Sisters Pt. 03

A reader of Sisters Part 2 asked me to write a sequel. So here it is.

I don't know if it works. We'll see.

-- ooo OOO ooo --

"Have you sent the post card?" I asked.

"Yes, honey, in the post this morning."

"Will he come, do you think?"

"Yes, he always does."

"Will he know what to do?"

"Yes, he always does."

I was nervous, I didn't quite know why. Perhaps nervous that he would come, perhaps nervous that he wouldn't. I didn't know Carolyn's younger brother well, but I did know that when there were big changes in her life, she always wanted her brother to be there for her.

I was always a little uncomfortable, because I didn't fully understand the depths of their relationship. Perhaps even a little bit jealous. She loved me, I know she did, but sometimes I think that love was shared.

I hadn't seen A for nearly three years, not since Amelia turned three. He had gone back home, and became a distant brother and the uncle who would send money for us to buy what Amelia would like; and Caro once again became his remote sister on the other side of the world.

I sometimes talked to her about him or tried to, but she would always say that she didn't really know him, that she was already gone from the family home when he was growing up. I was never sure, though.

Sometimes she would stop, and just gaze into a far distance, her mind far away.

"Are you OK, Caro?" I would ask, uncertain of her moods, but certain she would have them.

"Yes, I'm OK. Judy, I'm fine."

"What are you thinking about," I would press.

"Oh, nothing really." Caro paused. "Just jobs that need doing."

And that last was said quietly, an afterthought. I felt like I was interrupting something.

But we had talked about this, a lot. Long conversations deep into the night, Caro and I, curled around each other.

"Are you sure?" Caro asked.

"Yes, I'm sure," I replied, a tremor in my voice.

And Caro sent the postcard.

-- ooo OOO ooo --

I can never decide which Caro I love the most, or delight in the most.

Sometimes it is Carolyn, the tall, statuesque, magnificent woman who stares down those she has little regard for, with a high disdain, her flashing green eyes looking down her imperial nose. She can be haughty, fierce, a fine public speaker and intensely passionate about everything she does.

Then, at other times, she is the softer Caro, gentler with herself, the mother of little Amelia. At those times I feel more her equal, where my opinions are as important as hers, when she is not on her soap-box. We will walk hand in hand along wind-blown, cold beaches, and watch the spume fly backwards from the waves like the manes of galloping horses, or the veils of mermaid brides.

I'm also not sure which sexual Caro is my favourite. Sometimes it is the strong, powerful woman who takes my smaller, finer body into her long arms and gathers me up between her long legs, and presses me to her full breasts, and I am her doll.

Then, at other times, I am the powerful one, and I hold her at my command with the tip of my tongue a wet press on the risen core of her clitoris, my tongue twisting and swirling there. And because I am so much smaller than she is, when I crouch over her body with my tongue deep between her lips, my delectable bottom and my smooth, tidy slit; well, they are a treat for her eyes, because I am too far away from her mouth and tongue.

I torment her, because she can scent me and see me, but I am too quick for her and rise myself away. Caro cries after my departing sweetness, and pretends that the weight of my legs on her arms is preventing her chasing me.

I am like a kitten playing, and she the tolerant mother cat. Once, as a special treat and because I know Caro loves that fine line between my tight little quim and my little rose bud of an asshole, I dabbed a smear of honey on my darker hole, and held my cheeks firmly together.

Caro had to force my legs apart to taste my juices and probe her long tongue deep between my lips, and then she made her way to my sweet little ass. And that time, it really was sweet, as the honey was a delightful surprise for her. Every time she calls me "honey" now, my ass clinches at the memory. Caro always calls me "honey", at least once, every day.

Mostly though, we just enjoy a slowness and gentling passion, waking slowly to the sun. Caro will sit up in our bed, still drowsy from a long night's sleep, and raise a leg to spread her lips wide and wet, her coils of dark hair a mystery between her thighs. I will slide my smooth as silk mound between her legs, and we will sit facing each other, our wetnesses mingling as we slowly rock against each other.

This way, our hands are free to caress each other's breasts and to pull up our nipples into a tightness, and our fingers trace delicate patterns on our skin. I love it when the mornings are long, and our orgasms lazy.

