0 comments/ 85634 views/ 14 favorites The Diary of Forbidden Fruit By: Cal Y. Pygia "Darrin, throw me down my belt, would you?" How could anyone, even a chick, forget her belt? I asked myself, especially one who was in her early twenties. Shaking my head, I called, "Sure, sis." She'd be waiting in the living room for me to drop it down to her. Just having finished my morning shower, I was still naked. Consequently, I had quite a surprise for her. Her room is the first to the left, at the top of the stairs. Mine is opposite hers. Mom and Dad share the one behind my sister's room, and the one behind mine is the guestroom. Each is equipped with its own complete bathroom, my parents', like the guestroom's, has a sauna as well. I stepped out of my room, the soles of my bare feet wet on the hallway carpet, and crossed the corridor, into sis' room. She'd left the door open, which was unusual. As I entered, I saw her belt, atop a pair of discarded pink thong bikini panties and a matching bra. I also saw my sister's diary, and, as I reached for her belt, my heart skipped a beat. She'd left her diary unlocked! My hand trembling, I snatched up the belt, went to the railing at the end of the hallway that overlooked the living room below, and, still naked, my chest and abs and thighs shining with water, held it aloft. "Here's your belt," I announced. She looked up, and her eyes widened when she saw my bare body, cock and balls as much on display as any other feature. "Darrin!" she gasped. "What would Mom and Dad say?" I let the belt drop. "They're out of town, Brenda, remember?" It's not as though my sister's never seen me naked before. I've let her catch an eyeful on occasion. She's seen my butt. I'm the starting quarterback for my college football team, so I wear a jockstrap a lot of the time, even when I'm not practicing or playing a game. Athletic supporters--and I'm not talking cheerleaders at the moment--are a lot more comfortable than a pair of boxers or briefs. They're way sexier, too. It's erotic knowing that only a thin layer of fabric--the seat of my pants--is all that's between my ass and every chick in the world, including Brenda. Once, claiming my toilet was stopped up, I waited inside my door, listening hard for about fifteen minutes. When I heard Brenda's door open, I stepped out, into the hallway, wearing only my jockstrap. She got a good look at the bulge of my cock and balls, as I'd hoped she would, and I was more than a little hard with excitement. "Oh! Brenda," I said, acting surprised. "I didn't know you were home. I thought you'd gone to the mall with Mom and Dad." She'd stared at me, her beautiful blue eyes, wide with astonishment, seemingly riveted on my groin. After a long moment, her eyes still on the bulge in my supporter, she demanded, "What are you doing, parading around like that?" Her tone was sharp, but her eyes continued to gaze, spellbound, at the protuberance of my genitals. "I'm not parading around like anything," I replied, sounding annoyed. "My toilet's stopped up, and I was going to the guestroom, to use the one in there. If I'd know you were home, I'd have slipped into my robe, of course, but--" "Never mind," she said. I shrugged, heading down the hallway to the guestroom. She hadn't gone back into her room, and she hadn't closed the door. In fact, as I passed her, she'd glanced at my buttocks, checking out my tight, full cheeks, framed by the white jockstrap. I saw her look, and I'm pretty damn sure she continued to stare at me--or, rather, at my ass--until I reached the guestroom door. It was only as I was reaching for the doorknob that I heard her close the door to her own room. Thereafter, whenever Mom and Dad were gone, I made sure to give sis a glimpse of my ass. It wasn't until today, though--just now, in fact--that I'd had the courage--and the opportunity--to show her the forbidden fruit itself. Now, having done so, I was hard as a rock! My balls ached, and I needed relief worse than I'd ever needed it before. I wanted to masturbate, fast and furiously, until I shot my load, but Brenda had forgotten to lock her diary, and I couldn't afford to pass on the chance to read her deepest, darkest secrets. I'd been wanting to peruse her personal journal for years now, ever since my hormones first kicked in and made me aware of the fact that Brenda wasn't just my older sister, but that she was a beautiful and desirable young woman as well. I might never get another opportunity to read her sacred diary, and doing so wasn't something I intended to forego, no matter how stiff and swollen my prick or how painful a case of blue balls I might have. There'd always be time for a hand job, but there may be just this one chance to snoop through my sister's diary. She'd gone to Emily Martin's house, to do whatever the hell it is that two chicks do when they're together--talk about guys and watch chick flicks, no doubt--and she'd be gone for a few hours, so I'd have