Chapter 2

I was out of school and confined to bed that entire semester. I probably could have taken care of myself days, but Marge wouldn't hear of it and Dad apparently didn't care enough to argue. Marge stayed out of school, too, taking care of me. After that first day (the day our souls merged completely, we called it), we developed a routine; we turned the house into our Garden of Eden and, of course, Adam and Eve didn't wear clothes in the Garden of Eden! I laid on the bed naked and Marge, whenever she came intc the room, stripped out of her housecoat and threw it onto a chair where it would be ha idy if anyone knocked at the door.

Needless to say, for the first few days I had a hard-on most of the time. It seemed a toss up (and she was afraid to ask the doctor about it) whether it would be worse for me to be under that kind of a strain or to go through the exertion of climaxing so that I could have at least periods of relaxation. I convinced her that the strain of a perpetual hard-on would be far worse than the climaxing, strengthening my argUments by pointing out that if she wouldn't agree to relieving me I'd have no choice but to go at it manually. But she was insistent; fucking, she said, was absolutely too strenuous for me more than once a day.

What it all adds up to is that throughout those three or four months we explored and experimented until each knew every inch of the other's body and we had used just about every position and technique imaginable for sexual gratification. At the same time, we were convinced that it was based on mutual need and love, and that we had, indeed, been blessed with a special kind of love. It was our secret, but it was there; we were a sort of Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning in reverse. We vowed an undying love for each other until death do us part.

Dad never became suspicious, but then, he had no reason to. Marge kept the house up and had meals cooked on time; she did the washing and ironing. At the same time, if he thought about it at all he probably would have thought that I was still too sick to even beat my own meat! I doubt, however, that he even thought about it. His own sexual urges, except on those rare occasions when he got too drunk, seemed to have died with our mother.

As time went on-I'd say into the second or third week-I finally got to where I could lie there without getting hard. Marge would sit in a chair beside the bed and I could look at her beautiful, still developing body as she read to me; after awhile she'd look up, smile, and I'd nod. She would lie down beside me and I'd take her into my arms, fast hardening as our bodies met. We'd kiss and fondle each other, and then go at it one way or another, and each one of those times was beautiful in itself. Each one was a reaffirmation of our love for one another. She used to say, "I only feel complete when you're in me, either down there or when I've got it in my mouth. I love it when you send your tongue in me. When we aren't like that ... well, I'm like a yo-yo!"

It was probably a good thing for us that there were weekends. With Dad around the house I wore pajamas and Marge dressed; we could do a little groping when she came into my room for something, but we didn't dare try anything more. Without that, I can see in looking back, we probably would have fucked ourselves dry!

But, as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end. One day the doctor said that I had improved immensely and should start getting up a little longer each day and gradually do more exercising; he talked to my father about it, and it was decided that Marge and I would go to summer school to catch up on at least some of the work we had missed. It was the end of a beautiful era, but it was by no means the end of our love. Our Garden of Eden atmosphere had been destroyed, we were being thrown back into the world with other people, but what had started would continue.

The first day was an example. We walked to school together (wanting to hold hands on the way but not daring to). The moment of separation was a hard one for both of us, but we had to go our own ways. The day, a short day though it was, seemed endless; I found it impossible to concentrate. I kept glancing at the clock, urging the minutes on, but at times the minute hand seemed to get stuck. Even after a summer of being away from other people, there was no pleasure in being back with them. All I wanted was for the day to end, and it finally did; I almost ran to the entry to wait for Marge and as she came toward me it was like having life poured back into my body.

Without having to put it into words, we walked home from school in about half the time it had taken us to get there. The minute the door was closed behind us we dropped our books and were in each other's arms, loving and rubbing and wanting. Running my hands up under her blouse, I pressed my hard-on against her. "Oh, Davie," she cried in a whisper, "you don't know how much I missed you today!"

'The hell I don't," I answered, moving my hands down to grasp her firm buttocks and pull her harder against me, searching for and finding her mouth with mine.

Being the sensible one, Marge finally pulled her mouth away from mine. "If we're going to do anything we'd better hurry. I've got to start dinner or Dad'll wonder..."

A, new pattern had started. We each went to our own room and undressed (not wanting to take any chances of leaving an article of clothing in the wrong place). I stretched out on the bed naked, my rod sticking up in full readiness; in those few minutes I looked down at it, and it looked to me that the summer's exercise had given it great size and sturdiness. I pushed it straight down along my leg and was further convinced, then looked up and Marge was coming through the door in all her naked beauty.

