23 comments/ 178479 views/ 89 favorites Painting the Flagpole By: amyss A hot breeze blew in the passenger window of my brother's car as we sped down 16th Street. The AC was on the fritz, just in time for the hottest weekend of the year. The open window didn't provide much relief from the heat, but it was better than nothing. Rivulets of hair flowed all around my head, sometimes covering my eyes or mouth. A perfect weekend to spend someplace cool, but instead I was forced into manual labor in the heat. Behind the wheel was my brother Ken, equally conscripted into the weekend's chore. The car slowed to a stop at a red light, and my hair slowed and stopped right along with it, resting around my shoulders. We were on the way home from the paint shop, where we'd just bought a gallon of brilliant white exterior enamel. This gallon of paint would symbolize my lack of freedom, for as long as paint remained, I would not be free. The light turned green, and we were off again. My parents were in Memphis for the weekend, and fortunately they left Ken and me to fend for ourselves. They'd threatened to bring us along with them on this getaway. My brother and I disagree on almost everything, but we were united in our pleas to not go. I can't even believe they thought about bringing their 18-year-old daughter and 19-year-old son with them, but the last thing we needed was to waste a weekend wandering around in the heat and humidity with our parents. They let us stay behind on one condition: we had to paint the flagpole. Most people just fly their flags from a little bracket on the side of the house, but not us. We have a gigantic flagpole, right in the middle of the front yard, probably 20 feet tall, with nylon cords and everything. Just like the county courthouse. My dad was in the military, and the flagpole is his way to "give something back." Whatever. I think if he really wanted to give something back, maybe he should actually volunteer somewhere, or at least contribute to some cause, but what do I know? I don't know when the flagpole was painted last, but I will admit that it was looking shabby. The white paint was peeling in several spots, and bits of rust were starting to take over. "How long do you think it'll take?" Ken asked, breaking the silence. "I hope no more than a couple hours," I said, although I really had no idea, never having painted a flagpole before. After all, it couldn't take that long. It wasn't like we were painting the whole house or something. "Then maybe I'll be able to hang out with the guys this afternoon," he said, referring to the gang of misfits he often spent time with. "Yeah, probly." We got along well enough for siblings of about the same age. We pretty much kept to ourselves, but when we had to work together on a project, like for school or something, we got done what we needed to. I wasn't exactly looking forward to spending the morning with Ken, but it wasn't the end of the world either. Ken pulled into the driveway and shut the car off. "Let's do it," he said as he got out. While I carried the paint can from the car to the flagpole, he went in the garage to get a ladder. "I'll be right back," I yelled to him. "I'm going to put on something I don't care if I get paint on." "Aw, come on, Amy! Don't you have any confidence that you won't spill any paint?" "I have plenty of confidence in myself. It's you I'm worried about." I wandered upstairs to my bedroom and put on an old white tee shirt over my sports bra, along with dark blue shorts. I'd had the shorts for years; they were frayed around the hems from so many washings. By the time I got back outside, Ken was already in high gear. He was standing on the top step of the ladder, on his tiptoes, sanding the top foot of the flagpole. He hadn't bothered to change, but then, he was wearing pretty crappy clothes to begin with: a green tee and white basketball shorts. He did have a lot crappier clothes than these, though, so I was surprised that he'd started work already. I grabbed a sheet of sandpaper and started working on the bottom part of the pole. Some of the old paint peeled off in long strips, but other parts were stuck securely. It didn't take too long to sand, but it was messy. After a few minutes, I had a fine layer of rust dust all over my shirt, most of which probably came from standing under Ken. The pole was in direct sun, and the dust was mixing with my sweat to create a gross, smelly paste all over me. I was already glad to have changed clothes. Fortunately, the sanding was finished after a half hour or so, and I was pleased with our progress. While Ken tried his best to clean himself off, I said, "How about I get some newspapers to spread around the bottom of the pole?" "There you go again, planning for disaster. How about planning for success instead?" I was already on my way to the recycle bin to get some old papers. Planning for success certainly doesn't mean ignoring the possibility of a problem. There's a reason fighter pilots wear parachutes. There's a reason cars have airbags. When I got back with the papers, Ken already had the paint can open and was stirring feverishly with a wooden stirring stick. Globs of paint were splashing over the side of the can, landing in the grass. "Take it easy there, big boy," I teased. "We don't need to paint the whole lawn." "These few blades of grass needed some touch up paint. Don't worry about it." Right around here is where the problem started. I was arranging newspapers around the bottom of the flagpole, and Ken went up the ladder and left the can of paint balanced on the top step. Then he came back down the ladder and said, "Where's the brushes?" "I don't know! How am I supposed to know where the brushes are? Did you look in the garage?" "Dammit, we should have just bought new brushes