Part 2: Burning Girls
Sandy's pretty sure that Mum's fucking her best friend. I'm not so sure.
My name's Sally. Sandy's my twin sister. They say that whenever twins are born there's a sensible one and a not so sensible one. I'm the sensible one - or at least, that's what I tell myself. She'd disagree. But whoever's the sensible one Sandy's the one that jumps to conclusions. That we can agree on. She's actually pretty good at it, too. Well, most of the time.
*****
So, our mother. Let's be clear that I'm blowing my own horn a bit when I say our Mum is a fucking hot lady. I mean, for her age. Or even not, really - she's a steamy-hot woman, there's no doubt about it. Why's that blowing my own horn? You guessed it: Sandy and I look pretty much exactly like she did when she was our age. Which means that as hot as she is, we're that squared. Cubed, probably. Guys (and plenty of girls) go nuts for twins. Even twins that aren't as good-looking as us.
And yeah, I guess people think we're pretty vain. I sure would, reading that paragraph back. We play up to it, you know? In reality we both think we're pretty plain - though Mum's still hot, she's got that cougar thing going on - a bit above average, sure, but the real appeal is what we look like when we're both going down on a guy. Or at least, that's what people think. Can you imagine? You're looking down at the swollen head of your cock and two identical faces are licking at it, looking up every now and then? Looks fucking hot, doesn't it?
Probably. We've never done that.
Well, okay. That's a lie. We'd never done that by the time our story starts. We sure have by the time I'm writing this, though.
But not in this story. Sorry. Going to have to wait for that one.
*****
I don't really know why I'm writing this down. Sally's not my real name, by the way. Sandy isn't really Sandy, our Mum's name isn't Zinnia - you get the idea. Names have been changed to protect the guilty. Why those names? Mum's written about our family before. Just silly little happy-family stories, stupid kids' stuff. She doesn't write any more but she's said if she ever did that's the names she'd use - Zinnia, Dane (our big dumb adorable brother), Sandy and Sally (I'm the youngest by three minutes). So they're the names I'm using. If Sandy ever writes stuff down I'm going to make sure she uses the same names - she's not really into writing, though. She's into reading.
Maybe that's why I'm writing this down? For her. I know she'll read it after I'm done.
Are you reading this, sis? Have you got your fingers all nice and wet thinking about what's going to happen? You KNOW what's going to happen. You were there, after all.
But I'm writing it for you, too, the reader whom I don't know. You're a guy or a girl or maybe a couple. Maybe you're transgender or intersex or gay or straight. I don't know. I don't care, either, to be completely honest. You're welcome here, in the soft, tight, wet squishiness of my mind. Play with yourself while you read. I like imagining that. To tell you the truth I'm probably going to have to stop now and then to do the same.
And I'm writing it for me, too, so I've got something to look back on and smile. Not all our days are happy, in my little family. Not all of anyone's days are. So having something fun and sexy to think about when days get dark, it's nice.
I hope you enjoy yourself.
I know I did.
*****
Imagine a couple of girls coming back from the shops on the corner.
We're not that different from other girls, not really, there's just two of us. Twice the trouble, twice the fun. Our Mum's got this fantastic cute pixie cut that she adopted after she went completely bananas when our dad left. I mean we were all pretty crushed but she was just ruined. Crying when she thought we couldn't hear her, shaking, starving herself, the whole works. She even shaved her hair completely off at one point. Okay, sure, she looked just as sexy with a bald head now that I think of it but it was terrifying at the time. She loved her long hair. But now she loves her pixie cut so that's fine.
We've got the same red hair. Maybe that's why we can act a bit unbalanced at times. Fine skin, freckles, the lot. We look Irish and considering that's where a lot of our heritage comes from I guess that's understandable. Our boobs are smaller than Mum's but they're tighter and younger too. A lot of the times we don't bother with bras. Or panties, to be truthful. We like feeling sexy. Doesn't everyone, from time to time?
Anyway, back on track. Imagine two girls. They look the same. Same red hair down to the shoulders. Same high tits with nipples that almost - but don't quite - show through their tops. Tight t-shirts that show their chests off. Jean-shorts that make their legs look nice and long. Shoes with enough of a heel that their legs look yummy but not so much that they're tripping over everything. That's Sandy and me. We were both track runners in high school and we never really got over the running bug so we've got a kind of toned look. We also have light tans and we DO have heaps of freckles. We burn way too easily. I don't like it that much. Sandy loves feeling burnt, total beach-bunny. I mean right down to the peeling and itchiness, it's weird. She says she loves feeling like she's too hot to touch the world. Gives her a buzz. Mum says it's to do with endorphins. Dane thinks she's just insane. Me, like I said I don't like it but we do everything together so I get burnt a lot too. And I whine about it. Loudly. A lot.
Two girls, walking down the road, dressed the same, faces the same, haircuts the same. The only difference is that while we both have our hair pinned back on one side the pin in Sandy's hair has a plastic daisy stuck to it while the one in my hair is a sunflower. There's other differences but they're way too subtle for most people to pick up on. Even Mum and Dane get us confused now and then. That's a lot more fun than it should be.
The sun's out and the birds are cheeping like little birdy bitches. It's a REALLY pretty day. We've gone to the shops to get some drinks because Sandy wants sunlight and I'm feeling bored enough not to argue. The cute shop boy blushes when we walk in, tries not to stare at us and then fumbles our change when we pay. We flirt with him a bit just to watch his blood pressure rise and then we go out. His name's... Well, we'll call him Bob. Bob's a couple years younger than us, making him a cute seventeen year old. He's finishing off secondary school; we're in university studying psychology and sociology (you didn't fall for the little airhead ditz act, did you? For shame, reader, for shame).
Leaving the shop behind we walk hand-in-hand down the street. We hold hands a lot. We've done that since Dad left. When your world ends and you turn to those closest for comfort you tend to adopt little idiosyncrasies. Ever noticed how close-knit families that have experienced some kind of trauma act a little... weird? Yeah. That's why. Then take into account that twins often tend to be close and you've got some serious hand-holding going on.
"Would you do him?" I ask her.
"Who?" she says, but she knows who.
"Bob."
"Bob?" She shakes her head. "Naaah." After a few seconds, because she knows I know she's lying through her teeth, she nods. "Yeeeeah."
"Me too. He's a bit young still but he's cute." I drink from the can I'm holding in my free hand. "Dane's so boring," I add.
She's not expecting this and I know it. The two statements don't mesh properly in her head but that's okay because I did it intentionally. She looks at me, wrinkling her nose up in confusion. It's cute.
"Huh?"
"He's boring. I mean, can you remember the last time he even had a girlfriend, let alone brought someone home?" I sigh. It's a deep, affected sigh. It's fake and over the top and it makes Sandy giggle, which was the goal, so I'm satisfied.
