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I nodded and returned her grin, and then stood up and helped her sit up. She looked down at him with a snort and then reached down and slipped the rubber off, holding it up with a smile, and repeating: “the proof of your pleasure.”
I nodded, and almost expected her to do what my sister had done, but she didn’t, only swung it a little with a smirk, and then said:
“I have to go, anyway,” and slipped off the table as I nodded.
As she left, she glanced back with another smirk, swinging the rubber in a full circle as though it were a trophy, and then disappeared as I smiled to myself.
Then I thought that it was a good idea to go too, and went in the sink, rinsing him and the sink when I had finished, and wiped him off with the dishcloth, snorting slightly at the thought that it would be used again – but only to wash dishes for us, so it didn’t really make any difference.
She came back, nonchalant, despite her nudity, smiling at me, but the sight of her coming into our kitchen that way accentuated the awareness of my own nudity in the otherwise so familiar surrounding, making me a little embarrassed – not at her presence, but at being like that in our kitchen. But it was nice that she seemed comfortable with it. Or maybe she didn’t as she looked at me with a wry smile and asked:
“What do we do now?”
She grinned a little sheepishly before she added:
“It’s too early to go to bed, … – Hmm! – and we’ve sort of done that already.”
I could only agree with a nod and an impulsive snort.
“Have another beer?”
“Yes, that’s a good idea.”
As I got them, it occurred to me that she never said “yeah” like my sister or another American girl would – or I did. I opened them and handed her one, and then we said “skaal”, and our smiles were different than before: not quite smirks, more as though we had winked at each other.
“And now’?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied: “… whatever you want to do. I guess we could watch TV.”
“I’ll get the towel I used,” she replied and went off, while I went and turned on the television, remembering that that was how it all had started the previous evening.
She returned with the towel as the picture on the TV came up, spreading it out on the sofa where we had been sitting the night before. I sat down in the corner of the sofa, and then, before she could sit down next to me, I turned and spread my legs, inviting her to sit between them. “Oh, yes,” she agreed; and did, nestling herself back against me before either of us considered what program was on the TV station. It was a film or detective series, but as my hand slid around her shoulder and held her breast, it wasn’t very important. We watched it and sipped our beers, more aware of the comfortable position we were in.
“We got a TV for the Winter Olympics,” she volunteered: “… to watch the Norwegians win – but only black and white.”
“And did they?”
“Of course. “Our school champion almost made the team.”
“Like me,” I replied, and took a sip of my beer, suddenly wondering if drinking beer with the girls I had made love with had had a negative influence on my training. She chuckled and said:
“Good athletes are good lovers,” and then added:
“You should have made the team,” and held my leg as she took a sip, too.
I thought she meant that as a compliment, and liked that it had occurred to us both to think about love making, although my thought had sort of contradicted hers.
“Tell me about your family,” I suggested.
“Oh, my father works for an insurance company, and my mother started working again last year, when I finished school as a … for a dentist, like she had before we were born.”
“As a dental assistant?”
“Yes, a dental assistant.”
“And your brothers?”
“The elder one is almost finished with his studies, economics I guess you call it. He wants to work for a bank, has during vacations. And the other one will start studying when he has finished his military.”
“Military service.”
“Yes. … I missed him when he went away for training, … maybe more than my parents did.”
“You were pretty close.”
We had a sip of our beer. She glanced back at me, and then rubbed my leg with a soft snort and agreed:
“Yes, I guess we were … are.”
Her correcting the tense made me wonder why she had done so: the “are” to cover for a more specific “were”? When she took another sip of beer and didn’t say anything, while I did, somehow seemed to confirm my thought.
“Yeah, I guess,” she repeated, and my first thought was that it was the first time I heard her say “yeah”, and then my second one was that she was thinking about something specific, something apparently nice, if they had been close enough for her to want to distract from it, but then her “Yeah, I guess” didn’t suggest anything, unless she wanted to pursue the subject, maybe from our situation.
