MOANS VENERIS

We moved when my twin sister and I were just a few months over eighteen—early the summer after Jenny and I had finished our junior year in high school. Our parents had both gotten their promotions to full professor a couple of years earlier, he in philosophy and she in psychology. Thus, even in the high-priced real estate market of mid-Eighties Boulder, Colorado, they could afford a better house than the one Jenny and I had grown up in.

In our new house, Jenny's room was right next to mine. We hadn't talked to each other about it when we had the movers set up our beds; later we found that we'd put them next to each other, right up against our shared wall. That wall seemed pretty substantial, but it wasn't soundproof—not by a long shot. The first night we lived there, we'd all been tired and gone to bed early. And, shortly after we'd gone to bed, I heard her masturbating.

I don't mean that I heard the juicy sounds of her fingers sliding around in the wetness of her pussy's folds. The wall filtered those sounds out pretty well. They might've come through, for all I remember, but I didn't even realize, then, that fingers applied that way might make any sounds; so I wasn't listening for them. What I heard was the "Oooh!"s and the "Ahhh!"s, those "Mmmm!"s and "Unnh!"s, that came from her unguarded mouth.

She'd gone to bed just before I had that first night in the new house because, gentleman that I was, I'd let her have the bathroom first. I'd just gotten back from my turn in the bathroom and lain down, naked, for the night. Like most eighteen-year-old guys would do, I was asking myself whether I was going to jack off before I went to sleep. As I pondered, I gave my cock a few experimental strokes—just to see if I was in the mood.

And then, still undecided about my mood, my half-hard cock in my hand, I heard her soft moans through the wall. I'd never heard anything like that before; but I guessed, instantly, what she was up to. Thoughts of her female body lying so close to me, and of the part of that body her hand must have been on—the part of her body that made her a girl—filled my mind. So did thoughts of replacing her hand on that part of her body with the corresponding part of my body—which sprang to attention. It decided for me the question I'd been asking myself.

Her noises grew as she progressively lost control of herself. And I realized that she was muttering, incomprehensibly at first. But as she got closer and closer to her orgasm, her muttering got a bit louder. Not that she was shouting, or even using a normal tone of voice. I don't think you could have heard her from out in the hall, even from just outside her door. But I heard her distinctly through the wall: "Oh, fuck me, fuck me!" She repeated it, again and again, sometimes adding, "Fuck me harder!" And shortly after that, I heard, even a little louder, but a lot less distinctly, the incoherent noises that signalled the arrival of her orgasm.

My trial strokes became much less conjectural, and as the resulting sensations became more demanding, I realized that I was about to groan. But I knew, now, from what I had heard through the wall, that Jenny would hear me, so I managed to stifle that incipient groan. And, somehow, I contained all of the other noises—including even noises from the bed—that a guy might make while bringing himself off.

That's a difficult thing for a young man to do. But I was a very introverted—in fact, nerdy—guy, and I valued my privacy very highly. That probably explained why I didn't have much experience with girls. I was too geeky and too afraid of girls, though I'd somehow managed a few dates. But I'd been too shy to try to kiss anyone (let alone put a hand on anyone's boob), and nothing had ever developed out of those dates. But I was pretty good at keeping things private when I wanted to do so, and being able to hear Jenny's moans through the wall was something I really wanted to keep private.

Jenny was different. She was extroverted, outgoing. She attracted guys; and she liked their attention. She'd had a number of boyfriends since she was fourteen, enough that I'd lost count. From the way she talked to me about her boyfriends, I thought that she'd probably fucked most of them. None of those guys had lasted very long, though. She always seemed to get dissatisfied with the current guy pretty quickly. As a rule, one of her relationships lasted several weeks, and then she'd break it off and start on another one.

I knew I should have been ashamed of myself for thinking about her the way I did when I heard those noises. After all, she was my sister, and not just my sister, but my twin sister—my womb-mate. "Should have been," maybe—but I wasn't.

I guess we weren't as close a pair as many twins are. We'd been a lot closer when we were small, though now we had a more nearly typical brother-sister relationship. But I was secretly glad to have a sibling my own age, and I think that she felt much the same way—naturally neither of us would have admitted to those feelings. We often watched TV together—though, of course, there were the mandatory fights over what we were going to watch. We spent time together studying—not only for the things we were taking together, but for the courses we were taking separately. We got along with each other pretty well, and I thought we liked each other.

More than liked, I guess; there was genuine affection between us. We touched each other frequently. When we met or parted, it wasn't a bit unusual for either of us to give the other a quick caress or a squeeze, or even a kiss on the cheek.

Her appendix had burst, during the summer of the year before we moved, and the way I'd hung out around the hospital, night and day—in her room when the hospital staff would allow, and in a nearby waiting room when they wouldn't—was a family legend. During the fall after that, I'd sprained an ankle trying (unsuccessfully) to do an ill-advised stunt on a skate-board, and during the week or so I spent on crutches after that, she'd driven me everywhere I had to go (or wanted to). She'd even carried things for me when I couldn't handle them together with the crutches.

But, again, neither of us was about to admit to that affection. Like most siblings of about the same age, neither of us shied from taking advantage of the other whenever an occasion arose. We put each other down when possible, and we squabbled over silly things whenever something silly (like what what we were going to watch together on TV, who got the larger piece of pie, or whose turn it was to do the dishes) arose to squabble about.

And now, here I was jacking off while I listened to the sounds of her jilling off, thinking not only of what her body must be like, but what I'd like to do to it. For a few days, I did feel a bit of guilt about that—especially two days later when I heard her again and reacted the same way as I had the first time. But within a few weeks I'd settled into a routine. And as my listening became routine—along with the accompanying thoughts and actions—my guilt faded.

I figured that I'd had a bit of luck in discovering the nature of the wall before she had, so I kept myself very quiet when we were both in our rooms—not just when she might hear me whacking off. I didn't want my noises to come through our wall, because she might realize just how easily sound traveled through it. I even considered playing with myself only when she wasn't in her room. But the routine developed as quickly as it did because she masturbated three or four times a week, right after we went to bed. Naturally, the noises she made always gave me a boner—and a pressing need to do something about it. But I kept myself silent, perfectly silent, as I brought myself off.

As a result of this new entertainment, I was sleeping better. Mom and Dad both suffered from insomnia; they even took sleeping pills every night because of it. Jenny and I had, in the last few years, found that we were beginning to have a few nights a month when we slept very poorly—or even not at all. Mom and Dad didn't want us to take their pills; that hadn't stopped me from swiping one a couple of times. But regular orgasms seemed to be improving my situation.

Another side effect of this new form of listening pleasure was that I began to pay more attention to Jenny's body when I saw her during our waking hours. I found myself glancing at her frequently—undressing her with my eyes when no one (especially Jenny) was looking.

She was shorter than I by several inches, and she had a nice figure. She wasn't unusually attractive, but she was definitely good-looking. She had all of the standard female equipment, in all of the standard places—at least as far as I could tell when she was fully dressed. Her boobs weren't particularly large, but they were much more than merely noticeable. And, suddenly, I found that noticing them was very pleasurable. Her ass was one of the nicest asses I've ever seen, and I loved the way her pants curved down and around her pussy and cupped it.

I hadn't seen her naked since we were about five. But I had a good imagination; my mind's eye saw right through her clothes. (My mind's eye knew what was there to see from looking at occasional copies of magazines, like Hustler, that friends swiped from older brothers.) And what that inner eye saw caused more than one boner and brought about more than one session in which I locked myself in the bathroom to, ummm, work something out.

Soon I was day dreaming about her, hearing her moans in my mind, and thinking about what her naked body must look like—not to mention fantasizing about what her pussy would feel like as my cock slid into it. At school, I found that I had to force myself to think about something else near the end of each class. As long as I was sitting in class, no one could see that I had a boner. But if I stood up in that condition, the tent in my pants would humiliate me. Bringing myself off in a stall in the boys' room was risky and problematic, but I managed it a few times.

I started going to bed earlier than my parents were used to. They didn't say anything, having learned years earlier that complimenting me on behavior they liked was a very good way of getting me to change it to behavior they didn't like. But they must have been pleased when I started going to bed an hour or two earlier than had been my habit. By some strange coincidence, which didn't seem to catch their attention, I was now going to bed at right about the time that Jenny went to bed. I'd lie there in my darkened room, listening. And, several times a week she'd unknowingly serenade me with her moans and her sotto voce pleas to be fucked—harder, harder, harder.

In the few months after we moved, I reached an equilibrium, a randy equilibrium. I spent a lot of time thinking about my sister's body, and I must've pumped out several gallons of cum during those months. (Well, pints, anyway.) Every two or three nights, it was the same. Shortly after I'd gone to bed, I'd hear barely perceptible moaning from her side of the wall. Slowly it would grow, and I'd lie there naked, stroking my stiff cock slowly—more or less in time with her.

