16 comments/ 121174 views/ 14 favorites Oh Sam, What Have You Done Now? By: XinYu Sam peeled back the covers and crept out of bed. Rebecca was sound asleep on the top bunk. He stood beside the stacked beds looking up at her sleeping figure, silhouetted in the plug-in night light they used to make their way to the bathroom when those late night urges beckoned. She always hung off the bed, slightly, how he couldn't figure. She'd had to take the top bunk a long while back when trial and error proved he was incapable of not falling off. He'd broken his arm at age seven. To see Becky, lying face up, hanging precariously over the edge sent a shiver up his spine. However, it was not the only thing that made him shiver. He'd been doing it for a month now. Becky was a very sound sleeper and she'd never seemed to know it. Sam gazed at her slender arm draped down and hanging in front of him. He leaned forward and touched his lips to her forearm, feeling her warmth, the soft fuzz of tiny hairs and simultaneously breathing her in. She almost always smelled of soap, having taken to bed immediately following her nightly bath. That's how it had started. Before he even realized what he was doing, and long after he knew such thoughts weren't very good, Sam listened to his sister bathe. She was a hummer, that one. As in, she hummed while she washed herself, while she shaved and soaped and soaked. Sam always showered first, that way Becky could, as she explained it, take her time with a bath. She was very smart, good grades and an athlete, to boot. Everyone liked her at school, Sam included. Thing was, he didn't really know her. They rarely even talked, to be honest. Despite being the same age, 18, they didn't have very much in common. A few friends, a Bio class and a pair of parents, but that was pretty much it. Sam always felt like he should simply give his sister as much space as possible considering their precarious living arrangement. He didn't really even think of her when they weren't in the same room. Of course, her nightly baths were the exception. He listened to the water, significant imaginings for every soft splash, every audible wake that echoed about the bathroom and slipped through the door and lit upon his senses. He pictured her leg, perched on the edge of the tub, her arm long, delicate and slender, holding in her hand a razor that she brought down on the skin and drew upward, bypassing her knee and ceasing at mid-thigh. The water churned. Cleaning out her razor, Sam envisaged, then reaching back down and doing it again. Often, he would be drift away in these imaginings and fall asleep listening. Hearing her humming and be lulled into a trance, only to wake suddenly and encounter a darkened room. It was as if time had leapt forward when he'd blinked. How had he missed all that had transpired? Becky coming out in a towel, going to the drawer, retrieving her nightwear, disappearing back into the bathroom, brushing her teeth and spitting into the sink. Or, what had lodged itself among the elite of his fondest moments, when, through slitted eyes, he watched as the door opened. Becky appeared in the threshold, her body silhouetted, her long wet hair, that slender arm reaching for the switch. He would blink and opens his eyes wide in that last moment when his sister stood in the glowing aura cast by the bathroom's amber light. She'd find the switch and there was darkness. There, in that temporary moment when one's eyes are unable to adjust fast enough to the sudden change. Sheer blindness, Sam strained and then he saw her, but this time much closer, like a snap shot in a digital camera, raising one's gaze from the view finder to see that the object of interest is suddenly very close. Like a strobe. Sam felt her foot hook into the edge of his mattress, could already smell her, and watched her strong leg launch herself up onto the bunk. Sam, for no reason that he could ascertain, always wanted to giggle when Becky used her leg to launch herself up. No reason at all. The sudden upsetting of the stacked bed harmony, perhaps? Her sudden proximity, a mutual closeness not experienced since last night at the same hour? Her smell maybe. Which brings us back to him standing there, his lips pressed to the soft flesh of her arm. He was smelling her, breathing her scent, and indeed, feeling his penis growing stiff. Was it his fault, really? Their parents had promised to build an extra room, his father was going to clean out the den. Who would get the den, anyhow? It didn't matter. The matter was in regard to a just turned 18 year old brother and sister who still shared the same room. And slept in bunk beds, no less. Neither of them invited friends over to the house. It was for that very reason, too. None other. Sam looked at the back of his sister's head. How in the world could she do that without getting a crick? A kink in her neck. Her arm, her lower torso, both faced outward toward the edge of the bed. Yet, against the very nature of things, Becky's upper torso was angled the opposite direction. Her very head turned the opposite direction, facing the wall. It seemed very unnatural to Sam, but then again, one has to recall that he, until just a moment earlier, had his lips on his sister's arm and was smelling her. So, wondered Sam to himself, what is unnatural anyhow? And this is how it went for the younger brother by seven minutes. He stood there, pondering the vast and intangible possibilities of his and his teenage sister's proximity for perhaps a half an hour, an hour maybe even two, he hardly