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My twin sister and I live together.
Before your eyes flick up to check if this is a “taboo/incest” story, let me assure you that it is not.
O.K.; yes, yes, I confess; in the forty one years, seven months and three days since our birth, we have indeed “had sex” with each other. A fumbling attempt at penile-vaginal copulation at the age of twelve, and, thirty odd years later, several instances of mutual masturbation.
But the sexual liaisons recounted here involve unrelated others. Many, many, others.
I’m an artist. MFA from the Philadelphia Academy; for the last couple of decades I have been painting portraits of the moneyed gentry in Philadelphia and the surrounding counties. Adele teaches drama at a small liberal arts college on the Main Line. What was left of the family fortune went into our educations.
She’s been married twice, both disasters. A decade ago my young wife and infant son died at the hands of a drunk driver. As the older, by seven minutes, I inherited the family pile. Six acres, twenty rooms, five car garage, with servants quarters above. No servants, no money, the roof leaks. Grand Papa, the railroad heir, spent the majority on yachts and mistresses. What was left, Daddy Dear squandered on wives, schemes, and the new casinos in Atlantic City.
“Charles, darling,” Adele said, one sunny afternoon in August, “I have a little plan.” My sibling was sprawled on the chaise I generally use for posing my clients. Her deep tan was a stark contrast against the white shorts and sports bra she wore. Slim, fit-she teaches a class in modern dance at the college-she somehow manages to maintain a youthful figure, despite a diet that largely consists of cigarettes and scotch.
My studio occupies the conservatory. Picture the board game ‘Clue’. Thirty by thirty; twelve foot ceiling, parquet floor, and good northern light. The floor had long ago heaved from water damage, and was decorated with a thick layer of paint spatters that resembled an oriental carpet on an acid trip.
“Yes, sweets; I’m sure you do.” Adele’s plans often involve either sex, drugs, or alcohol. Sometimes all three. I was working on the background of a portrait, wanted to get it finished by the beginning of the week, as its subject was due for her second sitting.
“Don’t be a poop, Charles. You know you always enjoy yourself, once my parties get going.”
Of course I do; the last event my sister had thrown, I’d had a swell time, culminating in the unadulterated joy of being handcuffed in the back seat of a police car.
I squeezed a dollop of burnt umber onto my pallet, cut it with titanium white. “I hope your party involves O.P.M., dearie. The exchequer is on life support, and the taxes on this rubbish heap are due next month.”
“Don’t be tiresome, Charles. Other People’s Money is all very well and good for a business venture. But asking friends to pony up an admittance fee to a soiree is so declasse.”
“So is worming French into a sentence. What have you got planned?”
“I’ve invited a select few of my students from the summer session to drop by for ‘burgers and ‘dogs. Maybe a beer or two.”
“A beer or two. Uh huh. And when do you plan on having this party?”
Adele rose, grabbed my left wrist, twisted it, looked at my watch. “About twenty minutes. Give me a couple of bills, darling, for the burgers and booze.”
Adele’s ‘couple of bills’ was two hundred dollars. “What ever happened to our sharing expenses? The college does pay you, don’t they?”
“Oh, of course they do, silly. Only, my little car was ill, and I had to take it in for a transplant. And, after the last fiasco, the garage insists on cash, up front. So, I’m temporarily a little short.”
No short jokes there; Adele’s kadıköy escort a half inch shy of my five-nine. I sighed, fished a wad of twenties out of my pocket, handed them over. “Receipts,” I said. “We’ll figure some way to make this thing deductible.”
I spent another hour, finishing up the portrait’s background. The client’s library; I’d taken a half dozen Polaroids, and was working from them. He was a trucking magnate, and wanted his young trophy wife immortalized in oils. To be truthful, it was himself that wanted the immortality. The nouveau riche think that they can buy an identity. Cars, clothes, wives. They create themselves through possessions. A portrait by me, I modestly say, is one of the stepping stones. I like to work large, at least three by five feet. Lets me milk them for a couple of extra thousand.
The happy tinkle of youthful laugher drifted in through the open French windows. Adele’s students, a dozen or so, boys and girls, trooped around the side of the house, headed for the pool and cabana. My sister led a quartet of young men, loaded down with kegs and comestibles, toward the BBQ.
A few minutes later a Frisbee sailed toward the house, landed on the brick piazza outside my studio. It was soon retrieved by a young woman. As she bent to pick up the disc I caught a brief, but no less intriguing, glimpse of cleavage.
She saw me watching her, came through the door. “Hi. Wow, you look a lot like Ms. Wagner!”
