30 comments/ 126774 views/ 22 favorites The Fortress By: xyster Our house is known as the Fortress. It's not a name used by people outside the house. Rather, it is a name we use ourselves to refer to our residence---affectionately, of course. When I say we, I mean my mother, my sister, and I. My father has no idea that this reference even exists. It was my sister who first used the name, but it stuck in our minds and since then it has actually become quite popular with the three of us. The reason for its popularity will become evident as I say more about my family, but keep in mind that it is more of a fortress for the women in the house than for me. First of all, there is a king in this fortress. He is the supreme ruler. His rules and commands are to be obeyed without even a frown on our foreheads. My sister and I do get away with occasional protest but most of the time we dare not say anything. My mother is no better off than the two of us, even though she is the queen. In a way, she is even worst than us because she doesn't even get a break while retiring for the evening. My father is very loving and very generous, mind you. He showers us with affection and loads us with all the material things our hearts may desire. There is no way we can complain about our lifestyle or about lacking anything we need. As a matter of fact we are rather spoiled as a family and he makes sure that we are well-provided for. In return all he asks of us is that we follow a few strict guidelines of his. He is very fond of his first born, who thank the Almighty, was a boy, as he had hoped and prayed for. That would be me. I am the apple of my father's eye and the fact that I do so well in my studies and play his favourite sport on a semi-professional level, makes him even more proud than my just being a boy. I started my college only recently and my father finds that to be an additional reason for his pride. He never made it to college because of the way things were in his family those many years ago. The fact that he made sure his boy went to college, in a vicarious sort of way, makes him feel very accomplished. He is very protective of my sister, who is the delicate little flower in his life. She is well-kept, to say the least, but more appropriately she is well-preserved. She is thoroughly looked after and her needs are seen to immediately. My mother treats her like a little doll, mostly because my father wants her to be treated that way, and my sister is a little doll when it comes to her looks and behaviour. There is only one problem, and this problem is the main reason for our house being labelled a fortress. The women represent a man's honour and that honour is guarded with one's life. My father guards his honours (two of them) very jealously. It is understandable that he would be so shielding of my mother---typical male behaviour when it comes to his mate---but he is even worst when it comes to my sister. Our culture dictates that a woman cannot go in front of strangers without her head and body being fully covered. That usually means that our women normally wear an abaya over their normal clothing and a scarf over their hair. An abaya is basically a garment, most often worn by the Middle Eastern women, that hangs from head to toes like a gown and hides whatever is underneath or inside of it from prying eyes. These eyes don't have to be real, so the paranoia requires the household to be a fortified sanctuary where no intruding eyes can see a woman in her actual form. This actual form can be an interesting thing, if you see it from the other side. Behind that rather conservative and concealing garment lies a world of wonders. Since the outer garment hides what is underneath, many women---my mother and sister included---tend to dress rather provocatively underneath, just to be subversive, in a quiet and passive sort of way. The women are not supposed to consort with strangers; usually that means strange men. As the explanation goes, the idea is not that we don't trust our women, but we don't trust those men. Their eyes fall upon our women and they immediately start thinking sexual thoughts about them. It is those thoughts that we fear the most and find them insulting, so we try to stop them from ever coming into existence by making our women less desirable, by hiding them behind a lot of clothing, and by keeping them from wearing makeup that would tantalize the perverted imagination. The rules are not as strict for married and elderly women, so my mother is at least free to talk to strange men when shopping or when there is an occasion where she is forced to come across a stranger who happens to be a male. She is also free to talk to certain uncles, cousins, or other relatives of the family. The rules are extremely strict for a young girl, who is of the marrying age. My sister, being such a girl, cannot show herself in the presence of a man, stranger or related, and she is not allowed to be alone with our male cousins or even some young uncles, no matter what the occasion is. She cannot talk to them or look at them in a way where some remote possibility of a sexual thought exists. Where am I from, you ask? Believe it or not, I am from Africa. Where exactly in Africa, that'll be my secret, but I am not black African or even a white African. I am an Indian African. Our roots are somewhere in India; our religion is one of the religions in Indo/Pak territory; and we follow the customs that our ancestors brought with them almost a century ago. Only problem is that our customs are much more rigid than what our cousins back there practice nowadays. While they have moved on with times, we have stuck to lessons that are almost a century old. It is now a matter of pride to be old fashioned like our great-grandparents, than to be one of the "modern" families where the words like honour and respect have no meanings. Some of you would have rightly noted that abaya and scarf are not part of any Indian/Pakistani dress. We have borrowed a few traditions from other cultures in order to become more orthodox and we have clung to them as if they were always part of our own traditions. The burqa that Indian/Pakistani women use is worn only by the wives of religious leaders and the rest of us make fun of them, as an act of self-justification and personal consolation. We can say that at least we are not that bad. Of course, there is a double standard that we practice religiously on a daily basis. I am allowed to venture out and experience the life outside. I am allowed to attend a college and skip on religious studies. I am allowed to play sports and go to places by myself. My sister can't even think about any of it. She has to study religion and matters of religious importance and she must learn to be a good cook. She can't go out without an escort and she cannot go out during the evening hours unless she is with the family. Thus her use of the word fortress for our house. Our house is a fortress in its physical makeup as well. There is a high wall with an electric fence on top of it running all around the house. There is a heavy-duty electric gate with a video-com to see the visitors before opening it or to talk to them and turn them away when we don't want them to come in. There are four maids that work in and around the house and they all have strict instructions to not let anyone come near the residence without prior approval. Of course, things are not as bad as they sound. My sister has female friends who come to visit her and she does go places, usually accompanied by my mother. She does spend time going to stores, going to a beautician, going to learn cooking from a female teacher, learning to bake from a neighbour, and all that. Almost all of the time she is accompanied by my mother, or by a female who is then answerable to my mother. My mother is not as strict with her, though, as my father. Being a woman herself, she understands the frustration my sister feels while growing under strict rules and she does let her have quite a bit of freedom. But she will never, ever, ever, allow my sister to associate with a boy where something can develop between the two of them. My sister is being raised to be a good wife to a man that my father will choose for her, and one of the requirements of a good wife is to be chaste, innocent, and virtuous. Those qualities basically mean the same thing, with slight variation in connotations. What those qualities really mean is that she should be a virgin when she gets married and she should never have had any kind of feelings for any man other than her husband. That way, her first love will be her husband, to whom she'll then devote her life and be a good wife, who is a good cook and a good housekeeper. Of course, a wife should also be a good lover. While she is given full training for being a good cook and a good housekeeper, there is absolutely no training for being a good lover, or even a good mother. She is even forbidden from discussing sex or learning anything about it. I guess the assumption is that the husband will teach her everything she needs to know. That way he'll mould her to his liking and they'll have a happy marriage. But there is more to keeping her pure. Her purity personifies the father's honour. The