"You know, Carrie," Grant said as he squeezed his sister's bare bottom after pounding her in both her pussy and her ass, "I think I like virgins. Can you send me some more?"
Carrie pried herself out of his grasp and looked him in the face. "What the hell are you talking about?" she said hotly.
"That slumber party," he said dreamily, his face breaking out in a smile that Carrie fervently wished she could wipe away. "I liked deflowering all you girls. You were so naïve and innocent. I think those are the kind of girls I want. I've had enough of the other kind."
"Yeah," Carrie said acidly, "I'm sure you have."
"So can you get me some more?" he said, ignoring her sarcasm.
Now she propped her elbows on his chest. She had some vestigial instinct to cover herself so as not to display her nudity in her brother's presence—but then she thought,
What the fuck does it matter? He's already probed me every way a man can possibly probe a woman.
"And how exactly am I to do that?"
"Come on, Carrie," Grant said bluffly, "you're a freshman, and I'm sure there are plenty of other freshman girls who need someone to show them the ropes."
She couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Listen, guy." she said. "In the first place, I've only been in school a few weeks, so my circle of acquaintances—freshmen, virgins, or otherwise—isn't exactly very large. And the fact that I live at home isn't helping things any. If I were in a dorm, that would be one thing—but I'm not. And in the second place, am I some kind of madam that I'm now supposed to feed you virgins so you can demolish their hymens?"
"You got it in one," he said jovially.
She shook her head in disbelief. "Grant, I know you think that, as a star football player, you can do anything you want. But you can't. You're going to have to start behaving like a civilized person, otherwise
no one
will want to be around you."
She was afraid that she may have made Grant angry with that remark—but if she, his sister, couldn't say it to him, who could?
To her surprise, he looked at her pensively. "Maybe you're right."
She quickly followed up on her advantage. "You bet I am! You gotta start treating people—especially women—better. They're not your slaves, and they're not going to open their legs, other any other parts of their bodies, to you just because you snap your fingers."
"I know that," he said quietly.
"Listen," she said intensely, "I don't think you realize how important the 'first time' is to a girl. It sets the pattern for the rest of her whole sexual life, and if it goes bad, then she can be traumatized forever. What you did at my slumber party was really pretty horrible. You had no right—"
"I know I didn't."
"—and you can't expect to behave that way without eventually suffering some kind of punishment that you won't like at all."
"I hear you, sis."
She peered into his face to make sure he wasn't just placating her. "You mean that?"
"Yes."
"Okay."
"So," he said, ever intent on the matter at hand, "can you get me some?"
"Some virgins?" she asked tiredly.
"Yeah."
"Okay. I'll do my best. Not promising anything!"
"You're the best, sis!"
*
What happened next would never have happened if Grant hadn't decided—unusually for him—to get up a little past midnight one night in October and get himself a soda from the fridge in the kitchen. His own mother-in-law unit had no refrigerator.
He hadn't been able to sleep and figured that a cold ginger ale might help settle his stomach and let him relax. But as he got the chilled can from the fridge and closed the door, he heard from upstairs a sound he was all too familiar with.
It was a female pleasuring herself.
Those inarticulate moans and groans were unmistakable: he had elicited them often enough from his own sex partners over the years. While he was struck by how different women sound when in the various stages of sexual ecstasy, he had no doubts about what he was hearing now.
Hah!
he chuckled to himself.
Carrie is getting some solo amusement. I don't know why she didn't call on me: I'd have been happy to oblige.
Wearing nothing but some thin cotton boxer shorts, Grant drifted in the direction of the upstairs bedroom. He had to admit that both seeing and hearing a woman experiencing an orgasm was one of the most stimulating things he could think of—even better, in some strange way, than having an orgasm himself.
Women are so sensitive to touch, smell, taste; men tend to rely more on sight and touch. Really, we don't hold a candle to women when it comes to sensitivity.
With supreme care not to step on any creaking floorboards, he glided up the carpeted stairs. Maybe he could help Carrie a bit, even as he sensed that she was reaching her climax within a matter of minutes if not seconds. She may not have wanted intercourse, but why would she turn down a helping hand—or mouth?
So it was more than a little surprising to him when he realized that the moaning sounds—now clearly reaching a crescendo—were coming from the closed door of his mother's room.
