze by the exposure she’d given to her bare ass. Her thong all but demanded my attention. I might be her brother, but I was a man, too. Biology was at least as strong as blood relations. Maybe stronger.

As we entered the pool area, surrounded by rain forest foliage and a tall fence that protected us from prying eyes, not that there were any nearby–my parents owned twenty acres of prime real estate and the only way to see into our backyard would be with a zoom lens–Gail sidled up to me, and said, her voice soft, “I was beginning to think you’re gay, Brad.”

“Gay!” I was shocked. “Why would you think such a–?”

She put her forefinger against my lips. “Hush. I know better now.”

“You didn’t before, though? You actually thought–”

“Not so much thought as wondered.”

“Gee, thanks, sis. Why the hell would you–?”

“I wear my flimsiest, see-through nightie. Then, I tell you my door’s always open to you, and never locked, and, still, you don’t pay me a call.”

“You’re my sister, Gail.”

“I’m a woman, too, Brad, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“I’ve noticed, all right. In fact, I–” I stopped myself before I babbled about how I’d masturbated, spurting my cum on her gorgeous face in the Grand Canyon photo, as I’d come to think of the group shot the tourist had taken of our family.

“‘In fact,’ what, Brad?”

I looked away from her, embarrassed. “Nothing.”

I saw movement, and I looked up, just as Gail was removing her top. Her gorgeous tits, sprung free, bobbled before her, firm, round, high, and buoyant. I swallowed. “Good God! What are you doing?”

“Going topless,” she said, smiling at my discomfort. “I hope you don’t mind. After all, we’re in the privacy of our own backyard.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just tried not to stare–and failed. Gail may be my sister, but she was more beautiful than most of the girls I’d ever seen, naked or otherwise, and her boobs were astonishing in their sleek, taut, bouncy fullness, the nipples large and swollen.

She laughed. “Don’t worry, big brother, I’ll keep my bottoms on.” She strode to the side of the pool, her ass on display, except for the thin band of fabric running between the deep cleavage of her full, round buttocks. “For now, anyway.”

She launched her body from the deck, and, for a moment, she hung vertically, over the placid surface, which looked blue because of the sky that it reflected. Her breasts dangled, looking new and wonderful because of the change in perspective from which I now viewed them, and her tight buttocks, seen from the rear, were firm and fine–and, then, there was a white explosion as, cleaving the sun-splashed water, she shot into its clear depths, a human torpedo. Yards away, she broke the surface, wiping the streaming water from her wet, shining face. She laughed. “Come on in, brother dear; the water’s fine!”

We were both excellent swimmers, having grown up with swimming pools on all the many estates that had been, over the years, for one time or another, our homes, sometimes simultaneously.

I dove in after sis, sending a plume of water against the greenery enfolding us and against the powder blue sky, just as Gail had done, and, in a moment, I was standing by her side, wiping my palms across my wet face, in opposite directions, to toss aside the water running down my countenance. Wet, my hair felt cold and heavy as it hung against my drying brow.

When I opened my eyes, I was looking at my sister’s breasts. Their nipples were stiff and swollen. I averted my eyes, but, as if they operated according to a will of their own, they returned again to Gail’s gorgeous tits and to the nipples that dominated their summits, surrounded by puffy areolas.

She raised her hands to my chest, letting her palms glide up and down my hard, chiseled pecs. The heels of her hands shoved back and forth over my own stiff and swollen nipples. “You have such a manly chest,” she said, “even without the hair.”

I didn’t shave. My chest was naturally hairless. It always had been. “Thanks, sis,” I managed to respond. Her touch had awakened something deeper than feeling, something as bottomless as instinct, but different. There was a stirring in my loins, and my penis ratcheted up an inch or two, swelling and stiffening as it sought a perpendicular plane. My trunks restrained it, preventing it from shoving the front of my swimsuit into a tented, inverted “V.” “And you have such a womanly chest,” I quipped.

Her hands dropped, entered the water, found my wrists, and hauled them aloft, placing my palms against the sleek, wet flesh of her gleaming breasts. “Do I, Brad?”

I tried to jerk them away, but she held my hands in place. “What’s the matter, big brother? Aren’t my tits to your liking?”

Tits? Had my sister said the word “tits”? To me, her brother, of all people? Impossible! I must have imagined it. There was no way my little sister would ever ask me if I liked her “tits”!

And, yet, she had asked precisely that.

I gulped, uncertain of what was happening here. “They’re fine,” I muttered. Again, I tried to draw my hands away from her breasts, but she held them there. The only way I could free myself would be to shove her away from me. She would be hurt, emotionally, if I did that. She’d feel rejected. Maybe she already did. If so, I didn’t want to make matters worse. She might even slip, fall, and hit her head on the side of the pool. I had no desire to hurt my little sister, emotionally, physically, or in any other way, so I stopped resisting and let my palms rest against the naked flesh of her breasts. I had to admit, if only to myself, that they felt good. They felt wonderful.