She came into my arms again and our mouths met as our hands went to work; we felt of each other as if it were the first time, exploring. Finally I pushed her back against the bed, and with one hand fondling her lovely box, I leaned over and began kissing her breasts. She reached down for my cock, stroked it gently and once in a while fingered the balls that had fallen forward. Hotter than a firecracker, I straddled her, and without having lost a hold, she guided it into position. I humped slowly, sending it in a bit at a time, giving her a little more with each stroke until finally our pubic hairs were merged and I could lie like that for a few moments with all of me in her and my balls hanging down between her legs. "Oh, Davie!" she sighed, rubbing her tits against my chest, "oh, all day I dreamed about this. Fuck me Davie, fuck me!"

I fucked her, using long, slow strokes, and it was the feeling both of us had learned to love. Gradually I increased the speed and her body began to respond; she rose each time I thrust down, taking it all the way, then withdrew as I did. We were a perfectly matched team working toward one goal, and that goal came. Gasping, panting, I quiveringly shot my spunk into her as she delivered hers to me. That moment of orgasm was, as always, the total merging of our bodies and souls; we were one, with our cum gluing us together. Our oneness lasted as, leaving myself buried in her, I put my arms around her and rolled over so that I was on my back with her on top of me. When she started to move I tightened my hold, my legs wrapped around hers. "Let's stay like this until I get hard again," I whispered, "it's been a long day without you."

"Oh, how I wish we could!" she answered, but she put strength to it and started pulling away. "We've got to be sensible, Davie. We can't ever let Daddy find out."

Not being able to argue with that, I relaxed-but I enjoyed the physical beauty of her body pulling away from mine, lovely tits swaying, and the always enjoyable sensation of her glove-tight pussy sliding free of my whang. On her feet, she leaned over and brushed her lips across mine. "You're still supposed to rest some, the doctor said, so you just lie here while I go start dinner."

With that she was gone, leaving me to lie there remembering how wonderful it had been, and to look forward to the remaining days of the summer when we would repeat the process. In those days (as I think it might be with many young people) love and fucking were one and the same thing. If you just loved, without the fucking, there was a painful emptiness. I didn't have to think about fucking without love, because I had never experienced it and had no reason to think that I would. After all, Marge and I had vowed that we would be together until death do us part.

We had only one unpleasant experience that summer, but with her usual good sense Marge was able to smooth it over. One evening I was resting when I suddenly heard a slight commotion from the living room; I pushed myself up onto my elbows to listen more carefully and was just about to swing my legs over the edge of the bed when Marge, her hair mussed and clothes twisted around, came to the door. "Don't get upset, Davie, but Dad's in another one of those moods and there's nothing I can do about it. He 'thinks I'm Mama.' so ... well, I've got to get him into bed, Davie!"

I couldn't answer, but I listened, and when they had finally reached my dad's room I pushed myself up. I tiptoed down the hall and stood at the door. Dad was drunkenly making love to Marge (or trying to), and she was working desperately to get his clothes off. Finally, trying very much to sound like an older woman, Marge said, "Henry, if you'll just be sensible and let me get you undressed, I'll let you do what you want."

Dad fumbled drunkenly, but he and Mom had apparently gone through similar situations and he wasn't taking any chances. He agreed to be cooperative if "Laura" would undress first, and so Marge, sighing, stepped back and started to undress. Dad unzipped his pants as he sat on the edge of the bed, pulled his whang out (even soft it was a big one; Marge had been right about that!), and played around with it as he watched her strip.

"Ah, Laura, like I always said, when I got you I got the prettiest woman in the whole state. Honey, you've got the nicest set of knockers in the state, y'know that? The nicest set of knockers, the best god-damned cunt ... the best god-damn ass, too."

Stripped, Marge laid down on the bed, her hands cupped behind her head. "All right, Henry, get undressed and come to bed."

Dad smiled (what looked to me like a sort of evil smile) and leaned over. He rubbed Marge's tits roughly, then put a hand over her twat and squeezed it. "You wanna get fucked, don't you, sweetie? You keep trying to play cold, but you really like gettin' fucked, don't ya? Don't ya?"

With feigned weakness, Marge answered, "Yes, I ... Yes, Henry, I want to get fucked. Now come to bed, will you?"

