Mother and Sister Package, Not Easy
It was not easy keeping inappropriate thoughts or actions at bay when, due to the Covid 19 pandemic I found myself confined to home, going on six months, with my only housemates being my twenty-five year old, half black, half Indian sister, Laila, and fifty year old, very light-skinned, Indian mother kamala. Especially when the sister, a light brown, smooth-skinned, definition of eye candy, habitually wore the skimpiest clothes imaginable about the house and could be seen from time to time flitting between bedroom and bathroom in panties only -- not to mention she showed no modesty when sitting or lying on the sofas and even breast-fed her one year old baby without a covering rag.
As if that was not enough provocation for my twenty-one year old raging libido which before the lockdown had grown used to ridiculously regular sex over the last three years, there was the added eye torment coming from my thick Indian mother who, though not guilty of the above mentioned transgressions of her daughter, did regularly wear short spandex tights and close fitting shorts made of soft stretchy material and often went braless in thin vests and blouses. To her credit though, my mother looked more like forty than fifty, and maybe knew it, so in her mind there was nothing wrong being like that in her own home.
Not a day passed in my house without me being greeted by one or more of the following -- camel toe, thick, bare thighs, bouncing ass and breasts, prominent nipples and sometimes fully naked breasts. There were days when they all ganged up on me together. Mommy was five foot three, and thick, about one hundred and ninety pounds. Her backside was big without being round or high; it was just a broad fleshy chunk of sexy looking femininity, tapering out from a relatively narrow waist, and leading into thick hips. She had big, bright light brown eyes, a straight longish nose and a wide full-lipped mouth on a well sculpted oblong face. Her butt length jet black hair had only a few stray threads of grey and her bubbies were a firm looking B cup size.
When not watching TV we would play cards or games like scrabble, monopoly, checkers, Ludo and snakes and ladders. Most times we'd be sitting on the carpeted floor, with the both in front of me, driving me crazy. Mom sat decently most of the time, with only occasional flashes of fat crotch, but there was still her thick thighs and prominent nipples always on display. Laila's crotch was always there for perusal, even when she wore skirts -- short skirts -- she just didn't seem to know how to sit decently, or just didn't care. Laila was a slim-thick, smaller version of mom except she was three inches taller, a cup size bigger and had a big round ass, gifted by her black genes. They looked like big sister and little sister.
For the first month or so I would glance without particular interest, or without taking note of detail. But eventually I started noting detail and tried appealing to decency to keep me from deliberately looking or thinking about what I did not want to deliberately look at. But then my reserves of decency and inhibitions ran dry and I started ogling when I could without being observed, until I suddenly told myself 'what the heck' and started ogling barefacedly -- if the ladies were bold enough to show I was bold enough to look. I knew they were aware of the sensual undertone, I saw the blushes and the questions in their eyes -- 'what you looking at?' -- Whenever my eyes lingered inappropriately.
As the days of the lockdown went by I found myself looking at my mother and sister with progressing sexual desire and my imagination produced the wildest erotic scenarios that resulted in me wanking myself to sleep most nights. It is said if you can imagine it, you can achieve it. I decided that for the sake of my sanity I needed to stop this junior league imagining and wanking and move up to the bigger game. I was going to 'achieve'.
I was primed up and ready, like a jungle hunter, waiting for every opportunity that presented itself for physical body contact with the two available female prey driving me crazy with lust in my home. It was my plan to gradually get them used to casual but intimate touching, which I hoped would spark some fire and longing in them. I suddenly became a hugger and a toucher and prone to accidental bumping into one or the other.
We did some drinking, because there was lots of booze in the house, a whole cabinet full. Both my dad and Laila's husband worked on an ocean going vessel, and whenever their ship came in, would bring home bottles of alcohol from all parts of the world, and sometimes cases of beer, but they were hardly ever home to entertain, so the stuff piled up. The last we heard, their vessel was holed up somewhere in Europe under quarantine. As I worked my plan I had hoped that alcohol would loosen them up, but was wrong. They knew their limit and stuck to it, never allowing themselves to be more than slightly tipsy. I couldn't help wondering if the two fuckers suspected I was hoping for them to them get drunk and vulnerable, and were deliberately denying me the pleasure.
Laila and I were packing away government supplied foodstuff and sanitizing liquids in kitchen cupboards. We had also received stuff we'd ordered and had delivered from a nearby supermarket, so it entailed a lot of unpacking and repacking to get things in order. A lot of stuff was strewn around our feet. Laila stepped back onto a can of beans lying lengthways on the floor and sprawled as she started to fall. Moving quickly I grabbed her, going straight for the full young lactating breasts. I twisted hers and my body to bring her down on me with her sitting between my legs, backing me, and my hands gripping the soft breasts. We both broke out laughing, while my hands still held on for dear life to my sister's boobs.
Laila started to get up and looked down at my clinging hands.
"Like yuh hands stick on to mih bubbies," she said chuckling.
Without letting go of the breasts, I replied.
"Yuh noticed eh ... geez, these things feel so good I don't want to let go of them."
"I can understand, brother ... it's been a long time since yuh hold one, I know how yuh must feel ... but yuh gotta loose them so I could get up," she said, throwing back her head and laughing.
I quickly, but reluctantly let go of the breasts, because just then we heard our mother's approaching footsteps.
Later that evening, Laila was in the kitchen making roti. I approached her, and pressing my nose to her hair, said:
"You smell like roti."
She replied, "Well, I'm making roti, and in case yuh forgot, I have roti in me."
What she meant was that she was mixed with Indian. Our mother is Indian and our father black. Roti is an Indian staple food, and sometime during the late nineteen sixties or early seventies guys started using the word roti -- not in a derogatory way -- to refer to Indian girls. I then quickly licked her neck with a wet tongue. Her body shivered.
"And you taste like dhal." I added, laughing.
"Brian, you full of shit," she said giggling, her face blushing red, no doubt from the unexpected intimate touch, which I guess stirred familiar sexual feelings in her body
"I think there must be curry somewhere on you," I said, looking down to below her waist.
Again, she blushed, obviously flustered.
"Boy, go find something to do and leave me alone," she cried out nervously.
I moved to a chair and sat there watching her cook. She would take a hot roti off the baking pan and put it into a two litre plastic ice cream container and shake it up vigourously. Originally, the person cooking roti, would throw it up into the air, repeatedly clapping it between both hands to give it a soft fluffy texture. But somewhere over the years, somebody had come up with the idea of instead of burning tender palms, to just chuck the damn things into a container and shake it roughly for the same effect. Mostly the younger girls did this while older women stuck to the traditional clapping. Every time she shook the container her full unharnessed breasts would shake seductively under the thin sweater, making my eyes blaze and my cock throb. Upon noticing me staring at the action, she said:
"Nothing like thinking outside of the box to make things easier, eh." Referring to the novel idea of clapping roti in a container, instead of with bare tender palms.
I continued watching the bubbies bounce and feeling my cock throb. She suddenly stopped mid-shake and looking at me with knitted brows asked:
