My Sister My Slut

NB: This is the first chapter in a multi-part series. The sex in this is minimal although there are several sexual elements to develop the plot. Things heat up in chapter two.

*****

The first thing I should tell you about my sister is that she is the most stunningly beautiful woman I have ever seen. It's an important point - things probably wouldn't have worked out as they did if she weren't possessed of a beauty that transcended mere hotness. Jennifer was Venus incarnate. I was no bronzed Adonis. When the gods of genetics blessed my family, they spent their genius upon her and I was bereft. Not to say I'm ugly, merely average. The kind of man whose appearance is defined more by clothing than inherent qualities. I dressed well, exercised often and I could get girls, but none as beautiful as my sister.

I suppose I should tell you my story.

Two or three years ago, when my sister began going on dates, I felt that none of her boyfriends were worthy of her. She must have felt the same, because none stuck around for more than a month or two. Then she finished school and took a gap year with her girlfriends to travel in Europe and do volunteer work in South East Asia. I finished my own high school studies but didn't want to take a gap year, so it worked out that we'd be starting at university in the same year. My interest, odd though it may sound, was naval architecture. Jen wanted to study marketing. Due to the obscurity of my interest only a couple of universities in the country offered it, and neither in our home town. Returned from months overseas, and probably having gained a taste for freedom, Jen wasn't pleased that I'd be moving out, leaving her to live at home with Mum and Dad and study at the local uni, so she said that move town with me to study. I think our parents were relieved that we could be housemates interstate and offered to help pay our rent if we lived together, so it was settled.

It was the long holiday after finishing my final school exams and before moving. I was enjoying myself reading, playing video games, watching entire seasons of TV shows in a single day and lifting weights at the local gym when I felt like it. Jen spent a lot of time out with friends. Our parents were fairly lax about that, to their credit, and didn't impose strict curfews, so it wasn't uncommon that Jen would return late. I'd just finished watching a TV show on my computer when I heard hushed voices downstairs and realised that Jen must have brought a boy home with her. Our parents had work early and were asleep downstairs, and I guess she assumed I would be as well. My sister's room was next to mine, upstairs. I turned off my computer and lay in bed, but I had a strange compulsion to stave off sleep and instead press my ear to the wall, whereupon I could hear the progression of Jen's evening with her new boyfriend to its logical conclusion. The sounds excited me immensely, as did the very perversion of my listening to them: despite the wall between us I could hear the gentle slapping together of bare flesh, my sister's soft moaning and the quickening, low grunting of the man. This went on for a few minutes until there was a muted squeal, whispered voices and then silence. I noticed my own breath had shortened and that I'd subconsciously been rubbing my fully erect cock beneath the sheets. Silence cooled my arousal though and, deciding that it would be weird to jerk myself to a climax while thinking of my own sister in the next room, I focussed instead on sleep.

I woke the following morning with a raging hard on but fortunately it had subsided by the time I entered the kitchen. To my surprise Jen was already there, dressed as usual in tight jeans and a semi see-through blouse, drinking a coffee. There was no sign of her evening's company; I assumed he'd managed to sneak out earlier. I doubted she'd mention him, so I put on some toast and sat down opposite her, noticing that she wasn't wearing a bra or make up - unusual for her. I could see the outline of her full c-cup breasts and nipples easily enough, which prompted a slight twitch down below, but didn't let my eyes linger there. Jen idly brushed aside some of her luxurious golden locks from her eyes.

"You're up late," she commented.

"You're up early," I countered.

It was 9am, so in truth we were both up fairly early, given that I think we would have got to sleep after 2am.

"Doing anything today?"

Well, damn, is she making a comment about my holiday indolence? Isn't a man allowed a couple of weeks, or months, to relax after finishing school?

"No, probably not much. I'll be going gyming later if you want to come with?"

Despite her perennial radiance, I could see she did look a little tired and somewhat hung-over, so her response in the negative was unsurprising. The toast popped and I ate while Jen downed her coffee and slinked off upstairs. Finished, I returned to my room only to be called back downstairs a couple of minutes later.

"Alex, your washing is in the machine. Take it out!" Jen yelled from the laundry.

