This is a sweet little family story, a story of sibling trust and connection, a story of support and unwitting betrayal. A story of mystery. There is, however, minimal female nudity and, alas, no multiorgasmic adventures. There is femdom. It ends sadly but with hope for the future. Caveat emptor!
***
Whack.
I looked at my tormentors. Jenny was a scrappy spitfire capped by a mop of red hair. The other, Emma, whom I'd trusted my whole life, was ignoring my eyes, ignoring my grunts, ignoring my four shackled limbs. We were the kind of twins who had always had each other's back, and even if I was 1 month older and always much larger, I'd never have teased or bossed her around. All of us were 19.
Whack.
She gave me another open-palmed smack on my rock-hard cock, a wet cock which was being held firmly in place by Jenny's strong grip.
"You looked like you weren't paying attention," Emma said, squinting her eyes, angrily. Or was she holding back laughter? Hard to tell.
I looked, again, at the two girls. From my face-up position on my bed, they were sitting comfortably above me, bare legs akimbo and entwined, knee-high white socks pulled helter skelter, their matching plaid skirts draped at the level of their hips. Both were not only wearing their regulation white blouses, modest bras, and (presumably) panties, they both wore the short blue gym shorts that were expected at their small girls school Combined, they weighed maybe 200 pounds. Maybe less. Both had until recently been virgins, and one still was, and both had recently returned for the 2nd half of their senior years after twelve months on some sort of weird gap year spent at a convent in rural Ireland. It was midafternoon, Christmas Eve, one of many times during the year when we absolutely knew where our parents would be, church.
They girls had only been back a couple weeks, while I'd returned home less than a week earlier, after our football bowl game.
For at least half an hour, I'd been lying on my own bed, bound by straps and thick leather restraints to the cast iron frame.
Whack.
"Pay attention," Emma barked. "Quit tuning out."
Paying attention had never been a family strength. For example, 20 years ago, after years of trying--which I guess meant an unusual amount of goal-directed and spiritually-sanctioned parental intercourse--mom and dad decided to adopt a baby. What they hadn't noticed is that when they arrived in Hanoi, their expected 6-month-old baby had been adopted out from under them. As did the next one. So they wrote out a binding contract to protect their rights to the future child. Dad, incidentally, is a lawyer, which meant he understood that such a contract would never actually be binding, but he's a church lawyer, so he is often writing contracts as if God were going to rule in his favor--which never struck me as likely.
Anyway, they locked in on this barely-pregnant young, single woman, who wanted or needed to give up her child, and they were so focused that they didn't notice that mom had finally--after all that goal-directed fucking--gotten pregnant. Some parents would have been content and just called things off with the international adoption, but my parents--being committed and obsessional-- never considered that option. And they got what they wanted. Did I mention my parents were nutty, which allowed them to fit into their own families, which included just enough people to push them past cult status? I mean, they were Catholic, which is an Official World Religion and hardly a cult, but they were a particularly zealous sort of Catholic. Sort of old school Irish multiplied by southern evangelical conservatism, with a twist of idiosyncratic severity. Smart, bookish, but anti-intellectual and anti-liberal. They were not prone to humor or half measures.
Emma and I learned early on what it took to survive: good manners and deep but unspoken skepticism towards arbitrary authority. For me, those qualities contributed to my career in football, which--like the military--heavily rewards good manners in people who can avoid taking authority too personally. For Emma, those qualities probably helped her make straight A's but might have led her to being open to being taken advantage of by other kids, but no one at any of our schools would ever have fucked with my sister. As I said, we're twins and best friends.
Whack.
"Do you even know what focus means? Emma asked. "Don't forget why we're here. It's all your fucking fault."
I smiled, or would have smiled if my mouth hadn't been bound by a red kerchief. In all our years together, I'd never heard her use the word "fuck."
"No," I said, "I don't know why we're here."
Which sounded a lot like, "nnn, iuhddnYhhrrr."
