I love my brother, but we don't make love. We fuck.
There's a big difference. I tried to fool myself the first time I laid my hands on his dick, that what we were about to do was making love. That all I wanted to do was make this boy whom I had grown up with feel good. That I loved him so much, and I wanted him to feel good.
A half truth, nothing more. I wanted all of the above, but that was miniscule to what I really wanted. As soon as I took his cock in my mouth, felt the smooth head slide against the walls of my cheeks, I knew this wasn't lovemaking.
I had never been with another guy really, not like what I do with my brother anyways. There was once, when I was a little younger and I really liked this boy. He had come over, and we had been dating for a few months. I was blind then. To me dating was holding hands, and sexual contact was restricted to a kiss. But anything with tongue was me "sacrificing" myself for the sake of my boyfriend. I thought I was going far enough, giving him enough with some heavy kissing. I was an idiot.
One night Kyle and I, that was his name, were getting heavy, finally after a night of me playing shy. We were going vertical on the couch, and I realized his hand was creeping up my stomach. I didn't know how it happened, but suddenly he had his dick out, which looked very small and scary in the dark of the basement, and his other hand on my breast. He asked me to touch him, and believe me I wanted to make him happy. But my thumb just glanced off the tip of his dick, and it was over for me. His pre-cum left a gooey strand that seemed to stretch forever as I withdrew my hand in disgust.
I wriggled out from under him, fixing my wrinkled shirt as I got up. I started to cry, and soon the night was over. Kyle was pretty embarrassed, and left after a few mumbled apologies. I nodded and sniffled, but avoided his eyes. I broke up with him by writing him a note which my friend Michelle delivered to him at his locker. I know it sounds stupid. I was eighteen, how could I be so out of touch with sex and anything like it? Well, the times were different then. I hate to date myself, but it was a long time ago.
That was the farthest I had been with a boy, until my brother. In that time, two years, my view on sex was changed, and expanded. I saw a porno a few months after Kyle at a friends sleep over party that really blew my mind. I had always assumed sex was one on one, and this movie was saying quite differently to that. A woman was taken by six men in a garage, and was covered in cum by the end of the clip. The tape had more, lesbians, anal, all of which were very new to me.
I mean, I had heard of orgies, heard of how gays had sex in the butt, but it never clicked with me. Hell, I didn't even really understand what cum was. I knew a guy "put his seed into a woman's womb." This video showed me that a guy's seed was a thick white goo that shot like pee out of him. Made sense I guess, but I thought it was pretty gross. At the time I thought it was gross I should say.
But for months after, the image of that girl being fucked by six men, and swimming in their cum sat with me. I was eighteen the first time I masturbated. It was a late night, and I had been exhausted from my homework. Not that the work was hard, it was that I couldn't focus. I was wearing only a long t-shirt for bed, no underwear. A long t-shirt with no panties was what I had been wearing to bed since I could remember. And no way I could sleep with a bra on. Not that I wore my bra a lot around the house, I had modest breasts at best.
So the night was hot, and I was restless, and that image of the woman in the porn would not get out of my head. What I once thought of as gross was now really getting to me. I was always trying to wrap my head around it. I didn't know anything, and this was too much. That heat was in my groin, and I clenched my thighs. I moved my hand down to push against the top of my pussy (not that I would have called it a pussy then) and my hand felt my moistness for the first time.
I was scared shitless. I quickly got up and went to the washroom that mine and my brothers room shared and inspected myself. Long sticky strands of something came away with my fingers as I spread my pussy apart in the halogen glow of the bathroom. That was also the first time I had really seen my vagina in full force. The lights were bright and white, and while I had seen my slit enough times, the thought of "looking in" was taboo to me. But there I saw in the mirror that little button that if I pressed sometimes in the dark, it would make me feel warm and nice.
My eyes were drawn to it as I held my shirt up to see it perfectly. My other hand went to it, and I grew past my fear of the sticky liquid coming from me, and my forefinger gingerly touched it. Maybe it was the heat that night, maybe I was finally ready, but my senses exploded with delight at my own touch. I leaned against the cold porcelain sink, and started to rub myself a little.
A little turned to a lot, and soon I had to use my chin to pin my shirt up as I needed both hands to work on myself. One hand splayed out and opened the lips to my pussy wide, the other hand slid over my button. Soon my hand was also dipping down to my "hole" and gathering my juices upwards to moisten up my slit. Part of me was in ecstasy, and another part was quite analytical. While I built towards orgasm (though I didn't really understand what that was) I was also figuring out that the liquid that scared me earlier must be the pussy juice my friend Ben loved to talk about so much. Ben always had sayings around the cafeteria table about how he loved pussy juice. I would laugh and call him gross, though I guess I didn't really know what the hell he was talking about.
My thoughts were suddenly interrupted as my first orgasm washed through me. My knees buckled and I had to grip the sink to keep from falling. My shirt fell back down over my pussy, and I exhaled deeply. Was that an orgasm? I guessed it was. It would be months before I finally thought with some conviction that what I was doing was masturbating, and what resulted was indeed that orgasm that so many of my friends were talking about.
I stumbled off to bed, feeling a little scared, but also wondrous. It would be over a year and half later that my brother told me that I had woken him up, and he had watched me through the opposite door that leads to his room from the bathroom.
So we fuck. Am I a slut? I don't think I am, but I also talked to a girl named Kay Lee at a party once, and she claimed the same. I found out later that after I had passed out on the couch in the basement, she had been gang banged by three guys from another school in her mom's bedroom. So now I second guess myself.
I continued to masturbate with some frequency as the months ticked by. Sometimes I'd do it twice in a day, but then sometimes I'd go a week or two without. Masturbating for girls is different then for guys. Guys need a steady rhythm; they need orgasms like they need bass in their music. Loud, thumping, and constant. I don't have a good analogy for a girl's orgasm, but it's not the same.
First I had to masturbate only in the bathroom, late at night. I guess it's because that's where it first happened, and it was familiar to the all around experience. But soon I moved out of the bathroom to my bed. I could only masturbate standing up at first also, but the move to my bedroom changed that. I experimented with positions on my bed. I found on my front, with legs spread wide behind me to be the best, though switching it up to my back was a welcome change every so often.
It takes guys anywhere from two minutes to forty five minutes to get their rocks off, but for me I was always a quick cum. I could get off in thirty seconds or less sometimes. I'm not bragging, I know other girls who are the same. But when I'm with a guy (my brother) it takes me longer. Usually ten minutes of hardcore stimulating of my clit to get me off.
But younger more innocent me was very happy to cum quickly, for there was less chance of being caught by my parents or brother. Though once I started masturbating at other times, besides the deep of night, things got scarier. More than once my mother would walk in on me. I would usually hear her in time to push my t-shirt down, and get under the covers with a book off my night stand in my hands before she opened the door. I always swore I'd get a lock on the door to my room like my brother, but I never got around to it.
The lack of a lock on my door though was something I would never regret. Because of it, my brother was getting his peeks at me.
