Yesterday someone posted a question on another sub, about siblings who got caught fooling around. It touched a nerve. That was us. My sister and I “fooled around” a lot. We were close in age and both kind of chubby and awkward, and neither of us had normal social lives so it was kind of inevitable that we spent a lot of time together. The question brought a flood of memories back. I started to write this as a comment on that post, but in the end decided it deserved its own post.
Our parents left us to our own devices (figuratively speaking – this was long before cellphones and the like) much of the time. We had lots of silly games and habits – like for example we’d recreate scenes from our favorite books (we both read a lot and shared books). Sometimes the scenes would get very dramatic. For example, she’d be dying of consumption and needed to be examined by the doctor – that was me of course. And that meant, obviously, unbuttoning her blouse and feeling her chest. Which she didn’t mind at all! As I said our parents weren’t paying a whole lot of attention to us, but they knew we played games together and I think they must have realized that the games would sometimes progress to that kind of experimentation even though we knew not to do it in front of them. I think they were embarrassed to confront us, or maybe just didn’t care.
Over time we got more and more daring with the games. Somehow many games would end up with her being tickled, which she definitely liked. I liked to tickle her, too – as I said she was kind of chubby then (so was I for that matter) and it was fun tickling her soft tummy as she laughed and gasped for breath. I would always end up putting my hand under her top as the tickling progressed, which felt nice. And one day I was tickling her and it got kind of weird. She was pink and kind of pushing against me and breathing pretty hard and I suppose we both were getting kind of excited. We ended up basically embracing and pushing up against each other with our hands under each other’s tops, and I know now that she had an orgasm or something close to it (I didn’t but I was ridiculously excited and took care of it later).
After that occasion, over the next year or so, things changed a lot. We both started taking any opportunity to get right to touching each other’s bodies. We didn’t usually bother with the elaborate games and scenarios; either I’d just start tickling her or, more often, she would come over wearing a loose top and start tickling me. Her tickling me wasn’t really a “thing” between us, as I didn’t especially enjoy being tickled the way she seemed to, but I would of course reciprocate right away so it was a way for her to initiate the play when she wanted to. The tickling would quickly progress to feeling each other up under our tops and then holding each other and rubbing up against each other, and would end with one or, usually, both of us having an orgasm in our jeans, at which point we’d stop (but never admit to each other what had happened!)
Oddly at this point we weren’t getting naked or even partly naked; in fact we had never really seen each other fully naked since we were little. When we were still playing dramatic games we would contrive ways to “flash” each other. From the “consumption” game and others I already knew what her breasts looked like (very small with nut-brown nipples) and I’d caught glimpses of her panties and the pubic hair around them – she’d figure out excuses to sit so that I could see up her dress, for example, but we basically kept the clothes on when we started going from tickling to “wrestling” with each other. That’s how I thought of it anyway, though it was really basically just dry-humping. We didn’t have a special name for it – as I said we weren’t really admitting to each other that we were doing anything different from what we’d always done even though we had clearly entered a totally different phase in our “play.”
Anyway, at some point I realized I really wanted to see her fully naked. Considering what we were already doing, one wouldn’t think this would be that big a step but I was very reluctant to just ask her as it would be acknowledging that I was interested in her (which, obviously, I was, just as she was in me, but it would have been embarrassing to admit it, you know?) And in the end, I didn’t really have to ask. She randomly came into my room one evening after taking a shower, ostensibly to ask a question, wearing, quite atypically, only a yellow T-shirt and no jeans. It was a long shirt and I couldn’t see if she had panties on, but it must have been pretty obvious that I was staring at her thick thighs and trying to catch a better glimpse. I said something, I don’t know what, to get her to sit down on my bed in the hopes that I’d be able to see more that way. She sat down kind of cross-legged, holding my pillow in her lap. I made some lame joke about the pillow and she said “I need it because I don’t have panties on.” That was silly, of course – she didn’t need to be sitting cross-legged on my bed in the first place if she didn’t want me to see anything! But I said something like “that’s OK, I don’t mind” and, after a pause, she put the pillow aside – but also shifted her position so her legs were closed. I again said something lame, trying to make a joke of it, like “I don’t believe you’re not wearing panties.” She said “Really, I’m not!” and I took the obvious bait and said “well, show me” (which is obviously what she was angling for) and she spread her legs out again. And just like that I was looking (true, from my seat at the desk across the room) at the thick mat of curly pubic hair framed by her pale thighs.