knew anymore. Only, tonight Sam felt an odd twinge. The twinge that asserts itself upon a person who's suddenly grown bored and dissatisfied with what has passed thus far. He'd gotten to the point when the unnatural seemed natural and therefore, dull. It was time to try something else. See, it had taken Sam a solid five days before he'd gotten the nerve to do the lip thing, just now exhausted. He was, until recently, content with a lean, perhaps a tickle of the arm hair against his nose, a drag off her freshly soaped skin. Sam, virile teenage Sammy, experienced a sudden sense of urgency. He knelt a little and examined his sister's dangling hand, her tender fingers. The clear polish caused her nails to gleam in the nightlight. Sam held his breath and brought his face very close to her hand. His lips parted, his teeth too, and he took her thumb into his mouth. How interesting, he thought. His penis certainly swelled, and it ached so. He raised his eyebrows, titled his head back some to see whether his sister had registered the intrusion on her dormancy. She hadn't. Sam carefully rolled her thumb around on his tongue, especially careful not to graze it with his teeth. He could feel every ridge, every dimple, curve and bend, and even sense the aftertaste of her fingernail polish. He was quite surprised also, to be able to sense her very thumb prints within the cradle of his tongue. The tiny ridges were a miraculous stimuli to the under stimulated young man. Such was Becky's brother. Presently, Sam began to suck on his sister's thumb, wondering idly if he could keep it up long enough to prune her digit. It came in the form of a vague memory, something he'd performed on himself when just a toddler. An odd image, indeed, but Sam found it terribly amusing. Imagine his sister waking in the middle of the night in the midst of an urge to urinate, flipping on the bathroom light to find that her thumb was strangely moisture wrinkled. She would examine with sheer bewilderment. Had she been sucking her thumb? she would wonder. Sam almost laughed, but that would certainly put a quick end to his fun, so he did restrained himself. But he did imagine his sister tucking her thumb into her fist, sitting there on the toilet racking her brain, mulling away in post pubescent angst. My God, do I still suck my thumb? Sam's mouth popped off Becky's digit and the boy, not quite a man, furrowed his brow. He gazed upon the back of his sister's head, wondering, wondering. He glanced over his shoulder at the digital clock. It's red, glowing numbers resembled fire ants stuck nose-to-ass. So filled was Sam's mind with what to do, what to do, that he failed to even register the time, or perhaps he had, but subconsciously judged the hour innocuous, and thus returned his attention to the desire at hand, now above and beyond his sister's . . .yes, hand. The boy wonder raised his gaze, up the smooth scape of his sister's lightly tanned appendage, up some more, falling at last upon the rise and fall of her chest, particularly, the mound upon which sat her magnificent breast. From where Sam was standing, only one of her two mounds presented itself for viewing. He considered the mass as it rose and depressed, the slightest notion of a distended peak resting upon its plateau. Her nightshirts were hardly flattering, again something Sam had taken almost no notice to until very, very recently. Briefly, Sam eyed the orb, the tiny summit atop a summit and then dropped his gaze once again to Becky's hand, the palm upturned and opened as if ready for, not a high-five but a low one. Should I not set my sights so high? he thought. Should I stick instead to what has been extended to me, the warm, life-filled object which dangles nightly only inches above my face? The last thing I see before I fall asleep! No. The answer came that fast. No! Resounding. He lifted his gaze once more. That object is foreign to me, now. And his eyes fell yet again upon Becky's beacon. Beacon, indeed, thought Sam, as if able to hear the writer who narrated his thoughts, like some movie he'd recently seen. He began scheming anew, considering the best means by which to come into contact with the undulating bud, newly locked into his eye line. At once, he turned and saw it. A chair, Becky's chair, tucked into Becky's desk. How fitting. He took two measured steps around the scattered shoes and overturned book bags and seized the chair, returning with it to bedside. With impregnated meaning, he stepped up onto the chair and took the world in from the new height at which he reigned. Sam was unprepared for the sudden ability to see so much more of his sister and he felt slightly dizzy or drunk over how the vantage point was wrenched so easily into his favor. "Wow," he mouthed, for now he was overlooking she. Becky was without her sheets, favoring the cool night air and comfort of her nightwear to the confinement of pesky bedding. And such as his vista permitted, Sam could now gaze upon not simply one, but both of his sister's glorious breasts. Did it matter that they were veiled by a Duke University t-shirt? Perhaps, but perhaps Sam ought to temper his expectations for one evening. The boy wonder shook his head, determinedly. Not tonight, he reckoned. His hand snaked out from where it had been tethered at his side. He reached, his fingers wide, palm open and hovering above Becky's left tit. Yes, tit. That's what it was. The notion excited Sam to the point that his sweat pants tented at the crotch. He grinned inwardly. The immense heat roiling off his sister's