time to read most, if not all, of this volume of her diary. Unfortunately, I wouldn't be able to read the other volumes, because she hadn't left them out, and, even if I found them, stuffed away in her hope chest or in her dresser or on a shelf in her closet, she wouldn't be likely to have forgotten to lock them, too. It was 7:00 pm, and she'd probably be gone until 10:00 pm at least, but, just in case she came home earlier than I expected her to do, I took her diary to my room. If I heard the front door, I could chuck the book under my bed and swear I hadn't seen her freaking journal, not that she'd believe me, of course. She'd know, full well, that I'd stolen the damn thing. Proving it would be quite a different matter, though. My cock throbbing and my balls aching, I lay on my bed, on my side, sis' diary at hand, opened the ornate, hand-tooled leather cover, and started reading. As I did, my cock swelled further and became not merely erect but absolutely rigid, like steel. The pouch of my scrotum tightened, rising, and, of its own accord, a clear drop of Cowper's fluid, or pre-cum, oozed from the tiny slit in the crown of my purple, swollen glans. On the very first page, I read: "Since seeing my brother's bulging cock and balls through the front of his sexy jockstrap and his beautiful, firm buttocks, framed by the heavy cotton bands, I've thought of nothing, night and day, Dear Diary, but him, on top of me and inside me--in my mouth and cunt and ass--fucking--no, pounding--me, hard and fast and non-stop until I'm out of my mind with passion, lost in the throes of orgasm upon orgasm. I know it's forbidden, and it may be wrong, but, oh! Dear Diary! I must have him, I must!" I grabbed my cock and started stroking. I couldn't help it. I'd never been as horny in all my life, and, if I didn't get some kind of relief, and fast, I felt that I would fucking explode! It took me less than a minute--less than twenty seconds, actually--to reach orgasm, and, writhing and squirming, rolling back and forth on my bed, I ejaculated thick, warm, white streamers of semen high into the air, feeling it splatter and spatter on my chest and neck. A few spurts ended up on my headboard, and one, I saw, as I lay panting, my heart pounding inside my chest, had spewed upon Brenda's diary--The Diary of Forbidden Fruit, as I'd come to think of the account of my sweet and sexy sister's confessions. As soon as my pulse quieted and my heart calmed, I returned to reading her sperm-splattered book of desire and need, pausing to reread such passages as these: "How many times have I, in my fantasies, reached out to Darrin, my fingertips closing upon the knitted white fabric of his jockstrap to pull the supporter away from his groin and free his magnificent cock, letting its thick length escape the confines of the cotton pouch, my gaze to delight and my heart to astound. I can, during such reveries, smell the fresh, but musky, scent that I imagine his manhood exudes. At the sides of the jockstrap, dark against its white, I see a few strands of his pubic hair, and I want to stroke it, just as I want--oh! Dear Diary! I am all wet!" "In my mind (and in my heart), Darrin is naked, and his cock, which, beautiful and rigid, is in my hand, so thick that my fingers will not close completely around its great girth. I rub the purple, swollen tip across my lips, as if it were a delicious plum, before taking it into my mouth, my brother's cock the forbidden fruit that I must have, for it is too sweet and delicious to resist, even if sucking it is immoral and wicked and debased. I must sample his manhood. I must taste his seed." "Darrin delights me in so many ways, Dear Diary, if only in the dreams of my heart. I do not make love to him only with my mouth. My cunt and my ass, like my hands, are at his command, and, with them, too, I gladly serve and service his needs and desires, his every least wish my command." Needless to say, as I continued to read my sister's diary, my cock reared, rigid as Brenda's own clit and nipples must have been when she'd written her enchanted dreams in The Diary of Forbidden Fruit, unburdening her heart's desire upon its consecrated pages. However, I would not give in a second time to the demands of my groin. I was saving myself for my sister, who, if I'd guessed correctly, should be home again in less than an hour, it being now 9:15. As I resumed reading The Diary of Forbidden Fruit, I wondered what she might be up to herself at the moment. Later, she told me. I see no reason not to include her account, with mine, of our first evening together in paradise. As I read her journal, this is what Brenda was doing at Emily's house. The blonde was beautiful. They all were, more or less. She had firm, high breasts with soft-pink nipples, erect at the moment, surrounded by puffy areolas; a slim, trim waist; and dandelion-colored fuzz on her pubes. Her silken labia parted enough to disclose the bright, hot-pink