I kind of pretended to be blasé about it. She stayed sitting that way and I kept looking while pretending not to, which wasn’t fooling anyone, while she chattered away about whatever unimportant question she’d used as an excuse to come in in the first place, which wasn’t fooling anyone either. As if the point of the whole exercise hadn’t been for her to flash me and see how I reacted! She was talking a bit too fast and seemed a little pink in the face and breathless; it was obvious that her exhibitionism was exciting her.
Well, seeing her pubic hair was exciting for me too. It was the first time I’d gotten a real look at a girl’s genitalia outside of the illicit Playboys I had stashed behind my dresser, and those – neatly trimmed, airbrushed, glossy – weren’t nearly as real and interesting as my sister’s dense and unruly mass. But what I really wanted to see was full nakedness. I know today that breasts, and in particular small breasts on a chubby frame are what really pushes me over the edge (like so many of my sexual kinks, this one was clearly shaped by my early experiences with my sister). While I’d seen (and felt) her breasts down her blouse, I’d never seen her fully topless. And I really wanted to! Given that she was right this moment sitting on my bed showing off her vulva, it felt like a good time to try to push my luck. As embarrassing as it was going to be to ask (and therefore undeniably admit my interest), I wasn’t really going to be able to be able to around the bush (so to speak) very much. I finally just said something silly and obvious along the lines of “since you’re not wearing panties, why do you need a top?” Unsurprisingly (to me, since I knew her) she tweaked me a little by pretending to be shocked (“what? I’m not going to get naked in front of you!”), but she didn’t make a big fuss about it. We both knew what was up. She was as excited to show me as I was to look. And so we talked for a couple minutes more about whatever, and then all of a sudden, in an exaggeratedly casual manner and without changing the subject, she started to take her yellow T-shirt off while still talking. Unfortunately for her dignity it got kind of stuck halfway off (despite the length of the shirt, I guess the neck was somehow slightly small for her). I will never, ever, ever forget that first sight of her, with her shirt over her head, sparse little tufts of hair under her armpits that I’d never noticed before, her chubby little breasts rising with her exertion, a slight pink flush to her chest, her belly jutting out just as far as her breasts with two little rolls above it, and underneath the dark triangle.
In a few minutes my sister managed to get her shirt off, but the short entanglement had spoiled the illusion of casual off-handedness with which she had started the maneuver, and she was momentarily speechless. So was I – I was just staring with undisguised interest. Then, adorably, she started to giggle and, of course, so did I. We were cracking up, laughing until it felt like we’d never stop. Finally, both of us a little out of breath, we calmed down a bit, but neither of us tried to pick up the trivial conversation we’d been having. Instead I seized the moment, went over to the bed and plopped myself down right next to her. Amazingly, she leaned over rested her head on my shoulder, her curly medium-length hair dark against my white T-shirt. She smelled – nice. She’d taken a shower not that long before and the strawberry fragrance of her shampoo or conditioner or whatever it was she used in there was the first odor I sensed, but there was something else as well. Mixed in with her freshly-washed scent there was a very slight funkiness. I recognized it immediately. It was the odor of her sexual excitement, something I’d sensed before, often very strongly, when we would “wrestle.” Of course on such occasions it would also intermingle with the smell of her perspiration and mine (no denying it, we’d both get pretty hot and sweaty rubbing up against each other until we came). Somehow, even though the funk I sensed now, with my sister sitting next to me with her head on my shoulder, was not anywhere near as strong as during the wrestling game, the fact that it competed only with the backdrop of strawberry-washed hair and made it enormously more exciting. (To this day, I get an instant hard-on when I smell strawberries.)
