Portia's Gift

Prologue:

How is it I've come to inhabit this surprising life? I suppose that most men my age find themselves asking this kind of question from time to time. But somehow I suspect that most forty-year-old men aren't asking it for the same reason I am. Ok, that's completely disingenuous; I know for a cold, hard fact that I'm pretty much alone as far as this circumstance is concerned. Except for a few fringe-hanging Mormons, there ain't nobody walking even a hundred yards in my shoes, let alone a mile.

The weird thing is, this story isn't about me and my four decades of breathing. Oh, I'm in it all right, as is the rest of the family, but this is really about Portia. It's about her because if it weren't for Portia, I wouldn't be sitting out at my office computer at three o'clock in the bloody morning unable to sleep! But lest you think that I'm angry with Portia or blaming her, let me say emphatically that I'm not. This problem is all mine. Portia is completely innocent in the way that only a soon-to-be four-year-old girl with blond pigtails and freckles can be.

All she did was to tell the truth, as she knew it. It's just that this particular truth has really turned our family's world upside down and inside out. And if you knew our family, you would think that that was some trick because even before Portia's little revelation, we were already skating the fine line between propriety and indecency.

And that's the thing keeping me up these last seven nights: I want to shout from our barn roof this thing Portia has imparted to us; this magnificent and somewhat terrifying gift of knowledge. But to do so, I'm going to have to tell you about our family. And that's something I don't even want to whisper about.

Not only will it likely cause embarrassment to my extended family (who've already suffered enough humiliation), I may be liable for arrest if the county prosecutor ever reads this. Not that he'd be the first to try… We've weathered all sorts of legal actions as a consequence of what some people have called our "perverted lifestyle". Only time will tell whose "perversions" stink worse. As far as I'm concerned, there isn't another family in this state more loving than ours. I know, I know… I'm biased. But it doesn't mean that it's not true. And after what Portia told us, I'm inclined to believe that even God would agree with me.

The one thing I can't get around is that I'm going to have to talk about my sex life. There's just no way to tell this story without talking about it. But, it's not just my sex life under the spotlight as it were. There are my six loves to consider, too. You must understand that this is something we just don't do. We are private people. We've had to be for the last twenty-some years. As much as there is to tell, we just aren't a 'kiss and tell' type of family unlike so many out there in cyberspace. I also worry that some of you will think that I've got to be bragging or that this story is just a big, fat lie. It would be a great loss for Portia's gift to get lost in your doubt.

Frankly, there's no way for me to control what you think or believe. But I'm, or should I say, we are willing to risk just about any amount of ridicule or doubt or whatever in order to tell Portia's story to you. And no matter how many ways I play it out in my head, I can't tell you her story without putting it into the context of our story. So, what follows is our story, for good or ill. My name is Peter Jones, by the way. I'm Portia's momentarily overwhelmed father. For the most part, the narration will be mine. I'll let you know when someone else has been given the reins.

Chapter One: Tiles and Threads

Every human life is a mosaic or tapestry comprised of uncounted thousands of decisions and events. Take away even one tile, pull out just one thread, and you cannot but change the outcome. My life is no different, but there was one strand that stands out as being important, and when that thread was removed, it really changed everything. My father died in a car accident when I was ten and my sister Vivian was nine. Our mother, Dorothy, was devastated. How could she not be? He had meant the world to her.

I know that our mother blames herself for what happened between Vivian and me. Mom withdrew emotionally from us at a time when children are at their most vulnerable. On top of that, our extended family was almost non-existent. It was only natural that Viv and I would gravitate to each other. Before dad died we were already especially close emotionally even for siblings.

After his death, we became each other's security blanket. We were playmates during the day and bedmates every night from then on. Mom tried to put a stop to it after we'd been doing it for three years (she was so self-absorbed by her grief that it took her that long just to notice!). But by then, it was too late. The pattern was established and her attempts to change it only brought more chaos into her life. Eventually, she gave in to the reality Vivian and I had created, but not before telling us never to reveal this odd little intimacy to anyone. Needless to say, Vivian and I never had sleepovers at our house.

