Iris & Robert 2: The perfect shape
Author's note: This is not a story to wank to; if anything, you might find it quirky when compared to other stories. If you came here for sexual gratification, you're likely to be disappointed. There is sex, of course, but it's not the main focus.
This is the second chapter of five in the story of Iris and Robert, continuing from where 'Making me complete' left off, although the story stands on its own. It's written in UK English, and uses a bit of British colloquialism, but nothing that would make it difficult to understand.
All characters in this story are exceptionally good-looking except where mentioned, and solely a product of my imagination. If you think there's a resemblance to your own life, please get in touch with me; it'll save me the trouble of having to make everything up.
***
When I woke up, I was momentarily confused. I wasn't in my bed. Why wasn't I in my own bed? Why wasn't I wearing any clothes? And why on earth was Robert sleeping next to me, equally naked?
Then I remembered. It was the day after. The day after Robert and I had had our romantic dinner. It had been our third date, so afterwards we slept on the sofa bed, getting a duvet to cover ourselves.
How had this happened? As I lay staring at the ceiling, my thoughts went back to the past week. It has been my idea, that we should date one another, because whom else could we trust? It sort of made sense at the time, even though I wasn't exactly convinced myself, and Robert even less so. But in the end, we ended up naked and, not to put too fine a point on it, did the deed.
The first date, we'd gone to the park to feed the ducks and have a picnic. The second date, we went to see a film –a romantic comedy, my favourite genre– at the cinema. And the third date was the romantic dinner. This would normally be nothing out of the ordinary, if it weren't for the fact that Robert is my twin brother.
The truth of the matter was that I had fallen in love with him. With Robert. With my brother. And not just the sort of love that you have for your family, or even for your twin, but also the kind that starts with 'do you come here often?'
I looked to my left, at him. His features were so delicate, almost feminine. I've never been fond of the masculine type, and I don't know what possessed me to let that wanker try and chat me up. Well, I did, actually. The desire to be desired had been so strong that I ignored my natural reservations and distrust, and believed in the fairy-tale. Almost, he managed. Almost, he would have been my first. And he would have unceremoniously dumped me afterwards. But now, my first lay sleeping next to me.
As if our condition wasn't enough complication in our lives, we now had added incest to that. And it had been my idea. Great going, Iris. I'm very good at thinking straight –it's one of the aspects of Asperger's– but I hadn't quite thought of the consequences.
What to do? You can unscrew a lightbulb, but you can't unscrew your sibling. Things had changed forever and we would have to find some way to deal with it, or it would surely destroy us. I sighed, completely at a loss on how I was going to handle this situation.
He looked so peaceful, which was not a look he often had. Maybe it wasn't so bad after all. We would be bonded our whole lives anyway, but in what capacity, that wasn't entirely clear at the moment. Could I stay with him and live as a couple? Did I want that in the first place? And did he?
His hair-shoulder-length, not nearly as long as mine, was spread out around his head like a halo, and combined with the soft down on his cheeks, there was something vaguely saint-like about him. I smiled at that: he certainly was no saint, and neither was I.
Saint Iris, patron saint of women that sleep with their brothers. It would be a difficult sell, so much was certain.
He hated shaving, not necessarily because of the same hypersensitivity that we both experience when we have our hair cut. He probably just couldn't be bothered with the effort, and with pulling a sharp blade across his skin, so he shaved maybe once a week, if at that. I didn't mind, though, it made him look a bit more adult, and less like a boy. Combined with the ponytail, he had the look of a rock star – minus the doting groupies, that is.
My goodness, he really looked cute. If it weren't for his disastrous social skills –like mine– he'd have to keep the girls away with a bargepole. So that was rather fortunate, because from now on, any such girl would have to deal with me first.
I had realised that I was in love with him when we had our dinner yesterday. He had actually made an effort to look presentable, and he had stared at me in open admiration. That could have had to do with the fact that I had been wearing a dress to accentuate my figure, something that I had never really done before.
I needed to invest a bit in skirts and dresses and tops, and decided I would shop online later that day. Whereas before I wanted to be like Robert, now I felt the desire to embrace my femininity and accentuate the differences. It only made our bond stronger.
As we'd sat at the table yesterday, we'd held hands and looked one another in the eye. I knew, one way or another, that he'd been experiencing the same emotions. That mix of uncertainty, of what was going to happen, but also the knowledge that right there, across the table and holding my hands, was the one person who was happy just to be with me.
Another hint that I was in love was that I thought his nose was cute, and his ears were cute, and his mouth was cute, and his... well, 'cute' was perhaps not the best way to describe it, because in contrast to the rest of him, that part had been impressively masculine. Who would have thought?
That took my mind back again to yesterday. It's said that first-time sex is often awkward, and we had been no exception. We even had to consult a checklist of what to do. His fingering me had been nice, though. Being brought to orgasm without being in control was both scary and exciting. I like to be in control. It makes things predictable, and I like predictable. A lot. But to let go of that control, with the person I trusted most, had been liberating.