You’d think I would have taken off my own clothes at this point (or that my sister would have asked me to – it’d only be fair, after all), but that isn’t what happened. In fact at no point has my sister ever explicitly asked me to show myself. Who knows, maybe she’s more of an exhibitionist than a voyeur? For my part, I was (and still am) pretty shy about my body. As I said, both of us were a little chubby at the time – I don’t want to exaggerate, neither of us has ever been seriously overweight, but I was the sort who was used to looking for the furthest corner of the locker room to get undressed for gym, covering myself in a big towel as much as I could during swim class, and so on. And anyway, I was absolutely paralyzed by the moment. With my sister’s head on my shoulder, I could only stare down at her breasts, afraid to budge at all lest the moment should end.
Finally, I did the only thing that seemed to make sense at the time. I reached over with my left hand (my right arm was behind her back, loosely hugging her to me) and grasped her hand, which was resting on her lap. She let out a tiny, all but unnoticeable “squeak” – signifying what, I don’t know. But soon enough she clasped my hand back, lifting it a bit so that we ended up resting on her belly, and we sat there for what seemed like forever, head to shoulder, hand to hand, not knowing what to do next. In the end, not wanting the moment to stop but also wanting to make something, anything happen, I awkwardly moved my right hand (which was starting to get a bit numb) out from behind her back. I wanted desperately to touch her breasts, but I couldn’t maneuver my hand there without making her move her head off my shoulder, which I didn’t want to do. Finally, she took the initiative and lifted her head and scooted away from me just a little bit, still clasping my left hand, which ended up resting on her thigh, hovering dangerously near to her pubic hair. I imagined I could feel the heat on the back of my hand.
Now that she was at an angle, half-facing me instead of right next to me, I could glory in the full sight of her naked body. Her breasts, while heavy, were too small to hang very much. The nipples were brown and seemed a little bigger than I remembered from our earlier half-clothed fumbling. Her breathing was much slower and more relaxed than it had been before; the cuddling had calmed us both. In fact I didn’t even have an erection (though I certainly had sprung one when we first touched). I wanted to touch her, hold her, be her lover; but also to protect her, help her, be her brother. I really had no idea how to proceed. It’d been easy enough to fall into the habit of “wrestling” each other to clothed orgasm when we could, absurdly, pretend that that wasn’t what was actually happening; but, with her there sitting naked and vulnerable, the thought of tickling her, or even just embracing her, to initiate such a session didn’t even cross my mind. I felt like a big, clumsy beast: almost any move I could make would surely be overblown, would completely ruin the moment. Finally, I tentatively reached out and touched her breast. I wish I could say she gasped, but she didn’t – she didn’t really react audibly. I, however, gasped. Touching her like this was utterly different from fumbling under her shirt while we “wrestled”, or from pretending to be a doctor examining her for “consumption.” It seemed almost impossible to touch delicately enough – I have big hands, I could have completely hidden her breast in my palm. Instead I tried to stroke with the tips of my fingers, approaching and then circling her nipples, which were pleasantly firm, almost-but-not-quite hard. She let me do it for a while, then gently took my hand and pushed it down. I was disappointed, and I hope to God it didn’t show in my face. However, I didn’t have much time to mull it over. Shockingly, incredibly, she firmly guided my hand to the matted moistness between her legs.
