Anonymous - Caroline

“Oooh, Har-ry!” There was a more pleading note now in her voice. Caroline laughed softly, watched my prick ease in and placed her hand beneath my buttocks.

“Nice? Is it nice? Go on. You can go deeper now. May he not, Adelaide? Come, darling, tell your brother so.”

“Yeh-Hesss! Oh, Harry, give me more!”

“You lovely, wonderful, you… b… b… bitch, you! What a bottom! Adelaide, I am right in, I'm up your bottom, darling-what a joy!”

Bulging, her silken cheeks came to my skin, bulbed deep into my belly, drawing on my cock that had ensheathed itself so deep that my balls now nestled underneath her cunt.

“Go on! Now pump her, Harry-pump it in and out. You won't come so soon this time, my love,” breathed Caroline, leaning against me and her cheek to mine.

“My love?” I echoed the words in wonder, turned my face and drew upon her sparkling lips even while Adelaide squirmed and urged her bottom back and forth.

“If you wish, and I believe you do. Bugger her, Harry-give her all you have.”

“I w… w… want your bottom, too.” I felt for it and fingered the deeply cushioned furrow there. All was a breathless haze of words, a maze of wicked images and deeds.

“You shall-but do it to her first. Take her, darling; she is now all yours.”

“D… do it to me, Harry! oh-ah! Oh yes! Go faster and you'll make me come again!”

“Wriggle your bottom, Adelaide. I love it so.” Bent over her, I cupped her dangling tits. Her face slewed round to mine. Our lips met, merged, tongues fought, her bottom bounced, smacking against me time and time again, her passage tight, yet spongy, and receiving to my wonder all the inward slewing of my tool, warm-rushing of her breath within my mouth.

“Mmmmmm!” she hummed, and Caroline was all but lost to me in those sweet moments as I pestled Adelaide, my cock clamped suavely as I urged it in and out, feeling her quim then as I did, feeling her slimmer fingers under mine as she more knowingly teased round her spot.

“Come in her, Harry-come in your sister's bottom- let it spout.” Thus Caroline, and as she spoke her hand descended with a SMACK! upon my buttocks. In that same moment Adelaide mouthed at my mouth, “I'm coming, Harry, coming-do it now!”

“Dear god, right up your bum, you naughty thing!” I choked-so infantile are one's words at such times. Already I was spouting, too-cock deep in her, unmoving then. My eyes screwed up in perfect bliss. Legs spread, her bottom balled into my belly, I donated all, cock sparkling with desire in her tight grip until with feeble gasps I loosed my last and felt her draw upon me greedily, our mouths no longer clamped but her head hung and mine a-resting on her neck, in my last quivers, quivering on. Again the silence like a gentle cloud on us, and Caroline's slim fingers tickling at my balls. We slumped, we panted, and lay still, then I drew my cork out with a dragging feel and flopped upon my back beside my sisters hip, she limp, quiescent and unmoving then, her face as peaceful as a baby angel.

“It was good that you came, Harry, was it not?”

Caroline laughed at her little pun and stood over me with legs apart, her bush displayed. The look of challenge had not left her eyes.

It is twenty years now since that afternoon. The bed remains as it remained. Only the covers and the linen have been changed, are frilled more now with lace and pooled with silk. The same sun casts its glow into the room on summer afternoons as then it cast, dappling their breasts and thighs with leaves of light.

Love is a game. My wife-dear Caroline-has made it so. A game that has no losers, she declares. Dice of desire are cast, the bottoms and the cunnies wriggle on. Even this afternoon, lying with them both, poking my sister first, then Caroline, we spoke of it. Adelaide smiled with hooded eyes, stretched like a cat as she always does, black stockings sheathing up her fine, firm legs, richer and plumper now about her thighs, her breasts the heavier, her bottom ever eager to receive.

“We would never have done so many naughty things if Caroline were not so wicked,” she will often say. It intrigues her to use the adjective and adds a spice to it. I have known them both laugh against my mouth the while we teased each other, sheathed it in. There is laughter often and no darkness here. I have known… But no, my pen runs on.

Caroline interrupts me frequently to read what I have written. I do not like what I have written and have told her so. I come not within a dozen leagues of what I mean to say. The words, like butterflies, escape my net. The weight of a pendant tit upon the palm, the rearing of a naked bottom to the hand, the ineluctable sensation of coursing up one's fingers to the curl-fringed quim of a young girl who sobs against ones mouth-such cannot be described. It is a mere pointing to the moon that hangs too far above-a stabbing of the fingers to the stars whose distance mocks one. Thus I say again, again, to Caroline. She teases me. Her kisses breath upon my mouth the same desiring that I always knew.

“Why, dearest, do not try too hard. You will achieve. Father often said that if you would best do a thing, you must do it without too much thought, for the mind constructs a lattice-work of doubt, hinders all efforts and diverts the aim. Miss Withers dines with us tonight. Wait till you see her drawers-how tight they are!”

Caroline often speaks thus, darting from one subject to another.

“Shall I see them?” Often I wish to draw her back to the subject that I started on, but never do.

“You may. She is a spinster, as you know-but such a comely one and, I regret to say, my pet, a full five years younger than I am. There may be tears from her, but I will kiss them all away. Would that I were a man and had a prick. Well-sometimes I do wish that. I shock you still a little, do I not?”

“No.” But my flush betrays me. Pretending that I wish to kiss her words away is merely a disguise for my desires which burn as brightly as her own, and kindled by her ever on.

“Miss Withers, Harry, she is like-well, very much like-Gertrude Smeath, in looks. Remember her?”

“My goodness, yes. But kiss me, do!”

“Not now, not now. A full week you have toiled, and yet so little written. Three more pages, if you please, before the evening charms us with Miss Withers' sighs. You know I want to read about us all, and so does Adelaide. Get on with you and get your duty done. Write sweetly, though, of Gertrude; she was really nice!”

“I will change her name at least.”

“No! You may not! It is a lovely name, so redolent of ripeness as she was, and is. How long is it since we encountered her?”

I shrug. “Three years, or four perhaps.”

“Harry, it does not matter. To begin at the beginning and to go on till the end-how boringly conventional!” A laugh and she is gone. My pen tip hovers, scratches once again here in my enforced privacy where I have set myself this task of memory. Here there is nothing but the dancing of the words, the arabesques of verbs and adjectives, the commas dabbed by penis tip as a pointillist tips his bright colours to the canvas. Quotation marks become my introducing chords. Here one may speak and another may fall silent, wait her turn.

Gertrude Smeath, then. Very well. It was six months after that first orgy that we met the lady. Here I must interpolate, however (seeking a mite of tidyness in the order of things) that Adelaide's husband had not quite treated her as she had said. The truth was, she was bored with him- had met Caroline some time before and hatched all sorts of wicked plots with her. After our bedroom romp, my sister was not long in parting from her mate. He betook himself to Ceylon to take up his father's tea plantation and left the house to her: a generosity to which he was persuaded in great part by Caroline who had no scruples when it came to such, disdaining as she did and does the idea that property is the prerogative of males.