body was a stark upgrade from the sweet warmth generated by the mere flesh of her arm, he thought. Maybe he was imagining it, but Becky truly felt a furnace of energy, so near her breast yet not touching. But what about that? Sam, oh so gently, set his hand upon his sister's tit. His eyes became alight when he felt her nipple against the very center of his palm. He closed his eyes, but quickly reopened them realizing that his balance depended on it. His heart jumped as he saw into his imagination's own imaginings. He'd almost thought he'd done what he had not yet even decided to do, which could be nothing else but, to squeeze! The notion gave rise to the supposition that indeed, his mother may have been right. That boys did have another brain, powered and pulsing and located in their penises. For, in that moment only so recently past, he could have sworn his hand betrayed him, went forth and committed to a motion that his true brain had not yet weighed, voted on, and passed! Sam looked at his hand, his only lament, a very minor one being that it now covered her tit from view. But, of course, touch was more! Much more, and hence the defining moment. His next move! Sam stared at his hand and gently, oh so gently, squeezed. "Wow," he mouthed, his eyes going wide. The firmness was indescribable. Taking quick stock of his status of unnoticed, creepy brother, Sam looked upon Becky's face. He could see half of it now still facing the wall, her exposed eye, still heavily lidded. Sam zoomed in on that one lid he could see, zoomed and focused. He exhaled slowly and gently depressed his sister's glorious tit once more. The eyelid! Had it moved?! No, no it hadn't. Excellent! Sam carefully lifted his hand from her bulbous mound and wiped his forehead. This devious midnight behavior was tedious work, indeed. Speaking of which, what time, Sam wondered, did Becky usually get up to urinate? His eyes rolled around their sockets, thoughtfully. Not before two at least, he reckoned. Good, he nodded. Good, good, good. Sam held his hand, the infamous hand, to his cheek. He looked at her tits. So warm was that hand, carrying on its surface a breath of the fire that must continually escape those luscious orbs throughout the whole of the night. How miraculous they were. Suddenly, he knew. He had to have his mouth on her breast. The notion gave his body a good quiver and his penis really began to ache. It was quite clear to Sam that this desire, now wholly formed, would not lie unabated. But first, Sam had to make sure all was well. He couldn't very well lean over. This foresight had not been with him when he first positioned the chair beside the bunk. Nor could he do so even if the chair were closer. See, there remained the pressing presence of the problematic hand of Becky. Sam down at it. How could the thing have become so alien to him, now actually something of an adversary? Ug, how it suddenly disgusted him, in fact. There it lay, jutting out at that unusual angle, an obstacle to his newest and latest, most pressingly, demandingly daunting desire! Not to despair, Sam was as resourceful as he was dirty. Or at least, very nearly. Reluctantly, promising himself the hiatus would be temporary, he descended, stepping from the chair and moving it aside. His was a single-track thought process. It was occupied by a sole dilemma, a dilemma whose day, or night rather, was numbered. Scratch that: Had all but come to an end. Sam left his and his sister's room. What on earth was he doing? How would leaving the room solve. . .Ah ha! Sam had returned from the kitchen! In his hand, his devious hand, not yet cool to the touch, was his mother's feather duster. The game was on. Sam grinned and returned to his trench beside the bunk. He surveyed his enemy, projecting its retreating trajectory and then he, the boy wonder, assailed it. He wiggled the feathers over his sweetly dormant sister's hand, and tasted the most instantaneous and delicious success since the first spark of flint lit the wife of the caveman's hair on fire. Up went Becky's hand, in full ascent, retreating to the safety and hopefully, Sam prayed, long-term comfort of her splendid abdomen. A young man on a self-defining mission, Sam desired the wasting of no more time. He dropped the duster and repositioned the chair. With the utmost care, he mounted once more and regained his righteous throne. Upon his stage, masterpiece before him, audience surrounding him and gazing on with wide eyes, Sam breathed. It was always the most important thing, breathing was. Couldn't forget to breathe, lest one ruin everything. Unless, of course, one needed to hold his breath, in which case breathing beforehand was crucial. Sam, minutes younger brother to beautiful Becky, leant against the mattress upon which lay the very subject of his torturous machination, his mouth mere centimeters above that sister's beautiful globe, her yes, her tit. And success! His lips found the 100% cotton foundation, and his tongue, guarding the front gate to the drool headquarters, sought the distended nipple which did not fail to meet and exceed expectations so unexpectedly well, in firmness and mere presence, that Sam did nearly crumble atop his mighty dais. He redoubled his effort to maintain composure, demanding that his knees remain locked. This was no small task considering the extra blood flow his lower brain, i.e. penis had just requested at the Emergency Plasma Allocation Meeting or E-PAM, convened at that precise moment near the young man's heart. Taking into account the circumstances, as