THE SIBLINGS chapter 2, Opening moves

Here’s the second one. It contains some sexual things in it, but is still well developed. *Warning!* This contains Incest and people below legal age. Please do not report it as containing Young people in it.
I consider this as more of a love story than erotic Fiction, and I have trouble telling you how much I enjoy reading it, especially the earlier parts. For me, it kind of makes other erotic fiction pointless. Also, I OWN NOTHING. All rights belong to Michael K. Smith. I am simply uploading his story for him, though since he hasn’t uploaded his email since 2004, I don’t have his written permission, save the fact that his website gives permission. This is not hardcore stuff, and the sex is not instant or in great amount, be warned of that as well. Now, without further ado, I, the messenger, send you forward. Enjoy!

Opening Moves
by Michael K. Smith







[From Chapter 4; set in 1970; he’s 15, she’s 14. NOTE: If you’re curious, this chapter was actually the first one I wrote in this project. . . .]



Alex made the freshman swimming team when she was fourteen. So had I, the previous year, and now I was on the 10th Grade boy’s team; I was proud of my little sister and pleased that we would both be on the “jock bus” to out-of-town interscholastic meets.

I had discovered already that I simply wasn’t designed physically or mentally to be a participant in what nonswimmers regarded as “real” sports, like football or basketball. You had to force yourself to become a cog in a machine and that wasn’t for me.

Swimming and track, though, where you did most of your practicing alone, were a different kind of athletics. Competing against other individuals, head-to-head, or against your own previous best effort, was much more enjoyable. At least, it suited me and it seemed to suit Alex, and we both became steady performers in both sports.

To our coaches, people like us were the “backbones of the team”: not many First Place ribbons, but always well up in the standings. Neither Alex nor I would ever qualify for a college athletic scholarship — I think we simply lacked the bloodlust that level of competitiveness demands — but neither would we embarrass ourselves or our teams.

Rather than the bulging calves and linebacker’s shoulders that many young swimmers develop, my sister acquired instead long, sleek leg muscles and flat, rippling surfaces across her upper back. I found the result very appealing . . . but I was hardly an unbiased observer. Many of the other girls, when they made the team, cut their hair very short as a sort of ritual of achievement, but Alex refused to give up her coppery mane. Her body was developing in all the best places, too. Her hips widened enough to hold up her jeans and her waist narrowed; the baby fat disappeared quickly. Daily training at the pool kept her stomach flat and taut, and her bottom quivered nicely rather than bouncing.

Some girls at school possessed breasts that practically exploded into ‘boobs’ — double-A to C- or D-cup in a semester or less. They became very popular dates with the more mammary-minded boys. I had several opportunities myself to squeeze, suck, and wallow between pairs of hyperdeveloped tits, and it was definitely a stimulating experience — but I suspected even then that such accessories would require mechanical support before many more years passed. I also learned the truth of the old wisecrack: “Any more than you can get in your mouth at one time is wasted.”

Like all the rest of her, I regarded my sister’s breasts to be near-perfect — the standard beside which all others should be judged. She had barely enough silhouette to be considered sexy by the unimaginative, but even though her bust line was relatively small, it remained firm as the result of regular exercise. Her breasts rode high and proud on her torso and they never, ever sagged. Whether she lay on her back or stood up straight with her shoulders braced, her tits hardly changed their shallow conical shape. And each was crowned by a frequently erect nipple, as prominent as a watchtower on a hilltop.

By today’s social standards, my opinion of what constitutes physical attractiveness in a woman may be considered sexist, but I claim a neo-Platonic view of the aesthetic ideal — and Alex at fourteen fit that ideal as perfectly as I could wish.




Our physical relationship also began to change shortly after we turned fifteen and fourteen. About the same time I was learning the techniques of successful Masturbation, I became aware that Alex had embarked on her own journey of discovery. This came as a surprise, though I realized immediately that it shouldn’t have. It simply hadn’t occurred to me that a girl was perfectly capable of enjoying sex all by herself.

I’m amazed I was so blind. On several occasions I found my sister sitting barefoot on the old kitchen chair in her room, one foot tucked comfortably beneath her, the other swinging slowly to and fro. The nail polish or emery board in her hand was forgotten and her slightly glazed eyes had a faraway look. If I interrupted her, she blinked and that was that, but on one occasion I stopped in the hall and watched in fascination. The foot-rocking continued for several minutes and her gaze became more and more unfocused until finally the foot stopped and she let out a deep sigh. Then she blinked several times and licked her lips, and seemed to return from wherever she had been. She looked up and saw me in the hall, and ducked her head. Her ears turned pink but I somehow knew not to ask, and she volunteered nothing.

Bladder pressure forced me out of bed early one Sunday morning, and as I headed sleepily back from the bathroom I paused in the hallway at the sound of my sister’s bed creaking rhythmically. My own bed made the same sound when I jerked off, so it certainly caught my attention. I edged down the hall, keeping to the shadows of the far wall, until I could see Alex’s bed through the half-open door. And I stood silently and watched her bring herself off, mesmerized by the sight, pounded by guilt for peeking, and totally unable to move.

Her sleeping shirt was up around her midriff and her white cotton panties were pushed down just far enough to allow a downy red curl to escape. Her eyes were closed, her mouth was open, and her breathing was becoming louder. One arm was thrust behind her pillow. Her other hand was out of sight under the cotton and her fingers were moving in a complicated pattern. Her long legs were stretched out, ankles crossed, and her calf and thigh muscles flexed and fluttered. I imagined her finger moving up and down her pussy, and I began to sweat.

