Best Big Brother Ever

The alarm clock didn't know—or didn't care—that we hadn't spent the whole night sleeping; its insistent buzz woke us at half-past seven. Vicki, my little sister, was curled up against me, both of us naked, both of us facing the clock. Her back was toward me, my arms were around her, and my cock rested happily against her crotch—it was hard again in spite of the exercise we'd given it during the night. She stretched against me, and, reflexively, I tightened my arms around her.

"I should turn that thing off, shouldn't I!" she mumbled. She was closer, so it was undeniably her job.

"Yeah," I replied, fuzzily. "But only if you promise to come right back."

"I was afraid I'd have to make you come with me, but I won't if you really want me back."

"Not want you back?" I asked. "Really? Are you kidding?"

"

That

," she said, "was the right answer."

She turned her head and kissed me quickly—just a peck on the lips. Then she pulled herself out of my arms, brought herself nearly to sitting at the edge of the bed, reached over, and silenced the clock. A second later, she backed up into my arms again. My cock, naturally, reclaimed its position against her crotch. I squeezed her, and she wiggled her ass against me. My hand found a boob, cupped it, squeezed and massaged it. It filled my hand marvelously. I'd known, for several hours, now, how wonderful her tits felt in my hands—but confirmation is always good. Very good.

"I like having you against me like this," she offered. "And I like what you're doing to my boob."

"No more," I replied, "than I like it."

"We shouldn't be together like this. But I like it. And I liked making love with you last night.

Really

liked it. It felt like we belong with each other. What're we gonna do about that?" she asked.

"We probably shouldn't be together like this," I agreed. "But we really needed to do what we did. Or, at least, I needed to. I don't know where we go from here."

"We've got all day today and all night to think about it," she said.

"We'll work something out," I suggested.

"I think I made you get hard again," she said. There was an impish tone in her voice that I'd never heard before. "We should probably work something

in

!"

My hand left her boob and tracked down over her waist to her pussy. She was hot and wet, and she rocked against my finger as I reached into her cleft. "I think you've got something there," I said.

"I do have something

there

, and you've got your hand on it," she said, rocking her hips to drive my fingers along her crevice—emphasizing which "there" she meant. "And I hope you're going to have some

thing

there pretty soon!"

We lay there for a moment, each enjoying the touch of the other's naked body. Then she turned in my arms, put her own arms around me, and pulled me into a deep kiss. As she kissed me, she rolled me onto my back so that the upper half of her body came to rest on me.

Her motion forced my hand out of her groin, and, before I could replace it with my other hand, she broke our kiss, threw a leg over me, and rolled onto me. She sat up and looked down at me grinning. The covers rose with her and fell onto my thighs behind her where she now sat between my bellybutton and my cock.

The sun was just rising, and we had drawn the heavy motel curtains, so the room was dim—dimmer than I would have chosen for my first view of her naked body. (Well, the first view since she was about five, anyway.) In spite of the light, I found the view entrancing. Her boobs, just big enough to be slightly pendulous, still swayed a bit from her motion. My eyes swept downward, taking in her flat, narrow waist, and downward further to the shadowed grotto between her thighs. I was doing my best to pierce that darkness when I heard her chuckle.

"Like what you see, perv?" she asked.

I tore my eyes from the part of her I so much wanted to see but couldn't, quite, and I looked up. Her grin had deepened.

I grinned back. "I sure do!" I answered. And then I continued, "But who's sitting, naked, on her brother, perv?"

"And not just sitting," she answered. She bent forward to kiss me. As her mouth and mine made contact, the slick heat of her lower lips pressed against my belly to deliver another kind of kiss. My cock throbbed, brushing against the cleft between her buttocks as it did.

She responded by lowering her upper body. Her hips rotated as she moved, and those lower lips delivered a torrid kiss to the upper surface of my cock. She moaned at the touch as my cock throbbed again and my hips began to oscillate, driving my hard-on up, down, up, down, sliding it along her furrow.

Soon, her own hips moved against mine and she raised her head from our kiss to look into my eyes. "That feels so good," she said. And raising her upper body to the vertical, she continued, "Maybe I should sit on

that!