As I think back on it now, the next most important strand in my life's tapestry has to be the conjunction of two events at the beginning of my sophomore year in high school. It was then – when I turned sixteen – Vivian got to completely skip her freshman year and join my class. It was also the year we both discovered the swim team.

Vivian and I had always enjoyed swimming. Dad had had an in-ground pool built in our backyard when I was seven. It wasn't Olympic-sized, but it had a dive board and a slide, and you could do laps if you wanted to. Mostly, though, Vivian and I would just horse around in it; usually just the two of us, sometimes with a few friends.

During the summer after my freshman year, I began to pal around with a guy who was on the team. It was Derrick who suggested that I try out for the boys' varsity over the summer. When Vivian got wind of that (it took all of about an hour), she just had to try out for the girls' team. Needless to say, we both made our respective teams. Vivian, as it turned out, was good at the butterfly and backstrokes. I was stronger in the relays and in diving. By the time we were seniors, we both made the all-state team and had received scholarships to a certain Big Ten university with a very good swimming program. (I'm not going to tell you which one, because if I do, certain people's NCAA and school records might be compromised.)

It was when Vivian and I went off to university together that the strangeness that was our lives began to really take shape. As I said, Vivian and I were one another's security blankets. It's an apt analogy because we quite literally wrapped ourselves around each other, especially at times of moderate to heavy stress. At the university, we managed to find an apartment to rent together. It was a good financial arrangement for our mother and it enabled us to continue to sleep in the same bed even though the place had two bedrooms. (We had to keep up appearances, you know.)

As nineteen and eighteen year-old adults, respectively, I and my sister were both naïve when it came to things sexual. I know that's not an excuse. We were, after all, smart enough to graduate high school. We had friends who talked about their sexual escapades. Vivian and I even double-dated on occasion. It's just that when it came to sexual intimacy, we were – by choice – completely inexperienced with our peers. On the other hand, we had a great deal of experience with each other.

In the beginning, though, we didn't think of it as sex, per se. For us, it was just the way we chose to be with each other. You see, when our friends talked about sex, it was all about the pleasure they were getting. But for me and Vivian, it was always – and it still is – about the giving! Sex – fucking, as our friends called it – seemed so selfish to us. So selfish and dare I say, childish. For a time, we wondered if our friends were 'doing it' wrong of if we were. Of course, we never breathed a word of our intimacy to them. From their perspectives we were two hopeless and unrepentant virgins, and, considering how dysfunctional their sex lives were, we were quite happy to let that impression stand.

As collegiate freshmen, we continued to do for each other what had started about five years previous. It was a routine from which we did not deviate. It was a routine that usually began with a sharp razor and lots of shave cream. And it was all because of the swimming.

One thing you should know about swimmers: we hate all body hair. Vivian and I were both fanatics when it came to smooth skin. Along with armpits and legs, we would also shave or wax our arms, my chest and back and, most especially, our groins. Vivian would shave (never wax) mine and I would reciprocate. Throughout our collegiate years, the early morning was one of my most favorite times of the day because I got to shave my sister's pussy completely bald. I usually did this about every second or third day because daily shaving tended to irritate her skin too much.

After exiting her shower, Vivian would walk naked into our bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed. How can I possibly describe her beauty to you? Aphrodite rising from the sea? Close, but I've seen Titian's version of the fair maiden and she ain't got nuttin' on my sister! Vivian stands about 5' 9" in her all-together, slimmer in the hips than most women, and sports what I would call an ideal female physique. Simply put: she has an athletic body. If you've ever watched the women swimmers at the Summer Olympic Games, you already know what I mean.

Usually she would be drying her short hair with a towel while I would gently spread her legs and apply a warm, wet washcloth to her pubic area. After about a minute, I would remove the washcloth and do a close visual inspection for any follicles with ingrown hairs or other areas that I would need to avoid nicking with the razor. I would then apply another warm washcloth to her anal area in preparation for shaving there as well.