when we got the paint. The guy even asked me if we needed any." Ken went back to the garage to look around, while I continued laying papers in a generous radius around the pole. It was completely surrounded by grass, so it wouldn't matter too much if some paint spilled, but who wants paint all over your front yard for weeks? Pretty soon I heard him yell, "Aha!" He jogged back to the pole, handing me a clean but well-used brush and keeping one for himself. I didn't see exactly what happened next, but apparently Ken decided that the ladder wasn't in quite the right place, and he grabbed it and pushed it a little closer to the pole. The trouble is that he must have forgot about the paint can, which in a split second tipped over, sloshed its entire contents on his head, and then fell to the ground, narrowly missing him. "Aag!" he said. Paint was running down his entire body, enough that he looked like a white statue, except he was moving around and cursing. After every cuss word, he spat out what paint had run into his mouth while it was open. The taste of the paint evoked more cussing, and the cycle continued. I have to admit that my first reaction was to laugh hysterically. The sight of him was right out of the Three Stooges; he couldn't have planned it any better. Paint splattered on me too, but nothing compared to the complete soaking he got. He rubbed his eyes with his hands, but this was a big mistake, because his hands were covered with paint too, and this certainly didn't improve his vision. "Fuck, I need to go inside and take a shower," he said. "Not in a million years are you going inside right now, " I said. He ignored me and started toward the house anyway. "I'll be back in a while." I ran in front of him and put my hand on his white enamel chest. "You're not going in the house, you idiot. You'll get paint all over everything, and mom will kill you." This stopped him. He was leaving thick white footprints on the grass, almost like he was molting his outer skin. There was a huge pool of white paint around the base of the ladder, extending way beyond where I'd laid out the newspapers. "Fine. Then how am I supposed to get the paint off me?" "Wait right here," I said. "I'll go get a bucket and some soapy water." I took a few steps toward the garage before I realized that I was dripping paint too, mostly from my right hand where it'd been planted on Ken's chest. But the rest of me was spotted with paint too, my shoes and my legs and arms and even my hair, and I didn't want to make a mess of the driveway or the garage if I didn't have to. I pondered my options. "What are you doing?" Ken said. "Hurry up!" "Just a sec." After considering a few possibilities, I peeled off my white tee-shirt, hoping my sports bra wasn't too revealing for the front yard. I turned my shirt inside out and dabbed it all over the rest of my body--arms, shorts, legs, head--hoping to get the worst of the paint off. I took off my shoes and socks too, leaving them in a pile on the grass with my shirt. Convinced that I was clean enough, I started back toward the garage, where I found a bucket and filled it with water from a hose on the side of the house. I had no idea where to find any soap outside, so I didn't bother with it. I figured plain water would be good enough. I carried the bucket back to Ken, who was still standing in the same place, in an ever-growing pool of paint, squinting and trying to swipe off paint with his fingers. I had to stifle a chuckle. I didn't have a rag or sponge or anything to clean him off with, so I just put my hands in the bucket and made them into a little pool, brought up some water, and tossed it on his chest. His eyes were still closed, but he heard me, and he bent down and felt for the bucket with his hands, reached them in, and started washing himself off, little by little. After he'd used it only once or twice, the water in the bucket was just as white as the paint on the ground. After a minute or two of watching him, I said, "This isn't helping much." "Well, do you have any better ideas?" He ladled some water on the top of his head and shook like a dog. Diluted paint splattered in every direction, which caused me to let out a yelp. "Try to control yourself, Kenny. Maybe you need to be hosed off." "God dammit." His eyes were still squinted shut. "Yeah, get the hose." "C'mon, I'll walk you to the back yard. But first take off your shoes and socks." He bent over to untie his shoes. The laces were almost indistinguishable because there was so much paint all over the shoes, but he got them untied and off soon enough. We started walking around to the back of the house, me holding one of his hands and guiding him past trees and shrubs. I looked over my shoulder as we rounded the house. The flagpole looked worse than ever--after all, we'd sanded it and took off most of what little paint had been left. The ladder stood next to the pole, sitting in a pool of brilliant white. White spots of various sizes and intensities led away from the pole, and there were two piles of shoes. It suddenly occurred to me that this project would be taking much longer than a couple of hours. I led him around to the back of the house and then backtracked to the hose, grabbing the end and turning on the water full blast. The water didn't come out right away, because the hose had one of those nozzles on it, where you had to squeeze the trigger to get the water to come out. I'd noticed the nozzle earlier when I'd filled the bucket. I carried the hose back around to where Ken was waiting, and I aimed it right at him, gangster-style, and said, "Reach for the sky, buddy." Of course, his eyes were still closed, so he couldn't see how little I resembled a gangster, with old spattered blue shorts and just a jogbra. But he obediently raised