well the very gravity of its vehicle's present situation, equally so the correlation of said vehicle's tight bond and fond history with the lower brain, i.e. penis, more so lately than that of the upper brain, the heart was left with no other alternative than to grant an unusual request for even more blood. . .for everyone! The reserves were called up and there was much rejoicing. By now, Becky's dear, and might we add, relatively perfect tit was becoming quite sodden by her brother's mouth pressing down on it. For his part, Sam could naught but breathe her in. This was truly the creme de la creme. And what's more, while we were busy narrating that side story concerning the young man's internal goings on, young Becky's nipple had hardened under the daunting pressure put upon her by Sam's taste buds. Apparently, deep within her subconscious a certain stimuli quite approved of the sensation. Sam's hand had bypassed the elastic band holding his sweat pants about his waist and he was in fact, stroking his penis. The penis, taking advantage of what it judged to be a newly gained or preordained right of passage, went ahead and called the next move, right there from the field command center, whose freshly painted walls had not yet dried! Why, the ribbon still lay on the floor, having just been cut not a moment earlier! There wasn't even time to drink the congratulatory champagne. Instead, Sam's quivering lips began closing on Becky's tit, gently, gently until within their chapped and happy grasp was her very erect nipple. Becky moved! Sam jerked upright, his mouth forgetting to close, a bead of saliva stretching to the point of improbability, someone get a measuring stick this could warrant a call to Guinness, before finally snapping. The boy wonder's head cocked, his eyes widened in dread as he gazed up his sister's lids. But, nothing. A mere shifting. Should he take a gander at the clock behind him? No, keep watching. Watch for any telltale sign that this night's adventures are about to reach their dreaded conclusion. Go over escape routes, ditch outs, excuses. Most importantly, excuses. Hold the phone. Sam's eyes caught movement at nine o'clock. He turned his head and found his focus at an ongoing gesture that had the potential to produce devastatingly positive results. Becky, fruit of the same loin that yielded Sam, was moving her arm, the arm. Where it currently ventured was the subject of interest and much speculation as Sam watched it take a cautious journey southward. Curious, indeed. The journey continued, until Oops! This hand seemed to be doing a fine impersonation of its brother's, which had only moments ago seen the inside of a pair of sweat pants laden with the smell of Get It On. Sam's mouth was really open wide now, as he watched his sister's hand make an exceedingly deft move right under her elastic, then disappear into oh! man's land. Not for the first time did Becky's brother mouth a certain word. What, pray tell, was she doing in there? Or, as Tom Waits queried with curious alarm, bordering on hysterical paranoia, "What's He Building In There?" Oh Sam, what have you done now!? This is magic, is it not? Do mine eyes deceive me, or is my sister doing a dainty diddle on my behalf? Oh Sam, What Have You Done Now? Sam forgot the golden rule, he didn't breathe. As a result, it nearly cost him his visit to the Misty Mountain. For when he did breathe, it came as a sort of grunt and momentarily, the magical diddling stopped. A brother's eyes went wide with alarm. But no sooner than had the Chinese fire drill threatened to commence, that the diddling resumed. There was a silent sigh, and a bead of sweat resumed its swim down Sam's flushed cheek. At this point, Sam stops and takes a proverbial step back, right? A young man of 18, a boy til now, must at this juncture consider himself lucky, call himself sated and adjourn. Does he know what lies in store should he continue his dangerous trek? No. Does he realize what adverse effect catching the feminine scent that Becky currently fondles into bloom, will have on his addled young synapses? No. Does he have any clue, whatsoever, the codes that turn like cogs beneath his story's synopsis on the cover page, some chapters back? A resounding, No! The only thing that goes through that boy's mind, fleetingly, mind you, fleetingly, is this question not wholly formed: Do the consequences of my failure outweigh the fruit of my success? The failure, it is quite clear. She wakes up, he is revealed as the dirty boy he is. And more. The success, it's not nearly as clear for that moment or moments remain an intangible. The actual end point, that is, where to celebrate and plot the flag of success, is as yet indefinable. How far must he go before he can be deemed successful? Or worse, to what extreme will his lower brain demand he go? Sam looked at the hand of his sister, the very hand he once loved then despised, now loved anew. He thinks he does not know the answer to all those questions, except to conquer them all at once, with every ounce of vigor in his 18 year-old, innocence-not-yet-lost, momma's boy, long summers and swimming holes, sunburnt, first beer hangover, first heartbreak, sperm-blurred mind, by demanding: Who gives a good fuck, anyway? And that's just when the churning that has gone on unabated during that brief, personal interlude regains control of Sam's psyche. He leant in close, but suddenly understood. A scent crept up and entrenched itself in his nostrils. My God, but what an idea it founded. Sam leaned back, he gazed at his