Vivian's inner vulva are petite, but her labia majora are quite meaty. Her clit also is very thick and becomes prominent, rising away from its hood, when she's aroused. And she always gets aroused when I shave her pussy. Often Vivian would get herself primed in the shower so that by the time I began to shave her, her pussy was well on its way to opening up like a flower greeting the morning sun. By the time I had cleaned her pubic mound of hair, her distended pussy would be a deep crimson as blood completely filled the area.

I would then turn my attention to her anus by having Vivian turn onto her side and lift a leg onto my shoulder. Very carefully, I would insert the middle finger of my left hand into her rosebud and rotate it around until she began to relax. Then with my index finger and thumb of that same hand, I would spread her perineum area, apply some shave cream and carefully remove the stubble.

After cleaning off my left hand, I would finally apply the cream to her vulva and very slowly and carefully finish shaving her. As Vivian always knew, this was never the end of the job. After removing the offending hair, I would reapply the warm washcloth for about a minute. This was followed by my equally warm and wet tongue.

When we were younger, oral sex was something I found I could do for Vivian to calm her down when she was upset. Instead of being adolescents discovering the joy of masturbation, we had, quite by accident, found out about giving head. It was only natural to continue the practice once we began to shave off each other's pubic hair. By the time we reached college, I had developed and refined my technique into an art form designed to prolong the sensory experience for my sister.

(Note: If you are offended by stories involving incest, by all means, please stop reading this story. Furthermore, if you're looking for me or my sister to apologize for our relationship or discuss the morality of incestuous intimacy, then you will be greatly disappointed. I mean, really, after twenty-five years together and four quite healthy children with one more due in a week, what would be the point?)

I would usually begin with about ten minutes of very light, very slow kisses randomly placed around and on her pussy. At the same time, the fingers on my right hand were busy worming their way into her molten core. Vivian is quite free-flowing with her vaginal juices. They are the consistency of peach nectar with a slight hint of honey mixed with an almost bitter almond flavor. This I due to her all-natural diet.

As I would be doing this, Vivian would be reclined on the bed with her hands mauling her very perky b-cup breasts. She especially enjoys her nipples being pulled. They are about a half-inch in length when she is aroused. Back in college, her areola were not as dark as they are today, nor were they as large. This is, of course, attributable to the five pregnancies she's had; as is the fact that she's now a c-cup.

If she were showing signs of peeking too soon, I would back off my ministrations to a very gentle fingertip massage of her pubic mound. By this stage, Vivian would usually be reduced to a moaning, squirming mass of female flesh. She would repeatedly thrust her pussy up in the air in an attempt to find my tongue and lips. Because I love my sister, I would never let her suffer too long.

Now with a firm grip on her hips – my arms wrapped around her upper legs and my fingers helping to spread open her pussy – I would began my final assault on her sweet treasure by slowly lapping at her from bottom to top. My goal at this point was to stimulate every nerve ending in and around her vulva; to give each separate bundle its own individual attention as it were. I always knew I was on the right track when I saw the sweat begin to rise from the pores on her abdomen or pool in the small indentation between her breasts. This was the unmistakable sign that she had passed the point of resisting my oral massage and had begun to give herself over to the sensations cascading through her cerebral cortex.

Every so often, a small pool of her secretions would collect at the bottom of her vaginal opening. This was my cue to open her up as much as possible and to noisily suck the liquid into my mouth. Vivian's reaction to the vibrations caused by this technique always tested the limits of my upper body strength; such was the violence of her hip thrusts.

In between these sessions would be quick jabs into her sugar walls with my four-inch tongue, followed by battering her clit while lightly biting the hood. And to finally bring her to climax, I would insert three fingers into her pussy to massage her G-spot. Elapsed time for this procedure: never less than thirty minutes.

At this point, Vivian usually was pushing my head away from her groin as the sensations were now becoming painful. My sister is not a screamer when she cums. It's a technique she had to adopt to keep from needlessly upsetting our mother. Instead, she draws a deep breath and holds it as her alabaster chest begins to flush and this spreads up to her neck and cheeks. Sometimes she squirts out a small amount of very musky vaginal fluid. Ambrosia! Usually I've captured this before detaching my lips from hers. For the next minute, Vivian vibrates. I used to worry that she was having a seizure, but she assures me that her orgasms are merely reverberating through her body like a harmonic chord plucked on guitar strings.