There is a quickening in me at the moment, though, some deepening thing inside my soul and heart and womb - something is missing inside me and my whole being is aching for it to be filled. It is not love that I'm missing, for my dear Carolyn and little Amelia fill my heart every day with their joy.

It is not comfort, for I have that too. A comfortable house, a comfortable job, good food and fine wine whenever I want it. Even grapes dropped one by one into my mouth when I am Cleopatra on my lounge, Olympia with my hand between my legs, and Caro with her long, strong fingers, attending me.

It is not sex that I am missing, as Carolyn worships me when I am there and longs for me when I'm gone, and indulges me in between. We buy trinkets and toys, long beads of white pearls that pull long from my sweet ass, beautiful clamps with fine chains that connect our nipples together; or a longer chain that allows some distance between our hard breasts but never far.

Oh yes, my delectable curves are pampered and played with, Caro's wonderful hands weighing my plump breasts in her palms, her long fingers spreading the peaches of my bum for her tongue. Oh yes, my back arches as my voice cries out with another pearlescent, shuddering come. Oh yes, all of these things are wonderful, and good, and in my life.

But no, and I have known it for some time now - what I am missing, what I have never had, is lust, hot and bad. It's that simple. I am like Cleopatra with her asses' milk, but I want more than the milk. I want the cream. I want to bath in it, I want to sink into it. I want to drown in it and to be pulled back from the depths, gasping.

I spoke to Carolyn about this, when it was an unformed and a lingering thing just in the back of my mind, until then an unspoken whisper and an unmade yearning. I couldn't express it then, because I did not know what it was, this void.

She looked at me with those deep green eyes of hers, long and silent for some thirty seconds, and I could see a flicker of emotion run through the soul of herself that I could see in her eyes. She gazed at me, and in a low steady voice, she spoke, and confessed.

"Oh my Jude, my beautiful Judith, I've been greedy and I've been selfish. I thought I could keep it all for me, but I see now that I can't do that. I have to let you have it too."

And she looked away, her gaze long and distant. Her voice dropped to a whisper, and I don't know if I was meant to hear.

"I hope he is strong enough for the both of us."

I wasn't sure who "us" was.

And so the postcard was sent.

-- ooo OOO ooo --

"Hey, Judy, it's been a long time."

And it had, three long years, and Caro's brother was older, his fair hair shorter, but his grey blue eyes just as compelling, his smile crooked and huge. He wrapped me in his long arms and lifted me from the ground, and swung me around. My skirt swirled, and I laughed with the childish delight of the sudden movement. So he was instantly physical with me, and I held his back firm and hard in my arms. I am little before him, and I have to tilt my head up to touch his lips with mine.

He is Caro's brother and I love him because of that. He worships his sister and his face glows with pride when he hears what she does, what she has done.

"Dad is so proud of her now," he reveals, "but will never tell her so. He's too proud himself, to say he was wrong, way back then."

So Caro continues a strong family trait of pride and obstinance, but God, she has family, while I do not. I long for that.

"Where is Caro?" he asked, "I thought she was going to pick me up. No matter though, because here I am. And look at you!"

And he did. A looked at me with his deepest blue eyes, and his face softened. He scratched his fingers in the back of his hair as if to bring the blood to the surface of his skin.

I had prepared myself for his arrival, but my preparations were secret and for me only. That morning, after Caro had left for work, I ran myself a hot bath, steaming and scented. We could not get asses' milk, so I made do with the next best thing, which was heavenly scented bath salts.

I dropped aside my robe and lifted a delicate leg into the water, my toes stretching to the heat, and carefully stepped into the bath. I looked down at my pert, round breasts, my little pink nipples puckered already. Now why would that be?

I held them both in my hands, and squeezed them hard, pulling my nipples tight and long. I love the feel of my breasts in my hands, my own weight in my palms, a soft crease in the valley between them.

My belly is flat, and I keep my sex completely smooth, silky to my touch. But I hide my mound under the bubbled water, and when I look down the bath, there are only the two small islands that are my peaked nipples, floating high; and the tall mountains of my knees, bent and raised up higher.

