Terence Fitzbancroft

My Sister, My Sin

ONE

One morning in the summer of my fourteenth year I woke up with a much stiffer and thicker erection than any my young loins had ever before sustained.

I knew it must have some link with my sister, whose arrival the night before had made it difficult to get to sleep. I had scarcely seen her for five years, for after our mother and father separated we had been shuttled about from school to camp and back again.

But I knew as soon as we had rushed into each others' arms on her arrival that the slavish love for her I had felt as a young boy-when we had taken baths together and played tickling games, exposed ourselves and played house-was undiminished, even if she was now fifteen.

I slid out of bed, slipped on a bathrobe and headed for Sandy's room. Then I thought better of it and took off the robe as well as my pyjamas. What was the sense of covering up? We were going to have a whole summer together, under the half-blind eye of dotty grandma, while the parents wrangled far away in the city over the settlement and our custody. I looked at myself in the mirror. I had shot up in the last year, and even if I was a year younger than my sister, I was a couple of inches taller. I wasn't a skinny rail like most kids my age, either, but had begun to flesh out smoothly, and my erected standard was that of a man, not a boy.

I tiptoed into Sandy's room and closed the door silently behind me. She lay stretched on her stomach, facing me, still asleep. During the night she had wriggled free of the light covers, and either because she was too hot or too restless, had let her nightgown ride all the way up her thighs and halfway up her buttocks. I was amazed and excited by how much those perfectly round hills had grown, and how white they were in contrast to her golden, suntanned thighs.

I walked up to the bed and kneeled alongside her. She continued to breathe deeply in sleep. Her full red lips were parted in a sensual smile. Her long blonde hair lay strewn on the pillow, sparkling in the light from the open window.

Leaning forward, I brushed her lips with mine. She whimpered softly, but did not stir, so I laid my hand on her bare buttocks, marveling at their smoothness, and shook. She whimpered again.

“Wake up,” I said, and slapped her hard on her fanny.

She squealed, rose to her elbows, looked at me, looked down at her naked backside and with one motion covered it with her nightie and rolled over onto her side to face me.

Her breasts had grown alarmingly since the last time I had seen her with so little on. Their fullness pressed against the transparent silk of her garment and her sharp red nipples surrounded by their pink aureoles glowed through the fabric.