For Eric and me, our new life together quickly fell into a nice, predictable, calming pattern. While I worked almost all day at the university's main library, he worked at his new office. I would get home first and be a good stereotypical 1950s housewife: the cleaning would be done and I would typically have dinner nearly ready by the time he arrived. In the evenings, he would sometimes have a little more work to do, but generally, it was just us: quality time together, alone, usually spent in each other's arms on the futon as we watched television. While not every night, we would often have sex -- sometimes on the futon, sometimes on the floor, sometimes in one of the beds, sometimes in the shower, sometimes with me bent over the kitchen or bathroom counter or over the dining room table.
My big brother was very good to me. He genuinely cared for me, avidly listening to me recount the events of the day, hugging me close as I vented any frustrations, massaging my feet when they ached. Eric was also good to my body. He genuinely adored my small breasts, he sampled my liquid love with apparent relish, he filled my body with his white-hot desire, he truly made me feel incredibly feminine, incredibly sexy.
His attentions to me were truly having a positive effect. While I had owned and worn bikinis since I was a little girl, once my breasts had stopped growing all too soon, I wore bikinis less often, feeling almost ashamed to be seen in a bikini because I did not have much on my chest to flaunt. I realized, however, that I was becoming more and more comfortable with my body, and specifically with my chest, because of how my big brother truly adored me.
That "inspired" me, on a Saturday afternoon, so don a bikini and go tan by the apartment complex's well-maintained pool. To my surprise, there was no one swimming despite the heat, but being early afternoon, I figured that many people were like Eric: out shopping.
Having already coated myself with suntan lotion before even donning the bikini, I stretched out on one of the lounge chairs and closed my eyes to the sunlight.
I was keenly aware of the chirping of the birds, the caress of the warm breeze, the scurry of a squirrel up and down a nearby tree. I could hear people passing behind me, on the sidewalk just outside the fence which surrounded the pool area, since most residents had to pass the pool in order to check their mailboxes.
My thoughts began to drift. I thought of my big brother, of how far we had come in such a short period of time: from sibling love to romantic love. While I had not been afraid of sex, my initial sexual experience had not been a good one, and -- a fact which would truly surprise the world in a negative way if this were to become a known fact -- it was my big brother who showed me that sex could truly be beautiful, that I could feel loved and adored and cherished even as he was rough and fast and violent with me.
I felt a slight embarrassment at feeling my nipples harden -- after all, I was in public, not in the privacy of our apartment -- and, feeling rather warm on the front of my body anyhow, I turned over upon the lounge chair.
Eric still filled my thoughts. I remembered that morning, how I had awoken him by taking his flaccid penis into my small mouth. It had been such a wonderful, heady experience, to have the power to arouse him with my lips and my tongue and my fingertips, to feel his manhood lengthen and solidify because of my actions. His hands kept my hair out of my face, allowing me to focus on his growing pleasure and allowing him to more easily watch what his little sister was doing.
I moaned softly, which startled me from my thoughts, and I hoped that no one had heard me, for there were several apartments around the pool area. The wetness was forming, the thoughts of my big brother's heightening arousal that morning arousing me as I lay in the afternoon sun.
My thoughts speed forward to me on my back upon the bed, my legs spread wide, my big brother's desire streaking my face as he kneaded my small breasts and gently licked between my thighs. His well-practiced tongue knew how to bring me quickly to orgasm, but that morning, he had taken his time, pausing often to savor my taste upon his tongue -- a savoring which was clearly wonderful for him, but a little frustrating for me... but with his sexual experience, he probably knew that, he probably purposely kept stopping. Even when I tried to hold his head in position, he would sometimes just stop, his face barely an inch away from my weeping sex, his breath warm and tantalizing upon me, his head able to push backward enough to counter the force of my hands trying to pull his face forward.