his arms above his head, and I squeezed the trigger, sending a violent stream of water square into his chest. He grunted, but I couldn't tell if it was because he was annoyed by the water or because he was glad to finally be getting clean. There was a certain satisfaction in shooting my brother at close range with a hose, knowing he wasn't going to try to get me back. He had done a lot of dumb things in his life, and this was at least a little payback for his most recent dumb thing. Water splashed everywhere. Sheets of water cascaded down Ken's body, finally beginning to reveal bits of the natural color of his skin and clothes and hair. I held the hose over his head and let the water work its way down his face. But around in here is where another problem started. I don't know why I said it, but I said, "Take off your shirt." He paused for a few seconds, but complied, peeling his wet, gross green shirt over his head and tossing it on the lawn behind him. I don't remember the last time I'd seen Ken without a shirt on--it must have been years. I remember him being scrawny, but his pecs and biceps were surprisingly well developed. His pecs still had a tinge of whiteness, but it was rapidly dissolving under the stream of the hose. I stepped closer to him and noticed on his chest a few scraggly hairs, which were not coming clean as easily. I aimed the hose at them and used my free hand to rub at them a bit. This did the trick quickly, and I found myself strangely enjoying the experience of touching his skin, feeling a solid mass of muscle in his chest. I let my hand roam his chest, finding and thoroughly working on first one nipple, then the other, revealing a torso that was becoming continually more attractive as I worked on it. I worked on his legs for a while next, having the same problem with the paint in his leg hair. White-tinted water was dripping from the hems of his shorts, and I said, "Take off your shorts too." "What? No thanks, sis. I can get cleaned up the rest of the way inside." "Bro, you still can't go in. You're better, but you're a huge mess. You can't wear those shorts inside anyway because they're soaked. Look, nobody can see you out here, just take off your shorts so I can clean you up better. You're wearing underwear, right?" "Yeah, but . . ." "Come on, Ken, let's just get this over with." Utterly defeated, he turned around to face away from me before he hooked his thumbs in his waistband and pulled his shorts down to his ankles, then stepped out of them one leg at a time. He was wearing grey underwear, boxer-briefs I guess, and they left much more of his legs exposed for me to work on. Surprisingly, even the backside of his underwear showed splotches of white paint, despite the dousing I'd already given him. I sprayed the hose at his back and butt, appreciating for the first time the curve and shape of his ass, which was usually hidden under the baggy clothes he always wears. "Okay, turn around," I commanded. He didn't move. "Umm . . ." he said. "Um what? Turn around so I can clean your front." Slowly he turned around, hands in front of his crotch. I sprayed the hose at him some more, working on the fronts of his legs with my fingers. Finally I just moved his hands out of the way of his crotch, and I was shocked at what I saw: the clear outline of a hard cock straining against the thin wet fabric. Why would his cock be hard? Was he turned on by this? I continued to keep the water on him as I thought about it, but my eyes were glued to his crotch. I could see his cock clearly under his soaking underwear, the head pointed up and out, a nice mushroom top. It had a slight curve, but it was so much bigger than I'd have guessed. This was Ken? Scrawny little Ken? My reaction to his cock surprised me almost as much as the cock itself. I was entranced, wanting to see more, the thrill of the unknown sending electric shivers through my body. I turned the hose directly at his cock and watched intently as it shifted slightly from the force of the water. I ran the nozzle from the base of his cock to the tip and back again, moving in closer until I was just a few inches away. Ken moaned quietly. By this time, all thoughts of paint had left my mind entirely, and I tried to put aside my thoughts of his cock too, focusing on the job at hand. I alternately sprayed and rubbed his belly button, clearing the paint flecks from a thin line of fur that led down from there, disappearing under the waistband of his boxers. I worked my way down too, and when I got to his waistband, I don't know what I was thinking, but I slipped my fingers under and pulled it down an inch or so. The hair was thicker and darker the further I went, but it was still so flecked with white that it needed my attention. "Amy . . ." Ken said. I let go of his waistband, which snapped back into place, and released the trigger of the hose nozzle. The roar of water stopped abruptly, leaving a surprising quiet. "What?" I looked at his face and saw a distinct red tinge over his cheeks. "I think I can take care of the rest in the shower." "You're already out here now, I might as well get you all the way clean," I said. "But I --" "Listen, Ken," I interrupted. "I've got the hose, which makes me in charge. Just stand here for two more minutes and we'll be done. Sheesh." I aimed the hose nozzle right at his cock and squeezed the trigger wide open, freshly soaking his boxers. He bucked and moaned, but he didn't retreat to the house. I released the trigger again. "You're going to have to take off your underwear too." "No way, Amy, I can't." "Sure you can. No one can see you back here. This is your punishment for being such an idiot." "But you're my sister." "So? Who better than a family member to help you through this embarrassing time?" "I don't usually get