Moans Veneris

This is the third of three chapters. You probably want to read the first two chapters before you read this one.

*

My twin sister, Jenny, and I had been at war with each other for a week. Then, just when she'd been ready to try to make peace with me, I'd staged a nuclear attack for no good reason.

The trouble had started when, in a moment of shared insanity, she'd offered to fuck me for money and I'd accepted her offer. But after we'd done the dirty deed, the shit had hit the fan. Angry because she was taking my money away from me and because she'd made me pull out at the critical moment, I'd called her a whore.

Always the more rational of us, she'd tried to make peace with me after we'd gone through a week of hating each other. My reply to her overture had been to blackmail her into a second fuck.

She'd been horrified when I had ended that second fuck by coming inside her. And when, in her horror, she worried aloud that I might have gotten her pregnant, I'd implicitly called her a slut by telling her that if I had, she could just say it had been one of her boyfriends, but she didn't know which one.

So, for another week and more, we lived in the same house, in what can only be called, at best, a state of armed truce. Neither of us wanted to speak to the other. Neither of us had any desire to touch the other, or have the other touch us. We moped about the house, each pretending, as far as possible, that the other wasn't there.

We no longer walked to and from school with each other. We avoided being in the same room with each other; Jenny even took to shutting herself up in her room when she was home. The only good thing about the week that followed that second fuck was that, because we'd almost completely stopped talking to each other, we'd even stopped calling each other nasty names.

Several times that week, when we had found it necessary to interact—on account of our parents' rule regarding "civility in the presence of innocent civilians"—I'd noticed Dad looking at Mom and rolling his eyes. Evidently, our "civility" was just barely acceptable. But, however barely, it did meet their test, and, as they had promised us, they didn't intervene.

I'm sure that they were mystified. And they would stay mystified, I knew. After all, having a couple of fucks with your twin wasn't something either of us was going to discuss with a parent.

Angry as I was, I still went to bed at very nearly the same time that Jenny did, and I listened every night for the moans and pleas that came through our wall when she masturbated. And for most of the week, she didn't disapppoint me; she jilled herself every night, for six nights straight. And I responded by jacking off every time, while thinking about her pussy and how good it had felt.

As that second week of hostility between us drew to a close, I finally began to reckon with the way Jenny and I were treating each other. We were eighteen, so we were legally, but not really, adults. Nevertheless, each of us contained a nascent adult, and mine… Well, it had been trying, for two weeks now, to make itself heard over the clamor from the thirteen-year-old with which it shared my body—the clamor that underlay the way Jenny and I were treating each other.

On the last night of that second week, Jenny didn't play with herself after we'd gone to bed, and that budding adult managed to make itself heard. And, at long last, I reflected upon what we had done and what the

real

grievances I had against Jenny might be.

First, she'd walked in on me while I was jacking off. That had been embarrassing, but it had also been an accident—for which she'd apologized immediately. And she'd compensated me for the embarrassment with her own hand, and then with her mouth, and finally with her pussy. Thus, even though I still tried to hold that embarrassment against her, it was clear that I was off-base about doing so.

Second, she'd taken a lot of my money. But she'd simply taken what I'd agreed to pay her, so I could hardly blame her for that. Moreover, I'd extorted it back from her. And, now that I was thinking about it, I realized that, just maybe, I was a little bit too tight with my money. Even listing this one as a "grievance," the new adult within me pointed out, was unfair.

Third, she'd played the whore with me. That was more serious, but I'd played the john with her by accepting her offer. And, that emergent adult within me pointed out, my guilt in accepting her offer was every bit as black as hers had been in making it. So that was a wash, too—in fact, it had been a wash even before I'd made her pay me back.

Fourth, she'd made me pull out. The adult in me said that I'd walked into that one. I hadn't known what I was promising when I'd promised to pull out, because I hadn't yet experienced the compelling need a man feels, at orgasm, to leave his semen where his body wants him to put it. Jenny couldn't have known what she'd asked me to promise, either, because, she had never experienced it, and, being a girl, never could.