She moved my palms in small, tight circles, and I didn’t resist. The circles got larger, then smaller, then larger, and I felt her nipples, hard and resilient under my gliding hands. “Flick my nipples with your thumbs,” Gail directed me. “Twiddle them.”

I gave a playful, experimental brush against them, and she moaned.

“Faster,” she urged, “harder.”

God, help me, I thought, as I followed Gail’s direction.

I was naked except for my shorts, in which my erect penis was a clear, bold outline, and my sister was nude, too, except for the thong bikini bottom that, by design, revealed far more than it concealed, and I was playing with her bare breasts–twiddling my sister’s stiff, swollen nipples with my thumbs–and I was doing so at her request.

She groaned, letting her head fall back. Her wet hair hung in strands along her neck. Her throat rippled as she swallowed several times, rapidly. Another moan escaped her lips. Her head came forward again, and she looked me in the eye. Her gaze was steamy, her eyes half closed. Her eyelids fluttered. She gasped.

I jumped as I felt her hand cup and squeeze my balls. My eyes snapped wide, and my mouth gaped. I staggered back a step, the water surging about my hips. “Gail! What are you doing?” I demanded.

Her hand still clutching my balls, she followed me, as if we were performing a strange, erotic dance, and she squeezed my testicles again, more insistently. “If you don’t know, you’re a virgin, not a fag, Brad,” she said.

I wrenched her hand from my crotch, backpedaling across the pool. The water splashed all around me, sending waves across its length and breadth.

Gail plunged into the water, her body a sleek, beautiful underwater projectile. The surface of the water broke as she emerged alongside me. “I want you to make love to me, big brother,” she said, grasping my wrists and drawing me toward her. “I want you to fuck me.”

“No, no, you’re my sister! It’s not right!” I broke her grip, shoving off from the bottom, and hurled myself toward the side of the pool, intent upon escaping her clutches.

She grabbed me from behind, around the waist. “It’s not wrong, Brad.”

“It is,” I argued. “It’s sick and perverted.”

“Fuck me!”

“No!” I tossed my hips left and right, shrugging my shoulders and hunching my back, and her hands fell away. I reached the side of the pool, and she grabbed me again, from behind. I threw her off and climbed out of the pool. The air was cold on my wet skin. Water ran down my chest, my abs, my thighs, and, before my sister’s piercing gaze, I felt utterly naked. “You need help, Gail,” I said, without anger, pitying her. “You’re sick.”

She laughed. “I’m sick, you bastard? You’re the pervert! Faggot!”

I shook my head at her, looking past her bobbing breasts and into her deep, dark eyes. Then, I turned, followed the flagstone stepping stones back between the aviaries and the thick stands of lush foliage and bright flowers, leaving my sister, a wicked and lascivious Eve, behind me, in the degenerate Eden of my parents’ garden.


An hour later, she knocked at my bedroom door.

Dressed in a shirt and a pair of jeans, I was propped up on a pillow in bed, reading a book. I ignored her.

She knocked again, rapping louder. “Brad?”

I paid her no heed.

“Brad? Come on! Open the door.”

I’d locked it, not wanting my sister to think that my door was open to her and that she need not knock. “Go away!”

She rapped long and loud. “I want to talk. Please open your door.”

She wasn’t leaving, I thought. Maybe we should talk. Maybe she’d considered her actions. Maybe she was sorry. Maybe she’d listen to reason now. Maybe she’d agree to get help.

Another series of insistent knocks sounded, hard, against my door.

I set the book aside and rose. As I crossed the room, I called, “I’m coming!”

When I unlocked and opened my door, Gail was standing in the hallway, completely naked. In her hand, she held a small, slim package.

I shook my head, closing the door, but she blocked my move, inserting herself between the doorframe and the door itself so that, were I to continue to close the door, I’d crush her. I sighed, surrendering. Opening the door wide, I stepped aside. “Come in, if you want, but I am not having sex with my sister.”

“I want to show you something.”

I raised an eyebrow. It seemed to me that, completely nude, she was already showing me everything the good Lord had given her. I repressed the urge to say, “So I see.” Instead, I said, a little more tersely than I’d intended, “What?”

She set the package on my bed. “This.”

“What is it?”

“A home pregnancy test.”

“And you’re showing this to me because–?”

Ignoring my question, she explained how the test works. “A week after I miss my period, I pee on the dipstick”–she pointed to a slender, tapered tube inside of which, I assumed was the dipstick itself–”or dip it into a cup of my urine for five to ten seconds.”

July 2018
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