“Um-hmm,” I responded, wondering what hers would be. She rubbed my leg again and had another sip of her beer, and then snorted again softly and glanced back at me again and said: kızılay escort
“Once at the cabin – we three children share a room, but my eldest brother was away on their school summer trip before “artium,” our school graduation. I was thirteen. One night there was a thunderstorm, really violent, like sometimes in the mountains, and lightening struck a tree near us with a great light and crash of thunder, completely frightening me. The boys had a double bunk and I, a bed under the window. I was so frightened that I just ran and jumped in my brother’s bed. He had the lower one. And he held me – like a big brother should. After a few moment, he said I should turn over, and I did, clasping his hand, just so comforting after being so scared by the lightening and thunder. He whispered something about also having been scared, but he had been the big brother I wanted, needed at that moment.”
She glance back at me again before she continued:
“Oh, nothing happened. He had just done the right thing, and I liked him better for having done it. Oh, we still argued with each other after that, but it was different then.”
“A cathartic experience.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Hmm? Not quite sure: an experience that changes something for the better; I think just for the better.”
“It was. I guess he liked it too, since we fell asleep that way. Would have surprised our parents, but we woke up early, both a little surprised. We didn’t do that again.
She glanced back at me again, and I nodded with smile. She nodded and after a moment said. “Maybe my dream last night was a little … , you know, … trying to avoid being too obvious.”
I nodded and agreed:
“They can be like that, at least you remember them that way, or don’t, like you said, till the recollection is so vague that it doesn’t matter.”
She nodded with a smile and then chuckled when I felt her nipple tighten in my palm as she glance at me with a grin, and then asked:
“Why am I telling you this?”
“‘Cause I asked about your brothers, and this is what you wanted to tell me, it seems,”
She snorted and thought for a moment and then nodded slightly and agreed:
“I guess so. Yes, it was a little too personal to tell anyone else, and then sometimes you completely forget …”
“Conveniently,” I interjected.
“Um-hmm. Hmm! Like when I was telling about us in the mountains, never told anyone about that either.
She looked at me, and then smiled, and I squeezed her breast, and she snorted softly and said: “Yes, like that. … Towards the end of the next summer, my mother said I had to start wearing a bra when school started, and bought me a couple. One day, after we had been swimming in the fjord and were back home and had showered, I suddenly wanted to try one on, and then wanted to show him. I guess I really wanted to show him me – that I was big enough to wear it – or just wanted him to see me in just panties and the bra.”
We both chuckled, and she went on:
“I just went in his room, the door was half open, and he was standing in his underpants and looked startled when he saw me, and I was a little embarrassed, but it was a nice feeling too, seeing him looking at me like he was – a nice feeling in my new bra, my nipples. I wonder if he could tell? We just stood there for a moment, staring at each other, and I went back to my room, wondering why I had gone to his.
She looked at me as though she were wondering what I was thinking, and I told her:
“I guess a girl just wants to show her first bra to someone; best to show a brother.”
“Something like that. We never mentioned it, but when he looked at me on the way to school the first day, I felt my nipples and blushed.”
“Growing up?”
She chuckled and nodded, then murmured:
“You’re a big brother.”
This was getting ticklish! I sure was, but not how I could tell anyone! But I had to say something:
“She didn’t show me hers.” Just told me she was going to go topless!
“And didn’t ask you anything about boys?”
“Did you ask him?”
“No.”
“Maybe she asked her sister, easier than asking me.”
“Of course,” she agreed with understanding smile, but then remarked:
“I could imagine that with her figure, she really need one before I did.”
“She did, but you do too, now. No, you don’t, really.”
I fondled her nice firm breast. She nodded slightly and murmured:
“Thanks,” but then added: “She told me that she was thinking about going topless in France, if any of the other girls in the group did.”
“She did? She wants to?” I prevaricated.
“She was thinking about it, asking if I had, if I thought all the girls in France did.”
“Have you, do they?”
“Yes; I don’t know. She was worried about looking like she never had before.”
“I won’t ask how.”
“Martha smirked slightly and said:
“She said that she was hoping to … ‘practice’ with her girlfriend on Fire Island.”
“But she wasn’t out there with her.”
“But she was with you.”
“Yes, my birthday present kızılay escort bayan for her, after she suggested it would be better than the just big-brotherly hug she had first wanted.”
“She wanted one too, and a lot bigger brother?”
“But then just a week on the island.”
“But still wanted to ‘practice’?”
“Don’t ask. Yes!”
“Hm-hmm! She did?”
