I couldn't control my tears. I had shamelessly given in to Robert. I was shaken by a sudden tremor, because I thought I was going to lose my brother. I adored him as my kid brother.
Papa, on his deathbed, made me promise to take care of Robert until he's old enough to take the responsibility of his life. That solemn oath had formed a deeper bond between us and kindled in me a passionate maternal feel for him. Until now, Robert had been my guide and company in difficult times. Now in this trouble, which concerned him, I had none to talk with. I thought of William. He was the most useless person in this dilemma.
Disheveled and sprawled, I lay on my back. My tears had waned. My t-shirt rode up, showing my curvy midriffs. The white-pleated skirt I wore for the evening rolled up on my thighs. My big, conical breasts were brooding with twisted anticipation.
After an hour or two, Robert entered my room. He switched on the light. My morose, piercing look failed to diminish his spirit. Sitting at my feet, facing me, he held my right foot and put it on his lap. My handsome brother gazed at me lustfully.
I was not decent at all. My brother's shameless eyes were making me sexier every moment. He had been staring at my panties. This evening I put the best pair from my generous wardrobe. They were pink, shiny, and silky. They didn't have a lace. But they're a nicely-cut pair of undergarments. They didn't make much contrast with the tone of my thigh muscles. That's why I wore them this evening.
I, of course, hadn't thought I would open my legs in front of my brother. But the sheer desire he expressed in his diary had made me feel sexy all over. And I couldn't but wore my best panties and best, matching bra, just to feel erotic.
The panties felt good, especially on my ass, because of their satiny smoothness. My clitoris became extra sensitive under their silky friction and it was almost oppression for my love-bud as I was being aroused. The crotch was still dry, but hot and humid.
Under the stroke of my brother's gentle hands on my feet, my entire body was radiating the heat of desire. I felt it in my armpits. I felt the heat of my breaths on my cheeks.
I was most aware of my genitals: their sweet throbbing under my brother's lustful eyes. Yes, the mark of the first patch of my secretion was there, on my silk panties.
A wicked spirit enticed me to behave wickedly. I wanted to shed shyness. I wanted to act like an erotic goddess and took my brother along the course of my perversion. I wanted to give him the best of my sisterly and maternal self, the tenderest erotic pleasure I could muster. I would dance naked if it pleased him. I'd talk dirty. I'd be bitchy. Because he would give me his virginity.
Aha. The thought of his virginity, my pussy tunnel around his virgin cock, made me hotter. I gave mine to William who had given his to a distant aunt who had raped him when he was 13. I wished I had been a virgin myself, for my brother: his touch on my virgin nipples, on my virgin sex.
It was not possible. What could I do? I would compensate for the lack of my virginity with my experience. The young poet wouldn't want to fuck a shy girl. He needed an experienced one. The boy who had red Odyssey and Iliad and all the novels by D. H. Lawrence and Iris Murdoch and who dreamed Lady Lamb's pubic hair in Lord Byron's tiffin box mustn't have had his life's first hug from a banal virgin. Yes, he'd get what he deserved. "Has William ever told how beautiful are you, Anja?" My brother said. His agile fingers crawled on my feet and spiraled across my toes. "See," he said, "how soft and shapely your heel is."
"This is not decent, baby. To invite your sister's heel to embrace your penis," I smirked and pressed my heel onto his growing manhood which agitated from across his jeans. His concealed organ seems to have no limit.
We were making the same effort. Trying to see inside of each other's. I knew what he was thinking was not much different from my thoughts. We were thinking of a life-long relationship, of forming a domestic couple, we were considering marriage, children, society. As if we were old lovers. I couldn't but laugh that this new course of our relation was sparked off by the sight of a pair of my panties.
The solid muscles on my brother's chest and arms were pushing against his shirt. I'd never seen my brother happier. He's looking at the naked parts of my body. He was not trying to hide the blush of his anticipation as he was gazing at my breasts.
I fell prey to a sudden temptation to uncover my breasts. I was positively troubled that my personality was sexually responding to Robert's overture. My nipples straightened as a reaction to his stare. The hollow of my navel cringed and the soft muscles around it quivered. A whispering air wafted on my naked thighs. I was no less happy than my brother.
"Sis, I have never thought I would get you," Robert said, stroking my calf muscles. "The night outside is serenading my love for you. Don't fidget on it, Anja. I understand how troubled you are. I am taking -- from now on until my death -- the responsibility of all your troubles, including the present one, on my shoulders."
Robert's shoulders were broad and strong. He flexed them fatherly. He had achieved this easy way of synchronizing all his words with his body. In the past I had been protective of him and never thought of my own protection. Now Robert was making my worries disappear with his knightly presence. He was reviving -- or just giving life to the hidden woman in me -- the feminine self which was hidden under my sisterly and motherly responsibilities as an older sibling.
William had never kindled this kind of feel in me. It's a shame that I had to compare Robert with William, who could, at best, be a dream-groom to only an ambitious careerist woman whose entire tenderness was squandered for the favor of the superior people, leaving nothing for her man except her disused womanhood. Robert surpassed every young man in our little town in every way: personality, physical structure, health, education, and maturity. My father entertained himself with Wordsworth. Robert could recite half of Keats' and Shelley's poetry from memory. Robert's world was without limit or horizon. It's pity that he was craving me as his woman.
'What if someday he finds me unworthy of him, like other girls, with no depth, no inclination to finer things like poetry.' I sudden fear jolted my feminine soul.