“Not surprising; we’re twins. I’m Charles. And you are?—”
“Amy.”She looked around the studio. “You’re a painter, huh?”
What a brilliant mind! And a ripe young body to house it. Full breasts, unfettered by brassiere, proudly announced themselves beneath her T shirt. Short skirt, long legs, with the creamy smoothness of youth. The purple hair and nostril stud were a somewhat jarring note.
She studied the canvas on my easel. “It’s not done yet, huh?” No fooling this girl. I scraped my pallet, floated a dust cloth over the unfinished canvas.
“No,” I said, “But I am. Finished. Why don’t you go get us a couple of beers, Amy, and I’ll show you something cool.” I watched her pert bottom twitch as she walked across the grass. I cleaned my brushes and suspended them in a can of turps. Amy came back. Handed me a sixteen ounce plastic cup.
“Molson,” she said.
I touched her cup with mine. “Here’s to Canada.”
“So, what’s this cool thing you got?”
“Follow me,” I said, leading her into the interior of the house. The main staircase, nine feet wide, spirals up and up and up. I opened a narrow door beneath it, ushered her in. Closed the door behind us. Three by three feet. Snug for two. Amy’s eyes widened, fearful. “Hey! What-“
“Shh, shh,” I said, touching a finger to her lips. Touching a button on the wall. A small jolt, we began to ascend. Lights blinked on the control panel. One.Two.Three.Four. I opened the door. We were at the very top of the house, a small cupola that housed the elevator cables and pulleys and motors. A door led out to a widow’s walk. We leaned against the balustrade and watched the students far below.
“You’re right,” she said. “This is way cool!”
I took a sip of beer. Took a chance. “You know, of course, Amy, that it is customary to tip the elevator operator.”
“Usually, it is with a kiss.” Her lips glistened with beer; I touched them with my thumb.
“Well, uh huh; O.K., I guess.” She tilted her face up, pursed her lips, closed her eyes. I kissed her; her lips softened, yielded, our tongues met. Molson Golden.
I put our cups on the balustrade. Pulled her against me, wondering how far this could go. More kissing. My üsküdar escort hands slid down to her butt. Pulled her closer, still. She whimpered. I lifted her skirt, ran my hands under the elastic of her panties, kneaded her globes. Let a finger venture between them. She was wet. Always a good sign.
I broke the kiss. “Uh, Amy, you’re eighteen, right?”
“Uh huh. Why?”
“Oh, idle curiosity. Just for fun, you want to do it, up here?”
“Good. So do I. Turn around, lean on the balustrade.”
“The railing.” She did, and I flipped her skirt up over her ass, and spread her legs and pulled the narrow bit of fabric to one side and fucked her silly.
I came and Amy came and she yelled, “HOLY SHIT!” That’s when she knocked both beers off the balustrade. Everybody looked up and waved. We waved back.
I stuck her in one of the third floor bathrooms to clean herself up, went down to my suite on the second, grabbed a quick shower, and changed out of my work clothes. Slipped on sandals, linen slacks, a vintage rayon Hawaiian shirt. Ray Bans and a slim cigar completed my wardrobe.
Half the kids were in the pool. The rest were grilling, drinking, sunning. Adele, as usual, had a trio of boys enthralled. She broke away and leaned her forehead against mine, softly said, “Were you boffing my little Amy up there?”
“Was it that obvious?”
“No; not unless one knows you!”
“Are all of your students as willing as she is?”
“Well, I can’t speak for the girls, but the males certainly are! I’m going to invite those three up my digs, for a toke and poke.”
Adele tossed me a throaty laugh, and went back to her toys. My sister has only one rule, but it’s very firm. Everyone wears a condom. No STD’s, and nobody has to endure sloppy seconds.
I went into the cabana, where the hard stuff was. The liquor cabinet has a lock; Glenlivet mixed with Pepsi is a crime against civilization. A chunky blonde girl was on her knees, giving a young man a blow job. Actually, she was receiving a face fuck; he held her ponytail in one hand, and cupped her chin with the other, as he thrust into her mouth. She had the top of her swim suit pulled down, and was tormenting her nipples. Whatever trips your trigger.
I poured two fingers of scotch into a glass, and watched. Ah, youth! In my day, if an adult had surprised me flagrante delecto, I would have been mortified. And the adult would have been outraged. What a long and twisted journey it has been, from Timmy and Lassie, to Bart and Santa’s Little Helper.
The boy said,” Oh, yeah, baby, yeah. Gonna come, gonna come!”
I cleared my throat. “So it would seem. Only, if she’s not going to swallow, would you please deposit it in the bar sink?”
“Aw, shit. Yeah. Becky, swallow me? Pleeeeease?”
