The moral right of the author has been asserted. © "neonlyte"
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I trailed my fingers under my nose smelling the sweet nectar of orgasm luxuriant in the peace of the moment and slowly licked them clean out of habit. This week has been intense; confusion, struggling to rationalise morality and desire; actually, it's not desire, that implies a degree of choice, I should know, I'm a psychology undergraduate, what I crave is carnal, animalistic, almost out of my control. I should walk away from today before I cause irreversible damage but I don't have that resolve, the week's events made sure of that, I'm prepared to risk everything and I
will
know when to stop... I think.
I'd better tell you everything; forgive me if I ramble in places, oh, and try to ignore the two voices in my head, they insist on stating their opposing positions, I'm quite fond of them, I just wish they could agree on something and give me some peace. Today is Saturday, we, that is Carol, Simon and me, Fiona, are going to the National Nude Day gig at Bollingsworth House. I need to take you back to when all this started.
Simon and I were sitting at breakfast, we lived at our parent's home in the town where we both attended university, Carol, the best friend ever, had a studio apartment near the university bought for her by her parents who used to live next door when we were children growing up together. In the background the radio belted out the latest tunes and a string of announcements, I wasn't really listening. I was carefully shifting position to allow my dressing gown to open, just a little, to give Simon a glimpse of my breasts. He would have had to look hard, the damn fool things had budded then gone into arrest, I despaired of them ever being more than bumps crested by nipples. 'You're an idiot', the psychology student in my head whispered, 'twenty-one years old and trying to get your brother to look at your breasts', 'shut up' the other one said.
I got a buzz out of doing it, exposing myself to him, a habit formed in teenage years when Carol and I acted provocatively around Simon to see how long it took for his hard-on to show. That poor boy suffered, a tool of our capriciousness as we delved to discover the full extent of our control over males.
Carol, Simon and I had ages spanning eighteen months; as children we three were inseparable, as children of parents who grew up in the seventies, nudity in the paddling pool and shared baths was second nature, at least up until the time my breasts began to bud and snatched away 'the prize' just as we became sexually curious rather than just noticing we were different.
Early teenage years had been crap, Carol and I bonded even tighter, Simon, the youngest, was a gangly pain but a convenient target for discovery and Carol, forever smitten by him, had managed a few speculative encounters, rushing to me afterward, in the way that only girls will do, to tell everything of their tryst. We plotted, planned and schemed ways to exploit his adolescent sexuality and had our reward by the swelling in his pants, his embarrassment and awkward gait as he left a room trying to disguise his arousal. Carol had been Simon's 'girlfriend' so many times we had both lost count, the title rarely lasting the span of a day.
She had long been determined about one thing, when Simon lost his virginity it would be in her, we both agreed this would be the 'right thing' ever since we came to understand we were virgins and just how to discard the title; Carol and I were no longer virgins, the first six months at university had taken care of that with both of us leaning more toward disappointment of the deed rather than enjoyment, it left us with the feeling of being losers in a competition we hadn't realized we had entered. Simon wasn't the best looking boy but growing up with the pair of us had given him an urbane air that attracted girls. His casualness was a feint for a nervous disposition toward females, our merciless provocative acts had left him unsure of how to start a relationship, he rejected Carol's serious overtures as disingenuous, she had embarked a few months earlier upon a crusade of ridding him of his virgin tag. Now Simon had started dating, nothing serious or regular yet, but we both worried someone else would claim our prize and right there is the nub of the problem, 'our prize', though Carol would do it, the de-flowering, if that's what you call it for boys, I fully expected and demanded every single detail, and I was not going to be thwarted.
The psychology head resident and I realized Simon's problem was that he was getting all the sexual stimulation he required courtesy of the randy girl who shared my headspace. This wasn't physical sex, not unless our masturbating in separate bedrooms to the thought of the other, counts as physical sex, no; I know what the moral boundaries are. Since Carol had moved to her apartment a year or so ago, I had spent more time with Simon and my behavior, I will admit, has been far from perfect. In my defense, my actions are not entirely of my making; the bastard who took my virginity had just that one thing in mind, dumping me virtually the moment he'd triumphed, and leaving we wary of entering into casual relationships. The demands of my studies mitigate against the effort required to establish something more permanent making Simon the perfect foil for my rapaciousness, he is available, compliant, undemanding, and, above all, safe.
My head residents had settled on a rational of sorts, more in the way of an excuse to mask the encroachment upon an incestuous borderline, randy girl insisted that she knew when to stop. The rational goes something like this; we are both young adults intensely aware of our bodies and the tumult of sexual desire and intimacy brought fear and excitement in equal measure. We needed someone we could trust, someone who knew the boundaries to help contain and control our lust. We could play an unspoken game knowing we were safe one with the other until we found our true soul mates. Those were the rules; I'd not discussed them with Simon but thought he understood, it was so far and no further. I loved the very idea of him whacking off over glimpses of my body or my panties, mine was a special gift, and for just a while longer, I wanted this control over him.
Now you know. I got my sexual thrills from behaving outrageously around my brother and could barely wait to tell Carol exactly what I had done and how he had reacted. He blushed profusely when my eyes caught his stare at one part or another of my body; I had no desire to seduce, just control, and how I made sure I had control, I had him following me around the house like a pet; I was careless with my bedroom door, leaving a crack for him to peep through, I 'forgot' he was in, emerging from the bathroom dressing gown open, or just a towel around my waist hastily covering myself, once he had feasted his eyes. I left my secretion soiled panties where he could find them knowing just as soon as I was out of the house, he would have his nose buried in them, thingy in hand, whacking off. I know because I once crept round the house to his bedroom and peered through the window watching him masturbate, one hand holding my panties to his face, and tried to imagine his expression and thoughts as he sprayed across his stomach; I had him on a short leash. It was only in recent days that the thought of fully possessing him, having him fuck me, fuck me hard, and deep, and long, had disturbed my measured and calculated eroticism. This is how it began at breakfast.
"Shall we go Fi? There will be some good bands, we need a break from all this studying."