purer she is, the more honoured her father becomes. A really proud father has a daughter who never spoke of sex, never heard of sex, and never, ever thought of sex. I don't blame you if you find this background a little difficult to believe but those who have grown in a culture similar to mine, will recognize this to be true, and while we may be a bit extreme, they can easily recognize my family in their circles. One thing that parents like my father and mother do not understand is that such restrictive environment makes a person more curious about the things that are forbidden. As a blatant example of contradictory practices, while we try to shield her from things that would be considered immoral, we have a large screen TV with Digital Satellite Television dish, DVD, and VCR attached to it. The images one sees on TV, or even in the magazines, then take on an added dimension and become disproportionately exciting; whereas a little bit of freedom would dilute their effect to almost negligible proportions. The contacts with males during weddings or other family gatherings become much greater events than they otherwise would, or even should for that matter. Men become more significant than they deserve to be. Of course, being curious is one thing but having the means to satisfy one's curiosity is another. In my sister's case, I was probably the only male of her age---and mindset---that she associated with. The rest were older men who were either our father's age or our grandfather's age. Even I was only around her when she was younger. I went to an all male boarding school, so I was away during my high school years. From there I moved to a university, where I lived in a hostel with another male roommate. My presence around her only came during summer vacations when I came back home, or during holidays when I came for a visit. I was free from the fortress during my boarding school days, but that freedom was only physical. My mind was still under my father's control. My true freedom only came when I started college. Being in the presence of mixed company, I bloomed and flourished. Of course, this story is not about that time in my life, so I'll skip it. Suffice it to say, I became a lot wiser in my one year in college than I ever did during my life before that. The affect our household had on my sister was to render her immature, both in body and behaviour. She grew in years but her body stayed very slender, making her look a few years younger. Her mind also stayed younger. Even though she was over eighteen when this story takes place, she looked and acted like she was only fifteen years old. She was the doll of our house; she looked like a doll and she behaved like one. This story begins with my first summer vacation in college. I came home a different man with a different outlook on things. I was more mature and saw the world differently than I did at the start of my college. You can say that I had grown---but I found the household stuck in a time warp. Of course, the minute I stepped inside the fortress, I fell under its spell and the restriction and binds once again became a reality for me, even though I could analyse them from a different perspective or frame of reference. My sister had resigned to her fate and I found her to be more subdued than I remembered her from our past. Well, subdued may not be the right word for it. She was rather passive and she had lost her heady zest of adolescence. She became lively with my arrival but only like a robot that had acquired new batteries. I didn't feel sorry for her because that was the way she was supposed to be and it seemed like she had accepted her lot in life. Technically, therefore, there was nothing to feel sorry about. I did pick on her, though, for old times sake, when I asked my mother, "Mom, do you even feed this girl. She is all skin and bones." My mother just laughed and my sister protested, "I am not that skinny, and I do eat a lot. You don't want me to be chunky, do you?" "No, but you should have some meat on your bones. Otherwise you won't fetch the right price when you are sold in marriage." My mom told me off. "Leave her alone," she said. "She is a lovely girl." I laughed, "That she is, mom. But only because she is tall and she can get away with being slender. Otherwise, she'll have problems getting someone to even like her." My sister then pinched me on my arm and we all laughed. My sister was getting to the age where marriage was becoming a serious possibility for her and I used the African custom of labola, or bride money, as the basis of my teasing. My sister is only a year younger than me. She and I were more than siblings when we were growing up in the sense that we only had each other to play with. There were always fights, there were always the kinds of teasing two juvenile playmates throw at each other, and there was always the bond two young people who are close in age feel for each other. Of course, this bond changed to a brother-sister relationship when we hit puberty and became very formal when we became adults. My teasing became one sided as she took on the passive look and it decreased to negligible amounts by the time I went to college. As I settled into my room on the first evening back home, my sister came by with a few things I might have needed, like soap, shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste, and toilet paper. My room is usually reserved for me and no one uses it in my absence so things only get replenished at the beginning of my visit. I normally shower before going to sleep and that evening, as I was busy taking my shower, I heard the door open and someone came in. This was not unusual because my mother used to bring me a towel or my clean clothes when I was younger; but I was no longer a young boy and I didn't like such intrusion into my private time. Luckily the texture of the shower door was such that it distorted the image completely. The steam rising from my hot shower clouded things a lot further, so she couldn't have seen anything through the door. I hadn't expected anyone to come in while my shower was running; otherwise, I would have locked the door. I thought of saying something but decided not to; it was no use; she was already there, doing something to the long handle attached to the shower door. I just waited for her to leave before resuming my activity. As the vague outline moved to leave the bathroom, I heard my sister say, "I am leaving a fresh towel for you." I was surprised to discover that it was my sister and not my mother who had brought me the towel. I found my sister's presence in the bathroom to be very upsetting. I had to say something to her about barging in on me like that, so I opened the door and stuck my head out, making sure that the rest of my body was hidden from her view. When she heard the door open, she turned back to see what I wanted. I said to her, "Shamila, you shouldn't come into the bathroom while I am showering. I may not be decent." She replied, almost nonchalantly, "It was mom who made me do it. Besides, I heard the shower running so I knew it was okay for me to come in. I can't see anything while you are inside the shower." I didn't know what to say to that. She didn't wait for me to say anything else and left as casually as she had spoken of her not being able to see anything. When I came out of the shower, I was puzzled to find two towels. Apparently I already had one, so there was no need for her to bring a new one. It was close to ten and I was already in bed getting ready to sleep when she came to my room with a bottle of water, a glass, a plate, and some fruit. I asked her, "What happened to the maids?" "Oh, maids are not allowed in this part of the house any longer." "Why is that?" I was surprised to hear that. My mother usually runs the maids ragged. "A few incidents happened. We don't trust them like we used to." With those words she put the stuff on the side table and then sat on the bed towards the feet area and started to peel and cut the fruit for me. "Then you must be the new maid," I laughed. "I like this maid better anyways. She works for free." She threw one of the peels at me, "You can laugh all you want, but I am not free. Actually, I am very expensive." "I guess you are right. Look at the jewellery and expensive clothing you are wearing. Only a favoured maid would get such treatment." "Just remember," she waived the knife at me, "Eat your food with care. You may find something in it that will disturb your system drastically." I laughed with her as I took the fruit and started eating it. She joined in and then after a brief pause, she asked, "Do you really think I am too skinny?" She wasn't looking at me when she asked the question, for some reason. I guess she knew what my answer was going to be and was hoping for it to be different. I looked at her carefully. She seemed very serious while waiting for the answer. I knew my answer had to be political. I mean, she was skinny, but not so much that it would be considered unattractive. Her long, black hair pretty much made up for anything that being skinny---sorry, slender---took away from her looks. They were long enough to come all the way down to the back of her thighs and were full and shiny. Whenever she