sister, seeing her body from head to toe. He could not believe it, how had he missed it? Oh, but wasn't she the most sexy, alluring creature he'd ever seen? The hair on his arms stood on end, his fingers, testicles and nose tingled. He shook his head, ready to reappraise the impossible, those intangibles, the indefinable. One eyebrow raised with cognizant recognition. Hitherto, there is no going back! Sam reached his hand up and brought it down upon his sister's which lay sheathed by the fabric of her nightwear. There it was placed, his atop hers, feeling as she did her once private, now nameable pussy. Becky's brother took a deep drag off the scent she coaxed up from beneath her hand, his hand. He felt his middle finger upon her middle finger as she ran over, again and again, a certain bump. She seemed to pay particular attention to this bump and Sam realized the legend of the clitoris was be true. His breath came heavily as his and her tour continued. His middle finger momentarily lost the one it shadowed, and Sam realized with delight that it had gone below, submerged and sunk into his sister's fleshy shroud. Did she produce the liquid he did? As much? She must. He'd heard how it allowed his very vessel to effortlessly penetrate that chasm his finger was perched but centimeters above. The same stuff that allowed her to sink her digit, now. Sam lowered his face again and breathed her in. Her scent was clean, yet heavy. He put his mouth over the heat, over his hand, over hers. Becky suddenly moved her hand out from beneath her nightwear and just like that, the hand lay again atop her abdomen. Sam's penis pulsed as he brought his mouth closer, down first to smell, then to taste. It was uncanny! The scent was powerful, again so cleanly like the soap from the shower that she used, yet so different so, so, fertile! Mixed with, with. . .her. He couldn't label it, entirely. He put his tongue on her middle finger and slid it up the length. Wow, Beck! he thought. She'd sunk her longest finger, completely. He could taste her pussy up at the knuckle. It sent an electric thrill through the length of his spine, tasting her, being so near her sex. Sam sampled each of the fingers that had been in or near his sister's honeyed vise and still Becky slept. At last, he stood erect to stretch his back and take a proper breath. He glanced over his shoulder at the clock. Now, it registered fully. How in the world had so much time gone by? Had he truly been at this for almost four hours? It was nearly two o'clock! Then Sam thought of something. When had Becky felt the urge to empty her bladder on previous nights? It seemed to Sam, he was always a light sleeper, that he would wake only to Becky's stepping down from the bunk and a couple minutes later when she climbed up. He would reflexively glance at the clock, a school year gesture that died hard even in the summer. He thought hard. Instantly, an image flashed in his mind: 1:47. Then another: 1:58. And another: 2:04. Sam bit his lip, cogitating. He could not simply go back to bed and let sleeping dogs lie, though his sister was hardly a dog. A bitch in heat, perhaps, but not a dog. Meaningless expressions aside, Sam made a difficult decision. He would have to pray that his efforts to this point could be bypassed and that the current status quo, post-temporary exile, would be the same at such time when he could return to the throne. Quite reluctantly, and not quite certain it was even necessary, Sam ceded his place atop the Misty Mountain. He moved the chair aside, not entirely, as he was relatively sure a drowsy sister was unlikely to notice something an innocuous as a displaced chair. Or a feather duster! Before slipping back into bed, Sam grabbed the duster and tossed it under his bed, lest his sister step on it and the sheer awkwardness create a sensation. He took a deep breath, exhaled and closed his eyes. Well, damn if his excitement and horniness hadn't entirely veiled the fact that he was extraordinarily tired. Sam awoke suddenly to find that things were much as they'd been before he'd fallen asleep. He had fallen asleep, hadn't he? He looked at the clock, his eyes very heavy. The time did not immediately register, a dead giveaway that he'd snoozed. When his eyes focused, he was shocked. 4:19! Indeed, when he rolled over he could see out his window the faintest, insiest bit of brightening on the blackened night sky. He shook the cobwebs of sleep from his head. The question of the hour was a sour one: Had Becky peed? Oh, what a bizarre question one should be asking one's self at 4:20 in the morning. Had Beck peed? Had Becky peed? The double pox to falling asleep on the dirty job. There was absolutely no way, in Sam's figuring, that he could tell. The sweeping answer to old questions resurfaced and buzzed around the boy wonder's brain. There's no going back. Who fucking well cares, anyway? Well, certainly Sam had begun to care again. His nervousness had returned and the fear of capture beyond enemy territory sat once more like an unchewable food item on his palate. OK, drab simile, but one that rather foreshadows Sam's reawakening quite well. See, Sam had replaced the chair, even moved it a bit farther south. If anything, his subconscious had remained alert even while his primary had not. In other words, his penis had never really softened. And when the brother of a sleeping sister ascended his throne yet once more, the flag raised in customary salute. Then, when he leant in once more, now aligned evenly with his sister Becky's pearl, his reluctance