The door opens, then closes with a soft click. Finally. The delay, safeguarding our secret, has been unbearable. Tonight, especially.
A swirl of dark air delivers the familiar tang: fresh alpine body wash, a hint of aftershave. The usual hiss of his robe sliding to the floor, then a squeak of springs and the shifting of weight. The chill of displaced blanket lasts but a moment, replaced by the greater warmth of his naked body slipping quietly into place.
Hands roam my sides, hips, waist, enticing me to press backward more firmly into him. One hand slides lower, traversing the curve adjoining my thighs; I shudder in anticipation. My head turns and our lips meet, entwining in the smoothly improvised dance of experience and practice, born from weeks of hesitant, uncertain discovery.
His palms slip back up, beneath the fabric now. Warmth on warmth, following my contours, sliding over sensitive skin. A flock of fingertips, grazing in the foothills of my twin peaks. I giggle softly as they migrate across my belly before sweeping upward, devouring the mountains whole, so much more confident now than that first time...
There was no big realization, no pursuit. I was never even sure which of us first caught wind of it, merely that we'd been alone, desirous, and nervous.
I'd said something, couched as a joke, but sufficiently implying the merest hint of truth. He'd joked back, what would have been clumsy humor had humor been the goal. The resultant banter was clumsier still, but it was enough. Enough to dispel fears of the other's judgement. Enough to disarm the taboo, sanguine with each other. Enough to finally grant the pleasure of his touch, tentative and feathery...
Sometimes I miss that first, light, hesitant flutter, but not tonight. Tonight, I want him strong, certain.
Fingers tighten firmly around my stiff, sensitive stubs, pinching and rolling. I gasp, my head arching backward onto his bicep. His right hand slides away, quickly replaced with the wet warmth freed by the abrupt separation of our lips. My own fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him onto me, wanting him close, so close.
A light pressure on my waistband, then he's wandering the meadow, my spring overflowing its valley. A fingertip spreads the moisture wider still, then approaches the forbidden cavern, unassuming, seeking approval. It has entered the darkness only three times before, but my nod signals invitation for a fourth.
I sigh as it explores my depths, then softly cry out when it's joined by a companion. My deft removal of the remaining fabric obstruction facilitates my quiet request: a flick of eyes to his jaw, then downward to the flesh engulfing his fingers. Fingers that run firmly up and down the inner ridge, enhanced a moment later by the warm tongue caressing the exterior.
Bright waves weave through me in the darkness, lighting me from within. Before long, the light fills my body, my mind, my soul. It reaches the space behind my eyes in flashes and pulses. The hunger increases as I ride out the wonderful, desperate pleasure.
Descending, breath ebbing, my hands lift his head gently, but he misunderstands. Far from intending to signal conclusion and disengagement, I want him closer... much, much closer. I draw him back.
I know how much he's wanted, and for how long. He's been patient, so patient. Understanding, never demanding. His empathy has furnished my safety toward desiring the same, a desire perhaps even stronger than his at this moment. We need not delay any longer.
Part of me regrets deferring him, certain so much sooner than I, but readiness— even for him— requires my surety as well. That surety is now manifest. I want, without question.
I want, but I also fear. My first time. How much will it hurt? How much will it change me, change him, change us? Can we maintain discretion, or will our secret be evident to a keen observer? What of our future? Can any exist? But I trust him, a trust I'm determined to express, here and now.
Our lips connect again, and my fingers curl around that for which I'm finally ready. I aim it toward the inevitable, silently proclaiming my resolve.
In the dark, the eyes inches from mine are barely visible, but it's enough. Wide, round, questioning, needing confirmation. My confirmation presents as desperate nods and deep, heavy breaths.
His entry is slow, gentle, caring, just as he's always been, yet also carries the firm confidence born of love, trust, growth, and maturity. It doesn't hurt. He's past the cusp, yet still it doesn't hurt. Impatient, I pull him to me, tearing through the moment to complete our illicit joining.
A trickle runs down my thigh: Desire or blood, I neither know nor care. The pain has comprised but a mere instant, replaced already by comfort and safety. A sense of loss, but a greater sense of fulfillment. We are now one, in heart, body, and soul.
I hold him inside, unmoving, for long minutes. Tears— joyful, passionate— flow down four cheeks to mingle at the confluence of four lips. My grip finally loosens, urging him to proceed.
His rhythm is erratic and uncoordinated, yet erotic and uninhibited. Insufficient to set me over again, but mine is not the release I crave.
His is close. The sensations, equally new for him, drive him rapidly onward. His face broadcasting arrival, I pull him deep. He's aware of the pains I've taken to ensure he can let go safely, even bare and fully within.
His pulsing feels different inside my core than it has elsewhere: less haptic, more holistic. Another trickle, this time easily identified. His essence has filled me, sating my hunger but renewing my desire.
He begins to withdraw, but I stop him, a hand holding firm. The other snakes between us, seeking the point of our joining. I don't want him to exit until my own release has encircled him.
Kisses pepper my mouth, face, ears, and chest. My fingers move more frantically now, closer... closer. Hot breath in my ear, whispered affection, and my senses are alive with color, clenching and twisting and undulating. It draws him in, squeezing his final drops home.
My breathing slows, and slows, and slows, as we lay holding each other for what we wish could be eternity. We both know he can't stay, but we pretend he can, for just another five minutes. And another five. And another...
Sleep threatens to overtake us. An intimate sleep for which we both yearn, but would undoubtedly mean our exposure. With great anguish, he grudgingly rises.
Perhaps someday, his journey, perilously passing our parents' bedroom, will be unnecessary. Perhaps someday, a space of our own and the freedom to linger. Perhaps someday, time will grant us the dawn.
"I love you," I whisper to the dark.
"I love you too." My brother's lips brush mine, one final time. "Tomorrow night?"
I nod, abruptly overwhelmed by wistful certainty. Far from any prospect of fulfillment for those hopes, even these nights cannot persist forever. Someday soon, we won't even have our tomorrow. Until then, though...
"Tomorrow night."
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Author's Note: Tons to say on this one, especially given the indirect style of the narrative. This was intentional, mostly written as a way for me to practice things like metaphor, nuance, subtlety, and implication. I've written up my thoughts, intent, and analysis of the story, mostly as a reference for myself in the future. It's four times as long as the story itself. If anyone is interested, feel free to message and I would be happy to send a copy.
Comments, especially on the effectiveness of the communication and literary style, would be greatly appreciated. As always, thanks to everyone who reads my work, it means the world to me.
Spoiler Description: Sister awaits her brother's visit for a nighttime tryst, having decided that tonight is the night she's going to shed her virginity with him. Soft, tender, and gentle throughout, I think the only things I can anticipate someone being uncomfortable with (other than the incest) are a reference to the brief pain of defloration, mention of blood from the same, and bittersweet ending.
