Vacation Planning

I have trainee breasts. That's what my brother calls them. They are very small, and they stopped growing when I was thirteen years old. The rest of me is eighteen years old now, but my breasts are still in the seventh grade.

My aureole (I looked it up in the dictionary, so I know it's spelled correctly) are pink and kind of puckerish and only about the size of a quarter. My friend Tami Stanton has breasts so much bigger than mine that I can't stand to look at them bare; her aureole are big and dark brown and the size of silver dollars. She wears a size 38D brassiere while I barely fill a 32AA.

When I was eleven years old and my breasts first began to grow, I was so happy. My mom has big breasts and so do both my aunts. On my father's side, the breasts aren't quite so big, but at least they are there. Based on this I expected something nice for myself. Needless to say, I wasn't just disappointed, but heartbroken.

When I first started wearing a bra, Kevin would play his fingers along the edges of it and along the strap where it crossed my back, and a lot of the time he would undo the snap right through my shirt. I would whine at him and tell him, Come on, Kevin, don't do that! but that did as much good as complaining about it to my mom.

"Oh, come on," she would cluck at me. "He's only teasing you, Cloe."

"Yeah, Mom!" I would say right back to her. "That's the whole point!"

My real name is Cloe-Marie, one word, hyphenated, but everyone calls me Clo, except my mom, who calls me Cloe when I'm good and Cloe-Marie when I'm bad. I hate Cloe-Marie. It was my grandmother's name.

Anyway, the teasing doesn't bother me now as much as it did then. I got used to it. In fact, there's a certain joy in not having every guy you see stare at your chest. And besides, I've discovered that there are a lot of guys who

like

girls with small breasts; they consider it erotic or something, like being with a thirteen year old girl. Guys are such perverts.

Kevin is a pervert, but he's also my brother. We were born sixteen minutes apart and I'm his younger sister by that quarter hour. His younger,

brat

sister. But the truth is, I think I would much rather be a younger sister than an older one. I need someone to look up to.

In the last two weeks, Kevin's teasing has developed into touching. Because I love him so much, I didn't quite know what to do about it.

"If you don't like it, Clo," he told me just this afternoon, "tell me to stop."

"Like it would do any good?" I complained.

My uniform shirt was unbuttoned and free of the waist band of my skirt. He had my bra undone and I was holding it up for him. My nipples were erect from him playing with them with his fingertips. I was embarrassed and antsy.

He stuck his hands into his lap and said peevishly: "I'll stop as soon as you tell me to stop. You know that. I've told you that before. I stopped last week, didn't I?"

You shouldn't have been doing it in the first place!

is what I

should

have said to him, but I didn't. I liked what he was doing to me. Giving him too much shit might make him stop. And since we weren't in any real danger of getting caught by mom, I wasn't gonna to do that.

"Didn't I?" he repeated.

I let out a slow, "Yessss, I guess so," and sighed.

"Then give me a break, okay?"

"Okay. But just don't make them hurt, all right? It's not like they're used to being played with, Kevin."

"They're not?" he said, grinning slyly as he began fingering them again.

"No, they're not," I lied back, feeling my face grow hot with embarrassment.

He laughed and said: "You are one strange girly-girl, Clo."

"You're calling

me

strange?" I demanded. "I'm not playing with

your

nipples," I pointed out. "I don't make you play with

my

penis," I told him, even though I don't have one to play with.

He laughed again and actually began to blush. "Cut it out," he said. "That was only once."

"Once was enough, Kevin. It spurted out all over me, remember?"

"Clo!"

"Well it

did

!" I protested.

The truth was, the hot sticky fluid spurting out on my wrist wasn't as gross as I had made it out to be. I was more concerned about the part that got on my shirt sleeve and on the front of my blouse than I was about my wrist. And if you really want to know, I wanted to taste it too . . . but of course, I didn't.

He stopped playing with my nipples and sat with his hands in his lap. I sat with my bra held held up and my nipples shrinking back to their normal size.

"I could take it off for you if you want me to," I offered. I had never offered to before, but Mom wouldn't be home until six o'clock and Dad not until after eight. It was only four-fifteen.

"What?" he said, wide-eyed.

"Never mind," I muttered, reaching behind me to snap myself back together again. "I shouldn't have said that."

"No, wait!" he said hurriedly. "Don't do that!"