And although I'd later said I didn't care if she was pregnant, I hadn't thought that through. The truth, I decided, was that I didn't want Jenny to be pregnant at eighteen, period. Let alone by me. She'd been right about wanting me to pull out. So that was worse than a wash—she'd been right and I'd been wrong. Not just wrong, but

terribly

wrong.

Fifth, there was the more long-standing fact of her slutty behavior. I'd always hated how loose she was and been jealous that she'd been so successful at getting fucked. It was paradoxical, my busybody adult pointed out, that I resented her sluttiness but was, at the same time, jealous of its results. I hated the behavior, but I envied the way it got her laid frequently. I concluded that either of those grievances might a legitimate one, but not both at the same time. So those two cancelled each other out.

It seemed then, that there wasn't anything real that I could hold against her.

But then it came to me: There was the undeniable fact that my sister had been so morally defective as to fuck her brother. Not just once, but twice.

But wait!

the nagging adult in me said,

Didn't

you

fuck your sister? Twice? And how many times have you

imagined

fucking your sister?

There was only one possible reply. Jenny's behavior might have been reprehensible. But after several months of secretly listening to my sister moaning while she fingered herself, of jacking off to those moans, and of dreaming about fucking my sister while I did so, I'd been a willing participant in those two fucks. So my own behavior had been just as reprehensible.

Willing?

the inner adult voice asked.

Didn't you

blackmail

her into that second fuck?

The thought of my act of my blackmail was the last straw. The camel's back snapped, and I knew that I'd been worse than I'd been thinking Jenny had been. I was responsible for most of the bad feeling between us, because I'd, in effect, raped her. The deep guilt that washed over me got even deeper when I thought of her honest effort—small, but honest—to right things between us, only to have me force her into compounding our difficulties.

I knew then that this was going to be another one of my sleepless nights. If nothing else, the fact that she might be pregnant would keep me awake wondering what we would—what we

could

—do about it if she were.

As I lay there, my churning mind began reviewing the reasons why Jenny might be so angry with me. I'd called her a whore. I'd blackmailed her, not just into promising to repay me, but into a second fuck, as well—making that second fuck qualify as rape. I was just thinking about how little I liked thinking of myself as a rapist when it came to me that I'd made things even worse by coming inside her. And then, when she'd complained that I might have gotten her pregnant—not just pregnant, but

pregnant by her own brother

—I'd effectively told her that people thought she was so slutty that she could say she didn't know who'd gotten her pregnant.

I think I spent most of that night lying there, wide awake, wrapped in guilt. The best that I can say about that night is that when I tired of being ashamed of one thing, there were plenty of other things for me to move on to. By the time morning rolled around and the alarm clock went off, I knew that, because I'd gotten us into this mess, it was up to me to do something about it. I had to prostrate myself before Jenny and beg her to forgive me. And there was no real reason why she should do that.

But it was still another day before the opportunity arose, before our parents were both out of the house while Jenny and I were in it. I spent most of that time fretting over the possibility of her pregnancy.

I tried, during that day of waiting, to smile at Jenny to show her that my rancor was gone, to make overtures to her, to give her encouraging glances to show her that I knew that she was right and I was wrong. But she paid no attention, gave me no reason to believe that she would ever grant me pardon. It was as if she had shrouded herself in a black cloud through which no sound or light could penetrate—in either direction.

I lay awake until about half-past one that night, repeating my guilty ruminations. Finally, I went to the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, and swiped one of Dad's sleeping pills. It got me to sleep, and I managed to wake up when the alarm went off for school—but I felt lousy and groggy for the whole morning. I hadn't had to live through another night of tossing and turning, but I wasn't really sure I was any better off for having taken the pill.

That afternoon, Dad had a late class and Mom had a meeting. Jenny got home a bit before I did, and she'd shut herself in her room by the time I got home. When I got home, I went into the kitchen to get something to eat, postponing the moment of truth for a bit.

But, eventually, the time came when there was no putting it off any more. I went upstairs, changed my clothes, and then went to Jenny's bedroom door and knocked gently. There was no response.