“Couldn’t stop her. Hm-hm-hmm! Getting a girl’s bra off can sometimes be difficult …”
“I saved you the trouble,” she interjected with a grin.
“Thank you, but the idea of forcing her to put it back on …”
“Seemed like almost as much fun?” she interjected again with a grin.
“I didn’t.”
“Could have been like a big-brotherly hug.”
“She didn’t want one, not like that.”
“Oh, she did want one, just not like that? Must have been interesting.”
“Sisters aren’t suppose to go topless with their brother.”
“I would have liked to.”
“Maybe you still can.”
“Oooh! You want me to?”
“Maybe not, for his sake.”
“He would like it too much? … Did you?”
“He’s a man, isn’t he?”
“Not as well-built as you are.”
“And you’re not as – quote – ‘well-built’ as she is, but that doesn’t matter, either way.”
“It doesn’t. Sure, I would let him see me topless now. Hm-hmm! Have to remember that I said that.”
“And make it ‘interesting’ for him?”
“Oh, like that? She did, and … well, it was ‘interesting’ for her too?”
“If she wanted to go topless and was wondering how boys – men – in France in their tight briefs would be.”
“She talked about that? Want another beer?”
We emptied our cans, and I sprang up to get them, hoping my cock’s wagging a little wouldn’t suggest that it knew more about how ‘interested’ it and I had been – more like just “how!” I returned with two opened cans, not having had enough time to sort my various thoughts.
Would I admit to everything? She seemed sympathetic from her remarks about her brother. But one just can’t tell anyone that one had sex with one’s sister! But I had already admitted that she had been interested in seeing that I was aroused. Had Martha understood that? It seemed like it, but would she already be assuming more? Hell! No, it had been more like heaven; how could she not assume that a week like that wouldn’t have led to something?
I was back, handing her her beer and saying “skaal.” She responded, no longer sitting under my arm. We smiled, and were silent for a moment, her nipples popping out, before she murmured:
“I wouldn’t mind if my brother wanted to.”
She suddenly blushed and murmured:
“I said that?!” and gave me a very wry little smile.
I nodded, and we looked at each other, shrugging slightly. I guess my expression keyed off something; we both suddenly started laughing, pure nervous release. Her breasts jiggled so delightful. We caught our breath and looked at each other again with quizzical expressions. I murmured:
“Something like that, if that’s what you meant.”
“Hmm? I guess so? Vague dreams.”
She just looked at me, not asking about my “something like that,” but it had pretty much admitted everything. I nodded slightly and repeated:
“Something like that, wanting to, more her wanting to.”
She nodded again, and murmured:
“After what I said, I guess you know I was thinking so, and thinking about him, and thinking, well, it must have been inevitable, … and, well, if it happened …?”
“It did. Hmm? Easier than trying to put her top back on. I didn’t try to. But, well, we did, and of course then I wanted to.”
She gave me another understanding smile and nodded with another shrug and replied:
“If you both wanted to, I can understand. Nice for you.”
“Um-hmm, and especially nice that you feel that way.”
She nodded with smile, and we almost spilled our beers as we embraced. We had another sip, and then she said:
“I’ve got to go.”
I nodded again, and she got up, handing me her beer and smiling at me before she went off. I got up and turned off the TV and took the towel from the sofa and turned off the lights. I took another sip of beer and took our half-empty cans to the kitchen before going to my bathroom. I then thought to take my razor to shave in the morning and went towards her room. She met me in the hall, as though she had been on the way to my room.
“Yours, your bed is bigger,” I suggested.
She just nodded with a smile, and we went to her room, to her bed in the dark, lying down and drawing the covers up, and then kissing again as our hands immediately slid down and held each other. And they were both wanting it as I wondered what she wanted to do, how she wanted to do it.
But she asked first:
“What do you want to do,” and then chuckled deep in her throat and added:
“I never asked that before, didn’t imagine we had a choice, … and usually he was already …”
She broke off her sentence, either because it didn’t need completion or because she felt that it was tactless to mention doing escort kızlay it with someone else at that moment.
“I wasn’t going to ask you,” I replied as my finger moved gently in her.
She sighed with each breath, purring in her throat, enjoying it for a few moments, and I was enjoying it too, feeling her soft, smooth, moist pussy around my finger and feeling her fingers on him.
