My sister found the cave. A rock ledge had fallen into the sea over the winter. From her kayak she'd spied the cave mouth. Carrie reported this to me at noon. I was in the library, reading a story by Hawthorne, "Wakefield."
She came in. That tiny bikini. I feigned distress that she was dripping wet in the library.
"Finnegan," she said. "Whatever that is, put it down and come with me."
"It's totally bizarre," I said. (Carrie's full breasts. Her nipples mocked the bikini's thin material, denying its purpose as coverage.) "This guy goes out one evening for a stroll and disappears. He returns to his home decades later like nothing's happened. The whole time he's been renting an apartment one street over. His wife is still at home."
"Some people have really fucked-up relationships," Carrie said, hitching up her bikini bottoms to create a splendid camel toe. My cock writhed in my shorts.
We both knew that she was talking about our parents. After ten years, this was probably the last summer renting Bonny Hind House. Carrie and I were going to college in the fall: she to Dartmouth, I to Williams. We didn't have to be twins to possess the same understanding: our parents would be splitting-up. Why else had they let us have the run of Bonny Hind for the season, unsupervised. "You're eighteen now and we feel we can trust you to stay out of trouble." Carrie and I knew this was nonsense. Mom and Dad had vanished into their respective law firms long ago. We'd navigated adolescence together.
It was the first week of summer. Our cousins would be arriving on the weekend. Carrie and I had to "open the house," but there was not much that needed doing. The Trust had kept the place in great shape all winter. Bonny Hind House had lost none of its magic over the years we'd been coming here. The "secret staircase" that connected the third floor bedrooms behind a hidden panel to the kitchen still thrilled Carrie and me. We'd decided as children that it was "haunted."
The ballroom had a pretty decent pool table in it. Fickle felt. The second-floor "landing" over the ballroom was just as vast, and the site of some vicious ping pong tournies.
Carrie and I felt extremely comfortable being scantily clad around each other. Boy-girl twins: modesty is ridiculous. At Bonny Hind House, when we had the place to ourselves, nudity was not uncommon. So it was as natural as can be that Carrie leaned forward, dripping on me and the venerable edition of TWICE-TOLD TALES, and unsnapped her bikini top. "Perfect tits" is subjective, but I think that all guys can agree that a girl with naturally round full breasts, dark-pink-to-tan areloae, centered by the sweetest gumdrop nipples: is this not the ideal?
Carrie had the whole package: lean, muscular arms; taut tummy; auburn pubic triangle that she kept neatly trimmed; voluptuous pussy lips; a girl-jock's muscular, lithe legs. She was just incredibly cute, always smiling: smiling wickedly. This had caused her more trouble than she deserved, from teachers or babysitters who suspected a prank. Her dark blue eyes communicated a keen intelligence. She was always impatient, on the go, looking for adventure. And finding it.
Exiting the library, Carrie casually flipped down and stepped out of her bikini-panties, revealing her bottom. The platonic ideal of female posteriors. Toned, soft, and round as an apple. Carrie's naked bottom never failed to make me throbbing-hard.
"C'mon Finn!" Carrie shouted on her way to the main staircase. "Nathaniel Hawthorne's been here since this house was built. But what I have to show you, you get one shot."
My erection had me pinned. Earlier, I'd enjoyed an excellent spank on the porch of the east wing, off what we'd decided must be the "master bedroom" (though all the second-floor private rooms were vast). With the sun beating down on my naked body, and my thoughts straying from my girlfriend Annie to my sister, I'd given myself an epic O. I'd lain there for a while in the deck chair, contemplating the spray of pearly jism that crossed my chest and pooled in my navel. Mom had always said that vanity in a man was "unbecoming," so I kept private my satisfaction with my body: I was tall and muscular-lean. I knew that the girls at school admired my chest and my tight butt and my really well-developed racing cyclist's legs.
My cock was an entity unto itself: thick and a good length when relaxed. Almost never relaxed. Even though Annie and I had the leisure to fuck constantly, I still masturbated two or three times a day. My cock was demanding almost double that attention with Annie spending the summer in Italy. And my sister was not helping matters at all.
I'd returned to the bizarre world of "Wakefield" when Carrie reappeared in the library door.