Shit, I'd completely forgotten about my washing from yesterday. Jen had gone into the bathroom to clean her teeth when I went to retrieve my clothes, which were at this stage well crushed by my forgetfulness - alas, more ironing for me. Her pile of clothes sat waiting by the machine. Just as I was about to leave, something caught my eye: her black lacy panties, no doubt from the previous day. I could see distinctive white staining on the inside of them, which left little to wonder about its nature, but was quite surprising for its implications. That was her boyfriend's cum. She'd let him cum in her. The thought appeared in my mind, catching me woefully off guard. I'd had sex before, but always with a condom. It almost hadn't even occurred to me that young people wouldn't use condoms, let alone my sister, who was intelligent and responsible, given the messages drilled in during sex-ed. Yet there could be no denying it: that was male ejaculate, probably mixed in with her own cream. Ugh! Did I just think about my sister's love juices? Christ, I needed to leave the laundry and do something else.

Once my washing was out I left for the gym. Six sets of five bench presses had the desired effect and by the time I'd finished squats and hyperextensions I'd all but forgotten. Yet after dinner, in the silent, sombre seclusion of my room, my thoughts returned to the laundry discovery of that morning. There was something erotic, albeit perverse, thinking about the young goddess, my sister, wearing lacy panties like a Victoria Secret model. In an instant I could see her standing before me, lingerie-clad, long stockinged legs drawing my eyes to her small, shapely butt, her full, high breasts filling her bra. The image disappeared.

I'd of course noticed the attention she received from members of my sex for the past three or four years, ever since she'd developed into the lean but shapely figure of today. Of course she's having sex, I told myself. Why shouldn't she? I guess having her out of the house for several months and I'd forgotten some things about having a sister. Long showers that left the bathroom with a strong floral bouquet. More frequent washing of clothes. The fact that she went out socialising often. Considering this, I realised that I was a bit jealous of her. She was, in nearly every way, my superior. I prided myself for being an intellectual type, but she was very clever too. Mine was a brooding, introverted character: deep interest in the esoteric, of history, and of how things work. My idealised self was a Cyrus Harding

a la

Verne. Jen had always been different in that respect, far more outgoing and extroverted.

My thoughts, having wandered far from their original prompt of laundry discoveries, were disrupted by the buzzing of my phone: message from Tom, a school friend, telling me to go out drinking with the guys. Friday night, may as well, I thought.

The usual haunt, such as it could be for a group of 18 year olds, was the 'Pike and Shot', an English-themed pub popular with students. The beer was cheap and free-flowing, quenching our thirst in our dim-lit corner, yet leaving us hungering for female company. On this front I recognised the inadequacy of our choice of establishment, for the Pike and Shot was no nightclub and better suited to conversation of politics or philosophy over a pint with friends than the exercise of charm

vis-à-vis

the opposite sex. Personally I was not fond of nightclubs so this was not a problem, yet I had broken things off with my girlfriend a couple of months ago and my friends - several more successful than I in these endeavours - thought this should be rectified.

"You should get back with Alice," Tom suggested.

I had parted Alice on fairly good terms, so this was possible, but I hadn't seen her recently.

"I think he missed that chance; she's with John Douvardis now," commented Sam.

I was disappointed to learn this. I would have liked some fun over the holidays and Alice was fun, even if she had the sex-drive of a neutered kitten. I'd got into her panties once, and while we both enjoyed it, it apparently never occurred to her that we might do it again. I wondered briefly if Douvardis would have better luck, suspected not, and then formulated another plan.

"Let's go clubbing," I proposed.

This was an atypical suggestion from me, but we all agreed and went in search of young cunny. I admit it was rather uncouth of us to view relationship goals in those terms, but at least I was honest with my intentions.

Not that it mattered greatly, for my advances had the success of Ferdinand Foch in Germany - which is to say, minimal. Tom had gone off with a pretty Asian girl at some point so by about 1am I was sipping my umpteenth beer with Sam at our third club for the night.

"I might call it quits. I'm not really in my element here," I semi-shouted at Sam.

"What? Hey, look at that girl over there! Damn, she's a hotty," he replied, not-so-subtly gesturing across the bar.

I followed his gaze. Her back was turned to us, so I could only see her blond hair and shapely figure in a cute backless top. I did a low whistle at seeing her legs, bare under a short skirt.

"Indeed, that she is."

