Secret Lust

I woke up that morning to find I had a particularly prominent photo in the text message portion of my cellphone. It was from my sister. She had posed, lecherously, deliberately, up on all fours, with her right hand holding the lens in front of her ample ass. It was meant to simulate the point-of-view doggy style position of fucking we had shared before. I had to admit that it was an excellent facsimile of the posture. It was a far better rendering than I could have done myself. There was one tiny flaw—that view was her least seductive part of the body, but not by much. Nevertheless, it still turned me on, and I began to masturbate myself involuntarily with full knowledge of what it had felt like when it had been mine to have.

Every man swears off masturbation when the real thing is available.

Her ass was broad and muscular, which had been to her benefit when she played softball for her college team, the sort of shape and breadth you'd want for a catcher or anyone with fairly ample girth on the low end. But it didn't fit the conventional narrative of what a woman's derrière was "supposed" to look like. It wasn't particularly petite or svelte or pert. It could almost have been described as masculine in a way.

But she more than made up for it with her huge breasts with their huge areolas. They responded to temperature quite dramatically. When cold, they resembled the tentacles of a starfish, pushing outward like cardinal direction on a compass. Many women would have opted for the effect surgically. They don't have their asses done, but many certainly choose to have their mammary glands surgically enlarged.

The website in which I had stumbled across her nude pictures and videos did not advertise especially beautiful women. Many could be described as a notch or so above the girl-next-door or merely cute. They also featured prominent body hair, tattoos, and intimate bodily piercings. There was one particular model named Harmony (almost certainly not her real name) who was truly gorgeous, and appropriately, she had close to thirty sets posted.

My sister had five. I suppose this meant she had a cult audience among her viewers. Her good traits outnumbered her more average ones by far, but she had a strangely shaped, oblong navel (unpierced, strangely) and oddly shaped, crooked, large feet for a woman. Converse All-Stars only accentuated the effect, and I remembered her disappointment when they proved to not be the best look on her.

I recognize that there are no natural beauties and none of the women on this site spent much time and effort on beautifying themselves according to conventional standards. I was aroused by the taboo notion of this incest relationship, even more emphasized by the fact that she was playing hippie, her latest phase, and that was enough for me. It was if she'd been playing dress up for my behalf. I'd never really known my sister, as she'd played dilettante so frequently she could have never been little more than a stranger. We kept very different friend groups throughout college. She was a wild child, well-known for her self-destructive behavior and pervasive drug usage. I suspected, without any solid proof, that the money from the shoot and video had gone for drugs.

I was left with questions. Why had there not been more? Had there been more, in fact? Though the documented evidence of her nude form was damning enough, hers had skirted a line between softcore and hardcore. I'd searched several more sites but had been disappointed to discover I could find no further evidence of her anywhere. At least I had some proof, and uncontested, high, indisputable proof in superlative resolution.

The photos I had found, taken maybe fifteen years before, showed evidence of far fewer tattoos than she had now. I honestly preferred it when she had three or four, not upwards of ten, particularly the unfinished ones that now ran up and down her calves. In those days, the most prominent tat was of an upside-down salt shaker, resting on the left side of her pubic bone, forever shaking imaginary crystals down her thighs.

Sign of the times, I know, but I'd never felt the desire to have even a single one of my own. Too permanent, and then again I'd always had a firm understanding of who I was. My sister had always wanted to belong, to any end, to any group, but she sacrificed close companionship and true friendship for superficial relationships that allowed her to never have to be alone. I wasn't sure what category I fell into her with her yet. We were fucking, sure, but we weren't close. Not even a little.

She called later that day and let me know that she intended to fly me out to the Pacific Coast in a couple of weeks. All gratis, strictly funded by her pocketbook and ample salary. Accordingly, I arrived at the airport by Lyft, avoiding an expensive long-term parking fair, toted my large blue luggage bag inside the terminal, made my way through security, and prepared myself for the all-day trip from coast to coast. Actual flight time ran for about six hours, but with a two-hour layover somewhere in Texas, plus potential delays for bad weather, the total trip could run for up to eight hours from start to finish.

But I knew what awaited me upon arrival, and that thought kept me more or less erect the whole time I was airborne. It reminded me of a college girlfriend, who I had gotten so excited her whole trip out to see me, aware we were going to have fantastic sex, that she soaked through the whole of the crotch of her panties as I saw her remove her skirt in front of me.