"Get up, you schlub!"
Success. TWICE-TOLD TALES had tucked-in Cock for a restless nap.
"Why are you dressed for hiking?" I asked Carrie.
"Climbing."
"Oh, Carrie, please. You'll have me scrambling up and down every rock-face on this island all summer. Does this really have to start today?"
"Yes. Get your climbing shoes."
Carrie was wearing a really sexy simple white bra underneath her tank top. Terry short-shorts. My guess was: no panties. Not even a thong. On her feet: flex-sole climbing shoes. I heard her in the kitchen, bottles clattering and the fridge thumping open and closed as I laced on my own climbing shoes.
Carrie returned with a back pack and a smirk.
"I see that Mr. Angry's gotten all weepy."
Carrie had named my penis "Mr. Angry." An allusion to a description of an erect penis from the movie BODY HEAT.
"Yeah," I said, noting the wide semen-stain on my khaki shorts. "What're you gonna do?"
"Hey, dude, you know that every day I come back from kayaking wet all the way through, and there's nothing I'd rather do than go jill myself silly. But you've got to see this now!"
"Okay," I said. "Your self-sacrifice: Noted."
Carrie and I masturbated openly, and sometimes together. She jilled as frequently as I jacked, though she was currently between boyfriends (Carrie likes to "free agent" in the summertime) so she might have been besting me during those last precious days before I kissed Annie goodbye at Alitalia check-in.
...
The eye refuses to see such a radical change in the landscape. Since childhood we had memorized every crag and cranny of the bluff. "Burning Bluff," one of the time-worn maps at Bonny Hind House identified it: at odds with another cartographic relic I'd found in a drawer of a third-floor bedroom that labeled the place "Burnt Bluff." Now we would have to call it something else.
"'Gone-Baby-Gone Bluff,'" Carrie suggested.
A wall of rock, god knows how many tons, now lay on the sea floor. I stared over the edge, mesmerized by the new cove that had been created, the gentle swell of the waves.
"Now we descend, see if I'm right," said Carrie, lowering herself over the edge.
"Right about what?"
"You can't see it from above, only from the water."
"What."
"A cave mouth. Maybe. Or just a hollow."
...
Yes. A cave mouth. Deep.
We were both panting, sweating, from the tricky descent. Carrie tossed the backpack to me and peered in. Her sweat-soaked terry shorts confirmed my suspicion: no panties. She kneeled in the cave mouth, and I could eye the distinct outline of her voluptuous pussy lips. Carrie tied-back her long mane of sun-streaked blonde hair. Her dark blue eyes, matching my own, made clear her intent.
"Oh, c'mon Carrie! Finding a cave doesn't require that you explore it."
"Of course it does."
And in a flash, she was in. I followed. I was expecting it to be pitch-black, but to my delight I could discern her petite body in front of me. My face was so close to those terry-cloth haunches.
"Where's that light coming from?"
"From below."
"How's that possible?"
The tunnel opened into a grotto of wave-worn rock. A well in the floor. Peering down, we could see the waves roiling, catching the light, sending it shimmering along the walls and ceiling of the tiny chamber.
Yes, close quarters. Carrie pressed her body against mine as we peered into the well. She giggled.
"Is that a rock formation jabbing my ass? Or a... cock formation."
"The latter."
"Does Mr. Angry like spelunking?"
"Mr. Angry lives to spelunk," I said.
"So Mr. Angry can shoot his spunk."
Carrie giggled again. And to my delight began grinding her cute little bottom against my hardness.
We kissed. We'd kissed before. In play. In experiment. Not in passion.
This was passion. In this magical place. We made love with our mouths for a long time. Coming up for air, I fondled her breasts.
"Uuuuhhhhhhnnnnn," Carrie groaned.
Well, fine, I thought. Something is taking its course.
In the merry, whirling light I stripped off Carrie's tank top and unclasped her bra.
My mouth moved between her nipples: licking, nibbling, sucking, suckling. My hands on her heaving rib cage.
There was a pressing concern. Kicking off my climbing shoes (Carrie did the same with hers), I released the engorged fury from my shorts. I removed my shorts and kneeled naked before Carrie, my cock pulsing and jumping in time with my pounding heart.
Carrie rose to her knees as well.
