Moans Veneris

This is the first in a sequence of five chapters. The overall plot of this story comes from a sequence of porn videos I found on the Web. But movie-makers often leave out substantial parts of their stories. This is what

really

happened!

We moved when my twin sister and I were just a few months over eighteen—early the summer after Jenny and I had finished our junior year in high school. Our parents had both gotten their promotions to full professor a couple of years earlier, he in philosophy and she in psychology. Thus, even in the high-priced real estate market of mid-Eighties Boulder, Colorado, they could afford a better house than the one Jenny and I had grown up in.

In our new house, Jenny's room was right next to mine. We hadn't talked to each other about it when we had the movers set up our beds; later we found that we'd put them next to each other, right up against our shared wall. That wall seemed pretty substantial, but it wasn't soundproof—not by a long shot. The first night we lived there, we'd all been tired and gone to bed early. And, shortly after we'd gone to bed, I heard her masturbating.

I don't mean that I heard the juicy sounds of her fingers sliding around in the wetness of her pussy's folds. The wall filtered those sounds out pretty well. They might've come through, for all I remember, but I didn't even realize, then, that fingers applied that way might make any sounds; so I wasn't listening for them. What I heard was the "Oooh!"s and the "Ahhh!"s, those "Mmmm!"s and "Unnh!"s, that came from her unguarded mouth.

She'd gone to bed just before I had that first night in the new house because, gentleman that I was, I'd let her have the bathroom first. I'd just gotten back from my turn in the bathroom and lain down, naked, for the night. Like most eighteen-year-old guys would do, I was asking myself whether I was going to jack off before I went to sleep. As I pondered, I gave my cock a few experimental strokes—just to see if I was in the mood.

And then, still undecided about my mood, my half-hard cock in my hand, I heard her soft moans through the wall. I'd never heard anything like that before; but I guessed, instantly, what she was up to. Thoughts of her female body lying so close to me, and of the part of that body her hand must have been on—the part of her body that made her a girl—filled my mind. So did thoughts of replacing her hand on that part of her body with the corresponding part of my body—which sprang to attention. It decided for me the question I'd been asking myself.

Her noises grew as she progressively lost control of herself. And I realized that she was muttering, incomprehensibly at first. But as she got closer and closer to her orgasm, her muttering got a bit louder. Not that she was shouting, or even using a normal tone of voice. I don't think you could have heard her from out in the hall, even from just outside her door. But I heard her distinctly through the wall: "Oh, fuck me, fuck me!" She repeated it, again and again, sometimes adding, "Fuck me harder!" And shortly after that, I heard, even a little louder, but a lot less distinctly, the incoherent noises that signalled the arrival of her orgasm.

My trial strokes became much less conjectural, and as the resulting sensations became more demanding, I realized that I was about to groan. But I knew, now, from what I had heard through the wall, that Jenny would hear me, so I managed to stifle that incipient groan. And, somehow, I contained all of the other noises—including even noises from the bed—that a guy might make while bringing himself off.

That's a difficult thing for a young man to do. But I was a very introverted—in fact, nerdy—guy, and I valued my privacy very highly. That probably explained why I didn't have much experience with girls. I was too geeky and too afraid of girls, though I'd somehow managed a few dates. But I'd been too shy to try to kiss anyone (let alone put a hand on anyone's boob), and nothing had ever developed out of those dates. But I was pretty good at keeping things private when I wanted to do so, and being able to hear Jenny's moans through the wall was something I

really

wanted to keep private.

Jenny was different. She was extroverted, outgoing. She attracted guys; and she liked their attention. She'd had a number of boyfriends since she was fourteen, enough that I'd lost count. From the way she talked to me about her boyfriends, I thought that she'd probably fucked most of them. None of those guys had lasted very long, though. She always seemed to get dissatisfied with the current guy pretty quickly. As a rule, one of her relationships lasted several weeks, and then she'd break it off and start on another one.