naked in front of my sister." "You also don't usually dump a gallon of paint all over yourself. Plus, I've seen you naked before." I felt a grin forming as I said this. "You have not!" "I have too. When we were little we used to take baths together all the time." "That doesn't count." "Why not? You're the same person now as you were then, aren't you? I think you have all the same parts." "Yeah, but some parts have gotten bigger since then." At this remark, I couldn't help glancing down at his cock again, and my grin returned. His wet boxers were quite transparent, and I could make out the color of his cockhead--pinkish--as it strained against the fabric. When I looked back up, I saw that he was watching the path of my eyes, and he had a look on his face I'd never seen before. "I've noticed," I said. "One part in particular is kinda hard to miss." "Oh, there's other parts too." "OK then, so let's see what I've been missing all these years. Peel 'em off and let's get on with it." Ken and I were normally comfortable in silence, but an awkward silence fell over us then. Ken made no move to take off his boxers, and instead shifted his weight from one foot to the other. I said, with an unusually forceful voice that came from somewhere inside me: "I have the hose, buddy, and I'm in charge. So strip. Now." Finally, Ken grabbed the waistband of his underwear and slowly started to pull them down. He didn't bother to turn away from me this time, so I watched intently as more and more of his pubic hair came into view. As it descended, the waistband was pushing his cock down against its will, and it took just a second before I thought I could make out the base of his cock nestled in a forest of curly dark hair. Then, suddenly, the tip of his cock overcame the force of the waistband and freed itself, bobbing up at me. He pulled his boxers off the rest of the way and tossed them aside. I knelt down in front of him, and didn't even notice when my knees got soaked in the swampy grass. I never would have imagined seeing my brother naked, but here he was, naked as the day he was born, out in the open in our backyard, in full sun, pointing his rock-hard cock right at my face. The head was indeed pinkish, but it was a deeper color than it had seemed through the gray fabric. The shaft was a rich brown, much darker than you'd have thought by looking at the rest of his skin. It had a slight bend, and a couple of veins snaked along its length. As I watched, I could see it gently pulsing up and down in time with his heartbeat. He was totally turned on, and although I wasn't sure why, I knew he was making me turned on too. Painting the Flagpole He interrupted my in-depth study. "OK, Amy, can we just do this please?" "Oh, sure, no problem." I pulled the trigger on the hose nozzle and watched the water stream all over his bare cock, dripping down the shaft, soaking his balls, and continuing to run down his bare legs. Carefully avoiding his cock, I buried my hand in his patch of dark, curly hair, still mildly aware that I was supposed to be cleaning him up. I thought I would be able to reach all his hair without touching his cock, but pretty soon I realized that wasn't possible, because some hair was directly behind his cock, and there were a few strands right at the base. Once he was good and wet, I set down the hose and grabbed his shaft, pulling it down toward the ground while I flecked all the hair behind it. As soon as I grabbed the shaft, Ken let out a groan, and when I looked up at him, I saw that his eyes were closed and his head was rolled backwards. I watched him breathe more deeply and quickly than before. I let go of his cock and watched it pop back up to attention. This is my brother, I kept telling myself. My brother's cock. But then again, there's nothing wrong with me seeing my brother naked, cleaning him up, just like when we were little. It's not like we were having sex or something. Yes, his cock was hard, but that's just the way they are sometimes. You can't just stop what you're doing every time a guy pops a woody, or no one would ever accomplish anything. Thus reassured, my hand snaked down towards his balls, carefully massaging first one, then the next, then both at the same time, making sure to clean them thoroughly. I wasn't thinking particularly clearly by then, and I watched almost as an outsider as my hand kept going further south. His feet moved apart without any prompting on my part, giving me better access between his legs. I pulled my hand back and put it around the shaft of his cock, right at the base, and circled it around back and forth. By this point, I couldn't see any more white flecks, but I wasn't ready to stop working on him either. I could feel my body responding to his excitement with flashes of energy of my own. Despite the sun and the heat, I could tell that a different kind of warmth was overtaking me. My face felt warm, and I could feel the heat spreading to my chest. My fingers lightly trailed along the length of his cock. When I got to the tip, even though he was all wet, I could feel a drop of precum waiting for me, so much slipperier than the plain water. I rewarded him by spreading the precum all over the head of his cock, and he responded with a deep moan. His cock pulsed and strained beneath my fingers, and a new drop of precum emerged. The tip was only an inch from my face, and I wondered what it would taste like, but I opted not to try a sample. Instead I put both hands on his cock, stroking him in earnest. One hand started at the base and slowly traversed his length, and then the other hand followed the same way. His cock was long enough that I could fit both my hands completely around it at the same time and still have room to stroke him. Ken's body started moving in rhythm with me, leaning