But if I'd had any expectations, especially for naughty stuff first and foremost, they were quickly dashed. She wanted further companionship with her peer group, or at least something like "friends" for the next several hours. That day I went with her latest group of acquaintances out to the ocean to surf. No one spoke a single word to anyone else. I would have expected convivial conversation and lively discussion, but it was as if no one really wanted to know each other. I tried to introduce a few jokes, but they fell totally flat. From that point forward, I kept my mouth shut.

She was not a particularly good surfer, but she gave it quite a try. She gave a lot of things a try and always had. As I surreptitiously watched her body fill out her wet suit, particularly her breasts, knowing she wouldn't mind being ogled, so long as it wasn't too obvious, my mind scanned through the photo and video sets from memory-the ones I'd first come across. She'd been trying too hard there, too.

The effect produced was goofy and silly, not seductive. She did not pose with the poise of a woman who has power over men and knows it. Instead, she acted like a silly clown, which is a might have explained why she was a niche interest alone. Humor is fine in its place, but women who are the most effective at being pin ups and smoldering beauties know how to work their beauty into their joking. My sister could be funny, to an extent, but I always got the feeling she didn't really like herself all that much and was too inhibited to be more than a slightly embarrasing tease.

In an effort to get to know her better, I'd come across, years before, written when she was in college, an online journal with some particularly revealing content. Her naivete plainly showed. All I really remembered was an anecdote where, in the middle of a particularly energetic lovemaking session with whomever she was bedding at the moment, she unintentionally shattered a lightbulb. She found the story immensely funny and couldn't wait to share it with her audience. It was the first time I'd really thought about my sister as a sexual being, but I didn't take it seriously. Maybe she had grown up since then. Maybe she hadn't.

But we had broached that boundary now, though as I said, I'm not sure I really knew her, even in all that we had done in the past few months. She had a very flat affect and didn't enunciate her words with much inflection in conversation. It made basic communication challenging. I didn't have much to latch onto. She knew how to be a comedian, but she always held back much of who she was. Perhaps she didn't really have a strong sense of identity.

When everyone finally left around 2 am, she begged me to take a shower with her. As for a bath, the tub would have been large enough to accommodate both of our bodies, but only barely. It was oddly shaped, and I remember stumbling around a little from front to back, alongside the sensuousness produced by our actions—the strength of the shower heads adding much passion to our lovemaking. I unhooked the shower head, turned it onto massage setting, then placed it directly on her reddish-brown pubic hair and clitoris. She moaned and with time even bent double, deeply enjoying the experience.

Grateful for the gesture, she sucked me off, the water streaming down her back now, as I held it in place. I reached behind myself and grabbed hard onto the shower rack, seeking to keep my balance. I could feel my orgasm, but I didn't want to go. Not yet. What I really wanted to do was to consummate that image that I'd woken up to the last time we'd seen each other in person. She might not be able to fulfill my intellectual or conversational desire today, but we were dynamite in bed. I slapped her ass hard on the right side of that muscular ass, SMACK, then repeated myself on the left side, SLAP. We kept up fucking fast and hard.

She stayed silent. I have a fetish for dirty talk, but I'd rather it be genuine than forced. And my sister's entire personality was forced, most of the time. What I wouldn't give for some authenticity. I grabbed hold of both huge breasts, taking full hold of them, barely. And at that point, with some reluctance, I allowed myself the ability to orgasm. This was amazing, as it always had been. She'd felt me grow closer and climaxed not long after I had.

I picked up a natural sponge from a wire overhead bin and began to wash her body with it. Smiling for the first time that day, she giggled a little as I squeezed out shower gel, applied it to the sponge, then her front side. I slid it between her legs and she grunted appreciatively. I inserted two fingers of my right hand into her pussy and commenced the famous come-hither motion. She sharply ground her ass cheeks in circular fashion back and forth, a movement not unlike stamping out a cigarette. She fucked up and down on my fingers for several minutes until her eyes went glassy.

"Baby, baby, baby," she gasped. "This is great, but you have to stop. This is torture." I parted the plastic see-through curtains, gave her room to exit the tub onto the cold black-and-white checkered tiled floor and reached above me. A clean, dry towel had been, until that moment, resting up there.

With great care, I began to dry her body starting from feet, then to ankles, then to calves, then to knees, then to hairy pussy, then to stomach, then to arms, then to neck, and then let her finish drying her hair. The humidity of the room frosted over the time on the clock I located on the corner of the sink. I pushed it aside with my right thumb. 2:30 am. We'd been at it for thirty minutes and I was exhausted. So as I toweled my own self off I retired to her bedroom, pulling my cotton boxers and a t-shirt on, then, approximately seven minutes later, felt fast asleep.