What followed – well, to be honest, it was clumsy and inept. I didn’t really know what to do, she probably didn’t know what I should do. We were both discombobulated from the run-up, and also not positioned very well for me to do what she evidently wanted, which was to masturbate her to orgasm. I instinctually sought and found the wetness and slipped my finger between her lips, but I was trying to penetrate when (as I eventually came to understand) I should have been using the wetness to advantage as a lubricant with which to rub her clitoris, the hard, pea-like nub that I initially paid almost no attention to in my eagerness to get inside. My initial fumbling wasn’t having much of an effect and I nearly panicked, but soon enough Chrissy (ok, ok, that’s her name, too hard to avoid using it) shifted position again, ending up resting on my lap, looking up at me. In this position I almost couldn’t do anything else but the right thing. Chrissy is pretty short and my right hand was perfectly positioned to rub her clit, which, somehow getting the right idea without any further encouragement, I proceeded to do vigorously. I know now, with more sexual experience, that Chrissy’s somewhat unusual in that she can take, in fact needs, prolonged direct stimulation of her clit – other women I’ve been with since have had very different tolerances for this (in fact my wife is on the other extreme; she can’t stand any direct stimulation). But this was my first time touching a girl down there. I just went at it, and fortunately it was exactly what she wanted: she sighed and relaxed into me, then, as I continued to rub, watching and almost drooling over her beautiful tits and her belly, she started to breathe faster and harder, and make little the little squeaking noises that I absolutely adore. Finally, a pink flush suffused her chest, the squeaks deepened into moans, she began alternately to tense and relax her thighs, and then, all at once, she groaned and came, hard, trapping my hand between her thighs, jerking the top of her head repeatedly against chest.
At the moment of my sister’s orgasm, I suddenly became aware how strong the odor of her excitement was. It completely overpowered the strawberry shampoo smell, and her hair – like the rest of her – was damp now, not with residual water from her shower, but with her perspiration. She lay there now, wordless, looking adorable, gasping for the breath, my hand still on her vulva, her chest and face still flushed, her breasts poking straight up, her tummy looking flatter than usual as she leaned back. I had no idea what to do and said something pretty stupid: “I love you, Chrissy.” Stupid, because of course I loved her: she was my sister. Stupid, because it would have been a ridiculous thing to say after my first real sexual encounter, even if she had been a girlfriend. Stupid, because it almost demanded an answer like “I love you too” and that was too much to ask from my sister at that moment. Indeed, she didn’t say anything, but thank God, she didn’t look as horrified as I felt after the words slipped out of my mouth. In fact, she didn’t look horrified at all. She looked happy. Not deliriously so, not like someone who had fallen wildly in love, but like someone who felt comfortable and safe. That made me happy. I wanted her to feel comfortable and safe.
We lay there like that for a while, then Chrissy whispered “I guess I’d better take a shower.” I didn’t want the moment to end, but I knew it would have to. For one thing, it was probably late, and our parents were likely to come home from their evening out sometime in the next few hours. Also, I would probably go crazy if I didn’t get myself off soon. My hard-on had returned with a vengeance (curiously, I don’t think I was erect while I was masturbating my sister: I got hard afterwards, looking down on her and thinking about how I wanted her to feel comfortable and safe with me). I would probably have waited for Chrissy to get in the shower and then jerked myself off in seconds, but she walked into the bathroom (which was between our bedrooms – we would check for the light under the door to avoid barging in on each other) and didn’t close the door. Awkward! The bed was perfectly visible from the bathroom and would probably even be somewhat visible through the translucent shower curtain. No jerking off for me.