I knocked again, and, again, she did not reply.

So I spoke up. "Jennifer," I said, "I think we need to talk."

That got a response. She said, in a low tone, "Go away! I don't have anything to say to you."

"Umm… well… " I began, "I guess maybe you're right. You don't. But I have a lot to say to you about how wrong I've been and how sorry I am." I paused for a moment. There was no answer. "Look," I continued, "I'd rather say things to your face than to your door, but I'm going to say them one way or the other. Can I come in?"

"Okay," she muttered. "Just a minute." I heard her moving around. After a few seconds, she continued, in a dull montone, "Come on in if you must." I could hear the reluctance in her voice.

I opened her door and stepped in, to find her tying the belt of a housecoat she'd evidently just put on. Her affect was flat, her face stony—exactly the way she'd been around me for the last week. She sat on the side of her bed and glared at me without saying a word.

I looked into her glare and, unable to return it, I dropped my eyes to her floor. "I've been a shit," I started. "I don't know where to start. But I'm really sorry about the way I've treated you, and I'll try."

And then I stood there, not knowing what to do with my hands or my eyes, trying to tell her. Slowly, sadly, I catalogued the false grievances I'd gone over with myself two nights earilier. I admitted how wrong I'd been to hold them. Every now and then, I looked up to see that her expression remained unchanged—it was still the same stony glare I'd met on entering her room. I reached the end of that list, and told her how sorry I was over the imagined wrongs I'd been holding her accountable for. I looked up at her again, and, finally, she spoke. In the same dull monotone she'd used to admit me to her room, she asked, "Are you done, now?"

God, did I want to tell her that I was! But I wasn't, and I knew it. "No," I said, "there's more. All I've done so far is explain how wrong I was about wanting to be mean to you, and apologize for that. Now I have to try to make up to you for the mean things I did to you." And I launched into that list trying to explain how rotten I felt about having done each and every one of them.

I told how sorry I was for calling her a whore, how ashamed of myself I was for blackmailing her, and how much it hurt me to remember that I'd said that if she was pregnant, people would believe her if she said she didn't know who the father was.

Worst of all, I admitted, was the possibility that I'd gotten her pregnant, but I told her that if I had, I would admit my part in it, take my share of the responsibility for what we'd done, and try to stand beside her through all of it. By the time I'd reached the end of this second list, I couldn't see how she was taking my confessions and my apologies because my tears were in the way.

At last, I did reach the end. "That's it," I said. "I'll go now. I know I can't ever make it up to you. But you're still my twin sister, and maybe someday we can be friends again."

She stopped me, saying "Jeremy, don't go. I said I don't have anything to say to you, but I was wrong." That startled me. But then, I guessed that she was going to rip off my head, as I deserved, and then shove it up my ass—or just hand it to me, if I was lucky.

She took a few seconds to gather her thoughts, and I braced myself for what I expected her to give me—knowing that however bad it might be, it wouldn't be bad enough for the way I'd treated her. And then, as that moment of silence lengthened, I realized that I had heard her own tears in her voice.

"Jerry," she said, and paused again. I wondered at the tears I heard. And then she continued: "There are some things you don't know, and you need to know them. I've been worse than you—"

"No you haven't!" I cried, interrupting her. "I've been awful! The way we've been treating each other is all my fault!"

"Please, Jerry." She said it quietly, but determinedly. "You had your turn. Let me have mine."

"Okay," I answered. My tears still prevented me from seeing her very well. "But this is all my fault!"

"Listen, please," she said, and waited for me to speak.

I nodded my head.

She went on. "I have plenty to tell you. I've been so sad because of what I've done to you. But the first thing you need to know is that I'm not pregnant. When you came inside of me, my period was only two days away, and a girl can't get pregnant that close to her period. I knew how close it was, and I let you think… I

told

you I might be pregnant when I knew I couldn't be. And I've let you worry about it for a week."