Dad laughed, got drunkenly to his feet. His rod was sticking out of his pants in full hardness, nine inches of steel-hard flesh. I wanted to run in and stop the whole thing, but I couldn't; I just stood there (with, whether I liked it or not, a hard-on of my own) and watched. He stumbled some, but he was finally naked, and I was surprised to see that he still had a strong, firm body, the mature version of my own. like myself, he had only a scattering of dark hair on his chest but a full growth at the crotch, and his balls hung down like a bull's. I couldn't help but wonder why he wouldn't leave Marge alone; certainly, built like that and not bad looking, he could go out and find some woman to fuck. (Marge explained later that when he was sober Dad vowed to be faithful to his love for Mom; it was only when he was drunk that he sometimes admitted to sexual urges and then, as she saw it, his mind played tricks so that he convinced himself he was actually fucking Mama instead of her).

He literally fell onto the bed, in such a position that when he rolled over his mouth was at her chest. I could only watch the back of his head as he worked hungrily on her firm young tits, a hand sliding down across her stomach and grasping her twat again. Marge patiently put a hand on his back and rubbed it. "Henry," she finally said, "why don't you roll over and let me do it with my mouth?" ("Honest," she had told me earlier, "doing it with my mouth ... well, I just feel better if he doesn't stick it in me. I just want yours there, Davie!"

"Uh-uh," he mumbled, raising up. "No, my sweetie, none of that mouth-stuff t'night. I'm gonna give you a first-class fuckin', honey, that's what you really want." He rolled onto his back. "Just feel that thing, Laurie! Just feel that hard hunk of meat you're gonna get up that sweet cooze of yours!"

Marge swallowed, then she reached out and wrapped her fingers around his turgid prick. She stroked it slowly, Dad raising his head to watch her. A smile crept over his face again, then he moved quickly. I didn't know exactly what was happening, but then I saw that Marge was on her stomach and he had straddled her, bending over her; from where I stood I could see his heavy balls hanging down, his ass, and nothing more. He grabbed her by the hips and pulled her lower body up, then he was prodding her with his dong. I knew then what he had in mind, and he did just that. He took her doggie-fashion, and Marge passively let him fuck himself into a frenzy. I finally heard him gasping and crying out, his rear-end jerking and quivering, and it was obvious that he was popping his wad. "Oh, that was good, Laurie! Oh, God, that was good. For a woman who claims she don't like it, you give one helluva fuck!"

I stumbled back down the hall to my own room feeling as if I had been having a dream. The man had been in my father's body, but he certainly wasn't the mild-mannered, soft-spoken man I had known as a father. And the thought of him using Marge that way ... well, it was almost more than I could take. But still, there I was, lying in the near-darkness with a hard-on...

Marge slipped into the room. She sat on the edge of the bed. "It's over, Davie. He's gone to sleep."

I knew then that she had seen me watching, but I couldn't answer-my thoughts were too confused. She seemed to sense that and reached out; her fingers circled my hard rod, then she lowered her head and took it into her mouth, letting her hand move down to cup my balls. She sucked me slowly to a climax; when it was over she climbed onto the bed with me and as we laid side by side, bodies touching full length, she explained again how it was with Dad. "I've got to do it when he gets that way or he might go out and get himself in trouble," she said, "but you know you're the only one I really want to do it with. You do know that, don't you, Davie?"

"Yes," I finally mumbled, "I know that." I pulled her to me, crushing her tits against my chest, and cried a little into her hair.

We looked forward to the end of summer school and the two weeks vacation we would have between then and the start of regular school. For those two weeks, we promised ourselves, we would rebuild our Garden of Eden. Once Dad left for work, we wouldn't leave the house unless it was absolutely necessary, thus being able to run around in our nothing-at-all, to thoroughly enjoy each other as we wanted. In a sense, I guess, we were thinking in terms of storing up for when the school year began again and our activities would again be limited.

It didn't work out that way. A few evenings before summer school was to end Dad announced at dinner that he had scheduled his vacation to match ours, and we were going to go away for the first time that I could remember. "The way I look at it," he said in his soft-spoken, almost apologetic manner, "it's about time we start having a little enjoyment."

Marge and I had mixed feelings, but we knew that there was nothing we could do about it. At least, we told each other, we would still be together, and if we were careful we could find times and places for the activity that had become a need for us both. Under those conditions, we packed and, when the day came, set off!

Dad registered at the office, a wooden building hidden among scraggly trees, then started down a rutted dirt-and-sand road. We passed little cottages half-hidden in the brush, then suddenly turned and the ocean lay before us. I guess that both Marge and I gasped, because we had never seen the ocean before and it was magnificent and awe-inspiring. It was beautiful the way it lapped up against the sand in frothy white, irregular lines, and smashed against the rocks further down the beach. The car had hardly stopped beside the little cottage that was to be our home for the next week and a half before Marge and I were out of it and running down to the beach. Dad, a smile of soft pleasure on his face, followed.