Vivian always needed time to recover from one of my shaving treatments, so I took the opportunity to shower and shave as much of myself as I was allowed to touch. By the time I got dried off, it was off to the natatorium (that's the 'swimming facility' for all you non-competitive swimmer types) for our morning workout before classes.

By now, some of you might be wondering, "Peter, when did you get to experience your shaving treatment?" Ahhh, yes, believe me when I say that this was the other highlight of my day, and I got to think about it all day, too! It came in the evening, in between finishing our homework and going to sleep.

I look back on those days and have to laugh a little. The procedure always began when Vivian got done with her homework. She didn't give a rat's ass if I was finished or not! She never asked my permission to begin, she just slammed shut whatever book she was reading and that was my signal that the games were on. Wherever I was (unless I was finishing up on the toilet), Vivian would guide me over to our bed and quickly strip me naked. Occasionally, she would run her palms over my pectorals and my six-pack. Usually, though, she would just poke her well-manicured index fingers into my chest and force me to sit down.

And there I would sit while Vivian went through her preparations: bowl of warm water, washcloth, straightedge razor and shave cream along with some all-natural aftershave. These were my sister's tools. Of course, Vivian also used her hands and mouth, but only after…

I can't describe what it looks like to have my sister shave my groin to where my skin became as smooth as a baby's butt. Why, you ask? Because Vivian has never let me look, that's why! And neither was I allowed to speak let alone offer any advice. "Shut up and enjoy!" Vivian would tell me. And, brother, would I!

However, I can tell you what it feels like. Vivian takes what must be a small amount of shave cream and applies it to an equally small area of stubble. She pulls taut the skin and slowly strips away the cream and hair like someone removing an apple peel without taking any of the white fruit beneath the surface. She does this all around my cock and then proceeds to bring me to a very hard erection so that she can shave the lower portion of my shaft. I have this thing about my anus, so I've never let her shave that area.

All this time, Vivian would be carrying on a conversation with my dick. I think this is the real reason why she wanted me to keep quiet; she didn't want to be interrupted as she spoke to her lover. If I hadn't known better, I would have thought she was trying to make me jealous. But I did know better! My sister may have been speaking to my cock, but the words are meant for my ears and my heart.

She would say something like:

"What a nice, big cock you are! So long and so thick, and such large balls, too! Do you want to shoot your warm, creamy seed into my pussy tonight, big boy? Yeah? Oh, you are the nasty one, aren't you… trying to get me pregnant. Well, I checked my temperature earlier today, and guess what! I'm ovulating right now! You know what that means, lover. You can come in and go out as much as you want, but you can't leave anything behind. I can't afford to let you make me fat. Not yet, anyway."

And so, after quickly removing my stubble, Vivian would apply aftershave on my pubic mound, strip off her own clothes, climb onto me straddling my waist and proceed to slowly lower her soaking wet pussy onto my eight-inch rod. At this point, Vivian would lean over and embrace me with her arms and her mouth. And we would proceed to make the sweetest love that any two people on the face of this planet have ever made. And just to show her that I had indeed been listening, whenever Vivian was ovulating, I would always hold off and allow her to take my load orally.

By this time in our lives, we had been adults for little more than a year in Vivian's case and eighteen months in mine. But we had been repeating this scenario for well over five years. Now, here's the really odd thing: I've never thought of Vivian as my sister. Oh, I've called her that, but I've treated her like she was my wife. What's odd is that this always made perfect sense to me. I love Vivian as only a real man can love any woman: completely to the point of self-sacrificially. I always have. She was and still is my best friend. She's my soul mate, my lover, and my wife. She's the best mother a man could wish for his children. And never – not even once – have I ever felt the least bit guilty for how I love Vivian or how she loves me in return. Our love is what it is. It took our mother ten years to finally understand this. If you can't understand it, well you should have stopped reading five minutes ago!