"Make me naked, Finn."
Gently, I tucked a finger between her tummy and the band of her short-shorts. My finger looped the elastic, lowering the shorts with each pass. When I had them to her knees she leaned forward against me, her breathing coming in bursts, and the cloth cleared her knees, her ankles. She was nude. She was in my arms. We kissed ferociously.
My fingers found the seam between her legs. The slightest shift, and my forefinger plunged into the pool of her pussy. Only after a long tease, in my experience, does a girl get this wet. Of tactile sensations, there is none more wonderful.
"Let's fuck," Carrie whispered, spinning a strand of pre-cum from my cockhead with her fingertip.
I lowered her onto the wave-smoothed shelf. The light playing across her body etched every curve and muscle. She opened wide her legs. I lowered myself over her and we both watched, mesmerized, as my cockhead found her saturation. I nudged her open so tenderly. She cooed and inched her pussy along my pulsing shaft. I was inside Carrie. She contained me. We were still as statues. Just our breathing. The throbbing of my cock deep in her lubricious cunt. We fucked so tenderly, possessed entirely by the miracle of boy-sex in girl-sex.
"I'm holding back from coming."
"So am I."
The gentlest fuck-thrust, and... *Here come the warm jets*... I spurted inside my sister. Carrie, gasping.
"Oh, fuck yes! I feel your cum shooting [gasp] into me."
Spurt. Spurt. Spurt.
Her pussy clenched and released my cock. Clenched and released. Clenched and released. Clenched and released.
In time, I withdrew, lay with my back on the cave floor. Carrie's body locked atop mine. Our fingers entwined. My hands moved down to hold her bottom. Our mouths wide but barely touching, only our tongues delicately dancing. My new erection found her center. More fucking in the shimmering cave. Her lithe body riding mine. Her tits jiggling in contrast to the smooth, flexing muscles of her arms. Grinding of groins. Her clit hard against my pelvis. She was coming, gasping. I held her aloft, my forearm against her breasts, my other hand slowly circling her belly, my cock in there, a delicious release of jism. She licked my ear.
Fumbled for the backpack. We drank the water, still cold. We napped. We woke. Wordlessly dressed. Climbed the wall. Leaning together, we followed the trail through the scrub and pine to Bonny Hind House. We ate voraciously from the fridge. Evening was upon us and the slightest chill. Naked, desperate to fuck and never stop fucking, we dove beneath the crisp sheets and the jumble of blankets.
Out beyond the pines, the ocean swirled up through the well, flooding the cave.
"Oh, my cunny needs fucking so badly!"
"What do you think we're doing here!"
I was really pounding Carrie. The delicacy of our first coupling in the cave had given way to grinding fuck-thrusting, real shoving and straining: the natural progression, my sister observed, from all the wrestling we'd done when we were younger.
The trick in making Carrie cum hard, so that her pussy pulses my penis, is deep-fucking: Pinning her. Actually *limiting* her thrust-back.
This is relatively easy. Strong as she is, she's petite. A pixie. I'm almost twice her size. I hold her cute round bottom in the span of my hands, marvel at the soft-hardness of her lean glutes. She clutches my butt, too, which I love.
Deep-fuck.
She fucks back like a champion, but I've (gently but firmly) got her pelvis in a lock, so that her engorged clit is under constant pressure, a button pushed down before it can fully pop-up. But a super-horny girl like my sister is cunning of cunny: her thrust-back allows her clit to enjoy friction, up-down, side-to-side, and *swirling*.
My own fuck is built on the basic principle that my cock must aspire always to penetrate-further Carrie's pussy. And damn she's tight! My penis gets squeezed without mercy, glans to root. There is no "slapping," in this style of fuck, no "splooshing." Every movement is fast, controlled, oppositional (meaning: Carrie is trying to fuck me harder than I am hard-fucking her). None of this would be possible if I did not keep a firm grip on her bottom. Our quads, well developed in both Carrie and me, also help to lock us in place.
Kissing is very important. In fact, our tongues are fucking, too. As if our groins have been left to their own urgent business. Autonomous. But there is a symmetry of action and intensity between mouth and groin.