tissues of her tender, moist vagina. The blonde's succulent cunt showed only for a few moments, however, before the strikingly attractive brunette, her hair in a tight bun atop her head, who was stationed between the blonde's wide-parted thighs, bowed still farther forward, pressing her open mouth firmly against the other woman's mount of love and began to nurse at the blonde's swollen clitoris. The passive lover moaned, rolling her head back and forth atop her golden locks as her slender, long-nailed fingers curled in the other woman's raven tresses. On Emily's queen-size bed, she, naked, allowed her friend and guest, Brenda, perform the same act, and it was one that Brenda performed with as much gusto as the brunette on the big-screen TV employed. Although Brenda loved cock, she also loved pussy. How could one not? It was so sweet and succulent! She loved the way its juices streamed down her chin and made her wet face shine. She also adored the feeling of Emily's erect clit, a hard bud of flesh at the upper center of her liquid cunt. Stiffening her tongue, Brenda jabbed repeatedly at the little button, flicking it with the tip of her tongue, which was wet not with her own saliva alone, but also with the juices of Emily's flooded pussy. Like the blonde on the big screen, Emily thrashed her head back and forth on the ornately embroidered pillows stacked beneath her head, her hair fanned out behind her. Brenda's own cunt was more than moist. She could feel its fluids dribbling down her smooth thighs. Her own pussy seemed to cry out to her to be filled. Wait your turn, she told her sex. Right now, it was Emily's time to enjoy the tongue lashing Brenda was administering to her. The young ladies stopped, Brenda looking up, past Emily's shining, wet pussy, past the drenched pubic hair, past the gentle slope of her sleek belly, past the under slopes of her firm, pert breasts, to her widened eyes. Brenda's own eyes were wide as well. They'd heard a pair of knocks at Emily's closed--but unlocked--bedroom door. "What should we do?" Brenda whispered, afraid they'd be caught en flagrante delicto. Another couple of raps sounded, more sharply, against the other side of the door, and now Emily's father called. "Emily?" "Just a minute, Daddy!" Emily replied. To Brenda, she hissed, "Get in the closet, quick!" "I've been in the closet all my life," Brenda quipped, as she climbed out of the bed and hastened across the carpet. "Emily?" Mr. Martin called, his tone edged with concern. Emily waited until Brenda had closed the door to the walk-in closet. Then, switching from the DVD to the TV mode, so that the lesbian couple was replaced on the oversize screen by a show about wannabe chefs and tossing a blanket over her nudity, she called to the door, "Come in." Mr. Martin opened the door. Looking at his daughter, he asked, "What are you watching?" Emily turned to the television set. She watched this channel all the time--it was the closest thing to a gay TV channel on cable to date--but she'd never seen this particular show. "Uh, a cooking show." Mr. Martin arched an eyebrow. "Cooking?" "Yes, Daddy. You know, with pots and pans and dead chickens and fish and spices and things." "You've never shown much interest in cooking before," he observed. "Brenda wants to be a chef. She turned me on to the show." "Brenda Brentwood? I thought she was going to college to be a psychologist." "She is, but she wants to be an amateur chef." Mr. Martin rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "Where is Brenda, anyway?" He'd admitted Emily's friend herself, an hour or so ago, when she'd knocked on the front door, but Brenda was nowhere to be seen. Had she gone home? "She's in the closet," Emily said. "Why in the world would she be in the closet?" Emily could have told him that her friend was in the closet for the same reason that she was: both were afraid to out themselves--in Brenda's case as a bisexual; in her own, as a lesbian. Instead, she said, "She was trying on one of my new skirts when you knocked." "Oh. Well, could you keep the volume down a little? Your mother and I could have sworn we heard someone moaning in here. We thought maybe you or Brenda were hurt." Emily giggled. "That must have been the show's judges. You should have seen this one contestant's idea of a chocolate mousse!" Mr. Martin rolled his eyes again. "Okay, enjoy the show," he said, closing the door behind him. Emily called to Brenda: "You can come out of the closet now." Brenda, nude and beautiful, opened the closet door. "Don't I wish," she quipped. Crossing the carpet, Brenda climbed back into Emily's bed. Her hostess had already cast the blanket aside again, revealing her loveliness in all its naked glory. She depressed the Mute button on the remote control, pointed the device at the DVD player, and the lesbians appeared on the big screen again, in place of the wannabe chefs' competition. Brenda smiled at the brunette as her