Icing Down My Sweaty Sister

another overheated day in July. The humidity made it feel downright Venusian. Sweat stains blossomed on my sister's T-shirt. Her underarm stains expanded, joining up with her underboob stains, which joined with her interboob stain and her neckline stain, and pretty soon her whole T-shirt was saturated. This, despite the fact she wasn't exerting herself; she was lolling on our parents' sofa. We were watching a show about penguins on PBS.

Sloan's shirt, formerly white, was now nearly translucent, except for the black lettering across her chest, which read, "Acres of Beef." She wasn't wearing a bra. Thin, wet cotton clung to her hefty globes. Her nipples shone through, pink and bright.

A certain asymmetry attracted my notice. Sloan's left nipple was clearly more prominent, puffier, than the right. In fact, the entire left breast seemed fuller, seemed to hang lower, than the right, but I wasn't for certain; it may have been the way she was sitting. I studied them, trying to decide.

"Enjoying the view?" she asked, after I'd been gawking a while.

By that point in the summer, I'd become prone to blank staring, due to the heat, humidity, and the crushing boredom of being at our parents' new house. There was so little to do there, except ride my bike and watch TV. Mom and Dad didn't have satellite, Netflix, or anything of the sort, so we were stuck with video rentals and the few over-the-air stations we could pull in with rabbit ears—PBS, a fundamentalist Christian station, and sometimes, when weather conditions were favorable, a glitchy CBS. Mom and Dad also didn't have air conditioning.

Our parents had recently retired from South Florida to Northeast Ohio. Throughout their marriage, they'd often done things backwards like that. On their very wedding day, they'd kicked off their retrograde ways when Dad took Mom's last name instead of she his. Of course, Dad's "maiden" name had been Schmeckelbeer and Mom's Steele, so no one had given Dad grief about his rechristening—not even Grandpa Schmeckelbeer.

Some months earlier, Grandpa Schmeckelbeer had passed away, leaving the old family farm to my father. Shortly thereafter, Mom and Dad had decided to quit their Miami-based architectural firm and retire to the Rust Belt to take up organic farming. They'd both grown weary of designing high-rise condos in a doomed city. And they'd thought it prudent to get out of South Florida while the getting was good and while they were able to fetch a good price for our house in Coconut Grove. Thus, they'd migrated north. 

However, Sloan and I still lived in Florida. She'd just completed her sophomore year at the University of Miami, and I my freshman year at the University of Florida. But we'd come to stay with our folks for the summer.

The plan had been for us to help Mom and Dad with the farming and to help renovate the old farmhouse. This was going to be our summer job. But plans had changed.

The weather had remained chilly and gray till late June. Nearly biblical rains had left the land sodden or fully submerged for much of the spring. By the time the sun finally came, our parents had decided they didn't know enough about farming. They'd decided to postpone it for a year, to spend that time boning up on the subject, and then maybe to hire a manager or go into a partnership with someone with more expertise.

Meanwhile, they'd also postponed the home-renovation. Mom, only in her mid-forties, had realized she wasn't ready to leave architecture behind, so she'd set herself up as a sole practitioner. Soon, some religious cult had hired her to design a village of tiny houses for the homeless outside Youngstown. Dad had gone in with her. And now that was occupying most of their time.

Which left Sloan and me, basically, twiddling our thumbs.

Between thunderstorms, floods, and the odd tornado, I spent much of my time training on my bike. I raced road bikes for my university. I'd also gotten a job at the Family Video in the nearby village of Peopleton. I'd been shocked to find a video rental place still in existence. I had fond memories of them from childhood, but I'd thought they were long since extinct. Family Video, though not what I'd call thriving, was very much still alive. I worked there about fifteen hours per week. I wasn't making big money, but I got to meet some of the locals. Alas, no opportunities for summer romance had arisen. My female co-workers were too young (high-school girls). And our female customers were generally too old or too married.