In time, our mouths must commit wholly to breathing. I gaze at Carrie's pretty face, the light spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She smiles, almost shyly. ("Pouting" lips can also make for a very cute smile.) Our matching sets of dark blue eyes smile, too. The heaving and shuddering of her bosom. Her nipples erect and wet from my tonguing and slurping and sucking.
And there it is. The red flush, crimson at the suprasternal notch, that has spread across her upper chest: the signal that she is about to cum. It lingers for some time afterwards. (Thinking back, I realize that all the times I'd noticed that flush to her chest and neck meant that Carrie'd just masturbated.)
Building and building to O. You'd like to soar forever at the cum-limen, but it's impossible. Which is the whole point. Achieving the zenith, I release the first torrent of jism into my sister. She's been waiting for this. Her orgasm commences.
"Oh my pussy!" Carrie screams. "My pussy's being fucked!" She can manage words, whole sentences. I'm just grunting with every full-bore blast. "Oh! Your cock is squirting cum into my pussy!" And then the pulsing of Pussy while my cock twitches and spurts its last.
Still thrusting, clutching her bottom, I swivel my right ring finger to her sphincter, lightly touch it: it's keeping a beat, the infallible Richter scale of the endurance and intensity of Carrie's orgasm.
As for me, a long and intense fuck such as what Carrie and I have (overnight!) perfected, produces, in orgasm, an almost mystic awareness, not obtainable as conscious thought during the event, but somehow *known* in a primordial way: that my penis, ejaculating, is "other" from the rest of my being. That it is, in orgasm, somehow... ensouled.
...
Bonny Hind House. The first week of summer. My twin sister and I are in sole possession of the grand old manse and its ninety isolated acres. (Though the arrival of our cousins is entirely too imminent.) All we do is fuck and play with each other's nude bodies, kiss and cuddle.
"Finn."
"Yeah, Carrie."
"I need to suck your cock."
"Good luck."
It's three p.m. Since ten this morning I've volleyed more semen into my sister's vagina and mouth than I ever thought possible.
We've moved the mattress and bedding out to the porch off our room. Being naked outdoors, running your hand along the curves and contours of a gorgeous naked girl; masturbating her while being masturbated by her; lapping at her pussy while she thrashes in ecstasy; fucking her hard and fast, fucking her gently and slowly... this is when sex gets celestial, launched free of common rutting into the empyrean of the gods. If I remember my Greek mythology, brothers copulating with their sisters was a theme often visited by classical civilization.
Speaking of visits. "Suck Finn's cock" seems to have become a regular entry in my sister's social calendar.
She's crept down my torso to align her lips with my languid penis. Her tongue darts out to slap the large purple-pink corona. Then quick licks along the shaft. But I know my greedy sister. All this pointillist fellating cannot satisfy her need to hold my cock in her mouth and softly suck, "mmmmmmm"-ing as the spongy tissue swells, lengthening and expanding.
A mackerel sky above us; the ocean pluming the rocks below us. Through a deft combination of suck and pump, Carrie is rewarded with a jet of jism. She swallows. Smiles. Says, "Ahhh!" Like her thirst's been quenched. It was the rhythmic swaying of her tits that did it, made me come. That and the auburn pubic triangle. And the toile de Jouy ribbon she'd used to fashion a ponytail, her hair getting blonder by the day in the summer sun. Yes, gazing upon my sister's nude beauty turned the tide.
"Damn, that's good fun," Carrie says, nuzzling me.
"What's that about?" I gasp, trying to tally the ridiculous number of times since we returned from the cave that Carrie has abruptly, wantonly, taken my cock into her mouth.
"What's what about?"
"Sucking my cock. Swallowing my cum."
"I dunno. Blowjob qua blowjob doesn't interest me. I dislike the term, actually."
"Yeah. It's pretty inelegant."
Carrie giggles. I think it's because I've just said something droll.
"'Inelegant'? If I were a guy, I'd be more concerned about possible confusion."
"Whadd'ya mean?"
"There's this comedy-album mix tape someone left in the ballroom. There's one bit, this guy's a TV newscaster and he's caught on camera talking to his girlfriend on the phone, and he says, 'No, you don't actually *blow* on it.'"
"That's funny."