I imagine tiny adventurers in tiny boats, sailing from between my breasts and then conquering the smooth climb up my legs. And I imagine tiny divers, deep beneath the waves. My legs drop, and my knees spread apart, and my finger slides between my lips.

I no longer need to imagine tiny people pleasuring me, for my finger is immediate and, oh dreamy days, I must be aroused, because it is no time at all until water is splashing from the bath as my limbs shudder and I am gasping. Goodness, I really need to concentrate on why I'm here.

I take my razor, and swiftly remove the finest fine down that dares to touch my legs, and I run the silent blade over my mons, so smooth and soft. Climbing from the bath, I cannot resist bending over and spreading my legs, my bum ripe and fresh in the mirror, my little pink bud of an asshole a starred crease of flesh. I am full of curves, all smooth skin, my hair pony tail blonde, my little nipples pink and high. I am a collection of round curves and peaches and cream complexion, a blushing English rose.

My lips are a brightness of red, my nose is small and upturned, and my eyes are big and blue. I am a cliche, a picture; but you know, I don't mind that, because I am also a very clever woman. I should either be that wonderful stereotype of the bookish librarian who lets her hair down and devastates, or the nerdy girl, likewise.

But I deceive, for I am neither of these. I slide through those particular alleys of society where I entice men but I am impossible and not available for them. I am not a girly girl, not any more, well, perhaps not; but ah me, I love girls. I love women, and I don't know men.

I am completely the opposite of Carolyn, in nearly every way, and I wonder, as I often do, if that is why she desires me, because I am so not like her. I am vain and precocious and precious, I know that. Perhaps I really am her doll. But now, sitting before A, I am conscious of the way I have dressed, and I wonder if perhaps I should be more subtle. Perhaps I shouldn't try so hard. Perhaps.

But he solves that problem by being so bone tired and exhausted from the long-haul flight that he just wants to crash face down on his bed. He throws off his shoes and collapses onto the bed, and I think he is asleep in five minutes. I look down at him in his blue jeans, and admire the tight tautness of his ass and his slim legs, and I see that his hair is nearly the same blond fairness as his sister's.

I imagine them both as children running in the sun, in a hot place, their long blonde hair and their limbs like gazelles, small and fast like animals. There is a deep twist in the depths of my groin that I only get when I devour Caro with my eyes and my hungry heart. But this is not Caro, and I am confused. I am nervous also, which doesn't happen often with me.

The next morning I am slow to go downstairs, and I pause at the kitchen door, silent. And I see. I see Carolyn and her brother standing in the kitchen, facing each other, just quietly talking. Don't wake Judy. And they are like some animate mirror, they are so alike. They're a reflection of each other. Identical in height, both six foot, their hair is the same fair blondness, cut very similar in length. Caro's legs are longer, but both have slender, long limbs, both in identical blue jeans.

Standing to me in profile, Caro's full breasts are obviously different, but brother and sister have a similar shape to their asses. And look at that, even their gestures are the same, but mirrored. It is as if I am looking at some androgynous creature split sideways and looking at itself. They are so alike. Older sister and younger brother. This family is so beautiful, I am in awe. I feel myself become wet, gazing at the pair of them.

I am silent but spellbound at the door. They both sense my presence at the same time - of course they do. Their low voices stop, and the air between them is silent and still. It is uncanny as they both turn to look at me, an identical slow turn of their heads, and I am faced with two strong gazes, his deep blue eyes, grey blue, and her green eyes, jade green. I am penetrated deep into my soul by their gaze, and the look is twice its normal strength, for there are the two of them, and their presence multiplies itself in the room.

"Hi, honey, how are you this morning, sleepy head?"

Caro's endearment is sweet and fond. She loves me.

"Jude, hey, good morning."

A is friendly, he likes me.

"Wow, you two, I forget how alike you both are, little bro and big sis together. It's lovely to see you together again."

"Hey, it's our job, we're family," says A.

Caro smiles, but not at me. I am left out, but not for long She comes up to me and gives me a tight embrace, and I am sweet and little beside her.

"I'm out of here for the day," says A, and I'm alone with Caro.

"Does he know?" I ask.

"Not yet, but he will." Carolyn was thoughtful. "He always does."

"What should I do?"

I am on very unfamiliar territory here. I can seduce a woman, but have never seduced a man, and that is the plan.