Then, he had penetrated me. And although I had my doubts at that time that I'd be able to orgasm easily from getting fucked, having him inside me and being as close as we would ever get, had been mesmerising. I could even tell just before he orgasmed, because his penis felt differently inside me, growing and pulsing.
I wasn't so sure about the mess it left inside of me. I don't deal with mess very well, and it took quite a bit of effort to not run away and wash immediately. And in a way, I had him still inside me; if not in person, then in residue. Somehow, it felt to me like it was an indispensable element of the sex act. All the emotions and bonding aside, depositing semen inside a woman is the essence of coitus, isn't it? Well, to me it made sense.
Turning on my side, I supported my head on my hand, and kept admiring him. My hair slid down, spilling over the pillow, and the duvet slid off my chest. No matter; it was summer, and I didn't feel cold.
He stirred a bit. It looked like my Prince Charming was waking up. He yawned, eyes still closed, and stretched his arms, giving him boyish body a bit more definition to it. Strange that I preferred men that weren't, as you'd call it, typically male. Maybe it was because of how Robert looked so much like me? He is the same length as I: he is a bit shorter than the average adult male, whereas I'm a bit taller than average woman.
As children, we had looked so much alike, that people used to think that he was a girl as well, until our mother started dressing me in super-girly outfits, like frilly dresses. I'd hated those. I wanted to be like Robert, and wear jeans and T-shirts. That's one reason why I compensated later in life, wearing decidedly non-girly outfits. We had been very similar, except for that one little thingy. Well, not so little anymore these days. And where he had mostly retained his shape, just a bit larger, I had filled out, in particular around my hips and my chest. In the end, I'm a girl, and wearing the blue dress yesterday had been a great success. Something to keep in mind.
Meanwhile, next to me, Robert opened his eyes, and looked into mine. 'Ciao, bella,' he said.
I smiled at that. Always the charmer, my brother.
'Hey handsome,' I said. 'Did you sleep well?'
'Yeah, like a baby,' he said. 'I must have been really tired.'
'Oh poor thing,' I teased him. 'He had to work so hard last night.'
He grinned at that. 'Yeah, I got to do the hard work and you had all the fun.'
I gave him a playful push on his chest. 'Hey! The way I remember it, you weren't complaining!'
'And neither were you, dear sister, or were you?'
'Oh, I suppose it was OK,' I replied with exaggerated feigned indifference.
We loved to do these little tit-for-tat games, although now of course, they had a whole new dimension to them.
'Just OK? So you don't mind either way whether we do this again or not?'
I busied myself studying the ceiling. Actually, the lamp needed some cleaning. The spiders had been busy. 'You know as well as I do, Robert,' I told him, 'that you'll be begging for more before the day is out. What's a woman to do, eh? Lie back and think of England.'
Robert lost the plot there. 'What's England got to do with it? We're not in England.'
'It's an expression,' I told him, gently patting his hair as if he were a small child. 'Don't you worry your pretty little head about it.'
'But what does it mean?' he asked.
'What it means? To bang. Shag. Hump. Romp. Getting your leg over. A bit of how's your father.'
His expression hadn't really changed; if anything, it became more confused. It was probably a good indication that he wasn't quite as familiar with slang terms as I was.
'To fuck, Robert. It means to fuck. Coitus. Intercourse. Copulation. To fornicate.'
That, at least, rang a bell. It also had the undesired side-effect of bringing his one-track-mind firmly back on the topic of sex, whereas I'd wanted to discuss some important matters with him. His gaze left my face and moved down my body about 30 centimetres, or a foot for the metrically impaired. Yeah, he was a man for sure. Flattering, of course, but the wrong subject unfortunately.
'Robert,' I said, 'I think we need to talk. I mean, yesterday was wonderful and I don't regret what we did, but it has changed everything. We kind of need to decide how to take it from here. Normally people date and have sex, then they move in together, and then they stay together for the rest of their lives. We did it the other way around. We're already living together and whatever happens, we can't ignore that we'll always be siblings.
'So yeah, what's next for us? Are we going to share a bedroom? And if so, whose? Are we going to be, like, a little family? I'm confused. I love you so much, even more than before, and I want to always be with you, but we're not making things very easy for ourselves. What do you think?'
No answer was forthcoming. 'Robert?' I asked. Still nothing.
I realised that he hadn't heard a word I said, because he was still looking at my boobs. Trust him to be able to focus on only one thing at the time, and trust me not to notice, for that matter. Both on our own little planet again.
'Robert? Houston calling Tranquillity Base. Anybody out there?'
Nothing. Bloody useless. I tend to wave my hands about when talking, which made my boobs jiggle, and he was staring at them like a cat at a goldfish.
'Robert? Robert!'