As her moans intensified and became more definite, my stroking increased in speed and strength. Soon, I'd hear her pleading to be fucked. I was usually about to explode when I heard the muted sounds that accompanied her orgasm. Sometimes, I even thought I could feel the floor shaking—but that was usually when I was so far out of sync with her that I didn't come until some time after she was finished. And it was probably my imagination.

What did I do with the cum? I used the T-shirt I'd worn that day to avoid making a mess. Jenny and I each did our own laundry, so I didn't have to worry about being discovered on that account.

And then things changed.

The two of us usually walked to and from school together. But I came home from school alone one mid-September afternoon. The friend I'd been planning on doing something with that afternoon had been sick, and he hadn't come to school that day. Jenny, knowing I had plans, had made plans of her own to go to a mall with some of her girlfriends.

Mom and Dad both had committee meetings that would keep them on the university campus until nearly supper time. So I found myself alone in the house with nothing to do.

Soon after I got home, it occurred to me that this would be a good opportunity to try the expensive new headphones I'd just gotten for my stereo. In order to buy them, I'd done extra chores around the house to earn more money, and I'd even spent some of the allowance money I'd socked away in my savings account..

That was another way Jenny and I differed. I was pretty good at saving my money. In fact, I hated to part with it. Compared to most guys my age, I was practically a miser. In fact, I had a hundred dollars stashed in my top dresser drawer right then and, even after buying the earphones, I still had a couple of hundred dollars in the bank. But she never had enough for what she wanted to buy. She was always short, and she frequently tried to wheedle some out of me. When we weren't fighting, I would usually lend it to her. She always paid it back in a reasonable amount of time, because she knew that if she didn't, I'd stop lending.

I'd rarely used the stereo after we'd moved, for fear that Jenny would hear it and learn the secret of the wall. But I'd gotten those headphones because I loved classical music, and I'd missed listening to it. (Hey—I said I was nerdy, didn't I?) So I closed my door and turned on the stereo.

As luck would have it, the station had just begun playing one of E. Power Biggs' organ renditions of J. S. Bach's Toccata, Adagio, and Fugue in C Major. There's a lot of amazing pedal work in that piece—meaning heavy bass, which I loved. So I turned the volume up, put on the headphones, and lay down on my bed to listen.

As I listened to the Toccata, I thought about what I'd heard through the wall a couple of nights before. My cock responded as it had that night. By the time the Adagio began, I was naked, and I was engaged in two of my favorite activities at the same time—both involving organs, so to speak.

The music is perfect for what I was doing. I jerked slowly through the Adagio; compulsion built within me. The Adagio ended in a sequence of majestic chords, and the bright Fugue subject began. Slowly, the strength and the intensity of the music grew, deepened, and the pedal took up the subject. My stroking intensified with the music; J. S. Bach, E. Power Biggs, and I were on track to climax together. The three of us were about to peak when my door flew open, and Jenny stepped into my room. She took a few steps, and then what she saw before her registered.

I froze in mid-stroke. She froze in mid-step. Her eyes bugged out and her jaw dropped. Through the headphones, I heard her squeak—as if someone had poked her in the ass with a sharp stick. Seconds later, her lips moved. I couldn't hear what she said, but it looked like "Oh, my God!" Her hand came up as though to block out an intolerable sight, and she turned her head away from me.

Unfreezing, I tore the headphone set off my head and—none too gently for such an expensive item—tossed it onto the desk next to my bed. I yelled, "Why are you home? What the fuck are you doing in my room?" I didn't swear very much, especially around home. But no one had ever walked in on me under these circumstances before, either. I'd been about to come, almost there. But now I could feel my boner beginning to sag. I was pissed—almost as much at the untimely interruption as at the intrusion on something that most folks consider a very private activity.

She made no move to leave, but she kept her eyes averted. Indeed, she turned her whole body partially away from me. Keeping her hand where it would block any accidental view, she answered, "We decided to go to a movie. The girls brought me home to change clothes. They're going to pick me up in an hour, and I was hoping you'd have some money I could borrow. I thought you were out with Marty, and I was going to look in your desk to see if you had any." She sounded pretty pitiful, as though mortified by what she'd interrupted. "I'm really sorry," she continued. "I really didn't mean… I didn't know…" She trailed off.

As I've said, I lent her money all the time, and I wasn't worried that she wouldn't have paid me back if she'd found and borrowed some. But her interruption had pissed me off, and the thought of her going through my desk looking for money pissed me off some more. Grouchily, in 'get-even' mode, I said, "I don't have any money you can borrow. Get out of here!"

Hand still raised, she started to move toward the door. But her natural curiosity was beginning to get the better of her embarrassment. As she moved, her hand wavered a bit, and she turned her head, tentatively, so that she could peek over her shoulder. "What're you doing?" she asked. And she looked, out of the corner of her eye, over her hand, directly at what had been the center of the action.

My right hand was still wrapped around the boner that hadn't had time to shrink completely—though it was noticeably softer than it had been thirty seconds earlier. Belatedly, I started to reach for a pillow to cover up. Then I realized that covering up wouldn't make her un-see what she'd seen, and I gave up on the idea. She might as well look, I figured.

She laughed. "I thought so! You were jacking off!" She went on, still laughing, "You turd!"

Now I was really pissed. "Get the fuck out of my room, Godammit!" I yelled at her.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I really am. But, you know, it's nothing to worry about. Everybody does it. Even I…" She trailed off again, realizing that she was about to give me too much information. I almost told her that I knew, but I stopped myself in time. That was a secret I wasn't ready to give away.

She lowered her hand, but not her gaze. In fact, she turned her head toward me and looked directly at my cock, and the hand I still had wrapped around it. The laughing died out. "Are you hard? …uhh, …erect?" she asked. Her curiosity had overcome her other emotions. "I've never had a really good look at a guy's thing. Especially that way. Can I look?" Her hand dropped, and she moved toward me, looking eagerly.

I'd never had a girl look at my "thing", whether "that way" or any other way, and the said "thing" was re-inflating at the idea. It did occur to me that she couldn't be quite right about never having seen "a guy's thing." I was sure she'd seen naked men in movies. But probably not hard. I was still pretty rattled, so, even though the thought of all of the boyfriends she'd fucked came to mind, it didn't really register that she had to have seen some hard cocks when she'd done that. And, I figured that she'd already seen my cock, hard, just seconds ago, so I didn't have much to lose by letting her have a better look.

She stepped up close to the bed, looking avidly all the while. Now I was starting to get interested in this; I was fully hard again. I removed my hand so that she could see more. She bent over a little for a closer look. Almost automatically, her hand reached out, but stopped a foot short of touching me."Can I… Can I touch it"? she asked. She was whispering. She was lost in what she was looking at.

Suddenly, it came to me that there might be a deal here. Just maybe, in return, I could get a look at more of her than I'd seen since we were little. As twins, we'd grown up bargaining with each other, so we'd both gotten fairly good at it. But she'd just broken the first rule of tough bargaining by revealing what she wanted. Of course, I wanted the same thing, but she didn't know that—so, at least for the moment, the bargaining advantage was mine.

"You've already had a free look," I pointed out. "What's in it for me if I let you touch it?"

That drew her back to reality, at least a bit. But I could see in her eyes that she still wanted to touch me. After a moment's hesitation, she said, "I'll take off my shirt and bra, and you can look at my boobs. If I can touch your dick."

This was a good sign. She always began with a low-ball offer when one of our trades might be in the offing. "Just your boobs?" I asked. "You've seen everything I've got, and you've seen me hard. You're gonna have to do better than that."

"Okay," she said quickly, apparently afraid that she'd offered so little that I'd just refuse to deal. "I'll strip, too. And you can see everything. But you have to show me how to jack you off, too. I want to know how, so I'll know what to do when I want to make out with a guy."

How could a girl who'd fucked so many guys not know how to make out? Maybe I'd been wrong about that. But she was offering more than I'd expected, and that distracted me from the issue of what she knew. I'd just been hoping to see her boobs and her pussy. But she said that she wanted to learn how to jack me off, too, and she seemed to think that I'd be giving something up by showing her how. I was pretty sure I was going to win this exchange, so I drove that point home. "Touching's one thing," I began. "But you're my sister! I don't know if I should let you…"

An agonized look flitted across her face; her bargaining skills were really slipping. I delayed a bit, obviously "thinking it over." Her hand, which was still reaching outward, halfway between us, withdrew and went to her shirt buttons. She unbuttoned the top one. Eyes looking directly into mine, she started on the next button.

Even if I hadn't already made up my mind, that probably would've done it for me. "All right!" I said, making a show of reluctance. "I get to see you naked, and you get to jack me off."

"Deal!" she said as her other hand flew to her buttons. It didn't seem like she'd even noticed that I'd changed the terms of the deal she'd offered. Now she was going to jack me off, not just learn how to jack me off.

In less than a minute, she was naked. She stood by my bed, facing me, staring at my cock. I stared at her boobs and her pussy—trying to decide which I wanted to spend more time looking at. I never did make up my mind, and my eyes flicked back and forth.