I knew I should have been ashamed of myself for thinking about her the way I did when I heard those noises. After all, she was my sister, and not just my sister, but my

twin

sister—my womb-mate. "Should have been," maybe—but I wasn't.

I guess we weren't as close a pair as many twins are. We'd been a lot closer when we were small, though now we had a more nearly typical brother-sister relationship. But I was secretly glad to have a sibling my own age, and I think that she felt much the same way—naturally neither of us would have admitted to those feelings. We often watched TV together—though, of course, there were the mandatory fights over what we were going to watch. We spent time together studying—not only for the things we were taking together, but for the courses we were taking separately. We got along with each other pretty well, and I thought we liked each other.

More than liked, I guess; there was genuine affection between us. We touched each other frequently. When we met or parted, it wasn't a bit unusual for either of us to give the other a quick caress or a squeeze, or even a kiss on the cheek.

Her appendix had burst, during the summer of the year before we moved, and the way I'd hung out around the hospital, night and day—in her room when the hospital staff would allow, and in a nearby waiting room when they wouldn't—was a family legend. During the fall after that, I'd sprained an ankle trying (unsuccessfully) to do an ill-advised stunt on a skate-board, and during the week or so I spent on crutches after that, she'd driven me everywhere I had to go (or wanted to). She'd even carried things for me when I couldn't handle them together with the crutches.

But, again, neither of us was about to admit to that affection. Like most siblings of about the same age, neither of us shied from taking advantage of the other whenever an occasion arose. We put each other down when possible, and we squabbled over silly things whenever something silly (like what what we were going to watch together on TV, who got the larger piece of pie, or whose turn it was to do the dishes) arose to squabble about.

And now, here I was jacking off while I listened to the sounds of her jilling off, thinking not only of what her body must be like, but what I'd like to do to it. For a few days, I did feel a bit of guilt about that—especially two days later when I heard her again and reacted the same way as I had the first time. But within a few weeks I'd settled into a routine. And as my listening became routine—along with the accompanying thoughts and actions—my guilt faded.

I figured that I'd had a bit of luck in discovering the nature of the wall before she had, so I kept myself very quiet when we were both in our rooms—not just when she might hear me whacking off. I didn't want my noises to come through our wall, because she might realize just how easily sound traveled through it. I even considered playing with myself only when she wasn't in her room. But the routine developed as quickly as it did because she masturbated three or four times a week, right after we went to bed. Naturally, the noises she made always gave me a boner—and a pressing need to do something about it. But I kept myself silent, perfectly silent, as I brought myself off.

As a result of this new entertainment, I was sleeping better. Mom and Dad both suffered from insomnia; they even took sleeping pills every night because of it. Jenny and I had, in the last few years, found that we were beginning to have a few nights a month when we slept very poorly—or even not at all. Mom and Dad didn't want us to take their pills; that hadn't stopped me from swiping one a couple of times. But regular orgasms seemed to be improving my situation.

Another side effect of this new form of listening pleasure was that I began to pay more attention to Jenny's body when I saw her during our waking hours. I found myself glancing at her frequently—undressing her with my eyes when no one (especially Jenny) was looking.

She was shorter than I by several inches, and she had a nice figure. She wasn't unusually attractive, but she was definitely good-looking. She had all of the standard female equipment, in all of the standard places—at least as far as I could tell when she was fully dressed. Her boobs weren't particularly large, but they were much more than merely noticeable. And, suddenly, I found that noticing them was very pleasurable. Her ass was one of the nicest asses I've ever seen, and I loved the way her pants curved down and around her pussy and cupped it.

I hadn't seen her naked since we were about five. But I had a good imagination; my mind's eye saw right through her clothes. (My mind's eye knew what was there to see from looking at occasional copies of magazines, like

Hustler,

that friends swiped from older brothers.) And what that inner eye saw caused more than one boner and brought about more than one session in which I locked myself in the bathroom to, ummm,

work something out.