"So 'blowjob' is a no-go. But replace that with what flashes through my mind: 'I want to suck on his cock. I want to feel Finn's cock harden and throb in my mouth.' That's what I think. And there's nothing I want more in the world."
"What about the cum?"
"Does Annie swallow or spit?"
"A gentleman never tells."
"She spits. Yeah, she spits." Carrie clambers atop me to tickle my ribs. My sister's been making jibes about my absent girlfriend.
I'm hard again. Again! Carrie is wet, very wet. She scoots her pussy down and wriggles onto my cock. We both groan, but this won't be (cannot be!) a full-fledged fuck. Just a fun way to keep the conversation rolling.
"So... ahhhhh... why *do* you swallow?"
"I couldn't imagine doing otherwise. Also, understand, Finnegan, pre-cum... especially your output. Geez! I'm swallowing the whole time I'm sucking. That blast across my tonsils: that's like the action sequence, the car chase." (Carrie, cinephile nonpareil, often uses movie metaphors.)
Panting, she continues: "But more to the point... unnnhhh..." (Carrie is starting to ride me for real now!) "I like the taste."
Carrie abruptly rotates and pulls me on my side, for fuck-spooning. Her little body nestled against mine. I caress her tits, clamp her nipples between my fingers (this makes her moan). My cock tight up inside her flexing cunny. I lick a trickle of sweat from her neck as she grinds against me and diddles her clit. I drift into reverie. Just before sleep takes me, I register the gasping and whimpering of my sister's orgasm.
...
Next day. The beach. We fuck doggie-style in the shallows of the cove. I just can't take my eyes off her perfect little butt, the sight of my teak-hard cock held fast by her swollen vulva. We bob about, letting the sea guide our orgasm, which is a fantastic trick, probably impossible to repeat. Just the right energy and sequence of waves shoves me into Carrie. The contrast of my warm semen and the cool sea water makes Carrie yowl as the climax crests and crashes in her Ocean Within.
Later, I'm licking the sea water from her pussy. She's writhing, pinching her nipples. Her tummy muscles go rigid as she comes. I can't stop lapping her cunt, but she's screaming, begging me to quit, as she's convulsed by onrushing orgasms.
It's not something I'd ever been much interested in doing, but suddenly I'm on my knees, cranking my painfully swollen penis, rocketing spunk across Carrie's tummy and tits. She leans forward to catch a splat in her open mouth. "Mmmm, thank you Mr. Angry," says Carrie, in direct-address to my cock, then sprawls on her back again, eyes closed, idly raking my jism along her body with her fingertips.
I collapse next to her. "Hey."
"Yeah."
"I think this is the longest I've gone without masturbating since I took up the practice."
"You mean 'calling,' not 'practice.'"
"Quite right."
"That reminds me." She's got her face up against mine, tenderly kisses me. "Will you be a good guy and get the pool open, pronto."
"Oh. The water-return jet."
"Yeah."
"Carrie's original Summer Love."
"Yup. Your days are numbered, buddy."
...
Days. "What are days for?" asks the poet. "Days are for fucking my delicious sister, Mr. Larkin." Though, at this moment, she's sucking on my cock yet again. Nothing like ease of access. Carrie and I have been completely naked all week. Ravishing each other. Pausing sex only to rest, bathe, eat. The delirium of a new girlfriend. The fuck marathons. I've known a few. But these days with Carrie: nothing could have prepared me.
...
We swim over to Gone-Baby-Gone Bluff, or as close as we can get to it: the surf is rough today. Carrie dives to try to find the remnants of the collapsed rock face. My heart leaps at the sight of her bottom and the line of her cunny captured in the golden evening light. Eventually, Carrie surfaces, squints up at the cave.
"You realize," she says, we're the only people in the history of the planet to enter that cave."
A flash of our first fuck.
"We consecrated it," I said.
Moonrise. I follow the thought. "Never a woman on the moon. That was a mistake. A man and a woman should have landed on the moon. And there they should have fucked."
"What? In the lunar module? A glorified airplane toilet."
I laugh. Carrie is nothing if not direct.
We drift together, kissing lavishly. Above us looms our love-cave.
The ocean chills. We race each other back to the cove. I let her win, the better to gaze upon that gorgeous bottom, those plump cunny lips.