"

"I don't know…" I said, straight-faced. "You might break it if you sit on it."

"It is stiff, isn't it! Probably fragile, too! But I think I can find a way to avoid breaking it." She kept her face straight.

"Do you really think so?" I asked as she again raised herself, this time to her knees.

"I'm pretty sure," she said, as she backed up just enough to place her pussy right above my boner. Then, reaching down between her thighs, she lowered herself again as she directed me into her passage.

For the second time in only a few hours, inexpressible sensation overwhelmed me as I slid into her body. I shuddered in response. My cock throbbed inside her, and I felt her contract around me as she, too, shuddered.

She sat there, eyes closed, jaw slack, on top of me, my cock embedded in her. I stroked up and down her body, from thighs to boobs and back; little shivers ran through her body. I brought my hands back to her tits and cupped them; their weight and their soft femininity inflamed me further.

She sighed. Opening her eyes, she leaned forward and placed her hands on my shoulders. We looked into each other's eyes and, smiling a dirty little smile, she said, "I told you I wouldn't break it."

"You can sit on it anytime you want to," I answered. I felt her contract around me again, and, once more, I throbbed inside her.

"That might be pretty often," she said, as her channel squeezed still another time.

I began to say that I hoped so, but that last squeeze brought a reaction from my hips that bumped her upwards.

"Ooo!" she said. "Don't

you

break anything." The dirty little smile was now a dirty

big

smile. But I don't think she was very worried—she bumped her own hips, pulling me part way out of her and then driving me all the way in. The feeling her tight, hot sheath caused, as my cock slid partly out of it and then reentered, was beyond words.

My equanimity was fading quickly, now. "I'm not worried," I managed to say. "I've got something else on…"

There was indeed something else on my mind, but it took over mind and body. I never finished the sentence. All I knew was that I needed to pump, pump, pump, back and forth, up and down, in and out. I never knew whether she cooperated because she wanted to please me or because her own need drove her as mine was driving me, but together we pounded ourselves against each other repeatedly. Over and over, we thrust me into her and out, into her and out, in and out, in, out, until light exploded in my head and I pumped my cum into my little sister's lovely body. Dimly I knew that she thrashed and moaned as I came, and that she collapsed on my nerveless body as I lay fulfilled, for the moment at least, under her.

==||<>||==

It took us about an hour and a half to recover ourselves, get ready, and get back on the road. Of course, we spent some of that time lying naked in each other's arms. We weren't exactly recovering, or even talking; we were just enjoying—marveling in—the feeling of our naked bodies together.

It was only about five hours into Seattle, and I volunteered to drive the rest of the way. We'd been back on the interstate for a few minutes, when she laid her hand on my thigh. Her touch was, somehow, proprietary. It wasn't the light, fleeting touch of the days before, but more as if my thigh belonged to her—and her hand belonged to me. It was a good feeling—altogether good, altogether right.

"I love you, Bry," she said. It was a simple declaration, but it meant so much to me—knowing as I did now that her love was more, deeper, fuller, than a sister's love for her brother—that her love mirrored the way I'd loved her for so long..

I responded in kind: "I love you, Vick. More than I know how to tell you."

The hand on my thigh squeezed. "Are you okay with what happened…" She hesitated. "…with what we did?" she finished. "Any…" she hesitated again, squeezed again. There was worry in her voice, and her hand communicated the tension in her body as she continued, "…any regrets?"

"No," I said. "But I need to be sure about one thing." I paused.

The silence between us lengthened and I felt her tension strengthen.

"What?" she asked. "What is it?" She was unsure of herself; almost, I thought, as unsure of herself as I was of myself. Neither of us, after all, had ever bedded our sibling before.

"I love you, Vick," I said. "Don't ever doubt that. But I need to know…"

I was having trouble spitting it out. I was afraid that when I did, I would lose what I had just found.