After we'd stared at each other for a bit, she took that decision out of my hands. She dropped to her knees beside the bed, putting her pussy out of sight. But she put out her hand and wrapped it gently around my cock—very much as I'd had my own hand wrapped around it for the first few seconds after she'd entered the room. At her touch, I tore my eyes from her boobs and looked down to where her hand held my cock.

The feeling of her female hand wrapped around me was exquisite. It was something I'd never felt before, never suspected could feel so good.

"What should I do now?" she whispered.

Somehow I managed to answer, "I'll show you," as I took her wrist into my own hand. "Tighten up a little," I went on. And then, "Not quite that tight!" as she clamped down too hard. She loosened a little; the feeling now was even better than at first.

"Like this," I said, moving her hand up and down, up and down. I moved her slowly at first, and then quickened the pace as she began to move on her own. I couldn't believe how wonderful it felt. "God, that feels good!" I moaned. My eyes moved back to her tits—which were now jiggling from her hand's rhythmic motion. The sight was almost as entrancing as the pressure that was now building in my groin.

It looked like she was enjoying this, too. But as she went on, she seemed to realize that I'd conned her, and that I was getting more from this than she was. Later, I figured that I should have seen that the cogs were turning inside her head, but what her hand was doing to my cock had short-circuited my brain.

I was nearly there, and I think she knew it, when she unwrapped her hand and stood up. "Okay," she said. "I think I know how to do that now." The implication seemed to be that she was done.

"Wait!" I said, helplessly. "I'm almost there! You have to finish me!"

"Oh," she responded, with a sly smile, "you can finish yourself. I'll just go wait for the girls to come and get me." She was standing now, and everything was again in view.

"Please!" I whined. "You can't just leave me like this!"

She smiled. "Well," she offered, "I do need some money for the movie. Maybe I could finish you if you gave me… oh… twenty dollars."

"That's robbery!" I snorted. "I'm not going to pay you to—"

"Okay!" she interrupted me, smiling. "I'll just go."

She'd hooked me. "Wait!" I pleaded. "Twenty dollars?" The view I had of her body might have had something to do with the fact that I was rapidly becoming putty in her hands.

"Twenty ought to be enough for the evening," she answered, still smiling slyly. Now she was drawing me in. "But I could use a little more. And I really want to be sure I know how to blow a guy. I could practice with you if you'd make it forty dollars."

No one had ever blown me before, Though, of course, I knew what that involved. So it sounded pretty good to me.

"Do you know what to do?" I asked. I started to tell her: "You have to—"

"Oh," she said, interrupting me again, "I think I know what to do." She stood beside the bed, as naked as the day we'd been born. The view—and what she'd been doing to my cock—had me befuddled now. "I've talked about how this works with my girlfriends. I just need to practice a little. Do you want a sample?" I was too far gone to realize that, if her girlfriends had told her how blow-jobs work, they must have told her how hand-jobs work, too. In spite of the cleverness I'd been congratulating myself on, she was firmly in the driver's seat. And it wasn't until later that it dawned on me that she'd been hornswoggling me.

She held my cock in her fingers, and, leaning over the bed, guided it to her mouth. Softly, moistly, she kissed my crown. My whole body went rigid at the touch. She raised her head a bit and turned to look at my face. "Mmmm! You like that, don't you?" she said. Her smile grew broader—and slyer.

Once again, I'd never felt anything like what she'd just done to me. Somehow, I managed to return the gaze she was giving me. I managed to nod—probably with a pleading look on my face. "Forty dollars?" she asked, still holding my cock, and breathing the words across the moist patch she'd left on it.

"Yes! Yes! Forty dollars!" I agreed. "Please! Do it now!"

She smiled at me again, and, lowering her head, she took half of my cock into her mouth.

I'd thought that the feeling of her hand on my rod had been exquisite. This was beyond anything I'd ever imagined! And that included the daydreams I'd been having lately about what it would feel like to put my cock in her pussy.

She held me in her mouth for a few seconds. And then, slowly, she began to bob her head up and down. She still had her hand on my cock, but I could see that she was fingering her pussy with her other hand.

I'd never felt anything like the hot, wet friction her mouth generated on my cock. It commanded my attention like nothing had, ever before. I felt my hips bucking in answer to her movements. She speeded up some, and I was again approaching…

She removed her mouth. My orgasm again receded, though my need for it didn't. I looked at her, nearly in despair. "Finish me!" I pleaded. "Finish me!"

"Let's raise the stakes," she offered, smiling slyly again. "For eighty bucks, I'll fuck you."

Her offer shocked me. I'm still not sure whether it shocked me less than it should have, or more than it should have.

After all, it probably should have shocked me more than it did, because here was my twin sister offering to be a whore for me! To fuck me for money!

On the other hand, it shouldn't have shocked me as much as it did, because I knew she'd fucked a lot of other guys before this, and she'd just had my cock in her mouth for money. Moreover, there wasn't any doubt in my mind as to whether I was going to take her up on that offer. So maybe the level of shock I experienced was about right.

At any rate, without thinking, I blurted out, "That's a lot of money! It's four week's allowance!" Almost immediately, I regretted saying it and hoped she wouldn't take it as a refusal.

She was still wearing that sly smile—and nothing else. She picked up her clothes. "Okay," she said, still facing me, and holding her clothes against her side, so as not to obstruct my view. "I'll go."

"Wait!" I implored urgently, looking over the goods she was taking care to show me. "I didn't say 'no'! Let me think a minute."

She stood there, making sure that I saw what she was offering. "What's to think about?" she asked. "Fucking my brother is kinda gross. But you want me to, don't you?"

"But…" I began, and then paused. "What if someone…" I paused again.

"…if someone found out?" she finished for me. "I'm sure not going to tell anyone! Are you?"

"Well… No…" I answered. "That's not something I'd ever tell anyone."

"We're the only ones around. How would anyone find out," she asked, "if neither of us said anything?"

I didn't want to part with that much money, but she'd gotten to me: I did want what she was offering—really wanted it. And she was right! If we did It, there was no way that either of us would tell anyone about it. "Okay," I said. "Eighty dollars. And you won't ever tell anyone."

"Eighty," she confirmed. "You can't tell anyone, either. I'll fuck you, but you can't put your… stuff in me. That would be too gross! You have to pull out in time. You have to promise."

"Okay!" I agreed—much too easily. But I'd never done this before, and I didn't know, yet, just how much I would want to finish inside her.

She set her clothes down on the floor and got onto the bed. I moved over to make room and got up onto my knees. She rolled onto her back, looked me in the eye, and folded her legs up toward her body—opening her thighs as she did so. I think my jaw dropped at my first sight of a real, living, open pussy. I stared at it, and my cock throbbed. The pictures in those magazines had been right! Pussies did look like that!

After a moment or two, she prodded me verbally: "Well? Are you too chickenshit to do this? Put it in me!"

Clumsily, I climbed over her into the position every straight young man dreams of daily, nightly, hourly. Slowly, bearing my weight on my left hand, I lowered my body while my right hand directed my cock toward her pussy. I didn't know, then, very much about how girls are put together, and I tried to penetrate her clit. It didn't work.

"Not there, you dumb shit!" she muttered as I raised myself for another try. "Let me…" she went on, as she reached down, grasped my boner, and guided it toward her entrance. My weight now shared by the hands I'd placed to either side of her, I lowered myself slowly, and my cock slid easily into her.

I'd never experienced anything so wonderfully warm, wet, and tight around my cock before. My lungs expelled their contents in a long, gasping breath. My jaw slackened, and my eyes closed involuntarily. And I lay there unmoving, on top of her, in her, stupefied.

I have no idea how long we lay there that way, but it couldn't have been very long. "Congratulations, Bozo!" she groused at me. "You aren't a virgin anymore." I opened my eyes and saw her long blonde hair spread out over my pillow. I looked into her eyes. She looked back at me, and said, "Get it done—fast!" She moved, slightly, under me. Her sheath communicated her motion to my cock, doubling and redoubling the pleasure signals that now commanded my brain. My cock throbbed inside her, and I moaned. My hips—now thinking for themselves—began to move.

She closed her eyes, and her own hips began to move in answer to mine. I pounded myself into her, again and again and again. Pressure built up inside me, and I pounded harder. Dimly, I realized that she was responding to my motion, moving with me, driving me to my pinnacle. In my own room, on my own bed, I heard the same moans I'd heard so many times through our wall.

It wasn't long before it was upon me: The feeling I'd had so frequently while I'd listened to those moans—but a thousand times more intensely than under the stroking my own hand delivered. I knew that I had reached the point of no return! My body insisted, demanded that I drive myself into her; my hips began a final thrust to that end. It was a feeling of ultimate necessity—as though life would never again offer me the opportunity to leave my cum deep inside a female body.

But I remembered in time that I'd agreed—promised, in fact—not to come inside her. Our parents had taught us that almost nothing was worse than dishonoring a promise, and in spite of that deep craving, that overriding compulsion, I forced my unwilling hips to back my cock out of her and got to my knees above her. Sobbing from the force my orgasm was about to release—and from frustrated desire—I wrapped my hand around my rod, and I stroked. Once! Twice! A third time! My consciousness dissolved in rapture as lights exploded in my head and gouts of cum spewed out of me and onto her belly.

