Michael Smith: Siblings

The next two weeks were glorious. I taught my two sections of freshman American history and worked on my dissertation. Alex went off to her job at the PR firm and struggled to get new copywriters to produce coherent English. And Connie soaked up the intricacies of Polynesian anthropology at the university museum. And then we came home and immersed ourselves in each other. Alex and I had found a third dimension in our lovemaking, and Connie had twice as much exploring to do.

That first week, we were hesitant and careful, edging our ways into this new arrangement. Connie would hover above me from behind as I lay with my head in her lap, sheltering me with her shining, raven-black curtain of hair, and offering her nipples to my lips so I could suck them into quivering rigidity – and at the same time, Alex would crouch astride my cock and fuck herself into a panting sweat. Each of them would watch the other's actions and their arousal would redouble.

Then Connie would lie on her back, knees raised behind her elbows, while my cock plunged into her marvelously tight cunt – and Alex would keep both her middle fingers busy teasing our assholes in counterpoint. The plethora of sensations was astonishing.

We let the urge take us as it would. More than once I was roused (and aroused) in the middle of the night by a warm, wet mouth fastened on the head of my penis. It might last only a few minutes and then we'd be asleep again – but, ah! What dreams!

Connie was a natural tease, in an entirely playful and extremely erotic way. She also liked a little social danger with her sex, as I discovered later that week.

Thursday was the off-day at the museum and she had come over to meet me in front of Bancroft Hall so I could walk her on a tour around the campus. It had rained earlier so I wasn't surprised when she showed up in a mid-thigh red oilskin slicker, buttoned up over tight jeans and heels too high to be practical. Being so small, though, she'd had years of experience navigating in high heels, and they certainly suited her.

As we walked, I noticed male heads turning as we passed, students and faculty both. Connie was always aware of her effect on men and took great delight in it. In this case, since the lady was with me, I very much enjoyed showing her off.

When we passed a small grove of redwoods back of Strawberry, Connie led me beneath them and stood with her head tilted back, ooh-ing and ahh-ing at their size. Then she took me behind the trees, out of sight of the sidewalk, and coaxed my head down for a kiss. That was fine with me, and I slipped an arm around her and ran my hand over her ass. The cleft between her cheeks was very obvious to the touch – and I suddenly realized I hadn't felt any pockets or belt loops.

Connie giggled into my mouth and took my hand in hers and guided it between the snaps on the front of her slicker. There was no shirt and no jeans in there, only Connie. I stepped back in surprise and she demurely raised one side of the raincoat to show me where her homemade denim leggings stopped, at the tops of her thighs. Just as well I hadn't offered to hold her coat!

We continued our (mostly uphill) stroll a bit longer, but the vision of Connie's gloriously naked body moving under that oilskin made me incredibly horny. Finally, we stopped and sat on a bench a few yards off the path. Connie put her hands in her coat pockets… but they were in almost to her elbows before it dawned on me that the pockets must be bottomless. I saw movement under the oilskin in her lap, one hand reappeared, and a moist fingertip left an aromatic spot under my nose.

"Any inspirations?" she asked, and the smoke began to drift from beneath her lashes. The front of my slacks were in danger of a puncture. I put my left arm around her shoulders, very innocent to any passers-by, and slid my right hand into the vacated coat pocket. Her fingers met mine and led them down between her thighs. She scooted her ass forward on the bench a few inches and spread her knees as much as she dared. Then, as she spread her labia, I inserted a finger or two and went slowly to work on her cunt.

The challenge, of course, was that she absolutely could not lose control – but it was a close thing. I flicked my fingertip against her swollen clit and she gave a tiny jerk and bit her lower lip. Her gaze never left mine, and as I moved my finger up and down, and in and out, and 'round and about, her eyes became all pupil. When I felt her pulse quicken and heard her breathing accelerate, I fastened my mouth to hers and sucked as strongly as I could on her tongue. Her reaction was the same as it had been in the hotel pool in San Diego. She moaned and clutched my sleeve and her cunt muscles spasmed. Even her long tongue vibrated. In a sense, she came in my mouth.

We had to sit a few minutes longer while she collected herself. And when we finally headed back downhill to the car, I had to hold my briefcase awkwardly in front of me, to hide the stain on the front of my trousers.

So far, all our three-way sex had actually been two-way with a sidecar. That Friday evening – the one-week anniversary of our darling Connie's arrival – the action began to even up.

We discussed (very briefly!) what we should do with Saturday, the first opportunity we'd had for all three of us to be together all day. The unanimous vote was that we would not leave the house, not even to eat; we would put the answering machine on automatic pick-up; we wouldn't even bother with clothing for the day, unless it served an erotic purpose; and, for at least twenty-four hours, we would indulge ourselves and each other until we collapsed from sexual exhaustion. Saturday would be reserved for love, sex,… and experimentation. We slept that night all in a heap on the bed, like puppies. Caresses and kisses were exchanged, but they were relaxed and undemanding.

Alex and I had been so utterly comfortable in each other's constant presence for so long, we no longer consciously thought about it. But Connie's welcome addition to our private world required deeply-rooted psychological realignments. And we tried to go about it systematically.

Connie's first fascinated questions about our relationship were still hesitant. She didn't want to embarrass us or overstep some unknown boundary. We managed gradually to convince her that were NO boundaries -not for her.

We volunteered experiences of joy and of pain that we would never have confided to anyone else, even if we had been an "ordinary" couple. We recounted the fears of our earliest adolescent relationship, when we didn't understand what was happening to us. We remembered our first, tentative sexual encounters, and we held hands and got sentimental as we described for Connie our discovery that we were in love. We laughed about our high school escapades and our experiences with others, now fondly remembered, and how we had often sat up late to compare those experiences.

Alex somberly told of the few dates gone wrong, by which she'd had to learn not to trust everyone as much as she trusted her brother. And I looked away when my sister told Connie about the time I had rescued her from a brutal date and had come frighteningly close to committing murder in my rage at her physical mistreatment. I still felt queasy when I remembered her bruises.

Some of Connie's questions had an academic tinge. Quite apart from her new emotional involvement, she was trying hard to understand the foundations and everyday dynamics of our two-body mutual orbit. And that led us to try to explain ideas and feelings we had simply accepted before.

This whole process, this unveiling of our most private selves to another, developed a therapeutic component we hadn't realized we needed -and we were grateful. And Connie, though surprised, amused, sympathetic, indignant on our behalf, and professional, by turns, was never judgmental.