“Maybe we both want the same,” she murmured and purred again.
I nodded, exchanging purring sounds with her.
“What about some desert,” I suggested.
“Umm-hmm,” she agreed, adding a chuckle to her purring:
“I was thinking of that too; after the first course, and the main course, that would be an appropriate way to finish the dinner.”
Then she snickered and added:
“something with a creamy filling.”
I snickered and agreed:
“For you, maybe an éclair. I want a piece of hair pie,” using a vulgar expression that seemed especially appropriate at that moment.
“Hair pie?” she repeated.
I hadn’t expected her to know the expression, but then after she had said it herself, she snickered and asked:
“Do guys call it that?”
“When they’re thinking about having it for dessert,” I answered.
She snickered again and said:
“As long as you don’t eat it with a fork.”
She was already starting to turn around under the covers. And then I was showing her how I liked to eat hair pie, and she was doing things that one doesn’t do with an éclair in company, even if one especially likes the sugar or chocolate coating, but if one did, it would be the best way to enjoy it, and she was, and her éclair was too. And my hair pie was enjoying it too, suddenly reminding me of the bottle in Alice in Wonderland that said: “Drink me. Drink me.” But my pie was saying: “Eat me. Eat me,” and I was doing everything I could to fulfill its request, thinking it was some sort of a cherry cream pie, but the only cherry I could find, no matter how I sucked on it, and no matter how much the pie seemed to want to let me have it, I could only nibble at it with my lips. And she was having a similar problem, wanting to taste even more of her éclair’s coating, not satisfied with just licking around the end of it, but seeming to want to taste it further up along it, and it was trying to help her – like my pie was. But it tasted so good, that for a while I gave up on the cherry and sought a fresh taste of its delicious, slippery crème, trying to get more of it from deep in the pie, but then it wanted me to try get that little cherry again, and I wanted to, too; it was just so enticing the way it tried to help me when I sucked on it, like her éclair was trying to help her. It wanted her to find as much of its coating as she could. And when it realized that she couldn’t find any more, no matter how hard they both tried, it felt like it wanted her at least to have some of its crème for her effort, and when she moaned in appreciation, it gave her some more, and she liked that too, so it gave her even more. And then it was as though my juicy pie knew what it was doing and wanted to reward me for trying so hard to get the cherry and gave me a taste of its wonderful, juicy filling, coming all warm from deep inside it, like from an oven-warm piece of pie, hot and sweet, and then again, while it still wanted me to have the cherry, And then it seemed like her éclair and my hair pie suddenly gave up on their efforts to satisfy us, holding still as Martha and I sighed with deep moans.
And we were satisfied, so satisfied that we just lay there; her strong thigh was an even better pillow than that of my sister, and I was almost asleep when I felt her free my head from between her thighs, and then felt her éclair slip from between her lips, flopping down, as though it had lost its coating and the crème stuffing that had made it hard and full before. With this thought, I dozed off.
I was awakened by her gently slipping her thigh from under my head as she started to turn around. I moved back up onto the pillow as she lay down with her back to me. I moved closer to her and put my arm around her and found her breast with my hand. She chuckled and murmured:
“A chocolate éclair. That’s what I was thinking of, a cream-filled chocolate éclair.”
“Me too, or maybe just a sugar-coated one.”
“I like chocolate,” she murmured and purred like before.
“It felt like it. I was thinking that you were trying to lick it all off.”
She snickered softly and agreed:
“I was. Thank you. Good night.”
“Thank you too, and sleep tight,” I rejoined, and then snorted and asked:
“Or should I have said ‘takk for matten’?”
She snickered, almost laughing, and replied:
“Vel bekomme. … Maybe I should have. Takk for matten.”
“Vel bekomme.” We both chuckled and then were silent.
We must have slept well; I didn’t remember having woken up in the night, when I woke up the next morning, lying on my other side, but this time I immediately knew where I was before I opened my eyes. And when I did, I knew it was still quite early and knew Martha was lying behind me. I snorted softly as I remembered our “dessert.” But then I felt that I had to use the toilet and tried to slip from under the covers without waking her, glancing back to see her lying there before I went to her bathroom, but then decided to go to my own in order not to wake her.
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