All too soon, it was over. I threw myself blindly onto the bed beside her, rolling onto my back. For a minute or two, I breathed deeply. As I recovered, I felt the bed jostle. I opened the eyes that I suddenly realized I'd closed, and I found her standing beside the bed looking down at herself and at the warm, gelatinous, white splatters that now ran slowly down her torso.

"God!" she growled at me. "Look at this mess! You pig! How could you come so much? And why on me? Now I have to shower." Picking up the T-shirt I'd thrown on the floor when I'd stripped, she wiped most of it off. "Where's my money?"

I pointed at my dresser. "There's five twenties in the top drawer. Take four of them and get out." In spite of (Because of?) what we'd just done, we both were angry with each other. "And there'd better be a twenty left when you leave."

She picked up her clothes and went to the dresser. Still in a surly mood, she opened the drawer, and as she dug into it after the money, I heard her mutter, "Fuck you, asshole!"

I should have let it pass—pretended that I hadn't heard—but she'd pissed me off when she'd interrupted me as I was jacking off. Even though she'd fucked me after that, she'd frustrated me by making me promise to pull out at the critical moment. And then she'd been angry about what had happened when I'd done so. She'd made a mess of my T-shirt by wiping my cum up with it; and that pissed me off, too, even though I would used it the same way if she hadn't interrupted me. And now she was taking my money. So I struck out at her verbally. As she closed the drawer, I growled back at her, childishly, "You just did that, didn't you! Get out of here, whore!"

She slammed the door as she left. As hard as she could.Jenny and I spent the next several days being angry with each other. We stopped touching each other. We avoided each other; we didn't even walk to or from school together. We spoke to each other only when absolutely necessary. And I, at least, was surprised at how often "necessary" arose—not least when we had to share the table with Mom and Dad at meals. We were too civilized to hurt each other physically, but there were times when I wanted to injure her, and I'm sure that there were times that she wanted to do the same, or worse, to me.

We'd had multi-day fights before—times when we weren't speaking to each other. And, however much we tried to hide our rancor, our parents knew when they were living between the trenches, in no-man's land. But they'd told us, a few years earlier, that they figured that we had grown up enough to work things out between ourselves, and they would no longer intervene. That, I think, was some of Professor Mom's psychology. And, naturally, Professor Dad was philosophical about it.

They did require, though, that we behave in a civil fashion when anyone else was around—no matter how much we currently hated each other. We didn't have to speak to each other, or even acknowledge the other's presence—but if we did either in other people's presence, we were to do so politely. If we broke that rule, they told us, they would see to it that we wished we hadn't. And we believed that.

Her anger with me didn't keep Jenny from jilling herself off during that period. In fact, she did so more frequently than had been her habit—five times during the ensuing week. Nor did my anger with her keep me from listening to her pleas to be fucked harder, when they came through our wall, along with her moans, right after bedtime. She'd moaned that way when we'd fucked. And I knew, now, what her pussy felt like when we put my cock into it, so her moaning now evoked memories that excited me even more. In consequence, my anger with her didn't stop me from jacking off to her moans and pleas. And it certainly didn't stop me from thinking about fucking her again.

On some level, I recognized that the two of us were being childish. But one of the symptoms of childishness is refusal to take any steps toward altering your behavior. If we had acted more like the adults we weren't, we would have controlled ourselves, talked things through together with some semblance of calmness, and come to an adult resolution. But our childish impulses prevented us from doing that. Neither of us was willing to overcome our anger long enough to listen, let alone to talk rationally, to the other.

At the very least, if we had behaved in any way like adults, we would have ignored each other long enough for our anger to weaken. Then our childishness would have run its course, and we would have reconciled ourselves with each other and with what we had done. Though we were the same age, Jenny was the more mature. She proved it by beginning to moderate her attitude toward me. But no sooner did she do so, than I found a way to be even more childish. And I made things worse.

It was a week after that ill-starred fuck, and Jenny had gotten home from school a bit before I had that afternoon. When I got home, she'd already gone upstairs to change clothes. I left my pack by the front door and went through the living room, headed for the kitchen, looking for food. Our parents wouldn't be home for a couple of hours.

As I approached the couch, I saw that she'd left her pack on it, open. A bundle of papers inside it, folded vertically up the center, caught my eye. The paper on the outside of that folded bundle was seriously marked up with red pencil.

"What's this?" I said to myself, and I reached in and extracted the papers. I took them into the kitchen with me and, as I made myself a jelly sandwich, I examined them more carefully. It was Jenny's latest Spanish test; she'd gotten a 52 on it. The minimum passing score, school-wide, was 65, so this was a definite F, if ever I'd seen one. If either of our parental units found out about this test score, Jenny would be grounded until she was thirty! Maybe longer.

I smiled a vicious little smile in my heart. "Sweet!" I muttered to myself. "It's payback time!" She had made me want to fuck her, and then she'd made me pay her a lot of money to do so. I was still pissed off at that. I hadn't accepted any responsibility for the tension between us; all of the blame, I thought, belonged to her.

As I finished eating the sandwich, I took the exam back into the living room, Jenny was sitting on the couch near her pack, about to turn the TV on. She looked and, for the first time in days, smiled at me—smiled prettily, in fact. "Hi, Jerry," she said. It was a peace offering, which I was about to reject in no uncertain terms. And, referring to the paper in my hand, she asked, "Whatcha got there?"

I smiled back at her, not prettily at all. "Oh, just something very interesting," I answered. And I held it up so that she could see what I had.

She blanched. I'd never seen that happen to anyone before. Her face went dead white, and it looked like she was about to fall over.

"Oh, Jesus!" she breathed. "My Spanish test! Give it back!" She reached out for it, and I moved it around behind my back, out of her reach.

"I don't know…" I began. I paused for effect. Then I continued, "I think Mom and Dad should know about this."

Terror flitted across her face. "NO!" she almost shrieked. "You can't tell them! They'll ground me forever! I'll miss Karen's party on Friday! I have to go to that party!"

I rubbed it in. "This is pretty serious," I offered. "It's an F, you know."

"It was a bad day!" She was almost sobbing. "It was the day after… after… you know… After we fucked. I wasn't myself! I'll do better from now on. I promise! You can't tell them. I can't even tell them why I did so badly that day. Please! Give it back to me!"

I was intent on making her hurt. "You took a lot of my money last week, and now you want me to be nice to you." I paused and looked meaningfully at her.

She was in tears now. "Please!" she sobbed. "I still have most of your money." I found it encouraging that she referred to it as my money. "I'll give it back to you, and I'll repay the fifteen that I don't have now. I'll owe it to you. I promise. You know I'll pay what I owe!"

"That's a good start," I replied, smiling significantly. "You have to repay me. But that's not enough. I want to fuck you again!"

She looked at me, unbelieving. She wasn't crying anymore, but her tears still trickled down her cheeks. "Do that again?" she whispered, in shock. I don't think she was faking.

"Hey," I pointed out. "It isn't anything we haven't done before!"

"That was just a one-time thing…" she began, and then trailed off. She looked at me. "You really mean it! Don't you?"

"I really mean it," I confirmed, in what must have been my shittiest tone of voice. "If you want me to give this test back to you, and to keep my mouth shut about it…"

"You'll give it back to me if I fuck you?" she asked, doubtfully. "And you won't say anything to Mom or Dad? …or anyone else who might tell them?"

"You got it," I said, nastily. "Fuck me again and promise to repay my money, and I'll give your test back to you. And I'll keep my mouth shut about it—I won't mention it to a soul."

"God! You're such a jerk!" she muttered.

"Payback's a bitch, isn't it?" I smirked, reaching for my belt buckle. "Are you gonna take those clothes off?"

"Right here? In the living room?"

"We're the only ones home. It's as good a place as any!"

The dead expression on her face showed her resignation. "All right," she muttered. "If that's how it has to be." She reached for her own belt buckle.

"That's how it has to be," I said as she took her jeans off. "And take your top off, too. I want to see your tits."

"If it'll make you come faster," she sulked. And she pulled off her shirt and her bra, followed by her panties.

As she took her clothes off, I stripped, too. My cock was stiffening, anticipating some more of what it had gotten a week earlier.

When she'd finished stripping, she lay on the couch, her head on one of the couch's arms, and her legs drawn up so that her knees pointed at the ceiling. Her expression was unreadable, inscrutable.

Naked myself, now, I sat near her feet and reached for one of her boobs, cupped it, fondled it. She glared at me. I leaned over, between her thighs, and applied my mouth to her nipple. Not realizing—or not caring—that I could see her face, she rolled her eyes and sighed stoically. I felt her nipple stiffen between my lips, but there was no other sign that she might be enjoying this.

I kissed my way down to her belly-button, and then on downward toward the tangle of light brown hair that marked the juncture of her thighs. A heady aroma rose from those curls; it was like nothing I'd ever smelled before, and it made my cock throb with desire. Jenny just lay there, unmoving, uncaring. I continued to move downward along her body.

