Hannahs Need

Thanks to Jeleane for last minute editing help.

*

Chapter 1: Beth's Awakening

Hannah had been feverish and pale for two days. Her uncharacteristically pallid skin contrasted so completely with her long raven hair and her light blue eyes seemed so impossibly lucent from her high temperatures that she could easily have played a seductive Hollywood vampire or a gothic temptress in a racy music video. She was the very image of frail, aching beauty.

Mom was reluctant to take Hannah to the clinic for fear of discovering, as so many others had, that her loved one had become afflicted by Redding's disease. Even today there are many unresolved questions about the illness and so few answers. In our hearts, we knew--even before receiving the shattering diagnosis--my older sister was in a long-term battle for her life. At times, the doctor informed us, Hannah would appear healthy but warned us against allowing this to engender false hope; over the lengthy course of the illness, she would need to take full advantage of these respites to recuperate her strength if she was to ultimately weather the intense, potentially fatal fevers.

Being unable to afford so much as a part-time private nurse, let alone a bed in an extended care facility, Mom and I agreed that she would look after Hannah during the day when I was at school, and me in the evenings and late into the night while she worked at her casino job.

It was hard to picture Hannah as anything other than lively, vivacious and carefree. Perhaps it was the three-year difference in our ages, or maybe our dissimilar personalities, but she and I had never experienced the intense dislike that can result from sisters living in close quarters. At the same time, we hadn't been particularly close. For as long as I can remember she had been the popular one, with tons of friends, no shortage of social engagements and guys coming out of the woodwork to try to catch her eye. Not me. I was shy, socially awkward, with only a handful of close friends. I don't think she knew how much I idolized her growing up.

Hannah was tall and lithe, with long, shapely legs that I would have killed for. Her skin would not have been out of place in a cosmetics ad but there would have been no need for airbrushing. She looked amazing in everything she wore. She could rock casual wear and killed in skimpy beachwear. To me, however, she looked best in attire that accentuated her femininity, especially A-line skirts and summer dresses that emphasized her delicate shoulders and long, slender neck.

As for me, if I was being extremely generous, I would have characterized myself as "not-quite Hannah:" a little shorter, with a slightly fuller figure that didn't look so good in absolutely everything; a hint of baby fat in my face and body; a smattering of infuriating freckles on my cheeks, nose and chest; and shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair that was not nearly as striking or dramatic as my sister's.

People would comment that we had the same full, generous lips. I would sometimes stand in front of the mirror trying to make them look

pouty

and

kissable

. Mostly I just made myself look silly.

* * *

For the first few weeks, Hannah was weak and listless, staying in bed most of the time. We watched some movies in her bedroom, although more often than not she would doze off part way through. Mostly, we talked and laughed. Who knew that she could so quickly pinpoint the location of my funny bone and be so merciless in exploiting it? Mom had said to put on a brave face when I was with my sister but sadness was always far from my mind when we were together.

Sometimes, in response to our conversations, she would put on a serious face and say, "Beth, you're so hard on yourself." Other times, she would get a far away look in her eyes and would apologize to me, saying that being there to care for her and keeping her company was ruining my social life.

"What social life?" I quipped in response.

When she became more insistent in expressing her regrets, I would turn the tables saying, "Don't be so hard on yourself. Hannah. Your company isn't that appalling."

* * *

At school, I gained a fair deal of attention to which I was completely unaccustomed. Everyone was curious about Hannah and those who knew her gave me cards, books and music to take to her. It was as if cliques and social barriers had never existed: Pretty, fragrant Cheerleaders took me in their soft arms and clung to me, although sometimes it seemed as if only when there was a large crowd was present to witness their grown-up compassion and dramatic reassurances. Even those girls with the reputation for being rude, stuck-up bitches would take my hand and gave it a squeeze.

The first day back, Ms. Petrie, the matronly school counsellor, called me out of class. She is a plump lady with a prodigious pair of breasts that she was famous for employing to cushion the heads of her "wounded doves," as she called students with problems of any sort.

In the counsellor's office reception area, where I briefly waited, I nodded my head to Sam, the school hard-ass, whose close-shaved blonde hair and even shorter temper were near legendary in the all girls' school. I'm sure she was there for some sort of disciplinary action, which was probably well deserved.