stood tall with her hair flowing behind her, she looked beautiful. "You are not skinny. You are slender. Your height makes you very graceful and attractive." She beamed with my answer as she looked at me, smiled awkwardly, and said, "Really, you think so?" "Yes, I know so." I liked the fact that my statement had made her so happy. It showed in her body language as she left my room. The following morning, I was in the middle of getting dressed when she came back again. I had my pants and my undershirt on but I still had my shirt to put on. "Don't you knock before you come in?" I protested. "You should lock the door when you don't want anyone to come in. That's what I do." She snapped at me. "I came to find out if you needed anything ironed." I felt bad for my irritation. She was, after all, looking after my needs. "Sorry, Shamila. I am not used to this kind of attention." She left the room quietly. Thus, our routine was set. She would bring me a fresh towel every time I showered and iron my clothes whenever I needed. She would bring me fruit and water at night and then sit with me and peel and cut it while we both ate together and chatted for a while. The subject of her being skinny came up a couple of days later. She wanted to hear more from me about the way she looked. I knew she was fishing for compliments, so I obliged, "You know, Shamila, you have a model's body. Some people would call it skinny but a lot of them would find it very attractive. Many women would kill to look like you." The Fortress of Solitude Superman hated to confess it but there were many times when he didn't like being him. Oh, sure, saving the world repeatedly from major crises and stopping crimes in action had their rewards, but mostly all that he got was just his picture in the papers yet again. What good did the publicity get him except arch-villains who could easily learn all his secrets to use against him? (Why in the universe Lois had published all that kryptonite stuff is beyond his imagination – women!) And why was it that the only people to actually fall from collapsing bridges and buildings were executives (who never tip – the cheapskates) and little old ladies with failing eyesight on pensions? If only his eyesight could fail once in awhile. Blue hair, blue veins, and evidently far too many pastries over several decades? What's up with that? If only Lois had asked him about the second most dangerous thing to him and had published that instead. It's true that being exposed to kryptonite can kill him slowly, but the sight of cellulite makes his Hidden Super Power shrivel up faster than a speeding bullet. In truth, he had to admit to himself that it was just as well the world's top super models and budding beauties didn't fall in his hands very often. When they did on rare occasions, suddenly he'd have a totally grateful, luscious arrangement of womanly charms in his grasp, her adoring eyes looking up with that "I'll do anything you want; oh thank you, Superman, for saving my life" look, and all the while the wind is blowing through her dress revealing, well, anything and everything. There was that one time when he actually totally forgot about the crisis destroying the entire planet and had instead thought only of finding a nice secluded spot to see how serious she was about her gratitude. Fortunately or not, trains have very loud whistles and that reminded him of his duties. Besides, it can be dangerous being up in the air while physically excited. His cock is, he must be honest here, a thing of beauty and a joy forever. He wasn't Superman for nothing! So when it stood up to salute (not easy in that tight outfit the marketing director of Krypton insisted upon via a recorded message) it acted as a rudder throwing him off course in unpredictable ways, depending on how Mr. Happy chose to grow in his confinement. That's one reason he was glad not to be in that goofy costume much, and that he never had to squeeze into and out of it but instead it just appeared and disappeared as needed, much like his work clothes he wore to the Daily Planet. He had lost track of all the shirts he had ripped off himself in his hurry to save the world – once again. Thank goodness he never had to go shopping because he could never afford the money to pay for all of them; well, not by working he couldn't. He could knock off a bank or something, but that would be not only illegal but much too easy so no fun at all. What he really wanted was some gorgeous dame to rip off his shirt when he was in his Clark Kent persona, when flash bulbs weren't constantly exploding around him, when the world wasn't pointing and staring at him all the time. Didn't their parents teach them that such behavior is rude? His room as Kent was nothing to be proud of, just a small place high up on the corner section of an all-male boarding house. Women were allowed there to visit, he knew, because other guys had chicks over frequently. So here all these guys were getting laid, mere mortal men, most barely making it financially and hardly healthy or at all handsome, yet he was a super hero with a too effective disguise and therefore he couldn't get any. Not even the steno pool at the Planet gave him a second glance. While it's true he has beautiful, sunlight-reflecting-off-the-deep-tropical-seas, stunning and unforgettable blue eyes, his Clark Kent glasses are tinted to show instead a boring almost hazel to dull brown. And the nervous stutter he began that first day just for kicks, to see if he could be non-perfect, had to stay now and wasn't at all close to the sultry, deep, husky, mesmerizing, cream-the-girls instantly voice he used as Superman. So he was left with nothing but his thoughts most nights. As the moans and panting from other rooms filtered through the newspaper-thin walls he knew he couldn't even take matters into his own hands, so to speak. In moments of intense passion, which was basically the only passion he knew, his ejaculations would ricochet off the walls and furniture till they eventually lost momentum and settled somewhere, generally in a huge puddle that he then had to clean or else try to explain to the once-a-week old-biddy cleaning lady. Not fun. If he totally lost track of his surroundings, let his imagination soar and his aim stray, he could break through the fragile glass window with it as easily as breaking through the sound barrier when flying. So he had to be careful. If only he were at his Fortress of Solitude. Ah, that Fortress. It's quite true that it was made to be his private hideaway, but it's not likely that Jorel and the others had intended it be the bachelor pad it often became. Sometimes, for fun, when news was slow and Lois had a date with some loser or had other appointments, he'd fly over to the New Mexico area late at night and scoop up some drowsy cute thing before heading north to the Fortress. He loved hearing the next day the stories in the papers saying that "another woman was abducted by aliens and made to be a sex slave." Well, they were indeed right, just not in the way they thought. Sometimes he'd find a loose tart stumbling from a night club and would whisk her away for a few hours of fun. Those stories never even made the papers. "Oh, so Superman picked up a two-bit whore and flew you off to some magical place for the best sex of your life? Just sober up and get real." He couldn't help to chuckle when he had overheard those scenes through his super sensitive hearing. That x-ray vision came in quite handy on these shopping trips because he could see who, under their otherwise respectable clothing, wore the sexy, fuck-me, undergarments and was therefore more likely to be a bit of fun than a bore. He had at times chosen unwisely in the past. He couldn't help but shudder when he remembered that Sacs Fifth Avenue saleslady after store closing. She came along willingly enough – no problems with that, he thought smugly – but once there it was hell! "Oh, so this is your Fortress of Solitude, is it? Well, it's okay, I suppose, if you like this sort of thing. Why is it here instead of over there where the view is so much better? Have you ever considered an interior decorator for this place – it could really use it? All those sharp angles and all white color scheme is simply too horrible too look at. If you were to just put some small lamps over there (we have some beautiful ones on sale right now), and a swag or two over the bigger pointy things, it would be much lovelier, don't you think?" He didn't know then what a swag was (still was a bit unsure of the concept, actually) but it didn't sound good at all. He liked the clean, simple look of the place, and after all it was his place not hers. No stunning, melting gaze with the eyes for her, and certainly no super sex. Instead, she quickly got a strong blast of "sleepy breath" to make her nearly unconscious as he flew her very quickly right back to where he found her, even put her down standing up in the same spot. She hadn't been gone more than a few moments and probably thought she had never left. So now all women en route get just enough "sleepy breath" to be at about a two-martini level until they've been at the Fortress long enough, been busy enough, to no longer see the walls or the ceiling! And