On the other hand, wasn’t this in the end just a continuation? She hadn’t closed the door. She hadn’t closed the door. Fine. As she turned on the water and played with the temperature, I made up my mind. I got up off the bed and started stripping. She got in to the shower, and then I walked over, parted the curtain slightly, and got in too. She didn’t say anything, but seemed to be expecting me to follow her. She wet her hair as I stood there awkwardly. Then she stood aside and I slipped past her, carefully so as not to make contact with my penis, which was standing absurdly erect, both of us carefully ignoring that blindingly obvious fact. I hastily got myself wet, then indicated that I was yielding the water to her again. She had grabbed the fancy soap that I never touched (and that, I now realized, was an essential part of her scent-picture) and was lathering herself, and she didn’t move straight back under the water. Instead, she turned around to get the shampoo or strawberry whatever-it-was. Her pleasantly round butt, which, to be honest, I had never paid much attention to before (OK, to the extent that the distinction is meaningful, I’m a “tits” guy, not an “ass” guy), was dangerously close to me, although below the level of my rampant erection. I cautiously reached out and touched her shoulder, then, unable to resist any further, reached around with both hands and began to fondle her wet, soap-slippery breasts from behind. She sighed and moved back to meet my embrace, and the inevitable contact ensued: my hard-on poked up against the small of her back. At that point, I wasn’t really in control of myself anymore; fortunately, Chrissy was a willing if somewhat unsure participant. She stretched and strained upward and I tried my best to lower myself. My dick ended up between her ample butt cheeks, enclosed by them with the head peeking out, and I grabbed her tight, thrust a couple of times, then with a loud groan I spilled my seed all over her lower back, coming so hard, though, that a few droplets of the hot semen made it all the way to her neck. “Chrissy…” I moaned – then very nearly lost consciousness as the intensity of the orgasm, the breath I had held, the steam, the pounding of the hot water on my head and back, and the impossibility of it all struck me simultaneously. My sister is a sturdy girl, and it’s a good thing, because my legs were buckling out from under me and my vision was fading. I held on to her, and she stayed upright – if she hadn’t we probably would have cracked our heads open on the hard tile.
Eventually, the weakness passed, I straightened up, and then I couldn’t help myself; I began to giggle. Adorably, incomprehensibly, and yet inevitably, there she was, giggling too, and then once again, just like earlier in the evening, we were cracking up, staring at each other’s nakedness, gulping huge breaths of the steamy air. We finished washing up and got out of the shower – not a moment too soon, as we were still toweling ourselves dry when we heard our parents’ voices in the foyer. They were home, and we quickly scuttled into our own rooms, closing the two bathroom doors between us.
Call it foreshadowing. As I mentioned in the introduction to this post, I was inspired to write this because someone asked about siblings who got caught fooling around. Unfortunately, this ended up being us. Our parents were loving, never abusive, and gave us every advantage they could, but, to be honest, they were somewhat – let’s say, inattentive, although I might have mocked them back then as “clueless.” They really weren’t clueless, but they were the sort of parents who, when you brought home a report card with all A’s (as both Chrissy and I regularly did – we were clever kids, nerds really), would absently mumble “that’s nice, dear.” “Inattentive” is the right word – they literally just didn’t pay that much attention to us. They were caught up doing their own thing, going out and playing music (they were jazz musicians) with friends, and doing God-knows-what until late at night. Even as youngsters, once a babysitter was no longer legally required (and maybe even a little before), since we were both pretty responsible, we had regularly been left at home to cook our own dinner and put ourselves to bed. These days, we would often come home and not see anyone but each other – we’d be in bed before Mom and Dad got home, and we’d get up, have breakfast, and leave before they got up. They slept late – we couldn’t. (Of course we did plenty of things together as a family – we usually were together on weekends, for example, and we’d go to interesting places, including abroad, for summer vacations. And Mom and Dad weren’t out every night, but it sure seemed that way.) It’s not really that surprising that Chrissy and I ended up relying largely on one another.