Sloan had gotten a job at the Dairy Queen, but four days later, she'd gotten herself fired, apparently for an altercation with her manager. She'd declined further comment on the incident other than to say, "Small-town bitches are jealous." Sloan has always found it difficult to get along with other females, small-town or otherwise.

So, she'd spent the last month and a half sitting around the house. She'd watched a lot of TV, spent a lot of time on her phone and laptop, and read a lot of books from the local public library. She minded the boredom and isolation less than I did. In fact, I think she'd actually been enjoying it, at least up till the cold and rain had given way to this oppressive heat and humidity. Now, she was miserable.

"Is your left boob bigger than your right one?" I asked her.

"Nah, they're the same," she said. "It's my nips." She twisted to show me. "See, leftie's more outgoing. She puffs herself up. Rightie's more introverted."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to stare. It's just your wet T-shirt isn't leaving much to the imagination. I'd never noticed your non-matching nipples before."

"God. What's with this swampy-ass weather? I thought this was supposed to be the Great White North."

"That's Canada. In winter."

"This shit's worse than Miami. There, at least, you can jump into the ocean."

"Welcome to the Midwest. You get arctic winters and tropical summers. It's the worst of both worlds. But it's really nice for like a month in the fall, when you get all the pumpkins and the leaves changing color."

"I don't get why anyone would want to live in a place like this. It's not worth it for some colorful leaves."

She glanced down at her soggy shirt, peeling it up to reveal a sliver of pale, moist belly up to her navel. Then she glanced over at my shirt. It was dry.

"How are you not sweating?"

"I'm a werewolf," I replied.

"You're not a werewolf. You're a hog. You're hogging the fan."

I wasn't hogging the fan. It was pointed at Sloan. I was getting only a slight waft on my left shin, just enough to tickle the hairs I'd let grow for the summer.

To be blunt, I was in a lot better shape than my sister. That's why I wasn't sweating. I was accustomed to spending hours riding my bike under the withering Florida sun. I wasn't going to break a sweat sitting in an easy chair watching televised penguins.

Whereas Sloan preferred not to go outside if she could help it. She occasionally rode a stationary bike in an air-conditioned gym, and she dabbled at yoga. But, overall, she was very non-athletic, and she had the non-athletic body to match. By which I don't mean to imply that she was in any way unattractive—far from it. Her copious curves inspired envy and lust. It's just that her extra padding acted as insulation. I'd imagine those big boobs, in particular, trapped a large amount of heat. I didn't envy her having to lug those things around in the summer.

"You know what? Fuck it," she said. "This shirt's coming off. You've seen everything there is to see, so..."

"Might as well be comfortable."

I tried to stay nonchalant. I tried to stay focused on the penguins. But there's something about boobs. They excite me. My eyes are drawn to them, as if by some law of physics. And though these boobs were my sister's, they were still boobs, so my eyes were still drawn. I peeked out of my peripheral vision as she shed her wet T-shirt.

When she plopped it onto the coffee table, her shirt made a funny squelching sound. That gave me the excuse to look away from the TV, to turn my head and get an eyeful.

Being purely objective, my sister's tits were spectacular: full, heavy, wide-splaying hangers—indeed, with non-matching nipples. Her right areola was smooth, shiny-pink, nearly flush with the pale skin of her breast, with a flattish button nipple. In contrast, her left areola was like a little volcano, a hot, conical upwelling, with an eye-endangering nipple.

Sloan said, "Maybe I should go nude in protest till Mom and Dad install an air conditioner."

"Well, they're trying to be carbon neutral."

"I know. That's great and all, but a person can't live with this heat."

"You should definitely try the nude protest."

"Watch this." Sloan chugged the dregs from her water bottle and set the empty vessel on the coffee table. Twisting her T-shirt like a rope, she wrung the sweat out of it and into the bottle. Then, checking the volume markings on the side of the bottle, she announced, "Four fucking ounces of perspiration. Over a hundred motherfucking milliliters. And that's not even counting my lower body. That's so gross."