oh yes, had they been busy. He had brought Lois up there enough times to give her that just-fucked look every time she saw him, anywhere. Of course, she thought her memories were all exotic wet dreams, so she felt more than a bit guilty about her show of lust for him (how charming of her to blush after all the times he'd taken her, and in so very many different ways). One good thing his super powers allowed him to do was to return a virgin's maidenhead so she was never the wiser for what happened. In addition, he did use condoms but not for the reason any thinking woman (had they been capable of thought by that time) would imagine. No, it wasn't because of fear of disease because he was immune to all earthly sicknesses and infirmities – except the common cold. How pathetic to be a super hero with the sniffles! Also, despite his totally fertile sperm in copious amounts of semen, it was not possible for him to impregnate an Earth woman, only women from his planet. How unashamedly thrilled he was that none of them survived because the last thing he needed were rugrats spoiling all his fun. No, the reason he used these specially-made, super-duper-sized, mega-heavy-duty condoms was to keep from nearly killing the woman when he came. Human flesh is a whole lot softer than glass, as he learned the hard way in his early days. True, he could heal them up, mostly, but it left some scarring and residual odd behavior, and was therefore to be avoided. Amazingly, his supply of condoms at the Fortress automatically refilled, as he had had reason to be happy about many times when the stock level had dwindled down to a dangerously low level of only a thousand or so left. He hadn't taken any women up to the Fortress recently because he had been doing some modifications to it. His blue eyes sparkled more keenly as he thought of the new delights possible. He had become bored with the standard human methods of coupling and even with hovering or flying methods. Recently he had discovered a new version that involved physical restraints and things. Naturally, as a super hero, he would always be the kind, generous, and considerate gentleman as ever, but his kindness and gentleness could now include wool-lined leather cuffs, buttery-soft lamb-skin collars, and silk blindfolds. He also had dozens of finely-polished posts and pegs in random places with soft ropes and light-weight yet sturdy chains to connect to the cuffs and collars, and so many other little gadgets or surfaces for play. His super powers could easily pin someone against a wall with no physical supports, as he had done to Lex Luther a few times (hardly the same thing), but he was sure women would prefer a method of restraint that they could understand. He knew that his sexy gaze wasn't the only way he had to melt women; super men have super tongues. Now, instead of simply giving his lady a healthy dose of that vibrating, super fast or agonizingly slow, long and succulent tongue, he would make them wait and work for it, beg for it, really beg. He had it all planned in his mind, now to find the right woman to try it out. But who? College-coeds? No, there were so few women in college, a purely man's world, and those women were interesting to talk to and frequently attractive, but generally were always angry with men for some reason. Eventually he could imagine them as being cooperative. Perhaps some of the lovely things he's found swimming on the coasts? Well, he assumed they were lovely but those full-body-length, thick swimming outfits hid it all; he much preferred to fly over tropical islands where he didn't need his x-ray vision to see the stunning womanly curves and silky flesh. His mind raced over many possibilities. He realized that he wanted Lois to share in his new playground, but somehow she didn't seem quite enough. Then he knew, absolutely knew. Lois will in fact be there, he determined, but so will many of the other women who he had delighted and who had most given pleasure to him in the past (naturally, the lady from Sacs Fifth Avenue was not invited). In addition, he'd bring along a few new delights, too. Lois had been there so many times "in her dreams" that she easily could be his assistant. With her poise, knowledge, abilities, and confidence (what some called "bitchiness" but as a gentleman he would not) she would be perfect as the Mistress of the other women while he was the Master of them all. Superman had been laying on his too-small bed at the boarding house, hands grasped behind his head staring at the ceiling as he let himself think (and tried to dim his super hearing to avoid distraction from all those sexy sounds in the rooms and buildings around him). Had anyone been watching they would have seen no movement at all with him during all this time, except for the occasional swelling and receding of his mighty member during his thoughts. The swelling had started to be uncomfortably close to needing attention when he imagined the possible scenes in the Fortress of Solitude. This time he actually laughed aloud – it had been in that Solitude that he had masturbated in safety in those early years, thinking he had no other options, and afterward he had never had more than one other person there with him, and generally for less than a couple hours. He didn't need long to come, but he could also do it several times per hour, so once the woman collapsed from so many of his orgasms and hers he'd call it quits for that session. But this time, with perhaps two dozen maidens in a row, at least one always at the peak of readiness due to the skills of his assistant, he could find out just how many times he could come before (if ever) tiring. Darn good thing those condoms refill! With that thought he fought down his erection and rose out of the bed. In no time he was in the air (there goes another suit!) wandering all over the globe finding his favorite lovers. There was the sweet-talking Southern belle who seemed so innocent yet had the hunger of a lioness, an old-money debutante from Long Island who could go for hours, a perfection of a Geisha who seemed to have powers beyond his, and a wonderfully talented young thing from China. He simply had to have the strong masseuse from Russia (those sinewy muscles that rippled all over him sometimes needed a good rub down), some ever-naked women from that exotic isolated village who wore jewelry in the most interesting places, and three just-barely-of-age girls from a remote Catholic school. With a bit more thought of the potential positions, he added the entire troupe of a small world-famous all-female ballet, and lastly, that lusty housewife with the passions and skills of a whole parade of high-class whores yet with the appearance of perfectly respectable domesticity. All that was left was his beloved, erotic Lois, and the rest was up to his imagination. With Lois now tenderly in his arms, he raced to the Fortress thinking "Let the games begin." The Fortress Okay, so I was laying it a little thick, but she seemed to be eating it all up. I figured I was probably the only one who ever told her about her physical features being attractive. "Besides you have the hair to die for. Once people see you with your hair down, it's no contest." She seemed very excited with my comments. She giggled with each remark and I could see her face getting more colour into it with each sentence. I was enjoying her excitement. I decided to go even further at the spur of the moment, "Come to think of it, a belly like yours is probably best suited for a pierced bellybutton." She became agitated with that last comment. She jumped off of the bed, lifted her shirt up, and said, "You mean, like this." She was giggling as she bared her stomach to show me a stud in her bellybutton. The kind of clothing my sister usually wears around the house makes it impossible to see anything other than her hands and face. I do see her hair because she usually doesn't cover them around the house; but I have never seen her cleavage or belly or legs. When I feasted my eyes on her milky white stomach that day, I had a reaction that can only be described as arousal. She usually wears a long shirt that is formfitting on top and hangs all the way down to her knees. Underneath she wears a loose fitting shalwar that is tied around her waist with a cord. The cord runs through the material and wraps around her hips to be tied like a shoelace in the front. Usually the extra length of the cord is tucked inside the shalwar and hangs down between or in front of her thighs. She then drapes a dupatta (a long scarf) around her neck with the ends hanging behind her and the middle part covering her breasts so they are not visible to the men in the house, like my father and I. The view that I found myself looking at when she showed me her pierced bellybutton was a very rare occurrence. There she was, holding the front part of her shirt up to her chest, the shalwar around her waist hanging considerably below the bellybutton, the curve of her stomach disappearing down into her shalwar, and the yellow nala (cord) appearing and disappearing behind the folds. Her shalwar fit snugly around her hips and thighs, despite being a loose garment. I could make out a trace of her pubic hair visible around