Michael Smith: Siblings

We were too beat for much horseplay, but gentle, quiet loving under the torrent of hot water was another matter. We all soaped each other, paying special attention to body cavities and protuberances. Alex laid her head back against my shoulder and we kissed, long and slow, while Connie carefully lathered up my sister's breasts and belly.

Then we double-teamed Connie, covering all of her tight, smooth body with suds while she basked happily in the attention. Then the girls stood back-to-back, entwining their arms and letting their soap-slick buttocks slide against each other – and I enjoyed the exquisite titillation of cupping my sister's sweet, taut breast in one hand and Connie's smaller, springier breast in the other.

Finally, both my "best girls" moved in on me, each sucking one of my nipples simultaneously. Then there were four nipples fluttering against my cock, my ass, my legs – everywhere they could reach. It wasn't really a matter of sexual arousal – we were all aroused to some degree all the time, now – but of giving each other tactile pleasure, and in that we were certainly successful.

We hit the sack early that Saturday night – much earlier than we had expected to. We were young and full of energy and hormones, and any of us could have jogged from the UC campus down to the Bay Bridge without difficulty, yet we had exhausted ourselves in only twelve hours. And that's the best way to do it, I thought, as I floated off to dreamland with my arms around two beautiful women and their heads snuggled against my chest.

The next morning, sitting at our kitchen table with the largest mugs of coffee we could organize, we discussed what to do with the remainder of the weekend. We could simply repair to the bedroom and no one would vote it down, but I wanted to show off the two lovely ladies I had been blessed with.

So I proposed we go into the City, stroll around Golden Gate Park and the Palace of Fine Arts, visit Coit Tower and Mission Dolores – the usual sights, but the most dramatic. The spots Alex and I knew showed off San Francisco at its best, the places we returned to again and again ourselves.

Then the cocktail hour at the Top of the Mark on Nob Hill, followed by dinner at Donatello (if we could get reservations). My sister and I were aficionados of Northern Italian cuisine and Connie – no surprise – was a seafood junkie: Donatello was one of the best restaurants in the City for both. Expensive, but worth every penny – and this was a very special occasion.

The weather in S.F. that afternoon was glorious, comfortably cool but sunny and dry. The frisbee-freaks thronged the park and young lovers huddled under the trees. The girls wore their warm-weather best and drew attention everywhere we went; walking arm in arm with them, I basked in their reflected radiance.

Alex, with her long legs, had chosen a pleated minidress that reminded me of a cheerleader outfit. It was dazzling white, as were her low heels, and showed off her tan nicely. Connie preferred a blazing red miniskirt cut straight and slim and a black sleeveless top – her favorite colors. She also wore low heels; San Francisco isn't a high-heel city when you're walking and hopping on and off cable cars. But both women carried large purses in preparation for the evening and I was carrying my basic blue blazer and my sister's white jacket over my arm.

By 5:00, we had seen the sights on our list and Connie was mentally comparing Honolulu's cost of living with that of San Francisco. Even coming from the Islands, she was visibly smitten with the City by the Bay; it's hard not to be. San Francisco can be dirty, dangerous, decadent, and demoralizing – but it's also exhilarating, intoxicating, and romantic, and (when conditions are just right) so heartbreakingly beautiful that I can't imagine*anyone* wanting to live anywhere else.

We strolled into the Mark Hopkins and split up at the rest rooms on the 2nd Floor. When we met on the Mezzanine a few minutes later, Alex's walking shoes and ordinary pantyhose had been exchanged for white patent heels and smoky gray hose with a seam up the back, and she was wearing her linen jacket. Her freshly-brushed auburn mane shone. Connie had changed to high red heels that matched her mini; over the black top she now wore a short gold lame jacket that contrasted electrically with her thick black hair. And I had put on my tie and blazer.

We went up the elevator to the Top with several other couples and I was aware of the curious/envious glances of the men – especially when Connie laid her head against my left shoulder and took a possessive grip on my arm, while my sister interlaced her fingers with mine and touched the back of my hand to her lips.

We spent a delightful hour sipping our drinks on the outer ring of the Top, watching the City rotate past; we were in a curved booth so that, again, I could have the pleasure of a girl on each side of me. We all three held hands on the table top and talked quietly about this marvelous new triangular relationship that had come into being so suddenly. We must have caused considerable gossip among the waiters.

When Alex made a hip-swaying journey to the powder room, Connie and I squeezed each other's hands in delight and barely suppressed our glee at the surreptitious glances she got from other patrons of both sexes. When Alex returned, she said another woman not much older than she had tried to pump her (diplomatically) for information about our little threesome.

"I just smiled and told her we were both your devoted fiancees," she said straightfaced. Nothing would do, of course, but that Connie make the same trip, whether she needed to or not.

"She's still there," Connie reported on her return. "She asked me if we were both really engaged to you." She poked my gently in the ribs. "She couldn't understand how two women could share the same man without being jealous of each other. I just told her you were such a world-class lover, we were always too exhausted to worry about it!" She could barely stifle her giggles.

Then it was a short walk across Union Square to Donatello, where we stuffed ourselves with veal marsala and scampi, and wine from the Esti vineyards. We swore to each other that we couldn't eat another bite… until the pastry cart came around and we fell all over the chocolate and orange and hazelnut concoctions.

Our waiter that evening was a young Genoese named Pietro who confided that he was really an artist – but one must earn a living, Signori! I could spot a closet romantic a block away (takes one to know one) and I asked him if he thought it was possible for a man to be genuinely in love with more than one woman at a time.

He smiled broadly at the three of us. "Of course, Signori! But it can be a terrible problem: Does one man*deserve* the love of more than one woman in*return*?"

I looked back at him more soberly. "Pietro, it is indeed a terrible problem, and a heavy burden. Such a fortunate man must strive very hard to be worthy of such a rare gift."

I looked into Alex's eyes and then Connie's, and then I had temporary difficulty seeing anything clearly. Both of my darlings leaned over and kissed me on the cheek at almost the same moment. Even Pietro looked a little misty. He also got his largest tip of the evening.

The second half of our two-week odyssey of discovery was a little different. The starting gun had fired, the first sprint was past, and now we found ourselves settling in comfortably and naturally for the long haul. We worked during the days, went out most evenings to introduce Connie to our favorite haunts around Berkeley (and to show her off – "an old friend of ours" – to some of our acquaintances), and spent much of each night making love. The sex wasn't as frantic, now. Instead, we refined our techniques with each other and made all the reassuring noises and gestures that new lovers make.