Soon I was day dreaming about her, hearing her moans in my mind, and thinking about what her naked body must look like—not to mention fantasizing about what her pussy would feel like as my cock slid into it. At school, I found that I had to force myself to think about something else near the end of each class. As long as I was sitting in class, no one could see that I had a boner. But if I stood up in that condition, the tent in my pants would humiliate me. Bringing myself off in a stall in the boys' room was risky and problematic, but I managed it a few times.

I started going to bed earlier than my parents were used to. They didn't say anything, having learned years earlier that complimenting me on behavior they liked was a very good way of getting me to change it to behavior they didn't like. But they must have been pleased when I started going to bed an hour or two earlier than had been my habit. By some strange coincidence, which didn't seem to catch their attention, I was now going to bed at right about the time that Jenny went to bed. I'd lie there in my darkened room, listening. And, several times a week she'd unknowingly serenade me with her moans and her

sotto voce

pleas to be fucked—harder, harder,

harder.

In the few months after we moved, I reached an equilibrium, a randy equilibrium. I spent a lot of time thinking about my sister's body, and I must've pumped out several gallons of cum during those months. (Well, pints, anyway.) Every two or three nights, it was the same. Shortly after I'd gone to bed, I'd hear barely perceptible moaning from her side of the wall. Slowly it would grow, and I'd lie there naked, stroking my stiff cock slowly—more or less in time with her.

As her moans intensified and became more definite, my stroking increased in speed and strength. Soon, I'd hear her pleading to be fucked. I was usually about to explode when I heard the muted sounds that accompanied her orgasm. Sometimes, I even thought I could feel the floor shaking—but that was usually when I was so far out of sync with her that I didn't come until some time after she was finished. And it was probably my imagination.

What did I do with the cum? I used the T-shirt I'd worn that day to avoid making a mess. Jenny and I each did our own laundry, so I didn't have to worry about being discovered on that account.

And then things changed.

The two of us usually walked to and from school together. But I came home from school alone one mid-September afternoon. The friend I'd been planning on doing something with that afternoon had been sick, and he hadn't come to school that day. Jenny, knowing I had plans, had made plans of her own to go to a mall with some of her girlfriends.

Mom and Dad both had committee meetings that would keep them on the university campus until nearly supper time. So I found myself alone in the house with nothing to do.

Soon after I got home, it occurred to me that this would be a good opportunity to try the expensive new headphones I'd just gotten for my stereo. In order to buy them, I'd done extra chores around the house to earn more money, and I'd even spent some of the allowance money I'd socked away in my savings account..

That was another way Jenny and I differed. I was pretty good at saving my money. In fact, I hated to part with it. Compared to most guys my age, I was practically a miser. In fact, I had a hundred dollars stashed in my top dresser drawer right then and, even after buying the earphones, I still had a couple of hundred dollars in the bank. But she never had enough for what she wanted to buy. She was always short, and she frequently tried to wheedle some out of me. When we weren't fighting, I would usually lend it to her. She always paid it back in a reasonable amount of time, because she knew that if she didn't, I'd stop lending.

I'd rarely used the stereo after we'd moved, for fear that Jenny would hear it and learn the secret of the wall. But I'd gotten those headphones because I loved classical music, and I'd missed listening to it. (Hey—I said I was nerdy, didn't I?) So I closed my door and turned on the stereo.

As luck would have it, the station had just begun playing one of E. Power Biggs' organ renditions of J. S. Bach's

Toccata, Adagio, and Fugue in C Major.

There's a lot of amazing pedal work in that piece—meaning heavy bass, which I loved. So I turned the volume up, put on the headphones, and lay down on my bed to listen.

As I listened to the

Toccata,

I thought about what I'd heard through the wall a couple of nights before. My cock responded as it had that night. By the time the

Adagio

began, I was naked, and I was engaged in two of my favorite activities at the same time—both involving organs, so to speak.

The music is perfect for what I was doing. I jerked slowly through the

Adagio;

compulsion built within me. The

Adagio

ended in a sequence of majestic chords, and the bright

Fugue

subject began. Slowly, the strength and the intensity of the music grew, deepened, and the pedal took up the subject. My stroking intensified with the music; J. S. Bach, E. Power Biggs, and I were on track to climax together. The three of us were about to peak when my door flew open, and Jenny stepped into my room. She took a few steps, and then what she saw before her registered.

