I recently posted Making Room for the Art, my iteration of the popular account of the incestuous consequences for two relatives packed closely together in the back seat of a car (or in my case, a pick-up truck). I wrote about an aunt and a nephew. The story was well received and one reader suggested a story featuring two women. It seemed an excellent idea – thank you Epiphany_Jones. This is my effort to bring it to life.
Like Making Room for the Art, the women are based on gym buddies of mine. One of them also served as the model for the aunt in Making Room for the Art.
These events are a complete invention.
As always, all story characters involved in sexual activities are eighteen years of age or older.
* * * *
We maneuvered Rob, my husband, and Bryan, my sister's, to the car. They'd had a successful night at the blackjack table. It was a two hour drive back to Manchester and they'd be regaling each other, and us, with accounts of their acumen the entire way. All of us had had a few drinks and good cop that she was, Chris subjected both men to a Breathalyzer test, determining that while my Rob was drunk, her Bryan was under the legal limit. She handed him the keys.
I was concerned about. "Are you sure about this?"
Gesturing to her husband's substantial beer belly, Chris said, "Yeah. I've been with him long enough to know he can handle this and Bessie will get us out of any problems we may have."
Bessie was my sister's name for her police cruiser. We shouldn't have been driving it to an out-of-state to a casino, but Bryan had insisted and Bryan, a major in the Hillsborough County Sheriff's Office, was my sister's boss. There were perks to being a major he said, including driving the cruiser to a casino on what he assured us was official business. Another perk was my sister, who'd he married three years before. His second, her first marriage, it had been a wild ceremony, my new brother-in-law toasting his bride as the baddest-assed-bitch-on-the-planet. No one disputed him.
One problem had been settled, now the next. The trip had been spur of the moment; we had not unloaded all the gear from Chris' car. It had not been a problem on the way down. Although the back seat was cramped I, all four feet ten inches and 93 pounds of me, made myself comfortable. The trip back, however, posed a problem.
Our two husbands were regulars at the casino and that evening, as the bets at the black jack table grew, the casino comped our boys with several gifts: coolers and luggage bearing the casino's name. It was now piled on the back seat.
It was cheap tacky stuff. I said to Rob. "Can we give it back? Can we dump it somewhere?"
"Fuck no, that's our fucking winnings. We the men."
"Yeah," Bryan chimed in, "those are fricking gifts. We'd insult our generous hosts. We the men."
"And where am I supposed to sit?"
"You and Chris can figure it out; she can figure anything out."
Chris and I re-arranged the back seat, re-arranged it again. We opened the trunk; it was stuffed with police gear.
"It looks like you're sitting on my lap."
I'm twenty-four, my sister's thirty-seven. Growing up she was the boss, still was. She was bigger than me; she had six inches and fifty pounds on me. My goal in the gym was to look good and I'd honed my body to what I wanted, lean and muscled. My sister, she wanted to be able to kick your ass. She power lifted and boy could she could move some weight; people stared at awe at her work outs.
There was another reason they, especially the women, stared. My sister made straight women think about changing teams. While we both had short hair, I kept my brown hair in a cute bob, my sister died her hair blonde and wore it in a carefully arranged mess. My tattoo was a delicate feather on my left shoulder, invisible unless I decided to show it. My sister's most prominent tattoo was a blazing sun fixed on a powerful shoulder. No matter what she wore, it was visible. I took care of my skin and carefully applied make-up to emphasize my smallish features and pale skin. Chris, who was blessed with strong features, wide eyes, wide nose, prominent jaw, high strong cheekbones, wore no make-up and her skin showed the effects of years of outdoor living. And yeah, she also looked spectacular in a white ribbed tank top.
But that only describes part of her. When growing up, when I needed my big sister, when a friend or teacher or Mom or Dad or a boyfriend was cruel, Chrissie was amazing: intelligent, articulate, deep, fun, open-minded. We'd talk and I'd always feel better. I told her my darkest secrets; she'd always been there for me.
Was she gay? Bi? Yeah, but I knew few details. All her life she'd tease me, hint at a wild history, a hidden her, but would decline all specifics, deflecting my questions with a chivalric machismo.
So when my older sister, my confidant, the boss, a power lifter who might not notice my weight, and the baddest-assed-bitch-on-the-planet suggested her lap, I didn't argue. Wearing a light cotton dress, I climbed board. She was wearing a jeans and a red shirt, sort of de rigeur for her.
She took hold of my hips, moved me around, finally settled me atop one leg, straddling her thigh.
"You ladies set back there?"
"We'll be fine. Your wife's as light as a feather."
The ignition was turned; the guys started up before we escaped the parking lot.
"Fuck, man, when you hit that 21, the dealer looked like he'd shit a hand grenade."
"Yeah, but when you decided to draw at 13, and won, the dealer looked like he'd shit a land mine."
"Fuck, you the man."
"No fuck, you the man."
It was going to be a long trip home.
My sister placed her hands on my knees and I leaned back, finding comfort, as I often did, in her strength. I closed my eyes, tried to relax, to shut out the chatter in the front. My mind emptied out, floated, as we bumped down the road.
Chrissie's hands moved to the top of my thighs, gently kneading my flesh. It felt nice. The guys kept talking; I zoned out.