After the events I described above, we kind of fell into a routine, just as we had earlier with the games and then the wrestling. Naturally I really would have liked to “sleep with” Chrissy – both literally as well as in the conventional sense. But I knew that neither was really a good idea. I sensed that it would be a bad idea to have actual, conventional sex, not just because you could get pregnant that way and that was obviously a Bad Thing, but also because, somehow, I knew it would have fundamentally changed the way we related to each other, and not necessarily for the better. And, while I would have been happy just to sleep next to my sister every night, our parents did eventually come home, even if it was sometimes long after midnight. It would have been impossible to explain to them why we were lying in the same bed – unthinkable, really. Instead, we developed a low-risk way to explore each other’s bodies as much as we wanted: whenever our parents went out (which, as I’ve indicated, was often), we would take an evening shower together. (While Chrissy had always showered before going to bed, I’d long ago started getting up early and doing it when I got up in the morning, but of course I was happy to hop in with her now.) Rather than use our shared bathroom, with its relatively tight bathtub/shower combination, we quickly started using our parents’ bathroom, which was off of the master bedroom – the shower stall there was huge, had a double showerhead with enough water for two as well as a fun handheld shower thingie, and most importantly, contained a sort of stone bench you could sit on. That was huge: after some initial experimentation, we figured out that, after a long, leisurely shower with endless mutual teasing, once we were both excited almost beyond our ability to control ourselves, I could just sit on the bench, and she would sit in my lap, with my penis pressed between her butt cheeks. With the warm water still pummeling us, we’d lean back and I would masturbate her to orgasm with my right hand while I fondled her lovely little breasts and her round belly with my left hand. With a little practice, we got so that I could hold myself off until she started to come. As her orgasm approached, she would push back hard against me in a rhythmic motion, letting out those little squeaks and moans that would push me over the edge. I’d ejaculate all over her butt and back as she squeezed my hand between her thighs. Then, the paroxysms passed, we would both sigh, relax, enjoy the warm rain, and eventually get up, clean ourselves off, then get partially dressed (I took to wearing a bathrobe and she’d typically put on just a T-shirt or a nightgown) and go watch a movie on TV or something. It was heaven.
Usually we’d be in bed by the time our parents got back, but even when they found us somewhat scantily clad in front of the TV, they didn’t seem to find it strange (or comment on the fact that I had evidently started taking evening showers again). Indeed, in retrospect it seems a little weird that they never noticed we were using their bathroom. Perhaps that’s because they themselves would always shower before going out for the evening, so it wasn’t implausible that the stall would still be wet when they got back, but honestly, I think it’s more likely that they just never noticed. As I said, they were fairly inattentive. Or, who knows – maybe they did notice, and didn’t care, or just didn’t know what to think?
Anyway, it wasn’t leaving the shower wet that ended up being our downfall. Sorry to say, Chrissy and I got careless. One night, long after we’d had our shower, we were watching a somewhat naughty “after dark” movie on cable, and we started to get, well, horny again. We would typically watch TV cuddling together on the couch, and often we’d end up holding each other’s naked bodies under her nightgown and my bathrobe, sometimes with a blanket over us. Obviously, we could spring apart at a moment’s notice if we heard the key in the door, but honestly, our parents might not have found anything unusual even if they had seen us smushed up together. Chrissy and I had always been close and fairly cuddly with each other even when we were young, and they were probably happy to see us have such a good sibling relationship. (I know that Mom, at least, came from a rather abusive or at least uncaring family. I didn’t know any of the details then, and I still don’t understand everything, but we literally never saw our grandparents, aunt, or uncle on her side – she had an older brother and sister she apparently didn’t talk to. Dad was an only child, and his parents were lovely people, but they lived in another country, so we rarely saw them.)
Anyway, this time the “petting” started to get hot and heavy, prompted by the sexy movie we were watching. Eventually neither of us was paying attention to the movie anymore. My robe was wide open and she had lifted up her nightgown; we were fondling and adoring each other’s nude bodies right there in the den, on the leather couch. Inspired by a scene we’d just seen in the movie, I decided to be daring and try something new. I got on my knees in front of Chrissy and she, understanding immediately what I had in mind, spread her legs wide. I dived in with tongue and mouth, my mind buzzing with the new sensation: now, for the first time, I not could not only smell my sister’s intoxicating scent, more directly than ever before, but taste it as well. I of course had no real clue about cunnilingus, but I understood that I should get to know with my tongue the hard little button which I already knew so well with my fingers. And as a bonus, I could see it up close for the first time – lovely, nestled in the deep and dark, perched above Chrissy’s swollen, wet labia. As wonderful as licking her clit was, though, I felt compelled to go a little deeper. I desperately wanted to be inside her, at least a little bit, so I started taking longer licks, with my tongue venturing between her labia. The taste was indescribable – salty, sweet, sour, everything wonderful, her love for me distilled into a deep musk. Slowly, I began to penetrate her with my tongue, always remembering to give the clit the periodic attention it deserved. She obligingly spread her legs even further and pulled my head in towards her sex, indicating I should go further, dig deeper.