the top of her shalwar. That surprised me because we are required to shave them regularly. It also excited me. She must have seen that gleam in my eyes as I ogled that little bit of skin shining at me like the moon. She was nervous and giggled embarrassedly. I got hold of myself quickly and whispered, "My God, Shamila! Does mom know about this?" She laughed, "Yes, she does. It took almost a year of begging before she consented. I am not supposed to show it to anybody, but I've been dying to show it to someone ever since I got it pierced." "Well, it looks very sexy, and I was right, you do have the best stomach for it." She dropped her shirt down and sat back on the bed. Her giggles continued to erupt now and then. She finally got up to leave and said, "I am shaking. I better go and calm myself down." This is what happens when a person is unduly repressed from expressing herself. That was a significant development between the two of us. She was so excited that she had to leave and calm herself down. I didn't know why she was so excited, but she was excited nevertheless. I guess I was excited myself by that small peek at her body, and I shouldn't have been. Even though it was my sister's belly; the fact that it was a rare thing for me to see had elicited my response. As subtle as that interaction had been, it did have one lasting effect on us. We became a lot freer with each other. A dupatta is used to cover one's chest to keep it hidden from males in the house, but it is a very clumsy item of clothing, especially the way my sister normally wears it. It tends to slip and slide and usually gets in the way of any serious work. One result of our being freer around each other was the disappearance of her dupatta when she came with fruit and water in the evenings. That in turn made her long and beautiful hair even more prominent every time I saw her, and yes, it also brought her breasts in the open. She was a bit "slender" in her chest area as well. She didn't have big breasts, or even medium sized ones. She had small breasts, which went well with her body. The fact that they were small meant that she didn't have to wear a bra most of the time. The top that goes with a shalwar, known as a kameese, usually hides them adequately, so I couldn't really see her nipples pushing through the material, but I knew there was no bra underneath it from the way her chest shaped the kameese. The other result of our being freer was that I didn't rush to put my shirt on as quickly as I used to when she came into my room. Being a male, it wasn't required that I cover myself completely in the presence of a woman, although modesty dictates that I should. She had come into the bathroom while I showered and had seen me a few times with only my undershirt, so it became a routine for me to have only my undershirt on in the evenings during our chats. As a natural consequence of that, I wasn't too concerned when one morning she came in and found me standing in front of the mirror, brushing my teeth, with my upper body exposed. I was still in my pants but I had no shirt or undershirt on. The water was running as I was trying to get the hot water to start flowing. She came in thinking that I must be in the shower. I noticed a slight hesitation when she found me standing in front of the mirror, but she casually walked in as was her routine, placed the towel on the bar, and went out. She was rather nonchalant at seeing me half naked, but she did hesitate at the door. Of course that is a natural reaction to seeing someone where they are not expected to be. There was, however, that one look she gave me as she walked by on her way out. What made it significant was the fact that it was an averted look. It was a quick look in the mirror to see my reflection but when she realized that I was looking at her as she was leaving, she quickly looked away. I was looking at her because I was waiting for her to leave before continuing with my brushing. I didn't want her to see me foaming and spitting so I had to know when she was gone and I could safely resume my activity. It was okay for her to look in the mirror because everyone does that when passing in front of a mirror. But when she saw me looking at her while she was looking at me, she seemed unprepared for it. It was as if she was doing something she shouldn't have been doing and the fear of getting caught made her look away quickly. Of course I may have been mistaken. Maybe she didn't look away too quickly; she just looked away as she was supposed to do anyways. There was no way for me to really be sure---unless---I were to re-enact the event. I don't know why but I wanted to be sure. She looked at me again the next time, but she did not avert her eyes. As she was about to leave the bathroom, I called her back. She stood in the door looking at me to find out what I wanted. I couldn't think of anything to say, other than, "You don't have to bring me a towel every morning. I can get it from you the night before." She didn't look me in the eyes; instead she was looking at my chest. She replied, "It's okay. I don't mind." I paused as I tried to think of something else to add, but I couldn't come up with anything. She continued looking at my chest while waiting for me to dismiss her. My pause was long enough to give her the time to drop her gaze down from my chest to my belly and further down. Then it happened. She looked away very quickly. I was one hundred percent sure that she looked away because she was afraid of getting caught looking at me. I didn't know why she was afraid of getting caught looking at me. There was nothing wrong if she looked at me but there must be something wrong with why she looked at me. I found that to be very exciting. I started to talk to her every morning after that. It wasn't too difficult, once I thought carefully about things, to come up with a topic or two each day. She became more comfortable in my presence and our interactions opened us to each other in ways that we had never done before. For one, we had never actually talked to each other as much as we started to do then. She also started to spend more time around me. One Sunday as we were eating our breakfast, she tried to hand me something. I was busy with the comics, so I lifted my hand to grab it without looking at where it was. My hand was off the mark, so she held it with her other hand, directed it towards the item she was handing me and placed the item on my palm before releasing my hand. I don't know how to tell you about the heat that I felt emanating from her hand. Her hand was very soft and very warm. We had never had that kind of contact before. As a matter of fact, it was the first physical contact between my sister and I since we became adults and there was definitely some electricity running between the two hands. I do think that she held on to my hand longer than it was necessary, probably to verify the affect. I had to look up because the effect was very strong and when I looked into her face, I realized that she was also feeling the same effect. Our eyes met and there was an undeniable understanding of the nature of that contact. We looked away quickly and busied ourselves with other things, but the contact did register very strongly in our minds. I was amazed at the sexual charge in our contact, even though a sexual encounter with my sister would be impossible. Just the thought of such an encounter was impossible. There was no way for us to even dream of such a thing without worrying about the terrible repercussions. On the other hand, there was no denying that the contact was stimulating, to say the least. The effect of our touch was not so much an effect of my sister touching me or I touching my sister; it was an expression of just being touched by a person of the opposite sex. In this case, we were brother and sister, but the touch itself was between a male skin and a female skin. Because there was no one else for my sister with whom to experience the kind of feelings we were experiencing, those feeling kind of spilled over with the first outlet that came along. I guess the feelings were so bottled up that they were waiting to be expressed through any channel that became available. It was the awareness of the nature of the contact that was more important than who the contact was between. I was sitting in the back garden that afternoon, taking my tea while skimming through the magazines I had brought with me. My mother and my sister joined me. My sister is not a tea drinker so while my mother and I drank tea and ate cake, she took one of the magazines and moved some distant away from us to read it. My mom couldn't see her because her back was to my sister but I had a clear view of her as I chatted with my mom. Once in a while my eyes would turn towards her and come right back because she seemed so immersed in her reading. It was during one of those fleeting looks when my heart skipped a beat as I saw her looking back at me. It wasn't as much her looking at me as it was the way she looked away when our eyes met. She acted like she had been caught. Her breathing had become a little uneven as her chest heaved a couple of times before she took a deep breath to even it out. I tried to figure out the reason for her