I let go of my straps and put my hands in my lap. I was covered up, but not by much. My bra just sort of hung there in front of my breasts. I was breathing harder now and my heart was skipping along inside my chest. Kevin was breathing through his mouth and doing it kinda loudly. He had done that the day I had stroked him onto my wrist.

"Do you want me to take it off?" I asked him.

"Yes," he said softly. The look in his eyes and the way he kept staring at my brassiere made me feel awfully strange. I slipped my blouse back over my shoulders and lay it beside me on the couch. Then I slipped the bra straps off of my shoulders one at a time, kinda slow and sexy like, although I was more scared than feeling sexy. Some weird muscle cramp was clamping my knees together and my legs were beginning to tremble. Gooseflesh popped out all over my upper body. It made me shiver.

"You okay?" he asked, kind of in awe.

"Uh-huh." But I was anything but okay. My eardrums were ringing and I felt cold and tingly hot at the same time. I put the bra into my lap and clutched it there. My nipples were so hard they hurt.

"You're sure you're okay?" he asked again.

"I'm sure," I answered.

"You're all trembly," he said, looking at my gooseflesh and at my aching little nipples.

"I know," I said. "Just hurry up, okay?"

He blinked. "Hurry up and what?"

"I don't

know

," I whined, scrunching up my shoulders in embarrassment. "Whatever you're gonna do, okay?"

That's when he took me by the shoulders and twisted me sideways and lay me down on the cushions. He took my bra out of my hands and dropped it on the floor. With nothing left to do, my hands just sort of fluttered there at my sides. When he crawled on top of me, they touched him on the back, then fluttered some more. Like me, they were very confused. Then he bent down over me and put his mouth over my right nipple and I stopped breathing.

* * *

"Mom?" I said. "Can I have one of dad's beers?"

It was nine-thirty and I was half-watching CSI, and half-doing my homework. I loved CSI. Well, I loved Warrick Dunne.

"No," she said absentmindedly, then, "Yes, but drink it in the kitchen."

"Mom!"

"Don't argue with me, young lady. Take it or leave it."

I got up grumbling, stuck my tongue out her when she couldn't see me anymore, then went upstairs to the kitchen. Dad was there.

"Hi, Daddy," I said, feeling incredibly guilty and sure I was showing it. But Dad just looked worn out and out of it like he always does on weekday nights. He mussed my hair like I was still thirteen and told me hello.

"You been a good girl today?" he asked, his head stuck in the refrigerator.

"Uh-huh."

"How about school?" He had the package of Louis Rich turkey bologna in one hand, and two slices of cheese and the mayonnaise in the other. I got him the bread out of the bread box.

"Okay," I said. "The usual stuff."

"Still gonna ace math this semester, Clo?"

"Of course!" I said.

"Need it for college," he said.

"Uh-huh."

I got a Heineken out the six-pack box and twisted off the cap. "Is it okay if I drinks this upstairs?" I asked.

"Only if your mother told you not to," he joked.

"She did," I told him truthfully.

"Okay, but don't get caught."

"Thanks, Daddy." I took another Heineken from the box and told him; "I'll take Kevin up one too."

"He'd like that," he said distractedly. "You and your brother getting along better these days?"

"Some," I said. "But mostly he's still a jerk."

"All brothers are jerks," he said with his back to me. "That's why they're brothers."

Whatever that means, I thought. I left the kitchen and went upstairs.

In the hallway outside his door, I stood for quite a while, too chicken to knock. My heart was skipping along inside my chest, and my breathing was getting ragged. I turned away three times, then finally tapped on his door.

"What?" he asked grumpily.

"It's me. I've got something for you."

There was a long pause, not as long as I'd spent standing at his door, but long enough to make me want to walk away again. Then I heard him get off his bed and walk across the room. His door opened one inch.

"What?" he demanded.

That was it. I burst into tears and made a beeline for my bedroom door. I had just gotten to it when he hissed out after me: "Cloe wait!"

"No!" I wailed back at him and banged open the door. I was just trying to get the door knob locked when he pushed the door open and forced me back. I was too upset to know what else to do so I wailed "No!" at him again and just stood there crying.

"Shhhhh! Mom and Dad are gonna hear you!"

"I don't care!" I cried out. But it was a very low cry because, of course, I really did.

He made

shooshing

motions with both his hands and mouthed "Be quiet!" and then looked out the door. Then he closed it for me. And then he grabbed the Heineken bottle that I threw at him.