slightly into me on every stroke, forcing his cock through my hands. He was moaning on the same rhythm, a little louder than before, every time he breathed out. I picked up the pace, and he kept right up with me. The head of his cock was getting darker, changing from mostly pinkish to a deep red, and I let one hand explore the ridge where the tip ends and the shaft begins. "Amy . . . Oh, god, Amy . . . " he blurted out, at the same time as one of his hands moved down and squeezed my hands around his cock. He pumped his hand over mine, more quickly than I'd been stroking him, squeezing his cock harder than I'd been. My left hand was completely squashed between his hand and his cock, just going along for the ride as he pumped. I freed my right hand, and I used it to fondle his balls and the base of his cock. With him on display, it was plain to see how his entire body was focused intently on what he was doing. Powerful muscles in his legs contracted and relaxed in time with his movements. His chest rose and fell heavily, and I looked down and saw that even his toes tightened and relaxed to the same beat. For some reason, his toes gave me a jolt of conscience. The same toes I'd known my whole life, the toes I'd taken baths with, now working in tandem with every other part of his body to serve a sexual craving I'd unwittingly unleashed. The entire foundation of our healthy sibling relationship was at risk. What was I thinking? I struggled to separate my left hand from his grip, at the same time disengaging his hand from his cock. I stood up, took two steps backward, and said, "Ken, I'm sorry, I never should have . . . " The words trailed off. Never should have what? Forced you to get naked for me? Fondled you? Even thinking about what to say filled me with shame. And compounding the shame was the way my body responded to him, still unquestionably aroused. He looked at me with uncertainty in his eyes. "Yeah," he said, "you're probably right." He held his hands at his sides, but his cock, beet red now, still throbbed with energy. "Is that thing gonna be ok?" "What, this?" He playfully slapped his cock back and forth from one side to the other, letting it rebound to center. "Sure. I just need to get cooled off." "Not so easy on a day this hot." "Yeah, hot in more ways than one." He spied the hose on the grass and picked it up. "Maybe some cold water." He held the nozzle an inch above his cock and released a stream of water--more than a trickle, but less than the blast I'd given him. My earlier pang of conscience did not seem to interfere with watching my naked brother deal with his problem. I remained transfixed by his cock, watching again as the water coursed over its thickness. I didn't detect even a hint of softening, but he said, "Yeah, that's helping." He abruptly released the trigger and looked up at me with another unusual expression, one eyebrow partly raised and a bit of a grin. If nothing else, I was getting to know another whole repertoire of Ken's facial expressions. A few lingering droplets meandered down the length of his cock, transitioning to his balls, then gathering their courage before falling to the lawn. "What?" I asked. "Well, it just occurred to me that I have the hose now." "So?" "It's just that, whoever has the hose is in charge." "Fine, so you're in charge now." Even as I said the words, I thought about what I'd done to him while I'd had the hose, and my heart skipped a beat. Is that what he had in mind? "It looks like you have some paint on your knees," he said. Let me give you a hand with that." I looked down and saw that my knees were damp with paint-colored water and a few flecks of grass clippings. Certainly nothing that needed the hose. "No, they're fine, I'll get them inside." "Ah, but you shouldn't really go in the house like that." "This from the brother who wanted to wear a gallon of paint in the house." This got a smile out of him. "My standards have tightened since then." "So you want to hose off my knees, is that it?" "I thought you'd never ask." He moved the hose right to my left knee and just barely touched the trigger, eking out a tiny stream of water that trickled over my knee and down my leg. The water was cold, but it was refreshing in the heat. He moved the nozzle around, allowing the water to reach every part of my knee, and then, as I had done, he brought his free hand to assist. However, his hand on my knee was very different from the way I'd used my hand on him. His touch was soft, slow, delicate. His fingers gently interrupted the trickle of water that ran down my leg, making it splash just a little. He was so careful with the hose that he didn't get so much as a drop of water anywhere above my knee. I felt a pang of regret for how forcefully I'd blasted him earlier. I had no idea he could be so tender. He moved to the other knee, giving it the same treatment. The touch of his hand on my skin was amazingly sensual, and in combination with the events of a few minutes before, it was not helping to reduce my state of arousal. I needed to get away from my brother, strip off all my clothes, and let my fingers swirl through the dampness between my legs. As much I was enjoying the sensation on my knees, I hoped Ken would be done soon. "You have some paint spots on your chin, too, sis." He formed his left hand into a shallow cup and let the hose fill it, then dipped in the first two fingers of his right hand and brought them to my chin. As before, he caressed my skin slowly and gently, circling his fingers over my chin before broadening his attention to my cheeks, my neck, my nose, my ears. Rather than bringing cool refreshment to my face, I could actually feel my temperature rising as his fingers explored. He backed away from me and I watched his eyes travel down my