collapsed in on itself like an ancient star. The scent triggered the endorphin rush that toggled off his fears, obscured his war wounds and sealed his fate. Only, this was curious. Something blessed and newfangled had unfolded within the land of Up Here. Sweet little Becky, older sister by mere contractions, seemed to be having, in the words of a former Super Bowl entertainer, a wardrobe malfunction. Her shirt was nowhere to be found. Oh wait, there it was, hanging from the curtain rod over the window. That little scamp, thought Sam. She, who always rises before me, one wonders why, must become overheated late in the night. She sheds her shirt only to don it before I've wakened! Which begs the question, what else might she shed? Unfortunately, Sam did not have the luxury of keeping an extended vigil atop his pulpit. Firstly, it was not the most comfortable seat of power, requiring its occupant to stand. Who ever heard of a throne that required that? And secondly, out the window beyond the gray Duke t-shirt dangling within a sister's easy reach, the blackened sky was losing the darker features that had made it his nearest thing to an ally. Sam laid his eyes upon his sister's bare body, well, save for her bra. And what about that? She hadn't been wearing that before? That's so, I don't want my tits to sag when I'm old, cliche. Or rather, Becky must have donned it upon returning from the toilet, specifically permitting removal of aforementioned shirt. Nevertheless, Sam had prayed for a return to the status quo like an out-of-office Republican, and had been granted what amounted to an unexpected budget surplus. He took quick stock of Becky's eyelids. No flickering, no staring at dirty brothers. That was a good sign. Plus, she was lying directly on her back. Another bonus. There was only one small problem. She had placed herself farther away than before. No longer did she dangle. Her body, the whole damned thing now occupied that latter half of the mattress. Sam sighed. He could still reach, he supposed. Although, there was another solution. He had to admit, it went hand-in-hand with the, "There's No Turning Back" banner slung across his greater field of vision by the optimistic well-wishers in his head. There was really no other alternative. Reaching, craning one's neck, had gone out of fashion in Sam's compromised mind. He would have to climb up there with her, next to her, beside his beloved sister. Now, how to execute this without waking the beautiful beast, was not something Sam could easily conceive. So, like any 'head' strong adventurer, and like those before him, Sam simply didn't give it a second thought. He put his load-bearing hand on what served as the upper bunk's headboard, for posterity's sake, laid a steady leg onto his sister's mattress and slid onto the boat just as it set sail toward a dawning horizon. There he was, lying at his sister's side. Suddenly, a completely counter-productive and needlessly annoying thought smacked between his eyes, just as he was gazing upon Becky's stunning bra. How much easier this all would have been had he told Becky she could take bottom bunk, last night. He could have assured her he would not fall. It had been so long since he'd done such a silly thing. This would be the scene in the movie where the handsome, lead actor looks into the camera and makes a goofy face. Sam, as it happened, made no goofy face beyond the possessed look of lust already firmly lodged beneath and above his flaring nostrils. Beck's leg was touching his. Normally, no big deal. But ever since the sighting, or smelling rather, things were considerably different for young Sam. Every touch was, in a word, Vesuvius. He leaned up on one arm and gazed down at his lovely sister. He watched her tits rise and fall, her taut stomach trailing down past an adorable innie. He sat up and gawked at her bare vagina through the nightwear, or rather wished, and saw what he imagined to be lying in wait for his wandering. . .everything. Why couldn't she have shed her bottoms? Lord knows, there was an easy answer to that. She wore no underwear. He felt their non-presence earlier when he'd lain his hands atop hers whilst she explored her succulent cavity. Sam was seized by a sudden desire. He formed his hand into a fist and stuck out his index finger, as if to make a point. He aimed his pointer at where her crotch ought to curve blessedly under, and lowered his hand over his sister's pussy. When he made contact, he stopped and looked up at her face. Good. He applied gentle pressure and realized he was off. He moved his finger, keeping it pressed lightly against the sheer, thin fabric of her nightwear, until he felt her crease. He pushed inward, slowly, painstakingly slow. He felt her outer folds part, slightly, and rolled his eyes, delirious with untoward expectation. He lowered his aim a bit, guiding the tip of his finger southward and angling it as he guessed her canal ran. He pushed inward, finding much less resistance here, Becky's loose fitting nightwear pulling in past her outer lips. A sound escape his sister's lips. Sam froze. What was that? Did she say something? He looked at her, wide-eyed. Still heavily lidded, but hadn't she said something, made some sort of noise? Stop? Did she say stop? Wait a minute. Sam released his breath. Remember to breathe! He boldly pressed in with his finger, a tad deeper this time, making the cloth of her nightwear sink a centimeter further. He watched her lips and pushed. There it was! She moved her mouth. No, wait. Smacked her lips. That's