"I don't think it's gross when a woman sweats. Eva and I—"

Sloan flashed me a frown.

Oops. There I went again, talking about Eva, my cycling teammate and ex-girlfriend. She and I had pretty definitively broken up before the summer, the odds of us ever getting back together (or having a civil conversation) near nil. Yet, I kept talking about her as if she were still an active player in my life, and I needed to quit this. But this particular anecdote was pertinent to my conversation with Sloan, so I continued.

"Eva and I would get back to her apartment after a long ride, and we liked to...you know—while we were still hot and sweaty. It was like slippery-eel sex."

"Ew."

"Afterwards, we'd give each other ice massages."

"Ice massages? Say, now that's something I could get into."

"When you're hot, they're the best."

"So, what would a hot girl have to do to get herself one of them there icy massages?"

"I dunno. I guess ask nicely...and make me a sandwich."

"Turkey? Salami? Roast beef?"

"To be determined,"

Thus agreed, I went to the kitchen to fetch a tray of ice cubes while Sloan went to pee. She came back with a pair of towels, a bath towel and a hand towel. She laid out the larger of the two towels on the couch. Then, without warning, she dropped her shorts—panties and all. She lay belly-down on the bath towel, shockingly nude, and spread the hand towel across her ass.

My throat clenched. Dumbstruck, I was unable to speak what I was thinking: "Maybe this isn't such a good idea." A queasy feeling rose from my gut. I had to turn away lest I vomit. The image of waddling waterfowl somewhat soothed my nerves.

I popped two ice cubes from the tray. Gingerly, I placed them in the small of Sloan's back. She flinched, causing her ass towel to shift, exposing the tip of her crack. The little rectangle of white terrycloth was already scant covering for her plentiful bottom, but now it lay at a dangerous diagonal. It threatened to slip off entirely with the slightest of tremors. But I didn't fix it, because I was afraid to touch my sister there.

Palming the two cubes with my left hand, I made icy squiggles up Sloan's spine, following along with my right hand to warm and spread the chilly meltwater.

Sloan sighed. She arched her back, causing the towel to shift still further. It held, clinging by the sweat of her ass, but now fully half of her crack was exposed and nearly one entire cheek.

I kept the ice in constant motion, so it wouldn't freeze her skin. I made shivery calligraphy all up and down her back, her neck, her shoulders, down to the tips of her fingers. Jumping the failing towel, I did her thighs, the backs of her knees, and her calves. A sort of trance came over me. Fixated on drawing my invisible designs, I forgot, momentarily, that my canvas was my sister. When I got to the soles of her feet, the ice exhausted itself.

Sloan looked back over her shoulder. "You're not done, are you?"

"You want more?"

"As far as I'm concerned, you can keep going till we run out of ice."

I popped two more cubes free, and took up where I'd left off. When I pressed the ice to her soles, Sloan flinched, and her towel fell away.

A long moment passed before she spoke. "Sorry to moon you."

"No worries."

She didn't replace the towel.

As I gazed upon my sister's ass, my hands began to tremble.

"The ice—it's c-c-cold," I said.

However, I was trembling not from cold, but from fear. This situation was not normal. Sloan and I did not come from some family of freewheeling nudists. Although not ourselves religious, we'd inherited a lingering prudishness from our Protestant forebears (Great-Grandpa Schmeckelbeer had been a pastor). I hadn't seen my sister without clothes since we were toddlers. I'd only seen her a handful of times in a bathing suit (she wasn't a beach person; she sunburned easily). But now, here she was in her naked glory.

What did it mean? Did it mean what it seemed: that she was truly so hot and uncomfortable that she couldn't bear to be clothed? Or was there something more?