body. His cock was still solid as steel. "I'm sorry to say, but your top's gonna have to come off." A bolt of excitement coursed through me at the thought of revealing myself to him, knowing he wanted to see me topless. But then sanity took over. It was my brother! "What? No way." "I appreciate your viewpoint, Amy, but the thing is, I have the hose, so I get to make the rules. And I say, your top must go." "You're just getting back at me for making you take off your clothes." "Keep in mind that I've seen you without a top before, many times. The bathtub, remember?" I cringed as he used my own words against me. He continued, "I think you have all the same parts you ever had." I could have defended further, but Ken's screwed up logic and my repressed exhibitionist tendencies combined forces to overcome my resistance. "OK, OK. Here goes." I turned to face away from him and then lifted my jogbra out and over my tits, then up and over my head. I threw it over my head behind me, in his direction, and I heard it land in the grass. "Very well done. Now turn around, sis." I crossed my arms over my breasts before turning to face him again. "I'll need to just take a quick look and make sure you're completely clean. If you could move your arms?" As he said this, he stepped toward me and put a hand on my left arm, not forcefully, just enough to lend support for his request. With his hand still attached, I moved my arm down to my side and at last revealed a bare tit. I had never exposed myself to anyone outdoors before, and the feeling was surprisingly erotic. "Mmm, gorgeous," he said. He let go of my arm and reached for my breast, letting his fingers dance across the skin. "I don't remember your breasts looking like this when we used to take a bath together." He used the same delicate touch as before, and the sensation was intense. His index finger circled around my nipple, then gently flicked back and forth across it, sending shivers through me and making my nipple firm as a pebble. He reached for the other breast, and I moved my other arm without any prompting. I was in heaven. The sun, the soft touch of his fingers, the nudity outside--it was all turning me on so easily. I closed my eyes and luxuriated in the sensations. I felt my heartbeat racing, and my breaths were shallow and quick. I could tell my pussy was getting drenched on its own, even without the hose. While I was focused on the feeling of Ken's finger coaxing my right nipple to hardness, I was suddenly shocked to feel his tongue on my left nipple. My eyes snapped open and I let out an involuntary chirp. The warm dampness of his tongue fluttered expertly around my tit, a feeling more intense than with his fingers. I idly wondered what that tongue would feel like on my clit, but then chastised myself for it. This was my brother! His tongue fell away from my tit, and for a moment part of me was disappointed that he was going away so soon. He said, "Oo, Baby Amy, that tastes so sweet," and before I knew it, he switched, and his mouth was working on the other tit. My whole family called me "Baby Amy" when I was little, because I'm the youngest. They still call me that sometimes to tick me off, but right then the nickname had a different connotation that wasn't offending me. When he pulled away from me, he stepped back a half step. My eyes were drawn to his cock, as usual, and this time I noticed a fresh drop of precum on the tip. It was practically calling out to me, wanting me to lube him with it like I'd done before, but I contented myself to just watch. The precum must have meant that my tits were turning him on even more, and this only heightened my own arousal. I was just standing there, not doing anything to him, but he was getting excited just from the sensations of my body--the touch, the look, and, yes, the taste. "You have a sensational body, you know?" he said. I didn't say anything, but I contorted my face a little, thinking about getting such a flattering compliment in such an unusual circumstance from someone I'd never have expected--my naked brother. He again picked up the hose nozzle, which he'd apparently dropped while he was ravaging my tits. "Time for the shorts now." I had a feeling this was coming, but still I wasn't prepared for it. I was so horny that I knew my panties would be soaked, and I didn't want Ken to think he was having this much of an effect on me. "Ken, I don't think that's such a good idea." "I think it's a fine idea. One of the best I've had." I instinctively crossed my arms over my tits again during this negotiation, and this caused a notable look of disappointment on his face. "No, not right now," I said. "You have on underwear, don't you?" "Yeah, but that's not the--" "Don't tell me you're not comfortable letting a family member help you out in a time of embarrassment." "No, I just think it's best if we--" "And look--you actually do have some paint spatters on your pants, there." I followed his eyes down and saw a few tiny flecks of white. Nothing major, but these pants would probably have to go in the garbage after this. "There is no way in hell I'm getting naked with you out here." "Who said anything about getting naked? I'm just talking about those paint-spattered shorts." "I have a sneaking suspicion about where you're headed." "I'm not headed anywhere, just wanting to keep you from getting your painty clothes in the house." "That's a load of bullshit." "I tell you what. You take your shorts off, and I'll put the hose down. I promise. That'll be it." I was still leery of letting him see my damp panties, but I thought the deal was probably too good to pass up. I also felt a jolt of excitement as I imagined myself wearing nothing but panties in front of Ken. "Promise?" "Cross my heart." His cock was visibly pulsing up and down