what it was. A soft moan abruptly escaped, and Sam's mouth fell open. And there went her hand. Sam pulled his finger back. Becky's hand went down. Full dive! Only, it did not penetrate the fabric of her nightwear. Instead, she merely grabbed the cloth being stuffed into her pussy and yanked it out. How dare she! Ah ha, but then on the hand's retreat it stopped short of full withdrawal. Sam watched, his breath baited as the tips of her fingers dipped, then the tops of her knuckles and viola! Becky was re-initiating radiant sex sequence. Sam sighed to himself. How he wanted to climb on top of Becky and let her take it, let her guide it home. Suddenly, the boy wonder twisted his lips. Hmm, he thought. Interesting notion. Perhaps he could take advantage of Becky's current delving. Moreover, could he possibly assist her somehow? Sam leant in and watched Becky spelunking by dawn's early light. He could only make out a sort of telephone version of her adventures as relayed by the ripples in her nightwear, but it gave him an idea. He extended his hand down between his sister's legs and gently caressed her inner thigh through her nightwear. Using the backs of his fingernails, he traced up and down, from where he felt her fingers milking her mons, to her leg a few inches back. He then traced low, between her legs and up the crack of her ass. Becky issued her first certifiable, definitely a moan, moan. It crept from her lips like an Ooh and finished like the back end of Boom. Like Oohhmm, with the Mmmm being dragged out five or six bars. It was not the first time his sister elicited a creeping shiver that went crawling up her brother's spinal column. Sam kept his gesture afloat, bringing his face low to breathe Becky in, to add to his own lust-filled drunkenness, to the point where he thought he might have to take his penis out and finish, then and there. But that was not how this was supposed to end. His penis had long ago decided that. Jerking was great. A fine past time, but that was the stuff of boys. What lay before him, them, was the stuff of men. Sam set his jaw the next time his sister's moaned, taking note of the accelerated pace at which she rubbed herself. It was lay it on the line time. Pun, asserted. Sam turned over and knelt on his knees beside his sister. He looked down over her, her eyebrows furrowed, heavily lidded, beating away at herself. How sadly incomplete she looked. He took a deep breath and raised his leg, carefully extending it over his sister's body, bringing the foot down between her slightly spread legs. He reached his left hand across her chest, bringing it down between her underarm and rib cage. Her right arm dangled between the wall and the bed. At last, raising his right leg to join his left, side by side between those delicate legs. He was perfectly aligned, now directly over top Becky in an ass-high pushup pose. Dammit, he'd forgotten the most important part. Well, there was no way to go back now. He could already feel his muscles beginning to burn. Using his head as a crutch for his right hand and pressing it into the bed at his sister's side, he took his hand up and lowered his sweat pants and underwear enough that his rigid cock could be pointed down at its incestuous yin of yearning. He replaced his hand again and lifted his head, stretching his neck to drive away the discomfort having used it as a crutch, caused. He breathed, careful not to do so in Becky's face. He could hear her own sharpened breath, smell her, hear her hands working still beneath the fabric of her nightwear. He lowered himself, his forearms burning, being powered by lust and the miraculous sense it offered, telling him not to save any strength for the return journey. His penis made contact with her middle knuckle. He was just above the digit buried inside her body. Sam went lower, burning and arching his back to give his penis the preferred trajectory. He moved forward, the instant contact and softness, the thinness of her nightwear sent adrenaline coursing through his veins. His penis lurched with pleasure, a thumbs up to the E-LAM who must now, have clearly seen the wisdom in waiting patiently before turning loose that mojo juice. Becky's brother undulated forward, pressing his mushroomed tip against her thinly veiled vagina, eliciting a more forceful moan than ever before. The second state-certified groan of approval made Sam's eyes blur. His eager penis oozed pre-cum and dampened the thin fabric separating it from his sister's gash. Sam moved against her again, this time a little harder and Becky's hands balled up and pushed out on her nightwear. Sam froze as Becky arched her back and nearly lifted her breasts up under her brother's chin. He watched her lids and they flickered. He was certain the gig was up. Remarkably, she did not wake. The miracle he'd traveled so far, journeyed over mountains and through valleys to bear witness to, seemed suddenly possible. Sam looked down his chest to see Becky's other hand go down to her bottoms and stop short at the elastic band. The thumb on the other hand, the one beneath appeared, too, and hooked over the band. As the Israelites must have felt at Moses' parting of the seas so, too, did Sam as he stared down with wide-eyed wonder. His aching penis, sandwiched on either side by Becky's hands, was passed by as the unconscious sister began pushing down her nightwear, revealing a dark shadow, the faintest trace of dark hair made out in the mounting morning light. Becky's push ceased, the band and bottoms were now just over her hips. She