I froze in mid-stroke. She froze in mid-step. Her eyes bugged out and her jaw dropped. Through the headphones, I heard her squeak—as if someone had poked her in the ass with a sharp stick. Seconds later, her lips moved. I couldn't hear what she said, but it looked like "Oh, my God!" Her hand came up as though to block out an intolerable sight, and she turned her head away from me.

Unfreezing, I tore the headphone set off my head and—none too gently for such an expensive item—tossed it onto the desk next to my bed. I yelled, "Why are you home? What the fuck are you doing in my room?" I didn't swear very much, especially around home. But no one had ever walked in on me under these circumstances before, either. I'd been about to come, almost there. But now I could feel my boner beginning to sag. I was pissed—almost as much at the untimely interruption as at the intrusion on something that most folks consider a very private activity.

She made no move to leave, but she kept her eyes averted. Indeed, she turned her whole body partially away from me. Keeping her hand where it would block any accidental view, she answered, "We decided to go to a movie. The girls brought me home to change clothes. They're going to pick me up in an hour, and I was hoping you'd have some money I could borrow. I thought you were out with Marty, and I was going to look in your desk to see if you had any." She sounded pretty pitiful, as though mortified by what she'd interrupted. "I'm really sorry," she continued. "I really didn't mean… I didn't know…" She trailed off.

As I've said, I lent her money all the time, and I wasn't worried that she wouldn't have paid me back if she'd found and borrowed some. But her interruption had pissed me off, and the thought of her going through my desk looking for money pissed me off some more. Grouchily, in 'get-even' mode, I said, "I don't have any money you can borrow. Get out of here!"

Hand still raised, she started to move toward the door. But her natural curiosity was beginning to get the better of her embarrassment. As she moved, her hand wavered a bit, and she turned her head, tentatively, so that she could peek over her shoulder. "What're you doing?" she asked. And she looked, out of the corner of her eye, over her hand, directly at what had been the center of the action.

My right hand was still wrapped around the boner that hadn't had time to shrink completely—though it was noticeably softer than it had been thirty seconds earlier. Belatedly, I started to reach for a pillow to cover up. Then I realized that covering up wouldn't make her un-see what she'd seen, and I gave up on the idea. She might as well look, I figured.

She laughed. "I thought so! You were jacking off!" She went on, still laughing, "You turd!"

Now I was really pissed. "Get the fuck out of my room, Godammit!" I yelled at her.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I really am. But, you know, it's nothing to worry about. Everybody does it. Even I…" She trailed off again, realizing that she was about to give me too much information. I almost told her that I knew, but I stopped myself in time. That was a secret I wasn't ready to give away.

She lowered her hand, but not her gaze. In fact, she turned her head toward me and looked directly at my cock, and the hand I still had wrapped around it. The laughing died out. "Are you hard? …uhh, …erect?" she asked. Her curiosity had overcome her other emotions. "I've never had a really good look at a guy's thing. Especially that way. Can I look?" Her hand dropped, and she moved toward me, looking eagerly.

I'd never had a girl look at my "thing", whether "that way" or any other way, and the said "thing" was re-inflating at the idea. It did occur to me that she couldn't be quite right about never having seen "a guy's thing." I was sure she'd seen naked men in movies. But probably not hard. I was still pretty rattled, so, even though the thought of all of the boyfriends she'd fucked came to mind, it didn't really register that she had to have seen some hard cocks when she'd done that. And, I figured that she'd already seen my cock, hard, just seconds ago, so I didn't have much to lose by letting her have a better look.

She stepped up close to the bed, looking avidly all the while. Now I was starting to get interested in this; I was fully hard again. I removed my hand so that she could see more. She bent over a little for a closer look. Almost automatically, her hand reached out, but stopped a foot short of touching me.