as he said this, and the precum was oozing slowly down the shaft. I wondered if you could make a binding agreement with a guy whose cock was in this state. Maybe making a promise with a boner was like making a promise with your fingers crossed. I turned to face away from him again, unzipped my shorts, and stepped out of them, careful to keep my legs together. I could practically feel his eyes burning into my ass. I was wearing black satin panties, cut bikini style, and I immediately wondered how well they were concealing my butt. "You really need to wear this outfit around the house more often," he said. "That is the best-looking rear for miles around." "That's as much as you're gonna see, buddy. Now drop the hose." I heard a dull thud as he said, "K, I dropped it. You can turn around." As I pivoted, I had my arms in tit-covering posture again, and I saw that his hand was idly playing with his cock, bending it first up and down, then back and forth. He kneeled in front of me, putting his face about even with my belly button. He put his arms behind my legs and lightly caressed my calves and thighs, working his way up to my butt. His touch was evaporating my skittishness and reminding me how horny I was. His nose was pressed right against me, and I could feel his warm breath on my stomach. When both his hands were holding my ass, he softly and tenderly kissed my belly button, and I almost melted. Instead, I lost my balance, and I had to move a foot to stay upright. It splashed in the swampy grass when I set it back down. He stood up and gestured for my hand. Without a word, I took my right hand away from my chest and gave it to him. He led me to a patch of dry grass, a few paces away from the swampland we'd created. He put his mouth against my ear and whispered, "Sit down for a minute." The words themselves almost disappeared under the feeling of his face so close to me, the warmth of his body and breath. He pulled my hand down, and I sat on the grass, legs straight out in front of me and squeezed together. He kneeled beside me. "Amy, baby, you are so beautiful. I had no idea." His voice was different now, deeper, quieter, more sensual. He put a hand on the front of my leg, slowly massaging my thigh. He then used both hands on my legs, running them down as far as my knee before turning back, crossing my waist and going up my side, ending on the side of a tit. I don't know if it was subtle pressure from his hands, or if I did it on my own, but I laid back fully on the lawn, intensifying the sensations. He scrambled around and flattened himself face down against my legs, holding himself up with his knees and elbows. I could feel the tip of his cock graze the sole of my left foot. His nose dropped into the Y-shaped crease right where my panties disappeared between my legs. I instinctively held my legs together more tightly, but I heard him inhale deeply and watched his chest expand. "Mmmm," he said as he exhaled. He breathed in deeply again, and I closed my eyes, knowing he'd sniffed out my scent. I was glad he was enjoying it so much, and part of me wanted to pull my legs apart for him, but my good sense prevailed. He kept breathing in my aroma, letting out soft moans with every breath. I was pleased with my resolve, keeping my pussy inaccessible even under practically overwhelming desire. I was pleased until I felt his tongue dart into the center of the Y, right between my legs, up against my panties. "Oh god, Kenny, that feels so . . ." He pulled his tongue back and plunged it in again, freshly dampened. I squeezed my legs together so tightly that my knees hurt, but still his tongue was easily able to penetrate that tiny spot. On every pass, his tongue reached far enough so that I could feel the sensation transmitted to my clit, inundating my body with showers of sparks. In less than a minute, his tongue had the Y completely soaked, at least the part that hadn't already been soaked by my horny pussy. The sensation changed as my panties got more and more wet. What had felt like a soft grazing of my clit now felt like a lightning bolt, as though my panties had melted away completely. I hissed and oohed as the feeling overcame me, but every stroke of his tongue was more powerful than the one before. I was helpless, and he must have sensed it, because his tongue seemed only to get longer and stronger as he went. My body was taking over, primal urges overwhelming my conscious decisions one by one. My head thrashed back and forth, tangling my hair in the grass, and I was alarmed to find my butt muscles flexing with his tongue, improving his reach. My hand involuntarily rose to find my nipple, quickly bringing it to full hardness. And, at last, I knew my internal struggle was lost when I felt my legs slowly separating, knees rising, presenting to my brother my hot, wet pussy, covered only with shiny black satin. His tongue didn't even pause, but dipped down and stroked through the fabric the length of my pussy, from clit to ass and back again. The touch was beyond anything I'd felt before, and I was unable to resist a deep moan of delight. The black fabric was completely soaked, and I could feel hot liquid drizzling down past my asshole. Painting the Flagpole He reached his tongue around the edge of my panties, finding its way to direct contact with my pussy, and I'm afraid my reaction only encouraged him, as my body squirmed under his touch and groaned with approval. He used a hand to hold my panties aside to give him better access, his tongue sliding up and down my slit and gently probing. I could already feel the beginnings of an orgasm deep inside me, and I knew his tongue would bring me over the crest in just a few more strokes. Instead, he abruptly pulled away from me, and I made a noise that sounded something like a