THIS IS A TRUE STORY
1.
I've never been what you would call a 'praying man'. Not once in my twenty five years have I felt the allure of the church that my mother frequents, so pointlessly comforting herself with the thought that there is a savior for her, listening to her ridiculous confessions. Not once have I dropped before Christ and begged for his mercy. Not once have I fallen to my knees.
'Can we switch now?' muffles Trinity, as she removes my throbbing cock from her lips. I glance at her, a string of congealed pre-seminal fluid and saliva running from her pink bottom lip to the head of my aching member. Her soft palm rests on my swollen balls, fingers delicately placed at the bottom of my shaft as she hopefully pleads with her eyebrows. I marvel momentarily at how beautiful she is, how naturally and effortlessly gorgeous. Even today, her thirty-first birthday.
'No,' I whisper as her expression sours, complaining about her jaw aching; it had been an hour after all. I ignore it, instead focusing on the movie playing a few feet away. The pixelation is grainy. 'Just a little longer.'
Trinity surrenders to my will, her mouth enveloping my cock with some reluctance. Her gaping lips allow the entire shaft to disappear inside, her chin glistening with spit. But the strokes, the way she presses her tongue from the base of my cock, slurping up the shaft in spirals and focusing on the throbbing flesh directly beneath the hole from which she is cleaning my precum with tender flicks: I wonder, does she truly enjoy this?
***
I had been six years old when my father had died in our hometown of Dijon, France. The memories of his death, the funeral, and the aftermath, are all sketchy. In fact, the detailed imprints of him on my mind are just as vague.
As an American in the Army, my father was stationed in England. Following the end of his service, he decided to travel through Europe and fly out of whichever country bored him.
He didn't get very far. My mother had been working as a waitress in a small restaurant in Eastern France.
'He said he actually thought I was Bridgette Bardot, and wouldn't take no for an answer.'
The details are literally as brief as that; my mother has never gone into more, except that my father came from a small American town with no ties except his parents that were preoccupied with their own small-town lives. So he never made it back home, and lived out his limited days in Dijon.
Romance, I presume, was much more fleeting back then. It was France, after all. The ridiculous attitude of the French toward women and love, which is no doubt some sort of sick and creamy self-fulfilling prophecy, is just as idiotic as the American attitude of self-importance and drama; masters of the world; the American Dream. And it seems that a combination of the two pathetic attitudes can create more than just a tasteless vomit-and-asshole flavored pie. It resulted in my beautiful, intelligent older sisters, Trinity, six years older and Isis, nine years older. And a slightly unhinged boy: me.
As the eldest, Isis picked up and held together the many fragments of the three lives that had shattered on my father's death. It had been Isis that dropped out of high school to work to pay the rent and bills whilst my mother wallowed in self-pity; it had been Isis that protected me from bullies as I showed the first signs of blurring the lines of normality; it had been Isis that wrenched the belt free from my mother's hand when she beat me with it frequently; it had been Isis that made no time for a boyfriend or social occasions in order to ensure that her family were healthy. And it had been Isis that contacted our grandparents in America, surrendering reluctantly to the fact that supporting a family was too exhausting and too maturing for a teenager.
One the morning we left for America, everything had been rushed. People can never just be prepared. The walls had been completely bare, every minute memory of a lifetime swept clean from the very foundations of the building. That memory is so distinct, because I vividly remember my eldest sister rushing about the tiny apartment in her bra. It was the first time I had seen one - and in fact the true form of a woman - and even though I was one of the people she was querying readiness with, my eyes were transfixed on the ample flesh almost spilling out of her bra as she dashed from room to room. It was black, with feeble support, and laced patterns embossed along the front, gaps in it teasing any spectators with fleshy brown nipples growing harder by the cool minute. I later found out that she wore a 38D. Trinity grew into a 38 DD. My mother was a 38E.
'Mama, Trinity?' she had called to nobody in particular. And then in French: 'The taxi is on its way.'
Her beautiful blond hair, almost as long as my mother's, shimmered radiantly against the sun glaring through the window. I had watched her soft, goose-pimpled back as she stood before the mirror applying basic cosmetics such as foundation and lipstick. She was the spitting image of my mother, a young Bridgette Bardot my father might have said. I gawped at her long sexy legs shrouded in thick leggings, presumably for comfort during the flight, and wondered what was causing my fixation. I don't recall noticing a pantyline, but I probably wouldn't have known. God, I wish I could revisit that memory in person and pay her ass more attention, if only to see whether she had been wearing any panties at all.
As she turned around to hurry me, she mistook my curiosity for cuteness.
'Come here, you,' she smiled as her bouncing breasts hopped toward me, continuing in sultry French vernacular. 'Give big sister a hug and wait outside, okay?'
As she pulled me into her tits, I felt an electrifying sensation run through my brain. Not my body, but my brain. As the juicy, soft mounds suffocated my entire face, for a brief moment - the briefest - I pouted my lips and kissed Isis's cleavage. My lips against them felt like Kodak heaven - I never wanted to release such a caress from my mind.
She strode away hollering in French to my mother and sister, but I stood touching the lips that had just pressed against Isis's big natural tits, embedding the memory into the deepest corner of my brain so that I could revisit it over and over during the long flight across the Atlantic.
I was ten years old.
2.
The television is loud and I stare at it, watching the same run of entertainment I had seen a million times over the years. The woman submits, and the man controls, and that is the essence of it.
'Baby Brother?' Trinity whines; I'm focusing too much energy on the television and none on her, the warmth of her labia hovering in my face.
'Oh,' I reply, genuinely startled. 'I'm sorry.'
An aerial view would show Trinity's beautifully long body carefully positioned over mine, her hair covering the devouring of my cock from view. It would also show two globes of perfectly formed ass splayed above my face with only my nose and forehead visible.
The bobbing of her head stops as she waits, my cock between her lips. Her lightly browned, puckered asshole sits directly an inch from my nose, the neat creases of her pink pussy glistening with her secretions.