I was terrified of my own reaction. To peek at Sloan's boobs—well, that was one thing. Boobs may be sexy, but they're also funny, and to peek at them mostly innocent. But to ogle one's own sister's ass was a whole 'nother thing—an order of magnitude more serious. Her pussy was there, her asshole, too. Were she to have opened her legs, they'd have been staring me right in the face. And there's nothing funny about pussies or assholes.

From my vantage point at her feet, I was sighting directly along her crack. My eyes were locked in, waiting for her to relax, to spread, to give me a vision of her sex. I was disturbed with myself, with how desperately I wanted to see. As I kneaded her calves—one ice cube apiece—my hands tried subtly to prise her legs apart. My nose sniffed the air for her pheromones. Lust choked my throat. Hot blood raged in my cock—giving me the most shameful erection.

I wondered what I'd do if, hypothetically, she gave me a green light. Would I resist? Did I want to resist? What would be the future complications? And even if I cared, I feared my cock cared nothing for future complications. We were playing a dangerous game.

Pondering these things, my body must have gone into autopilot. I was startled to find myself kissing the back of Sloan's knee, like I'd once done with Eva.

Her reaction was a muffled "Mmm," which sounded to me like an affirmative.

Despite Sloan's seeming approval, my brain said, "You shouldn't be doing this." But I didn't mind my brain. She tasted too good, her salty sweat diluted with ice water. Her silken skin felt exquisite against my lips. Not only did I not stop kissing her, but I started licking her, and I didn't linger at her knee. I was snailing my way up her thigh.

I heard a soft rustling. Sloan's hips were in motion, barely perceptibly at first, but more perceptibly as my mouth approached the crease of her buttock. A faint moan escaped from under her mass of honey-blonde hair.

The moan startled me; the grinding of her hips frightened me. Things were getting too heavy. I plucked my face from Sloan's upper thigh. I was not prepared, at that juncture, to kiss my sister's literal ass.

The two ice cubes, however, I allowed to mount her rump. Gathering them into a single fist, I swirled them round her ass in a counterclockwise orbit, starting at the base of the hill and moving in tightening circles till I reached the summit, at which point the ice was nearly melted away. The remaining slivers slipped down into Sloan's crack.

Her face lifted from the couch cushion long enough to cry out, "Eeep! Cold!"

I pressed the warmer of my two palms to her butt cheeks. One finger dipped into the upper reaches of her crack.

"The ice—it's lower down," she said, shivering. "Too cold! Get it out!"

"Really?"

"Yes! Sensitive! It hurts!"

I burrowed further down and, discovering a little shard of ice that had lodged against her anus, I flicked it away.

"Sorry," I said. Gently, I rubbed her asshole to warm it. "Feel better?"

"Oh, Kurt," she cooed, squirming against my finger. "I was hoping you'd touch me there."

"Oh, Sloan, you have no idea how much..." I managed to stop myself before I blurted out a laundry list of embarrassing confessions. Better, I thought, just to kiss her beautiful body.

I rose to my tallest kneel and lavished kisses on the small of her back, targeting each of her Venus dimples. I sipped the sweat from the hollow of her spine.

Her hand slipped under her hip. Her style was minimalist, her elbow barely flexing, her hips barely jostling. Beneath her, a finger, maybe two, bumped against her clit.

I copied the smallness of her motion with my own finger, slowly circling, lightly tapping Morse code nonsense around the delicate ring of her anus.

It all felt so easy, so natural. Yes, Sloan was my sister, my own flesh and blood. And, of all people, why shouldn't I be helping her feel good?

Together, the gentle bumpings of our fingertips brought Sloan to the trembling precipice. Her milky-white skin flushed to a hot pink in blotches. Sweat seeped from her every pore. A quick spasm shot through her body. She froze for an agonized moment. A high, strangulated sound pealed from her throat. At last came the slow, rolling quake. She cried out, "Oh, dear God!" And she was still.

