I read a story on Literotica which reminded me a lot of what happened between my sister and me about eight years ago. I must add that she is happily married now and that nothing of this sort has happened in about seven years. I had forgotten all about it until I read that story.
First, let me introduce myself: I am an Indian guy, 31 years old now, I am about 6 feet tall, 160 lbs, with short dark hair. I won’t go into the background about where I am from in India since that is irrelevant here. Almost all Indian people are the same when it comes to having strict family values and even talking about sex with your sibs or parents is considered a crime worthy of social abandonment. It is the taboo that makes sex so appealing and you almost feel like you are playing with fire when you even fantasize about sex and your sister happens to be a part of your fantasy.
The lord knows I have fantasized about every inch of her body and grown up jerking off to mentally crafted images of her ever since she hit puberty and ever since I noticed the little mounds on her chest develop into B-sized lobes of love. Ever since I saw a brand new women’s razor appear in the bathroom, I knew the little angel had sprouted into one fine woman! She shaved. And something told me she shaved more than just her armpits. My sister is four years younger than I am. She is not particularly hot but she is cute nonetheless. She is petite, about 5 feet 2, about 95 pounds, with nice, supple B cup breasts with large dark brown nipples and a shapely body, and an ass so big, it is worthy of a grand prize, considering she is an Indian girl and no offense, but Indian girls aren’t exactly blessed with black genes when it comes to butts. My apologies to all Indian female readers but I am sure even you guys would agree.
As I mentioned, this stuff is from about 8 years ago. We had recently come to the United States with our mom and dad and had started school together. We used to live in Boston then, since my father is a professor and he had been recently granted professorship at Tufts, which is a just outside of Boston, in Amherst. He is a smart man, very intelligent and qualified but he barely made any money for us to get by. When he got a chance to move to the United States, he brought us all with him and being a traditional Indian family, we all lived together at home. The first apartment that had been allotted to us by his university was a two bedroom hole in the wall, with no living room and a half-ass kitchen. The bathroom was the size of an airplane toilet and almost every wall in the apartment had at least a million cracks. Even the wooden floors made squeaky noises when you walked on them, and if you walked with reckless abandon, stomping your feet like my sister, you would start praying that the floor doesn’t collapse and you don’t end up in the bathroom of the person living underneath you! Needless to say the apartment had no air-conditioning, no sound or water proofing and the locks on bedroom doors served more of a decorative purpose than actual locking or protection. My mom and dad took one bedroom and my sister was given the other. I ended up on the couch in the tiny living room. However, I was allowed to leave my clothes and my stuff in my sister’s bedroom.
Sorry for the long intro. As I said, the apartment was so small, you could hear almost everything going on in any other corner of the house. Mom and dad used to work and my sister and I went to school. I used to get home early since I was in college and she was still in high school. I knew her routine by heart. A sex-starved young man, new in this country with little knowledge of English, I was stuck with her: the only girl who existed in my life at that time, my sister Nisha. She used to come home every day and went straight to her room. This is when the fun started to kick in.
I could hear her take off her shirt first. The movement of the clothes was clearly audible in the living room which was right next to her bedroom. Then she took off her pants. I would just picture her unbuttoning, unzipping, and then wriggling out of her tight jeans, undressing in front of the mirror. She would step out of one leg, then the other. I knew now she was standing only in her bra and panties. This is when my hand started to creep towards my crotch. I could then hear her reach around her back and unhook her bra. She took it off and then went for her panties. The panties used to just roll off her ass easily as I didn’t hear any sound but I could tell that she was lifting her one leg and out, and then the other side came out. Now I knew she was standing there, buck naked in front of the mirror, only about 4 feet away from me, but in the other room. So close but oh so far! Then she used to put on her Indian clothes at home. First she got hold of a clean bra, then she put her shalwar (loose bottoms) on, and then the shirt. Indian girls usually don’t wear panties at home. The shalwars are very loose and the long shirts usually reach way below their butts, so you cannot really tell the shape. Anyway, this used to be my routine everyday: wait for her to get home, listen to her rip her clothes off that warm, young, supple and vibrant body, and I used to just lay on the couch, with my hands in my pants. Then I used to get up and just walk to the bathroom and finish it off.