Then she turned, I recognised my sister and felt completely idiotic for not realising sooner, no doubt owing to my inebriated state and the disorientating setting.

"I should talk to her, shouldn't I?" Sam said.

"You've got a snowflake in hell, mate."

I shook my head. It was poor form to see your own sister out at this hour, sort of like seeing a teacher on the weekend. I should return home, I decided. Jen hadn't seen me; she was more interested in the guy next to her. He looked of average height, maybe 5'10 - several inches shorter than my 6'3 - and was very slim. He looks like a pretentious wanker, I decided, based on his skinny jeans, shirtsleeves partly unbuttoned and hipster-moustache. I hoped that wasn't her new boyfriend.

"I'm going."

Sam now had a vodka shot before him, as if seeking Dutch courage before going across to assured failure. He didn't hear me, so I patted him on the back and left. On the bus home I realised he may have taken that as encouragement.

*

The weekend passed uneventfully. A cracking headache on Saturday reminded me of why I don't like clubbing. A growing sense of boredom on Sunday reminded me of why I liked being with Alice. My parents reminded me of my chores.

In this context it was easy to contemplate the existential. Why had my sister been blessed and not I? The belle of my generation: beside her I was mediocrity itself. Crueller still that my peers like Mr Moustache should partake of this beauty while I sit on the sidelines, forced to observe. Based on Jen's early morning return home on Saturday and Monday, I could only imagine where and how she'd spent her nights.

The release of school grades on Tuesday was preceded with great apprehension and nervous energy. My phone buzzed a message at 6.20am, Tom asking how I'd gone. Despite their importance, I hadn't even considered waking at 6am, the ungodly hour of their announcement, to check them. I'd truly smashed them, becoming topping my school in the process. I remembered Jen's pleasure at her results the previous year and how I'd longed to experience that myself. Now I was exultant. Trepidation that I had tried to escape from through the oblivion of video games vanished. Breakfast went down well, as did the evident pride of my parents. When I told my sister she uncharacteristically kissed me on the cheek, her breasts briefly squeezing against my chest. Yes, it was a good day. Privately I laughed at my recent sense of inadequacy and even jealousy, in hindsight easily identifying the cause.

That evening my father had a beer with me.

"Your mother and I are very proud of you, son. We thought that you'd do well, but this really is brilliant."

I nodded, "My grades guarantee me a scholarship, which will help with living expenses."

"Our offer still stands to help pay rent for you and your sister if you want to share an apartment. I think it would be a good idea, at least for the first year in a new city."

"Thank you, Dad. It's quite exciting, really."

I treated myself to a film and a nice long sleep. My dreams were pleasant. Alice and I were in her bed, her arms around me, cuddling me into her bosom. My manhood, pressed hard against her, my fingers slipping under her panties, sliding over her smooth mound and down to her moist slit, rubbing, caressing, entering. Moving over her, her face flushed with sex. Thrusting, plundering her tight, wet tunnel and then pumping my seed into her, my white cum oozing betwixt her engorged lips, onto her black panties, the mark of my virility and proof of my triumph.

I woke the following morning, aware of the stickiness in my boxer shorts, the dreamy images slipping from my mind like sand through fingers. I reproached myself for having a wet dream as if a pubescent boy. Obviously I needed to get laid.

The euphoria of my academic success subsided over the next few days and boredom returned. On Friday I was home alone, my parents at work and my sister playing tennis with friends. I was walking around the house, looking for something with which to occupy myself, when I came to the laundry. There weren't any clothes there. By impulse I ran up the stairs to Jen's room to snoop. I couldn't even distinctly say what I was looking for, or what I expected to find, but I had a vague sense of it being the wrong thing to do. Lacking any alternatives and being generally frustrated, I entered. Jen's room was neater than mine; she even made her bed before leaving. It occurred to me that if we were to be housemates, she might expect me to do more cleaning. I looked around, my eyes resting on her laundry pile. I approached it, almost giddy, finding pairs of my sister's knickers awaiting me. I gingerly picked a pair up, bringing the stained lacy material close to my nose, inhaling the musky aroma. These must have been the most recent pair, for the scent was strong, intoxicating, masculine and feminine both. I rubbed the material against my cheek, delighting in its cool smoothness.