Then followed a silence. Sloan didn't stir. She kept her face buried in the sofa, hidden under her mop of waterlogged hair.

I was unsure what to do. I was unsure of all but one thing: my erection required urgent care; the swelling was becoming painful. But Sloan and I were in uncharted waters. I didn't know the rules. Could I reasonably expect a quid pro quo? Or had this gone as far as it would go?

As Sloan's stillness drew on, I was gripped by a fear. Was her silence a sign of remorse? Of shame? Of repulsion?

A time or two, I had myself experienced that post-coital tristesse, in the aftermath of an ill-advised fuck. When the other person—the one now bearing my seed—had wanted only to cuddle, I'd wanted desperately, with every fiber of my being, to flee. It was a terrible soul-wringer of an emotion. I'd hate to think I'd inspired such a feeling in anyone, let alone Sloan.

I petted her back, my hand pushing a wavelet of sweat before it. "You doing OK?"

She turned her head, wiped the wet hair from her face, and smiled. "Why are you still dressed?"

I breathed a sigh of relief. Then I tore my clothes off and flung them.

Sloan got up and let me take her place on the sofa, though sitting and not lying. She knelt before me on the floor, elbowing between my knees. She took a cube of ice from the tray, apparently intent on icing my penis.

"No. No ice," I said. "I want to feel your heat."

Sans the ice, she gripped my cock between finger and thumb and aimed it at her approaching mouth. As she bowed forward, her lips parted, as if to swallow me. But she stopped shy of making contact.

Instead, she let a frothy mouthful of spit spill over her lower lip and down my shaft, spreading it evenly with her fingers. She repeated this twice (with diminishing quantities of saliva).

Then she rose, treating me to a magnificent full-frontal view, from her sweat-matted hair, to her soulful brown eyes and proud nose, to her pendulous breasts (yes, on closer inspection, they were definitely symmetrical in size, despite her heterogeneous nipples), to her all-encompassing hips, and—

"Oh, my God!" I gasped, as my eyes landed upon her pussy. It was the most scrumptuos pussy I'd ever seen, in person or even in porn. It wasn't what I'd call a pretty pussy. It wasn't prim or prissy. It was hairy. It was meaty, built for fucking. Her lips were dark, swollen, complicated—like a vulgar sideways kiss.

soorry, I'm not trimmed," she said. "I wasn't expecting any action this summer."

"No, no, I love it! So womanly. May I kiss?"

Sloan stepped onto the couch, straddling my hips, and pressed herself to my face. But she only gave me a little taste of her feminine goodness, and then she took it away.

"I want you inside me, dear brother." She spilled more saliva into her palm, giving my cock another polishing. Then she lowered herself onto my lap, her pillowy breasts enveloping my face, her dewy hair surrounding me like a curtain. Her fingertips guided me to her opening.

I groaned at the heat and the tightness as the tip of my cock passed her threshold. Reflexively, my hips thrust upward. I wanted all the way into her.

"Be still," she whispered into my ear, while cautionary fingernails took position against my shoulders.

"You're so tight!" I moaned. "Wait..." I realized her pussy didn't feel much like a pussy. It felt hotter, more grippy, like a ring, not a sleeve. Plus, the position of her body was wrong. "Are we...?"

"I haven't been taking my birth control," she said.

"I've never done anal before."

"I have," she whispered. "I love it. It makes me cum."

Triggered, my hips pushed upward again.

Sloan's fingernails dug into my shoulders. Her teeth sunk into my earlobe. "Easy!" she hissed. "Just be still and let me do it!"

It took a major exertion of my will, but I forced my overexcited pelvis to remain still, while Sloan's asshole swallowed my cock millimeter by excruciating millimeter. Occasionally, she'd flinch and back off, then start all over.

"I know, I'm being bossy," she said. "But your cock is like a horse cock. It's going to take me a minute."