The water beading on Carrie's goosebumped skin. Her nipples hard as the pebbles at our feet. No control of it. Carrie grabs my erection and shouts, "Home, boy! Point the way home!"
We make it to the lower lawn, whereupon Carrie drops to her knees and bids me fuck her doggie style in view of the great house.
...
Indeed, in view of Bonny Hind. From any number of vantages one might see distinctly the jiggling of Carrie's tits; her brother's white-knuckle grip on her hips; our mouths open, heads thrown back in ecstasy.
...
Carrie ascends the ancient stone steps to Bonny Hind House. I follow. My sister's inner thighs are a sheen of sex-juice. For that matter, my pubes are sticky and soaked and my cock is slick with boy-cum and girl-cum.
Carrie laughs at something.
"What?"
"I have no clue what day it is."
She's right. What a fuck-fest! "Me, too," I say, as we arrive on the upper lawn.
The massive door of the main entry is ajar.
"Idiot!" says Carrie. "You left the door open again."
"No I didn't."
And then we see the luggage piled in the breezeway.
Our cousins have arrived, to find the master bedroom gone to bedlam: Carrie's tiny white-cotton bikini panties flung onto the neck of an empty bottle of Veuve; the mattress migrated to the balcony; the frenzy and torment of the sheets.
"Oh, my cunny needs fucking so badly!"
"What do you think we're doing here!"
I was really pounding Carrie. The delicacy of our first coupling in the cave had given way to grinding fuck-thrusting, real shoving and straining: the natural progression, my sister observed, from all the wrestling we'd done when we were younger.
The trick in making Carrie cum hard, so that her pussy pulses my penis, is deep-fucking: Pinning her. Actually *limiting* her thrust-back.
This is relatively easy. Strong as she is, she's petite. A pixie. I'm almost twice her size. I hold her cute round bottom in the span of my hands, marvel at the soft-hardness of her lean glutes. She clutches my butt, too, which I love.
Deep-fuck.
She fucks back like a champion, but I've (gently but firmly) got her pelvis in a lock, so that her engorged clit is under constant pressure, a button pushed down before it can fully pop-up. But a super-horny girl like my sister is cunning of cunny: her thrust-back allows her clit to enjoy friction, up-down, side-to-side, and *swirling*.
My own fuck is built on the basic principle that my cock must aspire always to penetrate-further Carrie's pussy. And damn she's tight! My penis gets squeezed without mercy, glans to root. There is no "slapping," in this style of fuck, no "splooshing." Every movement is fast, controlled, oppositional (meaning: Carrie is trying to fuck me harder than I am hard-fucking her). None of this would be possible if I did not keep a firm grip on her bottom. Our quads, well developed in both Carrie and me, also help to lock us in place.
Kissing is very important. In fact, our tongues are fucking, too. As if our groins have been left to their own urgent business. Autonomous. But there is a symmetry of action and intensity between mouth and groin.
In time, our mouths must commit wholly to breathing. I gaze at Carrie's pretty face, the light spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She smiles, almost shyly. ("Pouting" lips can also make for a very cute smile.) Our matching sets of dark blue eyes smile, too. The heaving and shuddering of her bosom. Her nipples erect and wet from my tonguing and slurping and sucking.
And there it is. The red flush, crimson at the suprasternal notch, that has spread across her upper chest: the signal that she is about to cum. It lingers for some time afterwards. (Thinking back, I realize that all the times I'd noticed that flush to her chest and neck meant that Carrie'd just masturbated.)
Building and building to O. You'd like to soar forever at the cum-limen, but it's impossible. Which is the whole point. Achieving the zenith, I release the first torrent of jism into my sister. She's been waiting for this. Her orgasm commences.
"Oh my pussy!" Carrie screams. "My pussy's being fucked!" She can manage words, whole sentences. I'm just grunting with every full-bore blast. "Oh! Your cock is squirting cum into my pussy!" And then the pulsing of Pussy while my cock twitches and spurts its last.
Still thrusting, clutching her bottom, I swivel my right ring finger to her sphincter, lightly touch it: it's keeping a beat, the infallible Richter scale of the endurance and intensity of Carrie's orgasm.