"Oh, I don't think he will need his hand held." Caro smiled. "You're a woman after all. He'll know what to do, and he'll do it all in his own good time. Don't have any expectations. My brother generally does things when you least expect him to. It's his job. I'm his sister, but I have to say he's got quite the mind of his own."

She paused. "Even I didn't expect it, the first time. I certainly didn't expect my own reaction."

Caro was being cryptic. Her words clearly had a layer of meaning that meant nothing to me. I am so used to being in control of events, being the centre of my world, but I was fast coming to the conclusion that maybe, just maybe, I was the innocent one here. For the first time in a very long time, I was running to keep up. My god, what was I doing?

"Judy, whatever happens, always remember, we're family. We look out for each other. That's our job."

-- ooo OOO ooo --

Time passes, and I become comfortable with a man about the house. A comes and goes as he chooses, and we all relax with each other. Caro always loses an edge of her intensity when her brother is around, and at times it's even as if she is flirting with him. That's a strangeness, because Caro just doesn't flirt with men. Maybe I'm misreading stuff, because I've not got a brother, so how would I know how sisters treat their brothers?

One day, though, it was raining, and he was home with me alone. It was a late summer day with warm, summer showers drifting across the sky, veils of rain like moving curtains. Trees dripped and windows ran with drops and rivulets.

"Judy, come for a walk with me. I love the rain, and I'll tell you a story of me, my dad's green jumper, and the girl who wore it. We ran in the rain, Lucinda and I."

And he was a wonderful teller of tales. I walked beside this lovely man as he recounted the innocence of a first deep, heartfelt love, when he was really just a boy. He had finished his last year at high school, and was in the last summer holidays between his school time and his university time. He turned eighteen in August of that year, and this was December, a hot southern Christmas with heat in the trees and long walks to Lucinda's house down across the creek. She turned eighteen two months after he did, so they were young together.

She was a shy girl, and he told me about his long walks and his long talks with her, and he was wistful as he told the tell of falling in love with this girl, this golden blonde girl with the finest limbs and the finest hair and her shy blue eyes and her soft voice.

Lucinda was slender and delicate with sweet curved breasts and slim legs. As he described her tight blue jeans and her white bra under a clinging tee shirt covering her small conical breasts, I looked down at my own full breasts and my own tight waist and my own voluptuous hips, and God help me, I compared myself to this sweet memory of his. And I didn't know if I could match it, I didn't know if I could measure up to this girl, I didn't know if I even came close.

"It was raining, she was cold, and I gave her my old green jumper, that my father had worn when he was the same age as I was then, and you know, I will never forget the image of her wearing it, big around her and shapeless on her, and her lovely figure all hidden.

"God, she was beautiful, that lovely girl. Her eyes always gave her emotions away, those gorgeous blue eyes crystal with tears, sometimes. But I didn't always know how to read them. We held hands in the rain, that day, and she wore my old green jumper."

And A stopped. He turned to me, and with a soft finger gentle under my chin, he tilted my head so that my blue eyes gazed up at him and he gazed down at me.

"Judy, you are nothing like that sweet girl, but how can there be two lovely blonde girls on this planet that are content to walk with me in the rain?"

His eyes were crystal and bright.

"I don't have my dad's green jumper to wrap you in." He stopped, and smiled. "But I guess you've got my dad's own daughter to wrap you up and keep you warm, so you've gone one better."

He touched the end of my nose with his finger. "Ah God, I loved that girl. And all we did was walk in the rain. Nothing more."

And at that point, with those words, a little bit of my own heart broke for him, for his sad happiness. Or his happy sadness. I crept my little hand into his big one, and he wrapped his strength around me, automatically. I knew then that young Lucinda had once done the same, snuck her smaller hand shyly into his bigger one, and his clasp was protective and full of love. And his hand holding mine felt just like Caro's.

I leaned my head against his shoulder, and felt the movement in his neck as he looked down at the top of my head. I knew then that his lovely girl had done the same, in her rain. And his shoulder felt just like Caro's.

We walked some more in the light rain, and it was warm upon our skins. He was bigger than me and I walked close beside him, my hip swinging against his in time, and half of me was sheltered from the wet.