reaction and failed to concentrate because my mother was talking a lot. I did keep an eye on her to see if she would repeat the look. She didn't and finally she got up, brought the magazine back to me, and went inside without looking at me. Her not looking at me seemed even more significant than the look she had given me earlier. There was definitely something in her mind that was unsettling her. I asked her that evening, "Shamila, you seem a little jittery lately. Is something the matter?" "No, there is nothing the matter," was her reply. I felt a little disappointed because I was hoping for her to say something different. I couldn't pursue the issue any further so I let it drop, but I decided to keep an eye out for that look again. It came the next evening as we were eating our supper. My father and mother were busy with their food as were the two of us. It was during one of those quiet moments when the silence felt rather thick that I looked towards my sister. I found her staring at me. Our eyes met and I gave her a faint smile. She quickly looked down to her plate, where her food seemed hardly touched. Her looking away reminded me that I had seen that look before. I couldn't recall exactly when and where, but in the back of my mind, I remembered another person looking at me the same way as my sister was looking at me from across the table or room. Even her response to my smile seemed familiar. I did something that evening that I would have never done in the past. I asked her to show me her bellybutton again. She was a little shy at first and showed a lot of reluctance but when I urged her on by saying, "Well, I have seen it once before. It won't be a big deal if you show it to me again," she relented. She stood away from the bed with her shirt pulled up and her bellybutton in full view. It was as arousing as the first time, if not more. I took a good and deep look. She couldn't hold her shirt up for too long and dropped it. When she came back to the bed, her face and neck were red. "You look very good." My lips were quivering under the stress of my emotions as I said that. She looked at me and our eyes held together for a brief moment before she lowered them and whispered, "Thanks." I tried very hard to stop myself but I couldn't help saying, "You should never wear those clothes that show your midriff. You'll drive people crazy." "Yeah, like I'll ever have the opportunity to dress like that in front of anyone," she retorted. It was clear that I was flirting with her. Whether she realized it or not, I couldn't say, but I was flirting with mild sexual undertones in my remarks and gestures. It actually felt good and she seemed affected by it; but it wasn't clear if she felt the way I did or whether she felt embarrassed by the fact that it was her brother and not someone she could actually flirt back with. Our eyes started to meet on more occasions after that. I would see her looking at me or she would see me looking at her; we would exchange a quick, shy smile and look away. It was clear that we had accepted the nature of our contacts and had given approval to each other that it was okay to be that way with each other. There was no clear definition of "that way" and there was no way forward either; but it was enjoyable just the way it was. Our acceptance was comfortable enough that one evening I asked her without worrying about a possible negative response if I could see her with her hair down, and she obliged without any hesitation. She went to her room and came back with her long hair flowing behind her in a film star style. Her pose reminded me of Ashwaria Roy---that Indian vixen from the movie Devdas, who has become sweetheart of the Western world. I noticed that her shirt was also a bit tight as she twirled to give me a full view. She must have seen my eyes blazing, because she seemed to be pleased with the affect her hair were having on me. She looked really beautiful and I told her so. There was definitely something happening between the two of us. We just couldn't bring it out in the open because of our relationship, but there was some expression of it in our demeanour in each other's presence as opposed to in front of others. Her hair started to stay loose in the evenings when she spent time with me as my compliments continued with more and more frankness. One evening, as we sat across from each other, I noticed that she seemed lost in her thoughts, with an occasional half-smile thrown in. I let her continue for a short while before asking, "What are those smiles about?" "I am thinking something---something rather naughty." "Well, then let's hear it." "I don't know if I should say it." She smiled more openly at her own thoughts. "Well, with a smile like that, you have to say it." She paused for effect, then said, "I noticed you don't shave your armpits." "I do," I protested. "Occasionally. Usually I am either lazy or forget to do it." "It's okay if you don't. I don't mind. Actually I think it is kind of exciting to see a man with hair under his arms." "Well, that's not what our elders would agree with." She laughed again, but it wasn't at my statement. I just looked at her inquisitively. She was sitting cross-legged in front of me. She did something that I found to be a little too much. She placed her hands a little distance away behind her, extended her chest slightly outward, shook her head to let her hair fall off of the bed, and looked at me rather mischievously. She said, rather seductively, "I don't shave my armpits either." "Really!" I exclaimed as I took in the view. "Does mom know about it?" "No, that's something mom doesn't know." "God, Shamila. You are becoming a rebel in more ways than one." She looked at me; actually she looked right into my eyes and held her gaze. I wanted to look away, but didn't, thinking that she was about to say something I probably wanted to hear. She asked, "Wanna see?" She wanted to know if I wanted to see her armpit hair. I am not one of those people who like the European look, but there she was, almost proud of her unconventionality. Of course, I had to say yes. I couldn't lose the opportunity to see more of my sister. She giggled and jumped, very excited, and ran out of my room. I was more intrigued by the idea of how she would show me her armpits than actually seeing them. I mean, as far as I knew, she didn't possess any sleeveless clothing, so she would have to somehow lift her shirt up or something. Otherwise she wouldn't be able to show me anything. I was curious to see if she would go that far. She came back wearing her nightgown. Her face was red as she gave me an embarrassed look. I waited like a spectator to see what was about to unfold. I didn't expect her to be naked under that gown, but for a brief moment, I pictured her dropping the gown to bare her shoulders and holding it on her chest as she lifted her one arm and then the other. She did drop the gown, all the way down to her feet. I found out that she did have sleeveless clothing. Underneath she was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt that fit snugly around her bosom and jeans that hugged her long legs, slim ass, and small hips rather deliciously. She held her arms up and crossed above her head as she posed for me; slightly bent at the knees, hips pushing one way while arms leaning the other. For the first time in my adult life, I actually saw my sister's arms and shoulders. The view was exciting, merely because it was a view I had never actually expected to see. But the fact that she made the jeans look good was a big bonus. I could see the snug fit around her crotch, along with the slope of her thighs and the length of her legs. My sister was looking real good as a woman. I couldn't remember anyone else in my past that had looked that good. "So, what do you think?" She asked while trying to keep her eyes looking down. She couldn't look at me because she looked very embarrassed. I looked at the hair in her armpits and almost laughed. There were hardly any to see. There were enough to show that she wasn't shaving, but the colour was so light and her arms were so white that they almost didn't even register in my mind. The Fortress "Very sexy!" I whistled at her. "Very, very sexy!" She bent down to lift the gown to cover herself up when I stopped her. "Wait! Why don't you complete the picture and lift your shirt up to show that bellybutton, again." She did. She looked very good as her hair spread behind her as a nice backdrop to her pose. I was getting an erection just by looking at her. She didn't wait for me to say anything. She picked up her gown and left the room quickly. I guess it must have taken her a while to compose herself because she came back only after an hour or so. I was in bed already. She came and sat on the edge, close to my feet. "You really think I looked sexy," she asked. Her face was still pink. She was anxious to hear my words, as if she hadn't heard them before. "Yes," I answered; then almost without thinking, I added, "You are packaged very nicely. You will always look sexy." "Really, you think so?" I guess not having any compliments paid to oneself; one does tend to crave them. "Yes, I do think so. Now, go away and let me sleep." It hit me then that my sister was