Slow...
"Hey—what are you doing home?" she asked, the pretense of normalcy—that everything was just fine and dandy as per usual—and the enthusiasm to see me corroded by worry, as well as the very legitimate fear that I had been here the whole time (a fear she had many a reason to feel threatened by).
She was pretty—no, not just pretty... She was beautiful with her long, thin brunette hair; the nearly invisible plethora of freckles adorning her cheeks (that one could see only when face-to-face with her); the way she turned pink when she got excited, embarrassed, or angry; the way she fidgeted about, alternating between putting pressure on one foot and then the other when she got nervous (akin to how she used to hop about in a similar manner when she was just a kid); how her blue eyes lit up and twinkled whenever you truly captivated her interest and attention as it was your turn to speak (which was instead at that moment a panicked scanning)—my sister... my fraternal twin sister... she was beautiful—innocent, even, like the most devout girl scout who grew up to still retain her curiosity, naivety, and childishness in her every physical feature and throughout every aspect of her personality...
And yet—in the freedom and carelessness of sweetest, uninhibited solitude—I had heard and seen that sister (my most innocent and childlike twin sister!) say and do the absolutely unthinkable—yes, the absolutely unfathomable and incomprehensible? What! Was it true—could this be real? My heart racing out of my chest, my brain pounding—oh how I wished it wasn't—how I wished it could be but a dream...!
"Oh my god..." she gasped upon realizing that—because I couldn't conceal the shock, horror, and disbelief in the way I glared at her in utter speechlessness—I had at the very least heard absolutely everything she never wanted me (or anyone) to hear. (Her voice a whimper; her lower lip quivering; her weight shifting from one foot to the next ever so swiftly; her inflection diminishing from the illusion of giddiness and glee and to the reality of gruesomest guilt—of a remorse just as audible as it was visible: ) "...How long have you been home?"
"Ash, I never left... I've been either in the kitchen or the living room this whole time—you didn't even think it wise to check the house before you started doing...
that
?"
Suddenly defensive—turning bright pink at the cheeks (the freckles of which becoming slightly more prominent as a result)—she parried with, "But you
never
not leave!"
"Today is an unhappy little exception, then—and what, are you blaming
me
for catching
you
being so... Ugh—I can't even believe you!—what were you thinking!—how could you be so... Ugh!"
(Withdrawing a step or two; her bra strap falling down her bicep—which she quickly fixes before prying her skimpy panties from riding so high up her crack:) "Whoa there, Jen—don't you think you're going a little psycho? I mean... yeah—but come on, it's not
that
bad!" (After a brief beat; her tone so full of uncertainty; her voice so soft in its insecurity:) "...Is it?"
I coughed at the sight of the bulge in the front of her underwear—and, upon noticing that I noticed the thing which I had seen only a meager matter of mere minutes ago bare and in her hand, she struggled to fix her wardrobe malfunction by trying to fit the culprit between her undies and down the side of her thigh—I said, "It's not
what
you were doing, it's the fact you said the sickest shit—" (Upon the tip of her prick—that same prick which was now hard and pulsating—poking out from the bottom of her panties; diverting my eyes after a quick glance:) "Jesus Christ, Ashley!" I pointed to the bedroom behind her while ordering, "Go put on some fucking pants...!"
We relocated the argument there (by her bed, to be precise), where she was desperate to slide into a pair of jeans—those same jeans struggling to fit the shapely width of her thighs, ass, waist, and hips (causing her to shake, dance, prance about, gyrate, pump, buck, thrust, and every other sort of rude and lewd gesture in the book just to get them on). Meanwhile, her bra strap kept sliding down her arm to the extent that—although she had only a C-cup (for she was of a bottom-heavy figure and build [as was I])—I caught glimpses of her tit (even her nipple!) every time her antics had me facing her from the side. And, of course, the back and forth that transpired during this awkward circumstance went something like:
"Ash, you were moaning about—"
After verbally vomiting a bunch of incoherent noises to interrupt me, my sister then said, "I know—I know—I know...!" (Nearly silent in her shame:) "...You don't have to tell me, Jennifer—I already know..."
"How am I related to you?" I scolded her ever so cruelly—attempting to distance myself from the fact I was secretly throbbing beneath my skirt (as well as dripping copious amounts of pre-cum) at the very thought... "...How do we even share the same blood?"
(Having wrestled her jeans into submission [despite the fact she could zip and not button them]; fighting back the urge to cry from sheer humiliation as her voice became somewhat ragged before angry:) "You don't have the right to talk to me that way." Standing up, she neared and we were face to face—her voice so full of indignation as she said, "I'm a person, too, you..." (Getting lost in my eyes; choking on the incoherent babble her words had become; unconsciously gravitating closer and closer towards me; practically salivating; close enough for me to catch a whiff of the strangely attractive mixture of pheromone-filled sweat and flowery, yet "spicy" smelling perfume that shrouded her; her voice now so innocent—alluding to the sensitive and vulnerable little girl I knew she was at heart [despite being 21]:) "...Jennifer..."
Pulling away—though not backing away, mind you—as she neared, I replied, "Ashley..."
Our faces so close, I—not her, but I...!—kissed her softest, lubricious-from-lip-gloss lips and she was soon melting in my arms—returning each and every little kiss with one so hapless and hopeless of her own. But—despite that her lips were beyond the delicate perfection of satin, velvet, and every other material of that luxurious sort combined!—I (so ungrateful; so careless; so insensitive and cruel!) snorted after a moment's hesitation, "...Ew..."
And it crushed her. "...Ew?"
When she turned from me to sob (still in her bra and unbuttoned jeans), I embraced her from behind—and then, when she wouldn't stop pulling away (when she wouldn't return to me as we both needed her to!), I found myself kissing into the nape of her neck. I soon had her purring, and then—trying to be as playful as possible—I cooed (unaware of what I was doing—only wanting her to stop being so hurt [because I'm the strong and protective one, after all!]), "Ew, my sister's yummy cooties...!"
"You're ew—you're the one with cooties!" she retorted while reaching back to tickle, jab, and prod at my side. (One of my hands having roved to the front of her jeans—the other clutching her breast; looking back at me with eyes all but watering with wonder; her breathing so prominent and heavy—her chest rising and falling under my loving, lustful touches—from my fingers having crawled down her pants... then her panties—and then it was my hand reaching in, my fingertips rubbing the base of her hairless shaft; staring me dead in the eye with a myriad of unspoken desires—only one, so precious and yet so blunt, able to surface:) "...Fuck me..."
Retracting my hand, I pat her bare belly, wrapped my arm about her torso (away from her breast, where it had previously been all this time), and declared—resting my face against her shoulder as I did (my voice as desirous as hers—save for its confusion), "But we're sisters, Ash... Fraternal, twin sisters, if you don't remember..."
"But not every sister shares such an immense secret," she was referring to our naughty bits (those same naughty bits that regrettably kept us from having boyfriends—or any form of a normal life, for that matter...), "and not every sister touches herself every night to the thought of her little sister."