She guessed what I had in mind. "Oh, God! Are you gonna do that, too?" she asked in a tone of disgust.

"Mmm-hmm," I moaned in reply. My mouth was too busy tasting her skin for a real reply.

"Go ahead and do what you gotta do!" she answered, disgust evident in her mien. "You're so gross!"

My tongue worked its way into her cleft, stroked the opening I now knew how to find, as well as the little nubbin above that opening. Again, her body betrayed her, and her breath began coming in sharp gasps. After a few moments I felt her hips beginning to rock a bit. But then she grasped my head with her hands and pulled me away from herself. "Brothers and sisters shouldn't do this kind of thing!" she complained. She sounded only half convinced.

"Fucking me last week didn't seem to bother you," I pointed out.

Ignoring my comment, she looked down at my cock; it was hard, naturally. "Your dick's hard now," she said. "Go ahead and get this over with."

I raised my head slowly. My eyes fastened on her pussy; I'd never had such a close view of a pussy before, and it fascinated me. "That's enough!" she sneered after a few seconds. "You don't get to look at my pussy all afternoon. If you're gonna fuck me, fuck me. I want to watch TV. And don't come on me this time."

So, right then, I made the dumbest decision of my life—to do one of the stupidest things I've ever done. I thought to myself: You bet! I won't come on you this time!

I pulled myself to my knees between her legs, and, taking my cock into my hand, I guided it to her pussy. I inserted its head between her outer lips and stroked several times along her cleft; she was hot, wet, slick. I felt her quiver at the touch. But I didn't know enough about girls, then, to recognize those signs for what they were—evidence that, in spite of the way I'd just rekindled her anger with me, she was enjoying this more than she would admit.

As if to convince me what a burden this was to her, she rolled her eyes again and growled at me: "Stick it in me and get it over with!"

I found her entrance and lowered my body; my cock slid easily into her again. I thought I'd remembered how good this felt, but now I knew how mistaken I'd been. The slick hot grip of her pussy on my cock felt far, far better than anything I remembered, and I groaned as her body enveloped me.

I lay there for a moment, my cock embedded in her pussy, dumbfounded by the sensation. My breath came raggedly; I shivered as she moved a bit under me to adjust her position. Unthinkingly, in response to emotions I didn't understand, I raised my head and tried to kiss her on the lips.

She blocked my effort with her hand. "No way!" she declared. "You're my brother. You can't kiss me that way! That wasn't part of the deal!" It amused me that she would fuck me but not kiss me. But for once, I didn't say anything. "Get going," she continued. "Get yourself off! And then get yourself off of me!"

Much as I enjoyed feeling her pussy wrapped statically around me, the thought of getting off had already occurred to my cock. Seconds later, I found myself plunging in and out of her as my hips responded to my cock's craving. She was still rolling her eyes, as if in disgust, and she huffed at me every now and then. Quickly, my strokes got longer, harder, deeper.

The moment came, and with one final, single-minded thrust, I embedded myself as deeply as I would go and exploded within her. I snorted and groaned as my fiery cum surged, again and again and again, the length of my cock and gushed into her body. Dimly, I was aware of the look of shocked horror on her face.

She thrashed under me and tried, with all her strength, to shove me out of and away from herself. But my muscles had locked in my transport, and she wasn't nearly strong enough to fight both gravity and my body's need. I didn't pull away from her until I was quite done and had regained some control of myself.

"Did you just come inside me?" she demanded in a low, deadly, threatening tone.

"Yeah," I gloated. "You told me not to come on you, so I didn't."

She responded instantly. "You creep!" she shouted. "You shit!" She was furious! "You… you asshole!"

"Big deal!" I snorted. "So I came inside you."

"How could you do this to me? What if you just got me pregnant? Mom and Dad will kill us!"

I hadn't thought about potential consequences before I'd come inside her, and I wasn't going to think about them now. I guess I was getting more and more childish as this went on. "You'll think of something," I crowed. "You can tell them it was one of your boyfriends, but you don't know which one. They know how much you like boys. If you tell them it was me, I'll just deny it! They know how I am with girls, and they won't ever believe I could have done it." I was still gloating. And there was just enough truth in the whole scenario to make it seem possible—even likely.

She already had her panties on, and she was reaching for her bra. "Get the fuck out of here and let me be," she yelled.

As I grabbed my clothes in order to go, she added, "But give me my Spanish test first!"My twin sister, Jenny, and I had been at war with each other for a week. Then, just when she'd been ready to try to make peace with me, I'd staged a nuclear attack for no good reason.

The trouble had started when, in a moment of shared insanity, she'd offered to fuck me for money and I'd accepted her offer. But after we'd done the dirty deed, the shit had hit the fan. Angry because she was taking my money away from me and because she'd made me pull out at the critical moment, I'd called her a whore.

Always the more rational of us, she'd tried to make peace with me after we'd gone through a week of hating each other. My reply to her overture had been to blackmail her into a second fuck.

She'd been horrified when I had ended that second fuck by coming inside her. And when, in her horror, she worried aloud that I might have gotten her pregnant, I'd implicitly called her a slut by telling her that if I had, she could just say it had been one of her boyfriends, but she didn't know which one.

So, for another week and more, we lived in the same house, in what can only be called, at best, a state of armed truce. Neither of us wanted to speak to the other. Neither of us had any desire to touch the other, or have the other touch us. We moped about the house, each pretending, as far as possible, that the other wasn't there.

We no longer walked to and from school with each other. We avoided being in the same room with each other; Jenny even took to shutting herself up in her room when she was home. The only good thing about the week that followed that second fuck was that, because we'd almost completely stopped talking to each other, we'd even stopped calling each other nasty names.

Several times that week, when we had found it necessary to interact—on account of our parents' rule regarding "civility in the presence of innocent civilians"—I'd noticed Dad looking at Mom and rolling his eyes. Evidently, our "civility" was just barely acceptable. But, however barely, it did meet their test, and, as they had promised us, they didn't intervene.

I'm sure that they were mystified. And they would stay mystified, I knew. After all, having a couple of fucks with your twin wasn't something either of us was going to discuss with a parent.

Angry as I was, I still went to bed at very nearly the same time that Jenny did, and I listened every night for the moans and pleas that came through our wall when she masturbated. And for most of the week, she didn't disapppoint me; she jilled herself every night, for six nights straight. And I responded by jacking off every time, while thinking about her pussy and how good it had felt.

As that second week of hostility between us drew to a close, I finally began to reckon with the way Jenny and I were treating each other. We were eighteen, so we were legally, but not really, adults. Nevertheless, each of us contained a nascent adult, and mine… Well, it had been trying, for two weeks now, to make itself heard over the clamor from the thirteen-year-old with which it shared my body—the clamor that underlay the way Jenny and I were treating each other.

On the last night of that second week, Jenny didn't play with herself after we'd gone to bed, and that budding adult managed to make itself heard. And, at long last, I reflected upon what we had done and what the real grievances I had against Jenny might be.

First, she'd walked in on me while I was jacking off. That had been embarrassing, but it had also been an accident—for which she'd apologized immediately. And she'd compensated me for the embarrassment with her own hand, and then with her mouth, and finally with her pussy. Thus, even though I still tried to hold that embarrassment against her, it was clear that I was off-base about doing so.

Second, she'd taken a lot of my money. But she'd simply taken what I'd agreed to pay her, so I could hardly blame her for that. Moreover, I'd extorted it back from her. And, now that I was thinking about it, I realized that, just maybe, I was a little bit too tight with my money. Even listing this one as a "grievance," the new adult within me pointed out, was unfair.

Third, she'd played the whore with me. That was more serious, but I'd played the john with her by accepting her offer. And, that emergent adult within me pointed out, my guilt in accepting her offer was every bit as black as hers had been in making it. So that was a wash, too—in fact, it had been a wash even before I'd made her pay me back.

Fourth, she'd made me pull out. The adult in me said that I'd walked into that one. I hadn't known what I was promising when I'd promised to pull out, because I hadn't yet experienced the compelling need a man feels, at orgasm, to leave his semen where his body wants him to put it. Jenny couldn't have known what she'd asked me to promise, either, because, she had never experienced it, and, being a girl, never could.

And although I'd later said I didn't care if she was pregnant, I hadn't thought that through. The truth, I decided, was that I didn't want Jenny to be pregnant at eighteen, period. Let alone by me. She'd been right about wanting me to pull out. So that was worse than a wash—she'd been right and I'd been wrong. Not just wrong, but terribly wrong.

Fifth, there was the more long-standing fact of her slutty behavior. I'd always hated how loose she was and been jealous that she'd been so successful at getting fucked. It was paradoxical, my busybody adult pointed out, that I resented her sluttiness but was, at the same time, jealous of its results. I hated the behavior, but I envied the way it got her laid frequently. I concluded that either of those grievances might a legitimate one, but not both at the same time. So those two cancelled each other out.