Eventually I found a spot that seemed to be welling up with a sourish, slightly lemony flavor, and I greedily lapped it up. She began to moan, louder than I’d ever heard, as I tongued the spongy flesh there, then all of a sudden there came an impossible rush of the lemony liquid, filling my mouth and then spilling over onto the couch. I pulled back and as her orgasm pulsed, her legs still wide apart, the fluid (which I more or less understood from reading wasn’t to be confused with pee) gushed out and onto the rug on which I knelt. There must have been at least a water glass full all in all and, as we came down from the moment, we realized that it might be a bit awkward to explain the stains on the pristine grey rug – the couch, being leather, wasn’t a big deal. We got some paper towels and some stain cleaner from the laundry closet and did our best to clean up. On my (inwardly giggling) suggestion, we made some lemonade so that we could claim to have spilled that if necessary. Finally, since we were both a mess, we – naturally – had to take a shower again.
And that was our big mistake. We’d lost track of time; it was certainly after midnight, possibly long after, by the time we’d changed the TV channel and turned it off, cleaned up the stains, thrown away the paper towels, carefully put the stain cleaner back, made our pitcher of lemonade, left it and a couple of glasses ostentatiously out on the end table, and headed to wash up. Like idiots, we didn’t think to use our own bathroom. We went back to where we had already had our encounter earlier in the evening, turned the water on, and quickly washed up, but I, the idiot, hadn’t come and of course had a raging hard-on and Chrissy started to play with it. I got back in to the usual position on the bench, and Chrissy lowered her butt onto my erection – she had looked like she was about to offer to give me head, but for whatever reason I wasn’t so into the idea and instead made it clear that I yearned for our usual intimate, full-body contact. She began rocking back and forth. I put my hand on her clit, but she pushed it away – I guess she hadn’t fully recovered from her second orgasm of the night. I, though, was as excited as I had ever been in my life, with Chrissy’s scent and taste lingering in me even as the water cascading on our heads and bodies began to wash it away. Without needing to worry about holding off until Chrissy came, and conscious of the fact that I was making her do all the work, I was trying to finish as fast as possible, but I’d gotten so used to delaying my orgasm that it was taking a couple of minutes. I groaned happily as her butt cradled and rubbed my erection. Then, as I was on the verge of coming, it happened, too quickly to register right away: my mother walked through the open bathroom door.
There was a pause, then Chrissy yelped and jumped up, unfortunately leaving my erection utterly rampant for my mother to see through the glass shower stall door. There was an endless moment of silence, with Chrissy standing and me sitting there, my erection slowly shriveling, and Mom on the other side of the door staring uncomprehendingly. Then Mom, without a word, just backed out and closed the bathroom door.
Time finally started moving again. We turned off the water, Chrissy pointlessly wiping the down the excess that had pooled on the seat (something we were in the habit of doing to make it less obvious that we had used the shower), then got out and wordlessly pulled on my robe and her nightgown, which we had carelessly strewn on the floor. Neither of our parents had come back into the bathroom, and we couldn’t hear their voices, but I was certain they’d ambush us as soon as we stepped out. There was no way out but through the master bedroom. Finally, I gathered up my courage, stepped over to the door, and with my heart pounding, tentatively cracked it open. The bedroom, however, was empty.