Then the reality of my actions hit me and I leapt in fright at what I was doing. Quickly I returned them to the washing basket and left her room. Sitting on my bed, I felt my dick throbbing uncomfortably in my pants, making an obscene tent. I breathed deeply, thinking. It was an invasion of her privacy. She was my sister, getting aroused by explicit thoughts of her sexual activities was perverse and sick. But my imagination was obstinate.

My sister likes to be creampied.

My sister has been letting a man cum in her, to thrust in and out, in and out of her, deeper, deeper, shooting deep within her, filling her warm, wet passage. She'd then readjust her panties, letting the creamy mix seep into them. I wondered if having cum-soaked panties got her off.

Christ, my dick felt like it would burst from my pants, the discomfort pulling me back from that line of thought. Why was I thinking this? And what exactly was I aroused by? The sexual acts, or the fact that it was my sister doing them? I cringed. The drug-like effect of sniffing her panties was undeniable. And, like any drug, it threatened addiction. Was I really one of those weirdos, a panty-sniffer? And what if she found out what I was doing? No, no, I must push the thoughts far from my mind.

With great determination I sat at my computer and watched a TV show. One episode down and I was still erect, at which point I heard the door downstairs signalling my sister's return. If she saw me now, my face writ with guilt, the bulge in my pants betraying me! Yet what was my great sin after all? It was a victimless crime, surely. Why shouldn't I seek pleasure if none suffer for it? No, no, that wouldn't do. Better the Kantian than the hedonic, even if that meant the agony of self-condemnation. The strenuosity of my mental conflict demanded blood, but not fast enough.

The knock on my door startled me. The door opened before I could respond and there appeared my sister, her lightly tanned skin shining with perspiration, her sports bra leaving her taught abdomen bared. I must have blushed, for her right eyebrow raised.

"Uh, what, Jen?" I asked, my voice sounding more suspicious than intended.

This was awkward. No doubt she assumed that I had been watching porn.

"I'll be having a friend over for dinner," she said. "I thought I'd let you know."

"Your mysterious 'friend', do you mean?"

That was a good recovery. Put it back on her. She suppressed a scowl.

"Yes, I suppose so. You can meet him. He's very nice."

The day rolled by, my appetite for further drama greatly diminished, and around dinner time Jen presented Mr Moustache to the family. He displayed an aggressive sexuality in his choice of clothing, and I wanted to tell him to button up his shirt properly. He was French, apparently. That must have excused him in the eyes of my Francophile mother, although I felt that my father's reticence boded poorly for Jen's romantic interest. My parents were discreet enough not to embarrass my sister, and I didn't want to taste her perilous wrath.

"So, Monsieur Mous-", shit, I almost said moustache, "Moulin, how long have you been in our neck of the woods?"

"Three years. I've just finished my bachelors here."

Okay, he must be like 23 years old to my sister's 19. That detail didn't escape my father, from his frown.

"So Luke, are you planning on staying here for work, or returning to France?" asked Dad.

"Ehm, I return to Paris in one week."

This was news! I can't say I'd be sorry to see him go, but Jen looked a bit sad. Maybe all she wanted was a short fling with a Frenchman, which could explain her frequent nightly activities these recent weeks.

"I'm sorry we won't get a chance to get to know you better," offered Mum.

I wasn't. In any case, we finished eating and I returned to my room. I didn't feel like going out again in futile search for female companionship so I settled in for a night of cheap entertainment.

By midnight the day's excitement was catching up on me and I decided to relieve my sexual frustrations manually. I'd just started when I heard my sister in the next room. She must have felt less inhibited tonight, for the moaning was louder and I could discern her vocal encouragement, soft cries of 'yes!' and 'oh!'. Surely she knew I would hear her. My strokes matched the squeaking of her bed. 'Belle salope', that was Luke. Hang on - salope? Didn't that mean slut in French? Maybe I misheard him through the wall. 'Pute!' came a minute later, and that I definitely heard right. Goddamn, he just called my sister a whore, in our own house! I clenched my teeth, my jerking much faster now, beads of pre-cum gleaming from the wan glow of my monitor, where played a video of a blonde babe getting it hard. It was muted, but I could hear the scene being acted out in the very next room, the sheer depravity of it electrifying me.