As for me, a long and intense fuck such as what Carrie and I have (overnight!) perfected, produces, in orgasm, an almost mystic awareness, not obtainable as conscious thought during the event, but somehow *known* in a primordial way: that my penis, ejaculating, is "other" from the rest of my being. That it is, in orgasm, somehow... ensouled.
...
Bonny Hind House. The first week of summer. My twin sister and I are in sole possession of the grand old manse and its ninety isolated acres. (Though the arrival of our cousins is entirely too imminent.) All we do is fuck and play with each other's nude bodies, kiss and cuddle.
"Finn."
"Yeah, Carrie."
"I need to suck your cock."
"Good luck."
It's three p.m. Since ten this morning I've volleyed more semen into my sister's vagina and mouth than I ever thought possible.
We've moved the mattress and bedding out to the porch off our room. Being naked outdoors, running your hand along the curves and contours of a gorgeous naked girl; masturbating her while being masturbated by her; lapping at her pussy while she thrashes in ecstasy; fucking her hard and fast, fucking her gently and slowly... this is when sex gets celestial, launched free of common rutting into the empyrean of the gods. If I remember my Greek mythology, brothers copulating with their sisters was a theme often visited by classical civilization.
Speaking of visits. "Suck Finn's cock" seems to have become a regular entry in my sister's social calendar.
She's crept down my torso to align her lips with my languid penis. Her tongue darts out to slap the large purple-pink corona. Then quick licks along the shaft. But I know my greedy sister. All this pointillist fellating cannot satisfy her need to hold my cock in her mouth and softly suck, "mmmmmmm"-ing as the spongy tissue swells, lengthening and expanding.
A mackerel sky above us; the ocean pluming the rocks below us. Through a deft combination of suck and pump, Carrie is rewarded with a jet of jism. She swallows. Smiles. Says, "Ahhh!" Like her thirst's been quenched. It was the rhythmic swaying of her tits that did it, made me come. That and the auburn pubic triangle. And the toile de Jouy ribbon she'd used to fashion a ponytail, her hair getting blonder by the day in the summer sun. Yes, gazing upon my sister's nude beauty turned the tide.
"Damn, that's good fun," Carrie says, nuzzling me.
"What's that about?" I gasp, trying to tally the ridiculous number of times since we returned from the cave that Carrie has abruptly, wantonly, taken my cock into her mouth.
"What's what about?"
"Sucking my cock. Swallowing my cum."
"I dunno. Blowjob qua blowjob doesn't interest me. I dislike the term, actually."
"Yeah. It's pretty inelegant."
Carrie giggles. I think it's because I've just said something droll.
"'Inelegant'? If I were a guy, I'd be more concerned about possible confusion."
"Whadd'ya mean?"
"There's this comedy-album mix tape someone left in the ballroom. There's one bit, this guy's a TV newscaster and he's caught on camera talking to his girlfriend on the phone, and he says, 'No, you don't actually *blow* on it.'"
"That's funny."
"So 'blowjob' is a no-go. But replace that with what flashes through my mind: 'I want to suck on his cock. I want to feel Finn's cock harden and throb in my mouth.' That's what I think. And there's nothing I want more in the world."
"What about the cum?"
"Does Annie swallow or spit?"
"A gentleman never tells."
"She spits. Yeah, she spits." Carrie clambers atop me to tickle my ribs. My sister's been making jibes about my absent girlfriend.
I'm hard again. Again! Carrie is wet, very wet. She scoots her pussy down and wriggles onto my cock. We both groan, but this won't be (cannot be!) a full-fledged fuck. Just a fun way to keep the conversation rolling.
"So... ahhhhh... why *do* you swallow?"
"I couldn't imagine doing otherwise. Also, understand, Finnegan, pre-cum... especially your output. Geez! I'm swallowing the whole time I'm sucking. That blast across my tonsils: that's like the action sequence, the car chase." (Carrie, cinephile nonpareil, often uses movie metaphors.)
Panting, she continues: "But more to the point... unnnhhh..." (Carrie is starting to ride me for real now!) "I like the taste."
Carrie abruptly rotates and pulls me on my side, for fuck-spooning. Her little body nestled against mine. I caress her tits, clamp her nipples between my fingers (this makes her moan). My cock tight up inside her flexing cunny. I lick a trickle of sweat from her neck as she grinds against me and diddles her clit. I drift into reverie. Just before sleep takes me, I register the gasping and whimpering of my sister's orgasm.