long, pink tongue probed deep into the wet, pink slit of the blonde's cunt, licking the walls of her pussy before kissing the dewy labia and resuming work upon her squirming lover's clit. Brenda winked at Emily. "That gives me an idea," she said, taking her place again between her friend's creamy, smooth thighs. Brenda loved cunt. She loved every part and aspect of it--the mount of Venus, the labia majora, the labia minora, the clitoris, the vagina, even the uterus, although the latter part of a woman's sexual organs was remote and, unless she resorted to fisting or the use of a dildo, strap-on or hand-held, was inaccessible to her. Most of all, she enjoyed having a sopping-wet pussy in her face. She loved having its thick, warm juices in her mouth and on her nose and chin and cheeks. She enjoyed the sight of the astonishingly pink, rose-petal-soft tissues she glimpsed within the parted furrow of another woman's pussy. She was fond of nuzzling and kissing and licking and lightly chewing at the nether lips that framed the liquid pit of a woman's sexuality and of inserting her tongue into the moist cleft, as deeply as possible. At times, she even plowed this crevice with her nose as she worked her way back up the juicy slit to the hard nub of the clitoris within its columnar hood, where she lavished attention upon the excitable bundle of nerve endings, sending half-protesting grunts and groans of pleasure through her lover's cunt, loins, breasts, and brain, making her squirm and writhe. Brenda enjoyed playing another woman, especially Emily, as if she were a musical instrument--sometimes a saxophone, sometimes a flute, sometimes a violin--which she could manipulate and control, making beautiful physical and emotional and psychological music. Brenda played Emily as expertly as she'd ever played the instrument of another woman's sex. Her mouth filled with Emily's juices, and Brenda swallowed them as if they were the libations of a goddess. On the screen, the silent lesbians were enjoying themselves in much the same way, but neither Emily nor Brenda watched their lovemaking now that they were engrossed in their own. Voyeurism, for them, was foreplay, no longer needed or regarded when it had accomplished its purpose, motivating within them the same lust that they saw on the ecstatic faces of the partners on the television screen. Emily began to moan louder and faster, her thighs scissoring Brenda's head, the firm-soft, smooth flesh of the orgasmic woman's upper legs squeezing and releasing the sides of Brenda's face rapidly and forcefully as Emily's throbbing, quivering clitoris sent spasms and waves of pleasure through her cunt, her groin, her breasts, and her brain, electric and fiery and overwhelming. Brenda was afraid that her friend's and hostess' father would hear his daughter's passionate cries and come pounding, again, at Emily's door, demanding what was amiss. What would Emily tell Mr. Martin this time? Fortunately, the orgasms' intensity decreased, leaving a sweat-soaked Emily gasping and whimpering, but no longer groaning and howling. When she calmed, Emily looked at Brenda, through half-closed eyes, love and admiration shining through, and said, "Wow! You really, really know how to eat pussy, girlfriend!" Brenda smiled at her. "Thanks, sweetie." Brenda lay beside Emily, and the latter, rolling onto her side, to face her friend, raised an arm to support her head upon her palm and gazed lovingly at the beautiful naked young woman who'd just played her pussy as if it were various wind instruments in a symphony of lust. "How's it going with Brother Darrin?" she asked. It had been Emily's idea for Brenda to write the diary, initially as a way by which Brenda could sublimate her increasingly passionate desire to fuck her brother, which had become more and more intense since she'd first laid eyes upon his gorgeous, naked body. It had been Emily's idea, too, to leave the diary unlocked--next to a bra, a pair of thong bikini panties, and the "forgotten" belt that Brenda would ask Darrin to retrieve. Emily had tired of hearing about Darrin, Darrin, Darrin, and how much Brenda wanted to fuck him. She'd decided, therefore, to assist her friend and lover. Brenda was bi, not hetero, so, Emily was certain that her friend would remain her lover as well; otherwise, she wouldn't have lifted a finger to help Brenda fuck her brother, no matter how much Brenda bitched and whined about her desire to do so. Now, Emily wanted to know whether their plan had worked. Brenda told her: "He got my belt for me, dropping it over the rail at the end of the second-floor hallway, and, Em--he was naked!" Emily's eyes widened. "Completely naked?" "I saw his cock and balls this time, not just his ass--and he was erect!" "Darrin with a hard-on? If I weren't a lesbian, that would sure turn me on." "Oh, he turned me on, Em! No doubt about that. Hell, I was wet all the way over here, and, now, you've gotten me wet again!"