"What is the

matter

with you?" he complained.

"

Me

?" Ever since we had done what we did on the couch downstairs, I was worse than a little sister to him; he was treating me like a leper.

He shooshed me again and I burst into fresh hot tears. "Why are you

treating

me like this?" I bawled.

"I'm not treating you like anything!" he came back.

"I know! That's the whole point!"

He came over and put his hands on my shoulders. I tried to get him off me by twisting and trying to duck away but he held on tight. I was crying really hard by then but doing it silently--trying to do it silently--and was amazed at how real the tears were. My crying fits are usually more show than real, but this one was not. I was really crushed.

"All right, all right!" he said. "I'm sorry! Okay?"

As desperate as I was to hear those words, I needed an explanation more. "Why are you being so mean to me?" I sobbed.

And then he did something that shut me up and made me stop my crying.

He kissed me.

* * *

It was an hour and a half later. We were in the basement together. Mom was upstairs talking to Dad about summer vacation and Kevin and I were pretending to watch

THE RUNDOWN

, with The Rock. What we were really doing was talking.

"Bobby sees this hickey and I'm dead," I told him quietly. We both looked back at the stairs at the same time. This was not as good as being alone in my bedroom would have been, but a whole lot safer.

He slipped his hand into mine and interlaced our fingers. I shifted uncomfortably, but didn't let go of it.

"I got carried away," he said softly. "Sorry."

He got carried away, all right. Right below my left nipple. It had happened while we were on the couch upstairs. I rubbed absently at it through my shirt front and he pushed my hand away.

"Stop that," he said.

"It hurts!"

"You're drawing attention to it, dummy."

"It hurts," I repeated.

"Sorry,

okay

?"

Maybe he was, but I wasn't. And I wasn't sorry he had kissed me, either.

After my shock had died away (and I really

was

shocked), I had stood up on tiptoe and kissed him back. I had been kissed before, of course, by my boyfriend Bobby and by Jamie Kent and Michael Kurtz and David Segal, and once even by my best girlfriend, Erica Ross, just to see what it was like, but I had never been kissed before by my brother. I was grossed out and turned on at the same time. Then I was just turned on.

"

Nuhhummnnnn

!" I went after about thirty seconds, finally tearing myself away. I staggered back four or five steps, him coming after me two or three. I blinked in confusion and looked from him to my unlocked bedroom door, then back again. I gulped really loudly.

My God!

I thought.

Did I really just do that?

"You okay?" he whispered.

I nodded, then shook my head back and forth, then nodded again. I was panting through my open mouth. I was shaking. What if

Mom

had walked in?

I went right over to my bedroom door and flung it wide open.

"What are you

doing

?" he asked incredulously.

"Do you want her to

catch

us?" I responded, just as incredulously. He hadn't been alone with me in my bedroom with the door closed for . . . .well, maybe

never

. So, was there a better way to get caught?

My entire body felt disheveled, my clothes all pulled loose and twisted around me, like we had been wrestling on the bed or something. I went to the mirror on the back of my closet door and straightened myself out.

"Maybe I should go," he said uncertainly.

"

No

!" I hissed. I was confused and totally freaked out, but I wasn't that freaked out. I wanted to be with him.

I went over to the bedroom door, looked down the hallway, then tiptoed out to the stairs. I could hear Mom and Dad talking, either in the kitchen or in the dining room. They were saying something about whether we should fly out to Grandma's house in New Mexico and then rent a car, or take the van all the way out. I heard Mom say the word Grand Canyon, and I tiptoed back to my room.

"They're talking vacation," I said.

"Uh-oh."

Uh-oh was right. Any minute now--any

second

now--one of them might call up the stairs for us to come down. Mom would want to know what I thought of an indoor pool or an outdoor pool at some motel, where Daddy might asked Kevin what he thought about seeing whoever might be fighting in Las Vegas. I figured our best shot was just to go downstairs ourselves and see if they button-hooked us. I went first.

"Hi, Mom," I said.

"Cloe, come over here and take a look at this."

I sighed dramatically and clumped over to the dining room table and took a look. They had a dozen travel brochures and motel brochures and attraction brochures spread out on the tablecloth, and Dad's laptop computer was sitting there. On the screen of the laptop was a pretty cool view of The Grand Canyon. Normally I would have gotten excited about that, because they took us there five years old and I had really just

loved

it, especially the Colorado River, which was so cool with all the white water and the rafting and all that (not to mention the

guys

) but I was too antsy to appreciate it just now.