Becky said “Mmmmf,” and did.
I carried my drink out of the funky thickness that permeated the cabana. The sun had disappeared and so had the swimming apparel. ‘Select few’, indeed! There were eight of Adele’s students left; some in the pool, some not. More girls than boys; my greedy sister had made off with three of the latter. There were couples on the grass, on lounge chairs, one daring pair on a rubber float, attempting the impossible, in the water.
Two girls were snuggled on a wicker loveseat, beneath the pendulous branches of a big copper beach. My cigar glowed red in the descending darkness. “Hello,” I said, ducking under a low branch. One was black, one was white. Very, very white. Ash blonde hair, shaved pubes, small breasts.
The black girl was as dark as the Cheshire Cat; disembodied eyes and teeth. Closer, I saw large breasts, wide hips, long, long tuzla escort legs. They were touching each other; little caresses that lingered for a moment, before moving on to new territory.
“Hi,” the white girl said. “I’m Silk.”
“Lo,” the black girl said. “I’m Chenille.”
Both said,”We’re Bi!” And laughed.
“I’m Charles, ” I answered. “And I like girls.”
My clothing joined theirs on the grass. The scent of weed lingered in their hair. Silk ran her hands down my chest, touched my flaccid cock. “I never made it with an old guy.”
Chenille kneeled, took me in her mouth, gave it a quick suck, and stood. “I did my uncle, once.”
“I heard that old guys last and last and last.”
“Not my uncle! ‘course he was only twenty-nine, at the time. That’s not real old.”
“Yeah, it is.” Silk kissed me. “How old are you, Charles?”
“Twenty Something.” I touched her hairless pussy, slipped my thumb between her lips. “You shave, or are you twelve?”
“Damn, girl! Charles has a mouth on him!” Chenille kissed me. “What else can you do with that mouth?”
“Take a seat, and see.” I kneeled on the grass, between her legs, pushed them apart. Her wool was thick and coarse. Her scent was musky, her cunt salty. I opened her with my fingers, worked her with my tongue.
“Oh, yeah!” she said. “Man’s done this a time or two. Had him some lessons!”
Silk climbed on the love seat, straddled her friend, put her crotch against Chenille’s face. I reached up, played with the black girl’s big breasts. Her nipples stiffened. I moved a hand up to Silk’s ass. Fingered her wetness, dueled with Chenille’s tongue. She sucked my finger. I circled Silk’s bung hole. She squirmed. I slipped it in. She squealed.
Chenille grabbed my hair, pulled me hard against her. Slurp, slurp. Silk dropped to her knees, her butt unceremoniously pushing me away from her friend. I stood, watched them kiss. Hoped my cock would have its innings with these two lovelies.
“Get yo’ ass off of me, Silk. I need some meatpole!” I guessed that in their word of bi, Chenille was the top. She hooked her hands under her knees and pulled them up. Her cunt was shiny, lips engorged. “Suck him hard, baby,” she ordered. “Damn,” she said, watching her friend at work. “You hung like a bro’ Charles! Stick that big thang up my big thang!”
I did. Chenille was surprisingly tight. For a girl who had done her uncle. The resilience of youthful flesh. I used my thumb to work her clit, and she soon fell over the cliff, for a second time. I pulled out, turned to Silk.
“Want some of Old Everlast?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah! Bone me!” When we were young, Mother taught my sister and me social deportment and the art of conversation. Today, it seems, that parental task has been turned over to MTV.
I ducked out of our arboreal bower and snagged an unoccupied chaise, dragged it back into the cavern. I dropped the back to horizontal, guided Chenille onto the cushion. Placed Silk above her, belly to belly. “Kisses up top, girls. I’ll take care of business, down here.” Both were wet, but I had a hard time with the tightness of Silk’s cunt. Maybe she wasn’t all that experienced with men, after all. Either that, or she didn’t do dildos.
Once I’d stretched her to accommodate me, I began the same long, slow strokes that had been so popular with her friend. I fought the urge to let myself go, and blast her to kingdom cum. So to speak.
Minutes later Silk arched her back, said, “Aw, shit!” and I quickly pulled out. “What the fuck you doin’?” I somehow doubted that she was an English major.
I bent my bone down six inches and roughly shoved it into Chenille. Her cries and moans telegraphed the situation to her friend. I went back and forth that way, swapping cunts, until the three of us were soaked in sweat.
I finally exploded in Silk, collapsed onto her back, crushed her between us. Someone’s finger slithered down to the scene of the crime, picked up the torch. I didn’t know, didn’t care, who was doing what to whom.
Adele is right. She DOES throw a great party!
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