"I'll give you twenty bucks if you tweak one of her nipples when she has you in the grip."

"You're on," I grinned, hoping that I had achieved just the right tone to avoid her legendary ire if we should happen to run into each other again later in the day. I felt that not saying too much would minimize my chances of saying the wrong thing.

* * *

I had never experienced the "Petrie Pair," as they were known, but no sooner had I closed the door and sat down than she put her fleshy arms around me and pushed my face into her generous cleavage. "Just let it all out, sweetie," she said and I was surprised to find that the emotions of the last week overflowed, and I cried, large shuddering sobs, into her plus-sized rack.

My hot tears and runny nose were making quite a wet mess of her boobs and I couldn't say how long I stayed pressed against her soft tits. After the much-needed emotional release, I began to feel a bit foolish pressed there against her wet mammaries. It was at this point that the image of me reaching up to quickly twist one of her nipples flashed in my mind and I couldn't help it as I let out a sharp laugh, which must have come out as a blubbery choking noise because she released me suddenly, thinking I was overcome. I looked down at the top of shirt, which I really had given quite a soaking.

"Sorry about your shirt, Ms. Petrie," I sniffled

I blew my nose while she looked at me appraisingly, using her own tissue to dab at the wet patch on her cleavage.

"It's fine, dove. I keep a change of clothes here in my bureau. Many of the girls who have cried on my bosom over the years have left me positively dripping wet."

Then, I almost did choke when she lifted her blouse over her head. To my surprise, she was wearing a sexy demi cup burgundy bra that must have had one hell of a strong under wire to support her heavy knockers so well. The tops of her areolae were peeking out over the bra's material. My own nipples stiffened at the sight.

"I'm a little damp myself, Ms. Petrie." I was conscious of my mouth, at least, being suddenly very, very dry. I quickly wet my lips with my tongue, not taking my eyes off her mesmerizing knockers.

"I like to make myself available to you sweet girls. It may surprise you to learn that the wicked girls here have taken to teasing me. They've made a little game of it. They try to pinch at my nipples when I'm comforting them. It's become so common that I was a little surprised when you didn't do the same."

My brain was working so fast that my tongue tripped over itself as I tried to get something out: "I...I..."

"Oh, you poor thing. You're still overwrought."

"Come here," she said, opening her arms, "and don't hold back." Once again, she held my head tightly to her breasts. She stroked my hair. Now that I wasn't bawling my eyes out, her half exposed boobs felt wonderful against my cheeks and I moved my head with slight oscillations to increase the contact. I inhaled her scent, an arousing fragrance, partly a faded perfume, partly the intoxicating sour tang of sweat. I could just picture how sweaty the undersides of her heavy tits must get, the very thought of which made me even hornier. I have a bit of a weak spot when it comes to the body's natural aromas.

I was pressed so tightly to the guidance councillor's chest I couldn't see if her nipples were as rock hard as mine, but she had practically invited me to pinch them. I moved my hand very slowly along her side—giving her the opportunity to stop me if somehow I had completely misread her—but she shifted to give me better access to her tit. I now had an up close view of her fully erect left nipple, just inches away from my mouth.

I pinched her nipple through the material of her bra, rolling it between my fingers as Ms. Petrie sighed audibly. She let out a low moan as I pinch harder. My forefinger traced the very spot that my eyes had been riveted to earlier, where the top of her areola stuck out over the edge of her bra cup. I ran my finger along the tiny bumps on it, then under the top of the cup, slowly dragging my finger across the rigid mass of flesh underneath. My stomach fluttered with excitement.

She whispered, "I don't know if you're all cried out, poor lamb, but let's not take any chances. I don't have a change of bra."

She reached behind her back to unclasp the bra. I leaned back while she released her massive tits, revealing two succulent brown nipples. Her heavy tits were now supported on her soft round tummy. I was so turned on; I wanted to feel the full heft of those amazing tits.

My eager lips locked on a nipple. I sucked greedily, having completely surrendered to my arousal. My panties were sopping wet. I slurped at one tit then the other.