Cautiously, Chrissy and I ventured out into the bedroom, and then the hall. The light was on in the foyer, a sure sign that we weren’t hallucinating and our parents had indeed returned, but no one was there. Chrissy finally croaked out a tentative “Mom?” No answer. We walked on tip-toes around the house, as if in a horror movie, expecting to be pounced upon at any moment; but our parents had evidently gone back out.
Finally, after at least half an hour, we slunk off, with barely a word, to our respective bedrooms. I locked my door, something I absolutely never, ever did. I wonder if Chrissy did too. I always slept in just underwear, but this time I tried to pull on pajamas I hadn’t worn in years, perhaps expecting my parents to burst in upon me, despite the locked door, at any moment (even though they had never done anything like that). However, I’d outgrown the pajamas, so I settled for a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. I lay in my bed, dizzy, confused, scared, unsure if I wasn’t in fact in a nightmare, and I’m deeply ashamed to admit that — when my penis inevitably hardened, reminding me that I still owed it an orgasm, and I dutifully pulled down my sweats and jerked off — at the moment of orgasm, I thought “my mom saw me and Chrissy naked, my mom saw Chrissy with her butt on my dick, my mom saw my hard dick, oh God, my mom saw my dick” and, seeing the whole scene in my mind’s eye, feeling to my core how utterly wrong it was – in a way that being with Chrissy had never felt wrong, had always felt exactly, perfectly right – I soiled my sheets with the biggest load of cum that had escaped me since that first time naked with Chrissy. Then, feeling so ashamed that I didn’t try to clean myself up, I pulled up my sweats and fell immediately into a fitful, dream-plagued sleep.
It was a Friday night, so we didn’t even have the respite of leaving the house before our parents got up. Awake at first light and unable to sleep further, I got up, took a shower (in our bathroom, locking the door to both my room and Chrissy’s), pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, and went down to the kitchen. Chrissy was already there, hunched over a cup of coffee and looking utterly miserable. “Chrissy…” I said – but she didn’t answer, just looked up at me with an indescribably forlorn expression. I stammered. “Look, we’ll just go away. We can…” I didn’t know what we could do. We were completely dependent on our parents. We didn’t have any life skills – we knew literature and books and stuff. We’d never even had summer jobs, for God’s sake – thanks to our parents taking us on vacation every summer.
Chrissy just shook her head and said nothing. I realized that I sounded like an idiot, shook my head in a futile attempt to clear it or make reality go away, then finally whispered: “What are we going to tell them?” “I don’t know,” Chrissy said. I poured myself coffee from the pot Chrissy had started and sat down at the kitchen table – and I will always regret this – as far away from Chrissy as I could. Perhaps subconsciously I imagined that keeping my distance would help me, would help us pretend to our parents that what Mom had seen was all a case of mistaken perception. Chrissy looked more miserable than ever, and I, like a complete fucking idiot, didn’t get up and sit next to her.
We sat like that for an hour or more, our coffee getting cold, barely looking at each other, lost in our own misery. Then – as if somehow we both realized at the same time that it might be better not to be confined to such a small space as the kitchen when the inevitable finally happened – we got up and wordlessly walked to the living room. Chrissy slumped down on the couch where we always sat to watch TV – not in an armchair, I thought. Not in an armchair. And, thank God, I was able to redeem myself after my shameful performance in the kitchen. I walked over to the couch and sat down, right next to her. I swear that, even though she had sat on the couch and I’d recognized the import of that, I was almost expecting her to jump up in horror and shy away from me – and that’s proof of the fucked-up state I was in, because she obviously needed me to stand (well, sit) by her as we faced our parents. Just as I needed her.
We sat there silently, next to each other and yet kind of rigidly apart, for a little while. Then Chrissy kind of sighed, laid her head on my shoulder, and slumped against me. Instinctively, I put my arm around her, and we sat there for what seemed like hours, silently awaiting our unimaginable fate.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/mgs7s8/yes_we_did_get_caught_part_1_str8mfinc