An enormous weight lifted from my shoulders when she told me that she wasn't pregnant. The relief I felt was almost physical. Of course, a great deal of weight remained—taking the risk of knocking my sister up was merely the

worst

of the things I'd done to her, not the

only

thing. But the release was so wonderful that I only vaguely understood that Jenny's next few sentences were an apology for misleading me that way. And I began to understand why she was crying, too.

By the time she'd finished that apology, I was paying attention again. She went on, "After that first time we fucked, you called me a whore. It really hurt to have my brother call me that. But just a few minutes later, when I was alone in my room, I realized… I knew… I knew that I'd

been

a whore to you. It was a dumb thing for me to do, but I'd fucked you for money—and that's exactly what a whore is: someone who fucks people for money. So I'd just made myself into a whore. You'd been right. And it was a lesson I needed. You don't need to apologize about that. I… I should thank you for it."

Jenny was sobbing now. She stopped talking to catch her breath. I could feel my own sobs trying to get out, but I wouldn't let them. Instead, I pulled a Kleenex from the box on her dressing table and wiped the tears out of my eyes. While I was doing so, she steadied herself and continued, "And you told me that if we'd gotten me pregnant, I could just say I didn't know who the father was." She stopped to sob again, but quickly went on. "When you said that, I thought it was awful. It

was

awful. But it was worse than awful, because it was just what I deserved!" She paused again.

I finished wiping my tears away and got my first good look at her since before she'd started to cry. Tears streamed down her face as she tried to look at me, and I knew she couldn't see me very well. She caught her breath again and elaborated: "Ever since I started to understand about girls and boys and sex, I've wanted people—well, not just people, but

you

especially—to think I'm a… a… well… a slut! I don't know why I wanted that, but I did. I guess it seemed grown-up or something. So I tried to make you think I'd fucked every boyfriend I've ever had. And I didn't care if other people thought that, too. In fact, I

needed

them to think I was a slut, because if they didn't think that, that might convince

you

that I wasn't. It was kind of a game, and I guess I got pretty good at it. Too good!

"I did fuck the first five boyfriends I had, maybe half a dozen times each. That was back when we were fourteen or fifteen, because back then I thought I had to

be

slutty to make people

think

I was slutty. But I didn't like those guys very much, and, even though their dicks felt good in me, I didn't like fucking them. So I've never fucked anyone since—except for those two times with you. But I still wanted people—you especially—to think I was… easy. That's probably why I've never been able to hang onto a boyfriend. Guys I could never like want to take me out because they think I'm an easy lay, and then…"

She stopped to catch her breath again. She wiped her eyes, too, this time. In the silence that attended those actions, I said, quietly, "I didn't know… I never guessed…"

She looked up at me and went on. "Of course you didn't. I wanted it that way! And then, the other day, when you told me I that if I was pregnant, I wouldn't know who the father was…" She sobbed, but then went on, "Well, I saw what a big mistake I'd made. I saw that making you think I was slutty wasn't a game after all, and that I'd… I'd… well, I'd made you think I'm a bimbo and a floozy and a… a whore. And I knew that I shouldn't want my brother to think of me like that." She gave me a look that almost stopped my heart. "And I don't want him to, but now it's too late." And then she dissolved in tears; nothing remained of her composure.

My own composure was pretty ragged by then. Wordlessly, I sat down beside her on the bed. I put my arm around her and pulled her close. She put her arms around me, laid her head on my shoulder, and sobbed. I put my other other arm around her, held her, and sobbed back.

We stayed that way, sitting on Jenny's bed, clinging quietly to each other, letting our tears run their course, for—oh, I don't know—ten minutes or so. We were calming down then, when we heard the back door open downstairs. Dad was home. Quickly, I took her chin into my hand, gently raised her head, and looked into her teary eyes. I smiled at her; she smiled weakly back at me. "You're still my twin sister," I whispered, "and you're still my friend. I hope I'm still yours." She nodded. "We can talk some more later," I added. I squeezed her, kissed her on the cheek, and tiptoed out of the room, closing the door quietly behind me.