I wanted so badly to taste the sweat under her giant tits. I roughly grabbed one tit in both hands—lifting it away from her chest—and licked, starting at the bottom where her tits swelled from her well-padded ribs, up the pussy-watering curve of her delicious knockers, and back to the large stiff nipples. I inhaled deeply. The wonderful stench of tit sweat filled my nostrils.

I had been tightening and releasing my thigh muscles to put pressure on my aching pussy. Ms. Petrie also began to squirm. Her engorged nipples were red, except for where my increasingly strong bites had left white teeth marks. My sensitive nose started to pick up the rising smell her arousal. I inhaled rapidly and deeply as I pulled on her teats, using my teeth to yank on the sensitive flesh. She continued to whimper with pleasure. I shifted onto my knees. The aroma of her excited pussy was making me dizzy. I clenched and unclenched my muscles faster to put more friction on my hot, sopping snatch.

As I sucked at the old woman's fat tits with abandon I was on the verge of coming without so much as touching myself. All I could think was that I wanted to lick her nasty, smelly pussy. I wanted to inhale the warm stench of her sweaty cunt, let it fill my nostrils. I pictured my tongue parting her dew moistened cunt lips, lapping up her wetness. I shook with a powerful, rocking orgasm. Petrie also began to tremor with orgasm. My lips parted from her nipple with an audible suction.

Her hand, I discovered, had been in her pants towards the end, stroking her plump pussy. I placed her wet fingers against my lips, sucking them dry, savouring her strong taste, as if sampling the delicacy whose aroma had made my mouth water in anticipation.

The last of my energy was spent; the desire to bury my face in her pussy dissipated. It was as if my blistering passion and cold reason were two battling entities, the latter now regaining control of my being.

Ms. Petrie leisurely put on her bra and top. I was unable to look her in the eye, as my rampant desire gave way to embarrassment and confusion. I stood to leave. She clasped me to her one last time and whispered in my ear: "I'm here for you, dove."

Back in the outer office Sam had a folded twenty extended to me. Red-faced, I told her that I had chickened out. I was certain the tough butch dyke could read the traces of illicit lesbian passion in my face. She just winked at me and stuffed the bill into her phone case.

* * *

When I returned home after school, I felt I needed time to reflect on what had happened with the school counsellor, wanting to come to terms with the runaway lust that had overtaken me. I didn't have a problem with lesbianism. At my school, the senior girls were almost all fooling around with each other it seemed. I had kissed a few girls. They were tender, stolen kisses in the school washrooms, so sweet that I would often pleasure myself at night thinking about them. I would stroke myself with my left hand until it was covered in the scent of my moist pussy. I would finish myself off with my other hand, putting my pussy-sodden fingers under my nose to sniff my heady cunt smell. Other times I would stroke myself through my panties until they were damp before removing them and pressing them to my nose as I finger-fucked my hole, replaying the images of the sweet soft lips and eager tongues of the girls at school. I had never taken things so far though as I had today, and had, it seems, come close to taking things much, much further. The fact that it was with middle-aged, round bodied Ms. Petrie had me more than a little confused.

I soon put the whole encounter with Ms. Petrie out of my mind when I caught the intense look of worry knotted mom's features; Hannah's fever had spiked. She kissed me on the cheek and said that she was going to call in sick at work. I knew we couldn't afford the lost pay and I finally convinced Mom that I could care for my sister and, it was better that I become more comfortable doing so before the worst of her illness hit. I would make sure that she didn't want for a thing and would do my damnedest to keep her spirits high.

Over the next week, when Hannah's fevers continued to rise, I felt a shiver of fear in my spine and would have done anything to make her better. I piled on blankets when the chills hit, feeling helpless at her chattering teeth and violent shivers. I would stroke her hair and cuddle up to her to lend her my body heat. I became increasingly tired with worry and apprehension. When Hannah managed to catch some sleep, I would often nod off beside her. I would awake to her soft breathing on my neck, or feel her arm snaked around my middle and I only hoped that she felt the same intense serenity that I felt in these intimate moments.