Patiently, she showed me a map and motel/casinos in Las Vegas. That should have excited me as well, because when we in Atlantic City just last month for a weekend, and I had stayed up all night and partied with my two best girlfriends, Erica and Tricia, doing things in the room of a boy we had met there that my boyfriend, Bobby, would have dropped me over in a second. I still get giddy and guilty feeling, just thinking about it.

"We're thinking about staying at The Bellagio," she said. It was a big curvy white hotel with a big fountain out front that looked really expensive. We had stayed at Trump Plaza in Atlantic City and that had been just fine with me. But if the Bellagio had a casino downstairs and guys my age I could meet when my parents were downstairs gambling, then that was fine with me also.

She kept talking and I did a lot of hmm'ing and yeah'ing and saying things like, Sure, that would be cool, Mom, and Yeah, I guess that's all right, until she finally got irritated enough to send me away. I got halfway over to the basement steps when I suddenly turned around, went back over to the dining room table and kissed my mom on the cheek.

"Don't be mad at me," I said. "I'm just not in the mood right now, okay?"

She looked at me surprised, as well as angry, but the surprise began winning out. My mom and I don't get along very well any more and mostly, of course, that's my fault. But I'm eighteen years old, you know--I'm supposed to piss off my mom.

Not wanting her to come grab me later on for a second thought, I hung around for a while and pretended to be interested in what they had to say. That's why it took almost an hour and a half before Kevin and I could be alone together again, downstairs.

I snuggled an inch closer to him and squeezed his hand in mine. Our fingers were still interlinked and he looked anxiously back over his shoulder.

I said, "Don't worry, okay? We'll have plenty of warning if they come downstairs."

He only grunted. When I went to lay my head on his right shoulder, he bounced it right off again.

"

Ow

! Kevin!"

"Stop that!" he hissed.

"I told you it's okay!" I complained, rubbing my head. "They can't hear us or see us down here!"

"I don't care!" he said.

His face was sulky-looking and he had his bottom lip stuck out, so of course, I took it the wrong way.

"No!" he said, grabbing back my hand. "I didn't mean it like that, Clo. Not like that." He held it tightly in both his hands and I couldn't get it free. Finally, I settled down and it was okay again.

"You've got to stop being so freaked out," I told him.

"I can't help it. This is weird and you know it, Cloe."

I turned so that I was facing him, my left leg up on the couch, his hand in both of mine. "We're not doing anything we don't want to do," I told him. "Right? So what's the big deal?"

He gave me that Big Brother look, the one that said, Don't be a stupid ass, Cloe.

"Is it the kissing?" I asked, knowing very well it wasn't the kissing.

"No!" he said angrily. "It wasn't the kissing. It was the

fucking

, okay?"

The truth was, he had been very gentle with me on the couch. I had expected . . . well, I don't know

what

I had expected, because I had never done it before.

"Are you all right?" he had asked me anxiously.

At the moment I was, but fear had me tight as a brand new pair of shoes (I was going to say tight as a virgin, but that's what I was), and I half-squeaked, half-pleaded at him. "Yes! But be careful!"

My heart raced and my breath wanted to tear its way out of my chest. Timmy Roland had fingered me with two of his fingers that night in Atlantic City and Michael Kurtz had put his finger up me, and of course, Bobby had fingered me too, but this was not like being fingered, not at all.

Frozen, Kevin just hung there above me, his face rigid with stain, the head of his penis stuck in the mouth of my vagina. It was too big; it would not go in.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asked.

Of course I want you to stop!

I almost screamed at him.

You're my brother!

But I didn't want him to stop.

The moment he had laid my down on the couch, I knew this might happen. But I had denied it right away, saying, No way! Uh-unh! No way that's gonna happen to me! But here I was now, completely naked beneath him, my legs spread wide to take him inside me (wide, but ready to clamp down on him at the first hint of pain), my hands clutching his biceps so hard that they'd leave indentations from my fingernails that you could see an hour later.

"Kevin," I moaned up at him. "I'm scared!"

"Does it hurt?" he asked, shaking from the strain of staying where he was.

"No," I admitted. "Not right now." It had hurt when he had first gone in--a sharp, tearing-like pain from being stretched--but for now I was okay. I was just scared shitless, that was all. Shit, I was

terrified

!