She waited expectantly, and, after an uncomfortable twenty or thirty seconds, I screwed up my courage and, knowing that I would learn the answer sooner or later, one way or another, I continued, "…I'm worried that last night you were reacting to… well, to what James did to you. That it was just—"

"No, Bry! No! No! No!" She was almost frantic. "James is history! Ancient history! Along with what he did to me. I'm

so

over him. If I'd only known how you felt about me sooner, James would never have happened. Neither would Dave. They happened because I knew that a girl can't be in love with her brother." The hand on my thigh tightened. "And even more, a guy can't be in love with his sister. I knew that I'd have to settle. That I could never have you…" She trailed off, near tears now.

I reached for her thigh and squeezed it gently before returning my hand to the steering wheel. "Then the only thing I'm sorry about," I said, "is that we didn't get there with each other sooner." It was a Saturday morning, so the traffic was light enough for me to take my eyes off the road long enough to look over at her as I spoke. She smiled at me. But it wasn't just a smile. It was sunlight breaking through a storm's black cloud. I smiled back at her, and then I turned my eyes back to the road as I said, "I take it that you're okay about what we did, too."

"Okay?" she said, her voice rising an octave or so as she said it. "Okay?" Still another octave. "Oh, Bryan! You made me so happy. I've dreamed about it for so long. About having you want me. About making love with you." The hand on my thigh loosened; the grip became instead a series of caresses. "Yes!" she continued. "I'm okay! I'm so okay I feel like I'm going to burst!"

"Don't," I said. "That would make a real mess of Mom's car."

We both laughed, as much in relief as at my awful joke. Of course, she punched me….

==||<>||==

A few minutes passed while we settled down. And, as we did, the realities of our situation impressed themselves upon us.

"What are we going to do? About us?" she wondered. "I'm here in Seattle, but you're there—in Laramie."

"I don't know," I said. "But I do know this: We're going to find a way. We can't have finally found this just to lose it."

"Bry," she said. Her voice was full of resolve. "I have you now, and I'm not going to lose you. We

have

to find a way."

"I'll probably finish my degree this spring," I said. "By the end of the summer at the latest. I've been thinking about going on for a doctorate. My advisor thinks I should, and he wants me to do it in Laramie. But maybe the University of Washington—here in Seattle…"

"Oh, Bry! That would be wonderful. Do you really think…?" She trailed off; there had been new hope in her voice.

"It's a little late in the year to apply to a new grad school," I said, thinking out loud now. "But a lot of schools need warm bodies to put in front of freshman/sophomore classrooms. And a lot of applicants have thick accents because they're from foreign countries, so demand for native speakers of English is high."

"I hear

that

," she said. "I had an awful time in my math class because I had a Nigerian graduate student for a teacher, and I couldn't understand half of what he said." She reached over and squeezed my thigh again. "Plus, he was a jerk!'

"Now, now," I answered. "He was a money-strapped graduate student doing his best to earn his keep." I glanced over at her; she was smiling at me.

"Well," she said, as she gave my thigh another squeeze, "I'll grant you that not all graduate students are jerks. I know

one

, in particular…" There was still another squeeze on my thigh. "…who isn't."

I laid my hand on hers, where it rested on my thigh, and squeezed back. "Thanks for that stellar vote of confidence," I replied. Then I got back on subject. "I do have an Illinois teaching certificate, so looking for a job in a Seattle high school is another possibility. I don't know Washington's certification requirements, but I'll bet I could work provisionally while I complete them."

==||<>||==

We went on in that vein, discussing pros, cons, alternatives. At last we decided that an application to do more grad work at UW was definitely worth a shot, with job applications to high schools in the Seattle/Tacoma area for backup.

The weather was getting bad, and snow was starting to fly, when we turned to the thorniest problem of all. "What should we tell Mom and Dad?" I asked.

"Gosh," she said. "That's a tough one. They won't be especially thrilled by what you've gotten yourself into." She paused. Then, making sure that I fully understood what she'd just said, she continued, "So to speak!"

She would have punched me for saying something like that, but snow was falling in earnest now, and I didn't want to take a hand off the wheel to give her what she deserved. I had to be satisfied with punishing her verbally, and I added, "Or by what's gotten into you!"

A satisfying groan came from her side of the car.