looking for validation---male validation---to boost her self-esteem. Since I was the only male around to give her any feedback of that sort, well, she went for it, despite the consequences. Thus I learned another shortcoming of our culture and how it negatively affects a girl's self-esteem. Lacking any validation, she can never quite be sure if she should feel good about herself or not. I actually felt sorry for my sister. She beamed with pleasure as she whimpered, "Thanks," and went out almost skipping. She thanked me properly the next morning. "I don't know how to tell you this, Shafiq, but you have made me feel good about myself and I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart." "Well, it's my pleasure." I was gracious. I expected some calm to return to our encounters. She had received the kind of validation she needed, and we had reached the line that couldn't be crossed. It was true that we weren't the same pair as we were at the beginning of my vacation, but we were still brother and sister and we could only flirt so much before reining ourselves in. She proved me wrong that evening. She was sitting cross-legged in front of me and her eyes were focused on her feet, when she said softly, "I don't shave down there either." That statement took me by surprise. "You know, Shamila, we may be sharing more than we should be sharing." "I just wanted you to know." She was looking at her fingernails. She wasn't looking at me like she had done during previous revelations. It gave me a perfect opportunity to observe her profile. I noticed her thin lips with just a hint of perspiration on the tip of her upper lip, probably because she was nervous. She had lips that naturally looked wet and very inviting, very kissable. Her thin nose complimented her features very well. Her chest was moving up and down due to rather rough breathing. She seemed visibly tense as if she had betrayed some hidden emotions and wasn't sure if she should have done it because it left her vulnerable. I couldn't help feeling aroused. I was in the presence of a girl that was feeling excited in my presence and was sharing some intimate details about her that she normally wouldn't share with just anyone. I wanted her to vocalize her feeling a little more to see if she would betray something else. I asked, "Why do you want me to know that?" "I don't know. I feel we have created a special bond and I wanted this secret to be added to that bond." I looked at her sitting there so silently, contemplating her own words. She was waiting for my response to her comment and I didn't know what response was appropriate under the circumstances. Yes, we had created a special bond, but what did that bond mean? What did it imply in terms of our personal contact? Were we now more friends with each other than siblings? I understood her need for a friend quite well; after all, she didn't have any male friends and if she could share even silly things with me, which she normally wouldn't with her brother, well, I was all for it. Only that I didn't know what my new role constituted. Was I to still treat her like a sister, or could I do or expect more than a brother could? One thing that I wanted to do then and there was to see how many times my arms would wrap around her thin waist if I were to hold her in my arms. It was just a thought that came to my mind as I watched her squirming in her place. My heart jumped into my throat and my stomach felt a little queasy when the thought came to my mind that I had the perfect opportunity to push the envelope a little further. Very quietly and very nonchalantly, I asked, "Can I see it?" The shock registered just the way I wanted it to. She snapped her head up as she asked, "What?" "Every time we shared a secret, you showed it to me. First your bellybutton stud and then your armpit hair. I figured this should also follow the same pattern." I looked right into her eyes as I said that. "I...I couldn't do that," she seemed confused. "That won't be appropriate." "Technically the others weren't appropriate either. But you were quite anxious to show them to me. Let's just say that this time I'm anxious to see this." "But why? You know we can't cross that line." "Yes, I know. But we have nudged that line a little. Let's nudge it a little further." "But...but...I can't let you see that part of my body. It was okay to show you my belly or underarms, but...you can't look at my..." She left the sentence incomplete. She was really confused. I guess she didn't expect me to go that far. Although she should have known that we were inching towards just such a thing. "I am sorry, Shamila. You misunderstand me." I decided to take the easy way out. "I don't want to see you down there. I only want to see the hair. You just have to lower your shalwar a little without exposing any forbidden body parts." I laughed nervously. My heart was thumping at the thought of her lowering her shalwar. It didn't matter how much I would end up seeing; the fact that I was asking my sister to show me her pubic hair was very erotic for me as my penis was getting harder and harder with each passing moment. "No, I can't," she said decidedly. "I will die of embarrassment." "But you weren't embarrassed to tell me about it." "That's different. Telling you was easy; showing it to you is impossible. Besides, why do you want to see my hair?" She almost seemed to be pleading. I leaned forward and said in a whisper, "I have never seen a woman's hair before. This seemed like the right opportunity." "But I am not just any woman. I am your sister." "I know, but that doesn't matter, does it? You are still a woman." There, I had done it. I had created the distinction that we needed to make our flirting acceptable. She was still a woman and I was still a man. It was okay for us to feel the way a man and woman feel towards each other even though this man and that woman were related by blood. We were still a man and a woman, with man-woman feelings. Considering that I was the only man around that woman and she was the only woman around this man, the sibling relationship became secondary. The male-female bond became primary. She was lost in thought. I knew she was weighing my words. I presented further argument, "It won't take too long. You just have to flash a little bit and we'll be done. I'll see something I have always wanted to see and you'll deepen our newfound bond. It is just hair, like your armpit hair." "I don't know..." "Sure, you do. You must be dying to reveal the secret to someone. Here I am, your confidant. This will open up a whole new dimension to our relationship. It will be just between the two of us. No one will know and no one will care, as long as we don't care. Besides, once you do it, we'll move on and forget about it. There will be nothing left to feel embarrassed about." My own words were echoing in my ears. My blood was rushing so fast I could hear it, along with my own heartbeat. I could even hear the throb in my pants. "No, I can't do it." "Sure you can. Just lean back like you did the other day when you told me about your armpit hair. Lift your shirt up like you are showing me your pierced bellybutton and push your shalwar down an inch or so until I see just the top of your hair." She closed her eyes and said, "I can't. I can't. I can't." I sighed in reply. "Okay, Sis. Don't worry. You don't have to." She opened her eyes and looked at me. I smiled at her to show that it was okay with me. She sat there contemplating my words while I waited for her to say something. After a while, she leaned back like she had done the other night, dangled her hair off of the bed, and slowly reached with her right hand and started to lift her shirt up. "Thump, thump, thump," went my heart, as I waited eagerly for the view. She revealed the top of her shalwar. "Boom, boom, boom," went the blood running through my brain. I felt like I was going to faint as my heart raced to 90, 100, 110, 120 beats per minute. My breathing was completely out of sync with my heartbeats. Her belly came into view next. "Throb, throb, throb," went my eyes as my penis was putting pressure on every muscle in my body. She lifted her shirt above her bellybutton. Then she showed the beginning of her ribcage. I heard the sounds of a hurricane in my ears. She realized then that her shirt at the back was pressed under her ass, thus keeping her front from going any higher. She lifted her body up and came forward a little onto her knees as she pulled it out and freed it with her other hand. She lifted both the front and the back of her shirt all the way up to just below her breasts and held it there with her left hand. The fingers of her right hand disappeared inside her shalwar as they searched for the ends of her cord. I opened my mouth to control my breathing as my hands trembled with anticipation. She pulled out the ends of her cord from inside the top of her shalwar. In an effort to muffle my gasp, I ended up drawing my breath in loudly. She smiled as she realized my condition. I was starting to sweat as she tugged on one end and pulled the cord to undo the knot. Once the knot was gone, she tucked her thumb on the inside of her shalwar and moved it around to loosen the garment. She lowered her eyes and slowly