Twins in College

In a way, it could well have been any given tender family moment on any given Sunday morning.

I knelt upon the floor between my big brother's thighs, my hands clasped together in my lap. Leaning back against the sofa, my eyes were closed as my ears focused upon the music of Hamasaki Ayumi. I probably had a slight smile upon my face, for "Bold & Delicious" was definitely one of my favorite songs.

Slowly, deliberately, my big brother brushed my hair. He took his time, his fingers reveling in the feel of my many strands, his heart being poured into the act. It was such a simple thing, having my hair brushed, especially by him, but it meant so much to me – to us both – that my heart pounded faster than usual, threatening to burst from the love swelling and pulsing within.

I sighed contentedly, reveling in the feel of the bristles against my scalp, the feel of my big brother's thighs pressed against my arms, the feel of the gentle tugs on my hair. I knew, deep within, that this was where I belonged, even though the sigh reignited a most unusual pair of aches.

Granted, to an outsider, seeing a big brother slowly brushing his baby sister's hair would not seem at all unusual – especially in large families where the older children are expected to help take care of their much younger siblings, I am fairly certain that such activities take place quite often between an older brother and his younger sister. However, there were several significant differences to the scene we presented to the imagined outsider.

First, my big brother is indeed older than me... but only by a few minutes. I have absolutely no doubt that he essentially shoved me aside to exit the womb first, asserting his dominance over me even before either of us had taken a single breath on our own.

Second, kneeling between my big brother's thighs, I was completely naked, fully exposed, just the way he wanted me, and just the way I wanted to be – both for him and even for me. All I wore was the waist chain, the symbol of my submission to my big brother, my forbidden lover, my Master.

Third, the tugs of my hair did not hurt, but the tugging of my nipples had created a dull ache. Gravity was working quite nicely, pulling the weighted nipple clamps and thus pulling at my breasts, but the pain had become bearable, and even somewhat comforting in conjunction with the tugging and brushing of my hair.

In addition, my wrists were secured by metal handcuffs, the key on the floor about eighteen inches in front of me. "When you've had enough," my Master had instructed me before starting to brush my hair, "just lean forward and pick up the key, then straighten up and present it to me, and I'll release you from the handcuffs and the nipple clamps. Of course, that will cause the weights to sway and that will almost certainly hurt your succulent nipples even more. The choice is yours, of course, slave."

An outsider would almost definitely find the scene quite perverse: a beautiful young woman, naked and handcuffed and silently and calmly suffering with a slight smile curling her lips upward, kneeling between her big brother's legs as he brushed her hair on a calm and serene Sunday morning. Most people would not find the scene "normal." Yet to me, and certainly to my big brother and Master, the scene was not just normal – it was actually quite tender, full of love and trust and devotion and respect, allowing us to connect on a deeper level even though I wore the weighted nipple clamps for the very first time and the handcuffs for the first time in several months.

Setting the brush aside, my big brother and Master leaned forward. Wrapping his arms around my from behind, he whispered sweet nothings into my ear, his fingertips stroking the sides of my breasts, pressing my feminine swells enough to jostle the clamps and reignite the pain torturing my proud nipples. I cried out softly in reaction to the renewed sensations emanating from my chest, but otherwise I did not flinch.

Such a perverse scene, at least to an outsider, yet I relished it, I craved it. The contrast between the innocence of having my hair brushed and the naughtiness of being bound and hurt by my forbidden lover filled me with an unexpected joy. I wanted to remain there like that for hours, for days, for centuries, suffering both because of and for my loving Master... and not-so-secretly adoring every precious second of the taboo experience.

In time, he straightened again behind me. Picking up the brush once more, he resumed his previous self-appointed task, and I imagined the proverbial outsider turning crimson from watching our most unusual expression of love.