retrieved her right hand and laid it firmly upon her clitoris, high on her velvet pussy. The thin strip of hair pointed the way for younger brother Sammy, and shaking, he arched his back and lowered his penis. When he made contact with a plush wet pussy, his eyes rolled back into his head. His quivering legs and forearms nearly gave out. He was on the very verge of collapsing atop his sister, certainly ruining everything. With every ounce of determination, willing himself to hold, he gritted his teeth and rolled his pelvis ever so gently, staring down into his sister's serene, peaceless dream. Her lips twisted and she rolled them over between her teeth. Sam opened his own mouth wide, sucking in breath as his tip slid in between the silken outer folds of Becky's slit. With tremendous effort he held, watching his sister's lips quiver, feeling her hand moving faster over her button. Oh Sam, What Have You Done Now? Sam leaned forward, again with painstaking increment, feeling the head of his penis plumb a heat so intense he felt his testicles lurch. Wait, he prayed. Wait! Suddenly, Becky's hand moved down and bumped into his shaft. Her digits spread and went passed, placing his penis in a V, feeling herself penetrated by a dream. This must be it, Sam thought. She will wake up. He gazed intently on her eyelids, watching them flicker still, her lips trembling and mashing together. Her breath was short and erratic. Her hips jerked, and instantly Sam sunk a whole inch into his sister's vise tight oyster. He turned his head, grunted and clenched his teeth. He couldn't take it any longer. Becky's little brother pushed forward without stopping, slowly but with undaunted determination, farther and farther, feeling now Becky's hips as they rolled back to accommodate her subconscious' mystery, her fingers curling around his disappearing shaft, feeling him penetrate her. She opened her mouth wide and appeared as if she might cry. Her hips began shaking violently and her legs opened wide, her knees gathering up, her thighs suddenly raising and going about Sam's waist. Sam buried himself and pulled back, buried himself again and pulled back once more before unloading the more terrific orgasm of his young life, jamming his cock finally as deep as he could, spurting a copious volley into Becky's tight canal and spilling into her womb. Sam grunted just as Becky did, the two of them beset on all sides by their own orgasms, he, still miraculously perched over Becky's body, she clinging to his waist with the warm softness of her thighs, hands uprooting the sheets tucked under the mattress. Sam, feeling his testicles tighten again, lowered his face to within millimeters of his sister's gaping mouth. He lay his tongue upon his sister's top lip, pushing it just inside and running it over the ridge of her front teeth. His cock lurched, a fourth and a fifth jet of semen spurt forth from him into Becky's florid canal. Finally, he'd exhausted himself. Becky's legs went slack and she moaned with a quivering shudder. Her brother held inanimate, allowing the last involuntary surges to eke out his final spend. It all had to be emptied here, every last drop for her, as this was truly the momentous summit. Becky's breathing steadied and she started to roll over. Sam's penis slid out of her, causing his breath to catch. His tip slid over her hip as she turned onto her side and slipped back into deep sleep. Sam pushed himself up until he stood between Beck's legs, his back bent to avoid the ceiling. He stared down at his sister, his eyes wide and speculative. She hasn't woken. She hasn't woken! A long bead of cum dripped off his dick and landed on her clothed knee. This younger brother shook his head then carefully climbed down and slipped into his own bed. He lay there, unable to sleep, his pulse still racing, adrenal glands emptied and causing his body to jitter. His muscles seemed atrophied. Sam took stock. There, above him on a sweaty mattress lay his sweetly tainted sister, Becky, sleeping still. The girl was full and certainly oozing her brother's spend onto the sheets between her legs. What a pool should collect there! On the other hand, what if she gets pregnant? Well, I suppose there's way to avoid that. One could always venture down to the Center and ask for that morning-after pill. Tell them it's for. . .a girlfriend. Could it be slipped it into her morning Orange Juice? Would the secret even make it that far? She could wake straight away and realize what's happened Touch her gash and feel where Sam had deposited himself? Feel their collective ooze. Will she wonder at how she's been stretched? Or will it all just register as an uncannily vivid dream? She didn't wake! How miraculous. Yet, how troubling. The younger brother has sudden insight into what being perverse is all about. Like a serial you-name-it, the type that didn't get caught that first time, successfully completing his endeavor, henceforth he must scheme to do it again. Must find a way to duplicate it. And already, his young body is reawakening, his penis absorbing those sisterly juices from its still recent internment, becoming hard again. Yes, Sam will have to put himself inside her fertile, young body again. And again! And again. Until she finds out? That, or at least until someone can replace her. Sam lies there, wondering if he should masturbate, idly pondering the precautionary trip down to the Center. I wonder, he thinks, can one suppose they'd give me a whole bottle of those pills? That was, perhaps the beginning of the end for young Sam.