slid the top of her shalwar down until I began to see her hair. She kept going and more of her hair came into view. She kept lowering it until it brought most of her pubic hair in the open. She stopped short of the lower edge where part of her pussy was starting to show. It was incredible. I was looking at my sister's pubic hair---her pussy hair---her bush. She was willingly showing me an intimate part of her body and I found that to be everything: erotic, arousing, exciting, you name it. She must have seen me drooling as a wide smile of satisfaction was imprinted on her lips. I swallowed hard and stuttered, "They look amazing!" After waiting for a few second while I took a good look at her hair, she reached for the top of her shalwar to pull it back up. I almost yelled, as the words stuck in my throat, "Not yet! I am not done yet." She didn't stop as she said, "I think you are done. If I keep myself exposed any longer, I think you are going to have a stroke." I guess she could see for herself how flustered I was. She pulled her shalwar up and quickly tied the cord into a knot again. I was mesmerized as her hands worked around the front of her pussy and her fingers tucked the nala back into position. She was flushed all over with either embarrassment or excitement, I couldn't tell. "Sorry, Shamila," I apologized, "I can't help feeling excited." I wanted to use the word aroused, but I thought better of it. "I have never seen anything so amazing. And the effect of seeing your hair on me is incredible." She seemed flustered herself and had trouble staying in front of me, so she quickly dashed out, while pulling her shirt back down over her hips and ass as she exited the room. The following morning she said to me, "You know, brother, we went a little too far last night." "I know, Sis. I know. But you were very brave and I want to thank you for it." "I feel very bad. I feel like I betrayed something sacred. I don't know what you think of me now, but I feel a little less in my own eyes." "There is no need to feel that way. You didn't do anything wrong and you definitely didn't betray anything. In fact, I actually owe you one for sharing so much of yourself with me. I feel honoured." "Well, I am still troubled though and I think it is best for us to step back a little." "Maybe you are right. Maybe that is wise for us. That means you'll have to stay out of my room if we are to step back." "Why? We don't need to go that far." "Yes, we do. You've seen my reaction last night. I can't sit and talk to you like that never happened. It will take some time to get back to normal." "But you said that we'll move on and forget about it once I showed my hair to you. Now you are saying something different." "I am sorry, Shamila. I didn't know at that time how strong a reaction I was going to have to seeing your hair. It was much worst than I anticipated so it is now difficult to forget and move on. I need time to adjust back to things." It was my mother who noticed that something was wrong between the two of us. One afternoon, during my usual tea session, she asked me, "So, what's with you and your sister? You seem to be upset with each other." I didn't think anyone would notice the change, but apparently someone did. I replied, "I don't know what you mean, mom. There is nothing the matter. We are not upset with each other. We are okay." "But, she has become quiet again, like she was before you came. I had started to worry about her silence and I thought your coming was a blessing because it cheered her up. Now it seems she is reverting back to that other self. You don't even spend time together in the evenings." "I guess the novelty of my return has worn off. She was attentive to my comfort at the beginning, but that may have been a hardship for her, so she is not doing it anymore." "I know your sister, son. She can never consider that a hardship. I think she feels quite strongly towards you and she would be happy to do things for you." "Then I don't know what could be the matter. I don't have any problem." "She is a bit immature and she is quite curious about life as anyone in her position would be. I hope she didn't say or do anything inappropriate that made you tell her off. It seems she has backed away from you because of something you have said to her." My mom was very perceptive; although I doubted if she was perceptive enough to guess the real reason. "I don't recall anything like that, but if you want, I can talk to her and find out the problem." "You do that, son. I want you to pull her out of this mode, whatever you have to do. Next stage is depression and that'll ruin her life if she succumbs to that." That night, I went to my sister's room to have a chat with her. That was the first time I had seen her room in a long while and I found it to be quite pleasant. She had her doll collection nicely displayed in a cupboard. Disney characters were decorating her bed covers and pillowcases. Pink curtains with dolphin lamps and a dresser full of makeup stuff, even though I had never really seen her wearing any. She was surprised at my visit. I sat on the edge of her bed as she sat cross-legged towards the head. I said to her, "Mom is concerned that there is a problem between the two of us and she wants us to resolve it so she can see her daughter smiling again." I was trying to make light of the situation but she was very sombre. She didn't even look at me when she spoke, "But there is no problem between us. Is there?" She looked at me with that question. It seemed obvious that she was fishing for something. I looked back at her with seriousness and said, "I guess there is; but what, I don't know. May be you can help me figure it out." "Well, what do you think the problem is?" I thought about my answer for a while before responding in all earnest. "I think the problem is you." She was taken aback. She protested, "Me! How do you figure that?" "You are confused." "Confused about what?" "Shamila, it seems to me you want something from me that even you are not sure what it is. I think I have played my part as appropriately as possible, but you don't seem to think so. The result is that you have a conflict in your mind that first needs to be resolved before anything can happen." "But where I sit, the conflict seems to be in your mind, not mine. I was quite clear what I was after. I was strengthening a bond that seemed to have developed between us and that is unique in that brothers and sisters don't have that kind of bond. Then you go and react to it like I am not your sister, but someone else." "My reaction was normal and I am not ashamed of it. You are a beautiful girl and we shared an intimate moment, which was exciting for me. I was excited because of what I saw and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I didn't want to get excited, but I did. I didn't even expect to get excited, but I did. How do I explain to you how strong an effect it had on me to see something so wonderful on you?" She listened to me very attentively but silently. I could see the turmoil in her chest as a result of confused emotions. I knew she was about to burst and she had to say what was on her mind before that happened. "You know, Shafiq, you are right. I am confused." Her confession startled me. I didn't think she would see things the way I was seeing them, although I expected her reasons to be different than mine. She continued, "I was bonding with you more on a male-female level than on a brother-sister level. Not that anyone can blame me for it, considering the fate that I am doomed to. I had never expected your reaction to be as strong and as favourable as it turned out. I expected you to reprimand me or to tell me to stop going that far. Instead, you reciprocated my sentiments exactly as I had hoped for, and I wasn't quite prepared for it." "So, what is the confusion then?" "The confusion is that I don't know which way I want to go. I know we have a line that we can't cross, but I was enjoying this newfound bond of ours at a level that I have never experienced before and I thought I was getting carried away beyond reason." "Listen, Sis. I know exactly what you are going through. It is not easy to live a strict life like the one you are living and I don't mind giving you an outlet to express and even experience some things that you wish to experience. As long as we know the limits, and as long as you know that certain reactions are bound to come, brother or no brother." She was quietly thinking about what I had said. I waited a while for her to say something, but she didn't. "Listen, Shamila. If we are synchronized about the situation, then what say we start over." She only nodded her head. I got up and left. My mom asked me the following day about my conversation with Shamila and what the problem was. I simply told her, "It is the fortress, mom." She was saddened by that revelation. "Yes, I know, son. This place can kill one's spirit, especially one so young and not able to understand the reasons behind these restrictions." "Then what should we do to change her mood." She sat there thinking about the situation and after a long while, she said, "I guess we have to let her out of her cage for a while, so she can take a break from her confinement."