whimper. He rose up on his knees and scooted closer to me, pulling my panties aside again and positioning the tip of that thick cock right at the entrance to my slit. I was so close, I had to have him inside me. I wanted him. I needed him. I expected him to plunge into me, but he stayed perfectly still. I felt my body taking charge of the situation, moving beneath him, squirming, pressing toward him. My pussy swallowed a half-inch of his cock, not even the whole mushroom top, and he still didn't move, even a little. I bucked under him, desperate for him to be inside me, so close to an orgasm. Finally I felt the head pop inside, and I grunted quietly. My body fucked the tip of his cock, moving toward and away from it, feeling the tip just inside me and then feeling it glide back out a bit. I held my head up to look at him and saw his eyes trained on my pussy, his mouth open slightly, breathing deeply but quietly. I could see the shaft of his cock, the tip held in place by my pussy, and my body wanted it. Without any conscious effort at all, I watched my legs reach around his waist and pull hard, while at the same time my hands reached over my head and pushed, and I lifted my butt off the grass just enough. As I slid toward him, the full length of his cock impaled me, and the feeling was so powerful that the sensation of impending orgasm returned instantly. Now that he was inside me, Ken started to move, matching my body's thrusts, fucking me deeply. Together we picked up the tempo, neither of us leading or following the other, but both completely in sync. I relished the heat of his skin, the sense of fullness within me, the rhythm of our bodies entwined. The tiny ripple that had signaled my climax grew quickly into a wave, a wave that spread from my pussy up through my chest, down my arms, out my legs. As Ken's cock plunged inside me, the wave crested, and my entire body exploded with an orgasm unlike any I'd felt before. I screamed over and over, my head violently thrashing left and right, eyes squeezed shut, completely entranced and controlled by the massive flood that overtook me. My body kept moving just as it had, and the cock continued to pummel me, thrust upon thrust, bringing me to higher and higher levels of ecstasy, not letting the wave retreat. I was so engrossed in my own climax that I barely noticed Ken's. But I did feel his cock get a little stiffer inside me, and I thought I heard his voice add to my own screams as his cock tensed again and again, hot liquid driven deep into my womb. His orgasm gave me another surge of energy, with the knowledge that I had turned him on enough to make him cum. His motions began to slow, but I rode the wave with him all the way to shore. At last my screams gave way to quiet, heavy pants as he came to a stop and rested his cock inside me. "Baby, that was incredible," he said. I opened my eyes and looked up at him. His strong chest was hovering over me, as if he were protecting me from all the evils of the world. Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead, and one was making its way down his cheek. I still hadn't recovered enough to speak cogently. "Oh my god, Kenny. Oh my god . . ." I could feel his cock starting to shrink inside me. "I take that to mean it was pretty incredible for you too." "Yeah." He pulled away from me, unplugging his cock and releasing a torrent of warm sticky juice that seeped from my slit and down past my ass to the grass. His cock was sopping wet, and it gleamed in the full sun, still partially hard but retreating. "Um, it looks like we both need some cleaning up," he said. "Do you want to get the hose, or should I?" "Very funny, Ken." I was still flat on my back, unable to move yet, and he lay down on his side next to me, his arm propping his head up. "You're right. If we get started with the hose again, we may never make it inside." We were both quiet for long enough to watch a plane cross the sky miles overhead. I broke the silence. "Kenny, what did we just do?" "Well, what happened is that you just painted my flagpole." His humor didn't register with me right then. "Jesus. Do you know how wrong this was?" "Listen, Amy, there's nothing wrong with sex. We're both consenting adults, right?" "But you're my brother, and I love you like a brother. Will I still have the same brother as before?" "I'll always be your brother, Amy. And I still love you like a sister, just like always." "Promise?" "Cross my heart." I thought back to his earlier promise, and I turned my head to glance at his cock, now soft and squishy, but still shiny with our combined fluids. I smiled as I thought about my theory about promises and cocks. If it held true, a promise made with a soft cock ought to be virtually unbreakable. "OK," I said. "Thanks." "But I learned something today, baby. I love you like a sister, but I also love you like a lover." He leaned down and grazed his lips lightly against my lips, boring his eyes into my eyes from point blank range. When he spoke again, quietly, I felt his lips gently brushing mine. "And I have a lot more to learn about my lover." He kissed me in full then, a decidedly unsibling-like kiss. I returned the kiss with equal fervor, our mouths pressed solidly into each other, tongues intertwined, tasting each other. As we kissed, I thought again about how unbelievably strange it was to be so intimate with this man I'd known so differently for my whole life. Who knew he could make me feel like that? I wanted him to learn everything about me, even teach me things about my body that I didn't know myself. He broke the kiss. "Maybe someday we can try again?" I didn't even hesitate. "Yeah, let's do that. I'll paint your flagpole again sometime." "But first, just for old times' sake, how about we go in and take a bath together?"