...
Next day. The beach. We fuck doggie-style in the shallows of the cove. I just can't take my eyes off her perfect little butt, the sight of my teak-hard cock held fast by her swollen vulva. We bob about, letting the sea guide our orgasm, which is a fantastic trick, probably impossible to repeat. Just the right energy and sequence of waves shoves me into Carrie. The contrast of my warm semen and the cool sea water makes Carrie yowl as the climax crests and crashes in her Ocean Within.
Later, I'm licking the sea water from her pussy. She's writhing, pinching her nipples. Her tummy muscles go rigid as she comes. I can't stop lapping her cunt, but she's screaming, begging me to quit, as she's convulsed by onrushing orgasms.
It's not something I'd ever been much interested in doing, but suddenly I'm on my knees, cranking my painfully swollen penis, rocketing spunk across Carrie's tummy and tits. She leans forward to catch a splat in her open mouth. "Mmmm, thank you Mr. Angry," says Carrie, in direct-address to my cock, then sprawls on her back again, eyes closed, idly raking my jism along her body with her fingertips.
I collapse next to her. "Hey."
"Yeah."
"I think this is the longest I've gone without masturbating since I took up the practice."
"You mean 'calling,' not 'practice.'"
"Quite right."
"That reminds me." She's got her face up against mine, tenderly kisses me. "Will you be a good guy and get the pool open, pronto."
"Oh. The water-return jet."
"Yeah."
"Carrie's original Summer Love."
"Yup. Your days are numbered, buddy."
...
Days. "What are days for?" asks the poet. "Days are for fucking my delicious sister, Mr. Larkin." Though, at this moment, she's sucking on my cock yet again. Nothing like ease of access. Carrie and I have been completely naked all week. Ravishing each other. Pausing sex only to rest, bathe, eat. The delirium of a new girlfriend. The fuck marathons. I've known a few. But these days with Carrie: nothing could have prepared me.
...
We swim over to Gone-Baby-Gone Bluff, or as close as we can get to it: the surf is rough today. Carrie dives to try to find the remnants of the collapsed rock face. My heart leaps at the sight of her bottom and the line of her cunny captured in the golden evening light. Eventually, Carrie surfaces, squints up at the cave.
"You realize," she says, we're the only people in the history of the planet to enter that cave."
A flash of our first fuck.
"We consecrated it," I said.
Moonrise. I follow the thought. "Never a woman on the moon. That was a mistake. A man and a woman should have landed on the moon. And there they should have fucked."
"What? In the lunar module? A glorified airplane toilet."
I laugh. Carrie is nothing if not direct.
We drift together, kissing lavishly. Above us looms our love-cave.
The ocean chills. We race each other back to the cove. I let her win, the better to gaze upon that gorgeous bottom, those plump cunny lips.
The water beading on Carrie's goosebumped skin. Her nipples hard as the pebbles at our feet. No control of it. Carrie grabs my erection and shouts, "Home, boy! Point the way home!"
We make it to the lower lawn, whereupon Carrie drops to her knees and bids me fuck her doggie style in view of the great house.
...
Indeed, in view of Bonny Hind. From any number of vantages one might see distinctly the jiggling of Carrie's tits; her brother's white-knuckle grip on her hips; our mouths open, heads thrown back in ecstasy.
...
Carrie ascends the ancient stone steps to Bonny Hind House. I follow. My sister's inner thighs are a sheen of sex-juice. For that matter, my pubes are sticky and soaked and my cock is slick with boy-cum and girl-cum.
Carrie laughs at something.
"What?"
"I have no clue what day it is."
She's right. What a fuck-fest! "Me, too," I say, as we arrive on the upper lawn.
The massive door of the main entry is ajar.
"Idiot!" says Carrie. "You left the door open again."
"No I didn't."
And then we see the luggage piled in the breezeway.
Our cousins have arrived, to find the master bedroom gone to bedlam: Carrie's tiny white-cotton bikini panties flung onto the neck of an empty bottle of Veuve; the mattress migrated to the balcony; the frenzy and torment of the sheets.
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