Why it should have been so striking to him that Jessica would need solitary stimulation, he would at that moment have been unable to say. He knew that she had gone on virtually no dates during the several years following his dad's abrupt departure from the household, and from time to time he regretted that she was not getting her share of physical contact. He had read somewhere that women in their late thirties and early forties are actually at their peak of sexual desire, and the idea of such a radiant creature as Jessica being deprived of satisfaction pained him in an abstract sort of way.
So with shaking hand he turned the knob of her bedroom door and walked in.
Of course, no lights were on, but a gibbous moon was letting in a fair share of illumination into the room. As he walked, almost like a zombie, toward the bed, he saw Jessica lying on her side, her back to the door—and, therefore, to him. Her hand was seemingly fastened to a spot between her legs.
She was naked.
He saw the nightgown she must have been wearing: it had been tossed carelessly aside and now lay on the floor next to the bed. The moans were getting louder now—and no doubt that was why she hadn't heard the door opening and her son padding mechanically into the room. Only when he stood almost directly over her, blocking some of the moonlight, did she realize she wasn't alone.
Stopping the motions of her hand at once, she gazed up and over her shoulder.
"Omigod! Grant!" she cried out in a harried whisper. "What are you doing here?" She struggled to cover her salient portions—breasts and groin—with her hands.
Grant could not ever recall seeing his mother naked. Maybe that had happened when he was a baby and she had just given him a bath, but there was no way he could have remembered that. As he now gazed down at her, all he saw was a radiantly beautiful woman, with exquisite curves at breast, hips, thighs, and even calves, and a face that, although now distorted by alarm and embarrassment, was as beautiful as any he had ever seen.
"Grant, please!" she cried desperately. "You shouldn't be here!"
The one thing he felt was:
I've stopped her from reaching the culmination of her desires. That's a shame.
In a hollow voice he said, "I want to help," and then bent down on his knees, gently placed a hand on his mother's hip to get her to lie flat on her back, and then parted her legs with both hands.
"My God, Grant, what are you doing?"
He did not answer, but instead buried his head in his mother's crotch.
She was dripping wet, some of her juices covering the insides of her thighs. The initial taste of her wetness was electrifying; as Grant had found through extensive experience, every woman's juices tasted different, sometimes substantially so. Some were acrid, some were almost sweet, and some had no appreciable taste at all.
Jesisca's juices were on the slightly sweet side, and as he continued to lap them up and send them down his throat, while also working her labia and clitoris with his lips and tongue, he felt a strange kind of union with the creature who had borne him twenty years before. He had emerged out of this orifice then, and now he was servicing her as a kind of recompense for the pain she must have felt in her delivery.
As for Jessica, her feelings were more than mixed. Superficially appalled as she was at this sudden Oedipal act on her son's part, some deep-buried segment of her spirit made her wonder whether there was really anything wrong with what was happening. It had been years since she had felt she was Grant's mom: the moment he had become taller and stronger than her, her ability to restrain and discipline him had gone out the window. At times she felt intimidated by his presence; at other times she had trouble realizing that they were related at all. But at still other times—and now was such a time—she secretly admitted that Grant bore an uncanny resemblance to the husband who had abandoned her; the husband whom she had first met when he was just about Grant's age. That thought cast her back to her own adolescence and young adulthood, when her beauty and charm and intelligence and dynamism had made her the desperately sought-after prize of more than one appealing male.
And so she placed a hand on Grant's head as he licked and sucked at her sex, his hands now seizing her bottom and relishing in their firm and fleshy curves. All conventional morality urged her to pull his head away and order him from the room; but her hand instead remained gently on the crown of her son's head, actually keeping it in place.
Good Lord, he does know what he's doing!
In a matter of minutes she began feeling that telltale sensation, proceeding from her toes all the way to her head, that signalled the pinnacle of her desire. Her body was racked with tremors, and with her other hand she squeezed her own breasts as she let out something close to a scream as an overwhelming orgasm washed over her.
She arched her back and bucked her legs, pinching a nipple to enhance the climax. Her cries turned to a kind of choking sob, as some vestigial shame at experiencing an orgasm—and expressing it in such a shameless manner—in the presence of her son came over her; but mostly she was simply imbued with a dizzying sense of supreme pleasure—pleasure attained, for the first time in years, by someone else's ministrations rather than her own.
As she struggled to get a grip on herself, she looked around to see if she could pull a bedsheet over her nude form. But she had been lying on top of the sheet and blanket, so that wasn't possible. The futility of concealing her nakedness from her son led her to fall back exhausted on the bed, her hands lying outspread beside her.