We got no further in that conversation, though. We were climbing toward Snoqualmie Pass—which lies just east of the Seattle area, and big, fat, wet snowflakes flew around us. The road was slushy, and, even though traffic was only moderate, driving required more attention.

Snowqualmie Pass is only about three thousand feet high, which is lower than the entire state of Colorado, where I'd done a good bit of winter driving. So I wasn't concerned. But as we approached the summit of the pass, the temperature dropped and the slush on the road turned icy. We had just passed that summit, going at about thirty miles an hour, when traffic backed up and filled both lanes of the interstate. We found ourselves in a slow-moving knot of cars and trucks. There were patches of ice here and there on the road—and it was ice that the passage of hundreds of vehicles had burnished slick. The wipers barely kept the windshield clean enough to see through. Even though we were only moving at about five to ten miles per hour, I could feel the car break traction every now and then, so driving demanded strict concentration.

After a few minutes in that congested traffic, we came around a bend and learned why we'd slowed so much. Several cars and a tractor-trailer were piled up in the right-hand lane. It was a bad one. The truck and a couple of the cars lay on their sides. Several cars had stopped on the shoulder in the vicinity and a dozen people were moving about on foot near the wreckage—giving assistance, I guessed. Traffic still moved in the left-hand lane, but very slowly—both because of the crowded circumstances and because of the icy state of the road. I worked my way into the left lane to get around the wreckage.

"People have been hurt! Should we stop to help?" Vicki wanted to know.

I didn't want to take too much attention from what I was doing, but I glanced around quickly. "No," I said. "A lot of people have stopped, and I think it's gotten so that more people just means that it's likely that even more people will get hurt."

"You're probably right," she said. There was relief in her voice. Like any intelligent person, she dreaded the possibility of dealing with seriously injured people. But, also, like any responsible person, she felt a need to do what she could if she were needed. Her hand still rested on my thigh; it delivered another squeeze.

We were about halfway past the accident site then, nearing an old, black Volkswagen bug—it looked like a model from the mid-Sixties—lying on its side in the right lane. It wore an Idaho license plate, and there was a University of Washington decal in the center of its rear window—which, miraculously, hadn't shattered. The car's wheels were toward the highway's outer shoulder, and the front half of its top had been smashed down as if stepped on by a giant.

We will never forget what we saw as we moved past that old car.

The sight remained hidden by the car's bulk as we approached. But as we came around the car, I glanced over and saw a young man's body hanging, head first, part way through the windshield.

I was driving. The road was extremely slick. It was still snowing, and visibility was poor. There were wrecked vehicles I had to avoid. Even more, there were people afoot whom I had to avoid. So I gave that scene just one quick glance. Because of the falling snow and the black car, it seemed like a shot from an old black-and-white horror movie. The image remains with me, etched into memory like a daguerreotype, in all its horrible detail.

There was no question of helping him. As he had catapulted through the windshield, whatever it was that had smashed the car had caught him between the roof and the body—crushing his chest. He hung there limply. None of the people who had stopped to help accident victims seemed to have the slightest interest in approaching him.

Suddenly, I realized: Vicki hadn't yet seen what I had seen. Quickly, hoping to spare her some pain and horror, I said, "Look at me, Vicki.

Look at me!

"

She started to turn toward me, but some part of that awful scene must have caught the corner of her eye, because she stopped turning in my direction and looked, instead, at the disaster. I heard her strangled gasp, and a second or two later, "Oh, my God!"

There was a moment of silence as the dreadful sight passed out of view, and then she said, "How awful! That poor guy! And his family!" There were tears in her voice, and, seconds later I heard a muffled sob.

I couldn't find any words, but her hand still rested on my thigh. I placed my hand over hers again and squeezed. She laid her other hand on top of mine and returned the squeeze.

But the road's condition was still miserable, and I was still driving, so, much as I wanted to, I couldn't keep a hand off the steering wheel for any length of time. Wordlessly, I squeezed again and withdrew my hand from her comforting grasp. She seemed to understand; though she was sniffling, she made no effort to restrain me. Her hand remained on my thigh as we continued on down the western side of the pass.