It seemed then, that there wasn't anything real that I could hold against her.

But then it came to me: There was the undeniable fact that my sister had been so morally defective as to fuck her brother. Not just once, but twice.

But wait! the nagging adult in me said, Didn't you fuck your sister? Twice? And how many times have you imagined fucking your sister?

There was only one possible reply. Jenny's behavior might have been reprehensible. But after several months of secretly listening to my sister moaning while she fingered herself, of jacking off to those moans, and of dreaming about fucking my sister while I did so, I'd been a willing participant in those two fucks. So my own behavior had been just as reprehensible.

Willing? the inner adult voice asked. Didn't you blackmail her into that second fuck?

The thought of my act of my blackmail was the last straw. The camel's back snapped, and I knew that I'd been worse than I'd been thinking Jenny had been. I was responsible for most of the bad feeling between us, because I'd, in effect, raped her. The deep guilt that washed over me got even deeper when I thought of her honest effort—small, but honest—to right things between us, only to have me force her into compounding our difficulties.

I knew then that this was going to be another one of my sleepless nights. If nothing else, the fact that she might be pregnant would keep me awake wondering what we would—what we could—do about it if she were.

As I lay there, my churning mind began reviewing the reasons why Jenny might be so angry with me. I'd called her a whore. I'd blackmailed her, not just into promising to repay me, but into a second fuck, as well—making that second fuck qualify as rape. I was just thinking about how little I liked thinking of myself as a rapist when it came to me that I'd made things even worse by coming inside her. And then, when she'd complained that I might have gotten her pregnant—not just pregnant, but pregnant by her own brother—I'd effectively told her that people thought she was so slutty that she could say she didn't know who'd gotten her pregnant.

I think I spent most of that night lying there, wide awake, wrapped in guilt. The best that I can say about that night is that when I tired of being ashamed of one thing, there were plenty of other things for me to move on to. By the time morning rolled around and the alarm clock went off, I knew that, because I'd gotten us into this mess, it was up to me to do something about it. I had to prostrate myself before Jenny and beg her to forgive me. And there was no real reason why she should do that.

But it was still another day before the opportunity arose, before our parents were both out of the house while Jenny and I were in it. I spent most of that time fretting over the possibility of her pregnancy.

I tried, during that day of waiting, to smile at Jenny to show her that my rancor was gone, to make overtures to her, to give her encouraging glances to show her that I knew that she was right and I was wrong. But she paid no attention, gave me no reason to believe that she would ever grant me pardon. It was as if she had shrouded herself in a black cloud through which no sound or light could penetrate—in either direction.

I lay awake until about half-past one that night, repeating my guilty ruminations. Finally, I went to the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, and swiped one of Dad's sleeping pills. It got me to sleep, and I managed to wake up when the alarm went off for school—but I felt lousy and groggy for the whole morning. I hadn't had to live through another night of tossing and turning, but I wasn't really sure I was any better off for having taken the pill.

That afternoon, Dad had a late class and Mom had a meeting. Jenny got home a bit before I did, and she'd shut herself in her room by the time I got home. When I got home, I went into the kitchen to get something to eat, postponing the moment of truth for a bit.

But, eventually, the time came when there was no putting it off any more. I went upstairs, changed my clothes, and then went to Jenny's bedroom door and knocked gently. There was no response.

I knocked again, and, again, she did not reply.

So I spoke up. "Jennifer," I said, "I think we need to talk."

That got a response. She said, in a low tone, "Go away! I don't have anything to say to you."

"Umm… well… " I began, "I guess maybe you're right. You don't. But I have a lot to say to you about how wrong I've been and how sorry I am." I paused for a moment. There was no answer. "Look," I continued, "I'd rather say things to your face than to your door, but I'm going to say them one way or the other. Can I come in?"

"Okay," she muttered. "Just a minute." I heard her moving around. After a few seconds, she continued, in a dull montone, "Come on in if you must." I could hear the reluctance in her voice.

I opened her door and stepped in, to find her tying the belt of a housecoat she'd evidently just put on. Her affect was flat, her face stony—exactly the way she'd been around me for the last week. She sat on the side of her bed and glared at me without saying a word.

I looked into her glare and, unable to return it, I dropped my eyes to her floor. "I've been a shit," I started. "I don't know where to start. But I'm really sorry about the way I've treated you, and I'll try."

And then I stood there, not knowing what to do with my hands or my eyes, trying to tell her. Slowly, sadly, I catalogued the false grievances I'd gone over with myself two nights earilier. I admitted how wrong I'd been to hold them. Every now and then, I looked up to see that her expression remained unchanged—it was still the same stony glare I'd met on entering her room. I reached the end of that list, and told her how sorry I was over the imagined wrongs I'd been holding her accountable for. I looked up at her again, and, finally, she spoke. In the same dull monotone she'd used to admit me to her room, she asked, "Are you done, now?"

God, did I want to tell her that I was! But I wasn't, and I knew it. "No," I said, "there's more. All I've done so far is explain how wrong I was about wanting to be mean to you, and apologize for that. Now I have to try to make up to you for the mean things I did to you." And I launched into that list trying to explain how rotten I felt about having done each and every one of them.

I told how sorry I was for calling her a whore, how ashamed of myself I was for blackmailing her, and how much it hurt me to remember that I'd said that if she was pregnant, people would believe her if she said she didn't know who the father was.

Worst of all, I admitted, was the possibility that I'd gotten her pregnant, but I told her that if I had, I would admit my part in it, take my share of the responsibility for what we'd done, and try to stand beside her through all of it. By the time I'd reached the end of this second list, I couldn't see how she was taking my confessions and my apologies because my tears were in the way.

At last, I did reach the end. "That's it," I said. "I'll go now. I know I can't ever make it up to you. But you're still my twin sister, and maybe someday we can be friends again."

She stopped me, saying "Jeremy, don't go. I said I don't have anything to say to you, but I was wrong." That startled me. But then, I guessed that she was going to rip off my head, as I deserved, and then shove it up my ass—or just hand it to me, if I was lucky.

She took a few seconds to gather her thoughts, and I braced myself for what I expected her to give me—knowing that however bad it might be, it wouldn't be bad enough for the way I'd treated her. And then, as that moment of silence lengthened, I realized that I had heard her own tears in her voice.

"Jerry," she said, and paused again. I wondered at the tears I heard. And then she continued: "There are some things you don't know, and you need to know them. I've been worse than you—"

"No you haven't!" I cried, interrupting her. "I've been awful! The way we've been treating each other is all my fault!"

"Please, Jerry." She said it quietly, but determinedly. "You had your turn. Let me have mine."

"Okay," I answered. My tears still prevented me from seeing her very well. "But this is all my fault!"

"Listen, please," she said, and waited for me to speak.

I nodded my head.

She went on. "I have plenty to tell you. I've been so sad because of what I've done to you. But the first thing you need to know is that I'm not pregnant. When you came inside of me, my period was only two days away, and a girl can't get pregnant that close to her period. I knew how close it was, and I let you think… I told you I might be pregnant when I knew I couldn't be. And I've let you worry about it for a week."

An enormous weight lifted from my shoulders when she told me that she wasn't pregnant. The relief I felt was almost physical. Of course, a great deal of weight remained—taking the risk of knocking my sister up was merely the worst of the things I'd done to her, not the only thing. But the release was so wonderful that I only vaguely understood that Jenny's next few sentences were an apology for misleading me that way. And I began to understand why she was crying, too.

By the time she'd finished that apology, I was paying attention again. She went on, "After that first time we fucked, you called me a whore. It really hurt to have my brother call me that. But just a few minutes later, when I was alone in my room, I realized… I knew… I knew that I'd been a whore to you. It was a dumb thing for me to do, but I'd fucked you for money—and that's exactly what a whore is: someone who fucks people for money. So I'd just made myself into a whore. You'd been right. And it was a lesson I needed. You don't need to apologize about that. I… I should thank you for it."

Jenny was sobbing now. She stopped talking to catch her breath. I could feel my own sobs trying to get out, but I wouldn't let them. Instead, I pulled a Kleenex from the box on her dressing table and wiped the tears out of my eyes. While I was doing so, she steadied herself and continued, "And you told me that if we'd gotten me pregnant, I could just say I didn't know who the father was." She stopped to sob again, but quickly went on. "When you said that, I thought it was awful. It was awful. But it was worse than awful, because it was just what I deserved!" She paused again.

I finished wiping my tears away and got my first good look at her since before she'd started to cry. Tears streamed down her face as she tried to look at me, and I knew she couldn't see me very well. She caught her breath again and elaborated: "Ever since I started to understand about girls and boys and sex, I've wanted people—well, not just people, but you especially—to think I'm a… a… well… a slut! I don't know why I wanted that, but I did. I guess it seemed grown-up or something. So I tried to make you think I'd fucked every boyfriend I've ever had. And I didn't care if other people thought that, too. In fact, I needed them to think I was a slut, because if they didn't think that, that might convince you that I wasn't. It was kind of a game, and I guess I got pretty good at it. Too good!