I occupied myself with her breasts, burying my face in her deep, sweaty cleavage, poking her puffy left nipple with my tongue, and nibbling her shy right nipple to a firm little erection.

Once Sloan's body relaxed, she glided easily down the remainder of my pole, bringing us face to face. At once, our lips, then our tongues, met in a kiss.

Again, my hips wanted to pump, but again, Sloan stilled me with her fingernails.

"Slow," she said.

Sloan sat heavily on my lap, my cock reaching all the way into her. She fucked like she masturbated: with tiny motions. She wiggled ever-so-slightly in circles, made jittery, mouse-sized bounces, buffing her clit against my abs.

Her kisses, however, were aggressive, almost combative. She fucked my mouth with her tongue. She sucked my tongue into her mouth. She bit and scratched.

Her first little tremor came quickly, followed by another and another. Moans slipped out of her like bubbles. Then came the giant tremblor, followed by an even gianter tremblor. She screamed straight down my throat.

She was a hot, jiggling, quivering, hyperventilating mess in my lap. Her sweaty, slippery asshole spasmed round the base of my cock. She brought me right to the edge of orgasm, but I was stuck there, maddeningly, and couldn't get over the top.

I couldn't take it for another second. I picked her up, my cock still inside her, and flipped her onto her back.

She squealed with delight. She lay back, spread her limbs submissively, and made herself my receptacle. Sweat pooled in her every hollow. Her entire body was flushed. She made eyes at me, made come-hither gestures with her tongue. Her breasts sloshed heavily on her chest, as I drove myself, over and over, into her tight, twitching asshole.

She reached out to me. Slender fingers stroked my chin, then my chest. She said, "Fill my ass with your cum."

I replied, "Mmmrgh! Gahhh!" and, with one final thrust into her deepest bowels, I did exactly as she'd requested. Then I collapsed on top of her, now as sweaty as she. And we kissed.

"Good grief, Sloan," I said once I'd caught my breath. "That was amazing! Do you always cum like that?"

"Not always," she said. "Usually only when I'm alone with my favorite sex toys."

"Are you saying I'm like a sex toy?"

She responded in a sing-song voice. "Won't you please? Won't you please? Please won't you be...my dildo?"

Just then, in my peripheral vision, I caught a glinting through the front window. I looked out to see two bicyclists coming up the driveway.

"Oh, shit! It's Mom and Dad!"

Sloan and I scrambled to clean up the evidence of our crime. Fortunately, the driveway was long, and Mom and Dad were pedaling slowly in the heat. So we were able to scramble upstairs and into our respective bedrooms before we heard the front door open.

I toweled myself off and hurried into my clothes. As I was pulling on my shirt, Mom called out to us.

"Yoohoo!"

I checked myself in the mirror for any telltale signs of sex (of incest!), but all I saw was a guy who looked appropriately sweaty and flushed due to a record-setting heat wave—though, perhaps, I looked a little too pleased with myself. So, I wiped the smile off my face and went downstairs. Sloan soon followed, wearing a fresh change of clothes.

"You guys look like you've been up to no good," said Dad.

"Too hot to get up to anything too mischievous," I said.

"We brought you Chinese," said Mom, proffering a large brown paper bag.

"Ooh! Did you get me the Princess Shrimp?" asked Sloan.

"We know what you like," said Mom. "And, Kurt, we got you the Pan-Fried Noodles."

"Yum," I said.

"Thanks, guys," said Sloan, giving Mom a peck on the cheek. She took the bag from her hand. "But I'm gonna save mine for later. It's too hot to eat hot food now."

"Me too," I said. "Would you put mine in the fridge, Sloan?"

She nodded.

"While you're in the kitchen," I continued, after Mom and Dad had stepped into their study, out of earshot, "what I would like is a nice cold roast beef sandwich."

"I can make you half a sandwich," said Sloan.

"Why only half?"

"You promised me an ice massage. I only got half a massage. You only did my backside. You still have to do my front."