Then her lovely legs bent at the knee and her feet rose slowly until her curled toes were pointed at the ceiling. I could see the outline of her finger moving jerkily beneath the now-exposed crotch of her panties. I found the vision of her heated body being stoked even further incredibly arousing.

After a few minutes, she lowered her legs again and this time spread her bent knees. The cotton crotch was a vertical white band separating her smooth thighs. Her hand continued to move, but now she pushed the cloth aside and attacked her pussy with a cupped hand. Her breasts were rising and falling rapidly as she sucked air in and hissed it out. Her lips curled back slightly and her hand flashed ever faster, until she sighed deeply and seemed to sink into her mattress. Her legs relaxed and a satisfied smile crept over her face. She gradually extricated her hand and flexed her fingers as if to remove a cramp. She hesitated and then brought her fingers to her face and inhaled. The aroma was perceptible even out in the hall. My cock had been pushing hard against the front of my briefs for several minutes, and when Alex slipped her fingers into her mouth and silently sucked them dry, I nearly came myself.

As she turned over on her side and pulled the covers back up, I moved slowly and carefully back to my own bed. I lay there for an hour, replaying the vision over and over. And when my sister finally wandered into my room and ruffled my hair to awaken me, I felt a nearly overwhelming desire to grab her hand and suck on her fingers myself.




Dad was gone on one of his trips just before Christmas and the winter cold had exacerbated Mother’s arthritis. She was holed up in the downstairs bedroom and Alex and I had the Upstairs all to ourselves, as usual. The heat wasn’t working properly in Alex’s room for some reason, and she came into my room with a quilt gathered around her. I was sitting up, half under the covers, reading.

“Can I stay in here with you tonight?” She was shivering. I was comfortable, even a little too warm. My internal thermostat always was set a little higher than hers.

“Why don’t you wear your flannel thing?” She grimaced and shifted from one bare foot to the other.

Under the quilt, I knew she was probably wearing only a T-shirt; even though she chilled easily at that age, she hated sleeping in anything that twisted around her like a mummy’s wrappings. There we agreed: I usually slept in my briefs, not pajamas with a top.

“Sure, why not?” I scooted over a bit and hauled back the comforter.

She crossed the room in two quick, deer-like leaps, shedding the quilt on the way, and slid quickly under the covers. I was right: One of my old tee shirts clipped off at navel-length, and the standard cotton panties. She immediately drew up her knees in a cannonball and hiked the comforter up under her chin.

“Thanks! I was getting frost between my toes!”

I radiate a lot of body heat at night and she inched over a little at a time until she was snugged up against my left side, her nose tickling my ribs. She sighed contentedly. And a quarter of an hour passed.

We had cozied up in bed together dozens of times in the past, sometimes when it was cold, or to swap giggling gossip from school, or sometimes just for company. We enjoyed being together more than being alone most of the time, even when we were each silently engrossed in our separate thoughts. But now, for the first time that I can remember, I forgot the book I was reading and my imagination suddenly snapped into focus on Alex.

I was still holding the book but on the movie screen in my head all I saw was a still shot of her in mid-leap on her way to the bed, long legs outstretched, tee shirt flipped up by the movement, already nicely-shaped breasts in momentary free flight beneath the cotton. Jesus. My cock twitched as I studied the picture.

I knew my sister had an attractive body — not that I thought of it that way consciously, not yet. What experience of my own did I have to compare her body to? Almost absolutely none. And here my penis was getting the better of me. I had been masturbating for two years, usually to the throb of my imagination, sometimes with the help of a smuggled PLAYBOY. I had even been known, when desperate, to beat off to the lingerie section in the Sears catalog. Recently, I had been replaying in my mind the vision of her masturbating in the early morning . . . but somehow, I thought of her in that scene as “girl,” not specifically as “Alex.”

Part of my brain, the intelligent part, tried to get my attention. What was I thinking about here? Was I going to try to put the make on my own sister? I loved her, I really did. And I knew without a doubt that she loved me, too. We had understood that, without actually saying it, since the street fight when she was eleven. If I became a sister-rapist, I thought wildly, I would have to commit suicide.

While I was thinking these sudden new thoughts, my left hand detached itself from the book of its own accord and slipped under the covers, heading straight for Alex’s left breast, the only one accessible. She had dozed off now, her breathing light and regular, almost hypnotic. My thumb began to brush her nipple through the thin cloth of her shirt. After a moment she shifted her arm slightly and sighed. I found I now had better access to my target. She was asleep but her nipple sure wasn’t. It slowly rose an eighth of an inch to reach for my slowly moving thumb.

I saw a tree branch move in the cold wind outside the window and glanced up. When I looked back a second later at what my thumb was doing, Alex’s eyes were half-open and a sleepy smile moved around the edges of her lips. I froze. After an hour-long moment she moved a tiny bit, rubbing her breast against my thumb this time.

“Don’ stop . . . ‘t feels good,” she murmured.

Wow. She moved her breast again. She seemed to mean it, at least here and now, but did she really know what she was doing? Maybe she just thought she was dreaming. I remembered her embarrassment when I had walked in on her masturbating a couple months before. She had joked about it later. But did I really want to take a chance with this? Would she scream at me for taking advantage of her after she awoke and remembered? Was I analyzing too much and losing this opportunity?

Objectively and rationally, I knew I ought to stop (and if she ever mentioned this evening I would lie, let her think she *had* dreamed it), but my more basic drives beat that thought down and killed it.