"I did fuck the first five boyfriends I had, maybe half a dozen times each. That was back when we were fourteen or fifteen, because back then I thought I had to be slutty to make people think I was slutty. But I didn't like those guys very much, and, even though their dicks felt good in me, I didn't like fucking them. So I've never fucked anyone since—except for those two times with you. But I still wanted people—you especially—to think I was… easy. That's probably why I've never been able to hang onto a boyfriend. Guys I could never like want to take me out because they think I'm an easy lay, and then…"

She stopped to catch her breath again. She wiped her eyes, too, this time. In the silence that attended those actions, I said, quietly, "I didn't know… I never guessed…"

She looked up at me and went on. "Of course you didn't. I wanted it that way! And then, the other day, when you told me I that if I was pregnant, I wouldn't know who the father was…" She sobbed, but then went on, "Well, I saw what a big mistake I'd made. I saw that making you think I was slutty wasn't a game after all, and that I'd… I'd… well, I'd made you think I'm a bimbo and a floozy and a… a whore. And I knew that I shouldn't want my brother to think of me like that." She gave me a look that almost stopped my heart. "And I don't want him to, but now it's too late." And then she dissolved in tears; nothing remained of her composure.

My own composure was pretty ragged by then. Wordlessly, I sat down beside her on the bed. I put my arm around her and pulled her close. She put her arms around me, laid her head on my shoulder, and sobbed. I put my other other arm around her, held her, and sobbed back.

We stayed that way, sitting on Jenny's bed, clinging quietly to each other, letting our tears run their course, for—oh, I don't know—ten minutes or so. We were calming down then, when we heard the back door open downstairs. Dad was home. Quickly, I took her chin into my hand, gently raised her head, and looked into her teary eyes. I smiled at her; she smiled weakly back at me. "You're still my twin sister," I whispered, "and you're still my friend. I hope I'm still yours." She nodded. "We can talk some more later," I added. I squeezed her, kissed her on the cheek, and tiptoed out of the room, closing the door quietly behind me.Dad was on his way up the stairs to change clothes as I quietly closed my own door. I knew that, unaware that the house was no longer a combat zone, and seeing our doors closed, neither he nor Mom would bother us until suppertime. And they didn't.

********************

That night, right after I went to bed, I again heard Jenny moaning as she fingered herself. And, as always, I quietly jacked off to that serenade.

Afterward, I had the best night's sleep I'd had in a long time.

********************

The tension between Jenny and me loosened. Nevertheless, it took several days before we were back to anything like treating each other normally again. It was almost like we had to learn to trust each other again.

For one thing, I think neither of us could quite believe that the other was capable of enough forgiveness, and so we trod gently around each other. And there was another, more serious problem: We, brother and sister, twins, had fucked each other—not once, but twice—and those acts still lay between us.

There was also the fact of her after-bedtime masturbation-cum-moaning, and the activity it provoked in me. I knew that it was something I should have confessed to her when I'd made those other confessions, but I hadn't. And I had no intention of telling her in the near—or even the distant—future. Her erotic moaning and the fantasies it generated in me were just too enjoyable.

Now things were finally settling down. We were back to walking to and from school together, talking to each other about the homework for the classes we were taking together, squabbling about doing the dishes, and so forth, when the Columbus Day holiday rolled around.

It was a Monday; the public schools had that day off, but the university didn't. So Jenny and I were home together, but Mom and Dad weren't there. I didn't have to go anywhere that morning, so I slept in; so did Jenny. I woke up, around 9:30, to the distant sound of the water running in the bathroom as she took her shower.

While that sound continued, I lay groggily in bed, enjoying the feeling of just generally being lazy. Eventually, the sound ended as she turned off the water, and, a few minutes later, I heard the bathroom door open. Seconds later, I heard her bedroom door close, and I decided I'd better haul myself out of bed and go do my bathroom chores.

I climbed out of bed, took off the underwear I'd slept in, and threw on my bathrobe. As I headed down the hall toward the bathroom, I noticed that Jenny's door hadn't latched when she'd closed it, but was standing several inches ajar. I didn't think anything about it. And then, minutes later, as I passed her door on my way back, I caught, from the corner of my eye, a flash of skin in her room.

There was no thought at all behind what I did next; it was purely a reflex. I stopped in mid-stride and took a step backward to the point where'd I'd seen skin. There was Jenny, standing at her dressing table, brushing out her hair in the lights that stood to either side of the mirror. She was facing the same direction I was, and her reflection in the mirror in front of her riveted my attention. She was wearing nothing but a pair of little panties.

The only light in the hall, except what came from her room, was a bit of daylight that filtered up the stairs at the other end of the hall. So I could see her, but she was completely unaware that I was there. Just as I realized that Jenny couldn't see me, I also thought about how good her pussy had felt when we'd fucked. Even though I knew that we would never do that again, my cock responded to what I was looking at and to what I was thinking about; I very quickly had a big, thumping boner.

Jenny's naked boobs bounced as she brushed her shoulder-length blonde hair, and they hypnotized me. So there was no thought involved in what happened next, either. I'd been holding my bathrobe closed with my hand. Barely conscious of what I was doing, I let go of the robe, freeing that hand to grab my hard-on, and begin stroking it, slowly, gently.

I must have made some noise, though, because Jenny stepped away from the mirror and out of my view. Seconds later, her door flew open, and there she was, looking at her twin brother—who stood there, his robe wide open, exposing his naked body. His hand undulated on his hard cock, and he wished he could be anywhere else in the world.

Her hands went to her hips. In spite of the embarrassing fix I was in, my eyes went to her boobs. They looked wonderful—even more wonderful than they'd looked in the mirror.

"Well?" she said, severely, imperiously.

"Umm…" I mumbled. And then, in the hope that she would believe the unbelievable, "This isn't what you think it is…"

"Oh, it isn't, is it? Because it sure does look like my brother is spying on me, on his sister—his twin sister—and jacking off to what he sees. So if that isn't what it is, what is it?" She reached out, grabbed my free arm, and yanked me into her room. "Get your ass in here where I can see you when I'm talking to you."

Once she had me in her room, she dropped her arm and backed up a step, leaving about four feet between us. "Umm…" I answered. And then I realized that I'd already said that. Even so, it seemed worth repeating one more time. "Umm…" Then, at last, I found some words: "I was just walking past your door, and I happened to see—"

"Me, nearly naked," she interrupted. "And then, you 'just happened' to play with your dick?"

Still looking at her tits, I began to mumble a response.

She stopped me before I got started. "My eyes are up here in my face, Bozo. Not on my chest."

"Oh! Yeah!" I answered, looking at her eyes. She wasn't looking back, though. She was looking at my boner, and the hand that was still wrapped around it, still moving—on automatic pilot, I guess. I didn't unwrap it, but I forced it to stop moving.

Seeing that she wasn't looking at my eyes, I was about to return my gaze to her boobs. But then she looked up and into my eyes. So instead of returning my attention to her boobs, I returned her look. "Jerry," she scolded me, but gently, almost sadly, "you can't do this. I'm your sister—your twin sister. You can't spy on me and jack off to me."

"I know," I answered sheepishly. "I was just going back to my room from the bathroom, and I saw you by accident. And then… Jenny, you're so hot! Your tits are so beautiful!"

"Jeremy, I'm your sister!" she said. But an inner glow showed through as she spoke.

"I know that, Jenny. But… Well… Seeing you like this just turns me on so much. It really was an accident, and I didn't even realize that I was playing with myself—"

"…Are playing with yourself!" She'd interrupted me to make that helpful observation. There was a look in her eyes I hadn't seen before and couldn't interpret.

I removed the hand that had still been wrapped around my cock. "…that I was playing with myself until you caught me. Really! I didn't!" I finished.

Her eyes had returned, as if of their own accord, to my cock—which was still standing proudly, and now, no hand wrapped around it, in full view. I think it was also running my brain, because I said—again without any thought, "And I was remembering what we did those two times last month." I paused, and then, my brain still completely out of gear and unengaged, I asked, "Jen, can we do it again? Just one more time?"

"Oh, Jerry!" She whispered it, almost plaintively. "We can't keep that up! We have to stop doing that! We're…" She trailed off.

"Just once more?" I asked, surprising myself with the need in my voice. "Mom and Dad aren't home. Just once. One last time. No one ever needs to know."

She looked at me, silently, wonderingly. At length, in a small voice, plainly unsure of herself, she answered, "Okay. One more time." Her hand came up, with her index finger pointing right into my face, and she said, clearly, steadily, assertively, definitively, "One! More! Time! And then it's over! No more fucking each other! And I won't ever find you again, outside my bedroom door, spying on me and jacking off. Never! Not! Ever!"

"You got it!" I answered her—jubilant now, at her agreement to fuck me one more time. As I took off my bathrobe and dropped it behind me, I took a short step forward. I continued, "It's over after this time." And I meant every word of it.