The flip side of the terrible chills was the blinding, burning fevers, accompanied by terrible sweats. Hannah would kick off her sheets and strip down to her underwear. Her skin was ghostly pale and, while it looked to be as cool as marble, was fiery to the touch. I found myself unable to resist admiring her gentle contours, sleek taut stomach and wonderful shapely thighs and calves. The sculpted curves of her breasts would draw my eye. I would turn away, embarrassed, only to find my eyes returning to them. Hannah could bear no contact when her fevers spiked, save for the gentle kisses I would plant on her forehead.

I may not have wanted to admit it to myself, but I knew that the mix of sisterly appreciation and pride I felt when gazing upon Hannah's toned figure was tinged with ambiguity. I was certain that the sexual awakening that I was experiencing at school was fuelling my inappropriate thoughts about my sister. Every pretty girl was turning my head, and Hannah, sister or not, was the prettiest of them all.

* * *

One morning that week at school, I'd left class in the middle of English to pee, only to find Sam near the sinks, her posture aggressive, standing close to Jamie Harris, a cute blonde girl with frosty curls and a petite, elfin figure. Jamie tended to wear short skirts and I couldn't blame her. She had deliciously slender thighs, no thicker than most girls' arms, and small narrow hips that contributed to her innocent, fragile waif look. She was the reigning school princess of thigh highs and knee socks, and today was wearing the latter. Sam turned her head towards me.

"Beth, thank fuck. This little piece of tail just turned eighteen today and, according to school tradition, I am entitled to a birthday gift. I want her sweet little panties."

"I told her," Jamie appealed to me with exasperation, "I will give them to her at the end of the day, cause I'm not going around in this skirt without panties all day long."

I had to smile that the terms of Jamie's surrender involved when to relinquish the panties, not whether it was going to happen or not. Wise girl. Sam was a terror.

"While I appreciate that Ms. Harris's panties will smell even better by the end of the day, I am not, and have never been, a patient dyke."

I knew that if they dragged me into this ludicrous argument over Jamie's undies, I was damn well going to pee my own. If necessity is the mother of invention, then not wanting to piss myself was the motherfucker of inspiration.

"That's easy," I said, opening a stall door. "Sam, you take Jamie's panties. Jamie, I'm going to give you my panties, but first I have to pee."

Sam held the stall door open, and both girls looked in as I lowered my jeans and squatted. Pissing, especially delaying pissing when you can barely hold it in to start with, can be extremely sensual. Pissing with a near bursting bladder, in front of an audience, proved to be even more so. I spread my knees wide as I pissed, wanting to feel naughty, to give these girls a raunchy peep show. What had happened to the reserved girl I had once been, seemingly an eternity ago? I closed my eyes and released my golden stream. My ass wriggled on the seat involuntarily. The release of hot urine sent a shudder of pleasure through me. The last satisfying dribbles of pee left me. I removed my cotton panties then wiggled back into my jeans, careful not to catch my reddish blonde pubes in the zipper.

"OK, Harris, assume the position."

Jamie put her hands on a sink and leaned forward so that her ass was pointing in the air. The short skirt rode up showing off the bottoms of her panty-clad ass cheeks. Sam flipped the rear of Jamie's skirt up onto her back. The way the younger girl was bent over provided an enticing display of her pubic mound, hugged in French-cut briefs that were pasted part way into her delicious cleft. Sam slowly lowered the panties, first revealing Jamie's tight puckered pink asshole, then her natural blonde bush and small tight pussy lips. She gave us a playful little wiggle.

Jamie stepped out of the panties and Sam immediately put them to her nose, savouring the sweet smell of Sapphic victory. I bent down and had Jamie step into my underwear before raising them up past her knee socks and dainty thighs. They were far too big for her, looked baggy, but I was confident they would stay up. She sure wasn't going to be in the running for an after school job at Victoria's Secret though.

"Now say

thank you

to Beth, Harris." It was as if Sam was Miss Manners and not the panty stealing terror of the girls' washrooms.

Jamie turned to me with a tender look in her soft blue eyes. She pulled me into her and I had to bend down to meet her open mouth. As we kissed --sweetly, gently— she reached up to cup my tits, squeezing them softly. Everything about this girl was soft and sweet and delicate. Yet the thing that was burned into my mind was the image of her puckered little asshole and virgin-like tight box.