Whack.
"It's interesting," Jen pointed out, after having been largely silent for the preceding half hour, "that such a big guy would have such a small penis. It's not really what you'd expect."
They laughed.
I might have pointed out that I'd just finished my first season on a nationally-ranked college football team, that while I hadn't started as a freshman, I'd played much of every game and was expected to start the following year. I had also been named an all-state high school linebacker just a few days before Emma and Jen had disappeared to Ireland. My dick was just as big as one might expect.
If they'd remove the kerchief, I might have pointed out that Jenny couldn't even get her hand fully around my cock, which was partly why it kept falling free, though it was also sliding loose because it was slippery: she kept blowing me, wetly, for a few seconds, enough to keep me very hard. I might also have mentioned that it had taken a couple of hours of my best efforts to squeeze half of my dick into the very-willing but virginal Jen just two nights earlier. I have my insecurities, but dick size isn't one of them.
But they know that. Why go to all this trouble? Why would my sweet sister decide to make some sort of statement by whacking me every few minutes? Were they mad that I'd deflowered Jen? She'd been completely willing. And I'd been genuinely excited to commit to her, to not fuck around with anyone else. How did that lead to my sweet little sister smacking my dick? We'd never done anything sexual together. I'd never even thought of her that way. My best guess is that mine was the first cock she'd ever seen or felt, much less smacked, over and over. Had they planned this at the convent?
Whack.
"You," Emma said, "are such an asshole."
Hmmm. I was exactly the kind of guy who could've been an asshole, since most guys would become assholes if they get too much of what they want, and I had all the usual desirable qualities tacked on to the reality that I'd been the best player in multiple sports at schools that loved their sports teams. I'd always been kept in check, partly because I wasn't allowed to date or drink or stay out late, but mostly because my small, nerdy, innocent twin had been my best friend.
Jenny held my cock aloft, as if it were a recently-caught fish, offering it to my sister, who was patting her bare thigh with her hand, as if pondering her next step.
Whack.
I tried to make eye contact, but Emma, she of the open palm, was focused only on my cock. Her high Vietnamese cheek bones were tinted a dusky red. The top few buttons of her blouse had come loose. I looked down her top and was reminded, again, that her bra bore a more ceremonial than utilitarian function.
"I think this big dude is perving on his high school sister." Emma shook her head, with an angry smile.
"How can you tell?" Jenny asked.
Emma looked undecided. She stood on my bed and bounced a little, like we did as kids. She turned away, and standing way above me, quickly pulled down her shorts and panties. Her legs were firmly pressed together. I stared.
I don't think I'd ever seeing her butt before. I mean, I must have--we'd grown up together--but not that I remember. Most of the butts I'd seen were of other guys in the locker room, and they tended to be sweaty and hairy. I'd also seen quite a few girl butts in the year that I'd been away at college, but I was mostly gripping or twisting or pulling apart their willing legs. Emma's butt was extremely smooth and sweet.
I looked as Jen stretched her free arm--a lean, pale, freckled arm--towards her best friend. Her lithe fingers spread smoothly, familiarly, on my sister's left butt cheek. What had they been doing in Ireland? Sheesh.
Jen looked steadily at me with her pale, blue eyes. Those eyes had been so vulnerable and adoring just days earlier, but now they looked cold and appraising.
Her hand squeezed Emma's butt. Was that a signal to me they'd become lovers during their year at the convent? Or a reminder that Emma should get back to the task at hand, whatever that task turned out to be.
Emma turned, slightly, looking down at Jen, which gave me the chance to get a peek at a tuft of pubic hair. I was reminded, again, of my naivete--it had simply never occurred to me that Emma would have pubic hair, though, if asked, I'd have assumed she had, despite her flat chest, thin hips, and youthful look. I'd just never thought about it.
Emma quickly pulled up her shorts. She sat down next to her friend.
"Did he look at me?"