At the same time, her hands went to her panties, and she bent over as she took them off. Our motion brought her face within a foot or so of my hard-on. Instead of straightening up after she'd stepped out of the panties, she stared for a moment at my cock. She straightened partially, and looked up, into my eyes again. She gave me a lop-sided smile, and shrugged her shoulders. "Last time!" she said. And then, dropping to her knees, she bent forward, reached for my cock, and guided it into her mouth.

She'd taken me by surprise; the sensations from her hot, moist mouth, her clasping lips, and her fluttering tongue paralyzed me. My lungs expelled their contents in a long, deep groan. After a few seconds, she stroked, back and forth, back and forth, several times, and my hips moved in response, thrusting my cock in and out of her mouth. My thrusts were getting stronger—probably too strong—when she released me and stood up.

She stepped closer, until her naked body pressed up against me. My stiff cock, now wet and slippery, skidded upward along her belly as she moved in. She put her arms around my neck. She smiled up at me, and she whispered, "Last time! Let's do this right." Then she closed her eyes, raised herself up on tiptoe, and reached for my mouth with hers.

I was out of my depth; no girl had ever held herself against me—not even when we were both fully clothed, let alone when we were both completely naked. But, if I didn't know what to do, my body did. My arms encircled her and clasped her. I bent and kissed her. Her lips opened, and she inserted her tongue between my lips. My teeth parted in response, and her tongue entered my mouth.

I'd never kissed a girl before, and that kiss stands out as one of the most wonderful things I've ever done. Her naked body filled my arms and my mind, and I nearly swooned from the emotion. I don't think it was anything like what the football coach had in mind when when I heard him tell the team that a tie is like kissing your sister.

We stood there, wrapped in each other, for long moments. My tongue chased hers into her mouth, and then hers chased mine back. We explored each other's mouths, lips, and teeth. I was still marveling at the new feelings, when her head pulled back from me and she lowered her body—though she kept it firmly against me. She looked up at me, smiling her pleasure at me, and said, "Wow! That was really good for a beginner!"

I was too dazed to reply, but I managed to smile back at her. I held her there, still against me, reveling in the feeling of her naked body pressed against mine.

After a minute or two of mutual silence, spent looking into each other's eyes, she spoke, somewhat diffidently. "Uh… Jer?"

"Yeah?"

"You need to use your hands. You need to touch me and stroke me."

"Oh," I answered. "Like this?" I unwrapped my arms from where they held her against me and began stroking her back, her sides, her hips, and her ass. She moaned her approval, and she wriggled against me. I'd expected her to move away from me when I'd released her, and the upper part of her body did move away some, until there was some space between us. But she continued to press the lower part of herself against me—against the hard cock she'd trapped between us.

"That's a good start," she answered. "Touch my boobs, Jerry? Please?"

That seemed a dream come true. I'd touched one of her tits before, but she'd made it clear that she hadn't wanted me to. Now she was asking me to do that. "Can I? Really?" I asked.

She was still looking into my eyes. "Jer," she answered. There was the lop-sided smile again. "I'm going to fuck you. I want to fuck you. And when a girl, even your sister, wants to fuck you—or just thinks she might want to fuck you—you get to touch her boobs. It's part of the deal. I guarantee it."

In answer, I smiled back at her as I brought both hands around to her chest and cupped a tit in each. I'd thought I was already as aroused as I could be, but the weight of the firm, rounded flesh in my hands, and the feeling of her nipples stiffening against my fingers, were almost more than I could bear. "Oh, my God!" I breathed. "They feel so wonderful!"

She'd closed her eyes at my hands' touch, and she answered me with a little moan. She whispered, "They do feel wonderful when you touch them that way!" And her arms tightened around my neck, and she pulled me down into another deep kiss.

We held that kiss for a while, our tongues exploring each other again. My hands continued to explore her tits as best they could while she held our bodies close to each other. When we broke from the kiss, she looked up into my eyes. Then she put her head down against my shoulder and held me tightly for a moment. Looking up at me again, she unwrapped her arms from around my neck, took my hand in hers, and pulled me toward her dressing table. "Over here," she said.

The table was about four feet long, and a little more than two feet deep. Its wide mirror rested up against the wall our bedrooms shared, a vertical fluorescent light to either side. With her free hand, she turned off the lights and moved the chair out from under the table and to one side, out of our way. Most of the stuff she kept on the table was near the ends, so there was a broad, almost empty space in the middle. In that space, there were a couple of items—girl items, whose names I didn't know and functions I didn't understand—but she quickly moved them aside. Then, she turned around, faced me, and lifted herself to sit at the edge of the table in the spot she'd created.

Looking again into my eyes, she leaned back on her hands and parted her thighs. For the first time that day, I had a good view of her pussy, now right above the edge of the table, open to me. I stared.

"Don't you want to fuck?" she asked, a little impatiently.

"I do," I answered. And, sinking to my knees in front of her, I answered, "But you wanted to do this right!" She had showered only a few minutes earlier, so her feminine aroma was very faint. But, faint as it was, it nevertheless bewitched me. I looked at her for another moment, spell-bound by what I saw. Leaning forward, then, I kissed the outer lips of her pussy.

She stiffened and moaned at my touch. Gently, I parted her furrow with my tongue. I didn't know very much more about her pussy—or any pussy, for that matter—than how to fit my cock into it. So the folds of her inner lips were a mystery to me—a mystery that called out to be explored. I licked and probed, investigating her entire apparatus.

And I quickly noticed that her moans and shudders came more intensely when my tongue rasped the little projection near the upper end of her cleft. She seemed to like that so much that, soon, I was licking and prodding that little bump very frequently. Her moans and shudders increased in sound and intensity. I know now that I'd found her clit; I was about to learn what it was good for.

It wasn't long before she complained, "Too much! Too much! Not so hard, Jer! Around it—not right on it!"

It took us a little while before my efforts were neither too rough nor too gentle, but she seemed to think that finding the right level was well worth the effort. So I did, too—because I found that I wanted to please her. When I'd achieved the right touch, her moans and shudders began coming more quickly, and her hips started rocking to the action of my tongue.

When I raised my eyes from my position between her legs, I could look up along the front of her body. The dimple of her belly button was right there, and above it, her tits quivered from her motion. Beyond her tits, I saw, at the limit of my vision, that she'd thrown her head back. She seemed lost in the sensations I was causing her, and I heard her breath coming quickly, deeply.

Her motions got stronger and stronger, less and less controlled, and her moans now were very much like those I'd heard so frequently through the wall our bedrooms shared. And then her body stiffened. Her thighs clamped about my head, and she sobbed and groaned under my tongue's touch. I recognized those sounds as the ones she always made at the end of her masturbation sessions, and I knew that she was coming.

I continued to lick and probe, gently, as she'd showed me. Soon, she quieted, her thighs loosed their grip on my head, and one of her hands came to my head. She urged me away from her pussy, almost as gently as I'd been touching her.

I looked up, and saw her smiling at me. "Jer, you made me come! You're the only guy who's ever eaten my pussy. Your tongue felt so good!"

I smiled back at her. "Like you said, we're gonna do it right!"

"Now?" she asked. "Will you fuck me now?"

"I sure will," I said, stepping up between her legs. I took my cock into my hand to guide it into her.

"Jer?" she said, as my tip engaged her entrance. Her voice was filled with doubt. "You can't come inside me. It's the wrong time of the month for that. Is that okay?"

I smiled at her and I replied, "I want to, Jen. I really want to. But I understand, and I won't. We don't want you pregnant." And, slowly, I entered her. She closed her eyes and moaned as my cock glided into her hot, tight, wet channel. When my pubic bone rested against hers, she opened her eyes and looked into mine. "Come on me when you're done, Jerry! I can't have your hot cum inside me, but I want to feel it on me!"

"You feel so good, Jenny! Your hot, tight pussy makes me want to move in you! You feel so good around my cock!"

"Fuck me, Jerry! I want to feel you moving inside me! Fuck me one last time now! Make yourself come and shoot your hot cum on me!"

And then I was moving! Out and in, out and in; quickly, more quickly. She was moaning again, as I'd heard her, so many times, through our wall, but louder, louder! As I moved, I looked back into her eyes; they held me spellbound. And I fucked into her, and energy built within me, and I propelled myself madly in, madly out, insanely in, insanely out, of her body.

"Fuck me! Oh, fuck me! Harder! Fuck me harder!" she shouted at me. "Fuck me, Jerry! Fuck me harder!"

Compulsion built furiously within me as I drove myself in and out of her welcoming body. And suddenly, I knew that I'd reached my culmination! Once again, I felt the irrational urgency, the need to force my cock into the depths of her body to deposit my cum where my own body told me it belonged. My hips drove me into her to answer that need.

But I knew that I must not, so at the last possible instant, I forced myself, against all my body's deep desire, to pull out of her. I grasped my cock, pointed it at her belly, and pumped it. After just one stroke, my fiery, thick white cum spurted through the length of my cock and onto her waiting body. Hazily, I saw that she was fingering her pussy, and, dimly, I heard her sobs mix with my own groans, as she came for a second time.