The cottage itself had only one bedroom, which Dad and I were to share; Marge would sleep in the living room that had windows facing onto the beach. There was a small kitchen and dining-area. There was no reason to doubt but that we were going to have a good time, what with daytime swimming and sprawling on the beach and evenings where we would build bonfires down on the sand. Marge and I forgot our disappointment, if it could be called that, at not having our two weeks alone. The new experience was already rich, and we would enrich it by those moments we had promised to find when we could get together alone.

That afternoon, clad only in our skimpy bathing-suits (which left little to the imagination for Marge and I), the three of us spent on the beach. We'd run out into the surf occasionally, swim around a little, then run back up and flop down on the soon-sandy blanket. We walked along the beach looking for seashells, and we drank in the beautiful fresh air. Finally, as the afternoon ended and the air began to chill, we walked back to the cottage. Once inside the bedroom, Dad surprised me by saying, "I suppose that we could take turns going into the bathroom to change, but as long as we know what each other has and we're going to be here awhile, we might just as well forget foolish modesty, don't you think?"

It was a long speech for him, but I nodded my head in agreement. I slid out of my trunks, and when I looked up I saw that he was looking at me. At my crotch. He raised his eyes and they met mine. "I didn't realize ... I've let time go by without knowing exactly what was going on."

I swallowed, something like fear gripping me, then relief flooded through me as he said, "That's quite a piece of meat you have there, David. Have you...? "

As if backing away, his eyes going slightly dull, he stripped his own trunks off and threw them aside. He looked down at his own equipment with something like a frown, then he shrugged it all off with, "Well, we'll have time to get better acquainted in the days ahead. Let's take a shower, boy."

"You can go first if you want," I answered.

"Might as well take one together," he surprised me by saying, "then Marge can take hers."

The shower was big enough to accommodate us both, being a homemade one that was cemented from floor to ceiling. We each had a bar of soap and were lathering, but then I felt a strong hand on my shoulder and Dad had started washing my back. Strange feelings went through me, a mixture, but basically pleasurable. Then his hand went lower and he was soaping my buttocks, even between my legs, and I couldn't help myself. My prick stretched out and swelled.

"You've got a fine body," he said. "Nice and strong, good build. Thank God that being sick didn't hurt your growth."

"You ... you want me to wash your back?" I half-gulped, feeling that I had to say something but not knowing what else to say.

"That'd be fine," he answered, and I glanced over my shoulder. When he had turned around I did, keeping far enough back that the head of my hard prick didn't touch him. I started washing his back as he had done mine, and there was a great deal of pleasure in feeling warm, firm flesh under my hands. I made a mental note that Marge and I would have to do this when we got home; there was something nice about the nakedness and the warm, spraying water. I realized in that instance, too, that because of the way our lives had been, because of his withdrawal after Mom's death, he had never really been a father in the true sense. He had just been a man who had to be around, and so who was around physically. Now, his firm body under my hands, he was a human being-and one who had seemed to offer friendship and understanding. It was a strange feeling, but I was stuck with it.

I did what he had done. Soaped his entire back, then moved down to his buttocks and soaped them, running my hand up and down the cleavage between them and then between his legs. It gave me still stranger feelings; as I ran the heel of my hand down the firm valley between his butoocks (a larger edition of a cunt, I found myself thinking), I felt a sort of tingling in my own ass. My cock moved up and down. Not understanding it, I still felt a sort of panicky feeling, so I said, "There you go!" and got quickly out of the shower. Glancing back as I reached for my towel, I saw that his prick was sticking out as long and as hard as mine, but with eyes closed he had raised his head and was letting the spray hit him full in the face.

I wondered in that moment if he ever beat his own pud. At the same time, knowing that there was no possible way for Marge and I to get together, I felt a huge need to beat my own! Little did I know (as he was to tell me later) that he was going through a similar turmoil-the only difference being that he knew what it was all about. He had been faced with the conscious desire for sexual relations and shocked to find that he could desire his own son as a substitute for a woman.

Being one of those individuals who, once hard, can't get rid of a hard-on without proper manipulation, I dressed hurriedly and put on a shirt with a long tail. Going out into the living room, I whispered to Marge, "We've got to do it tonight!"

She smiled and whispered back, "We will!" As if for proof, or maybe just to tease a little, she opened the housecoat she had put on and gave me a glimpse of her lovely, perky tits and the smooth belly, the mound between her legs that I was craving. I damned near creamed in my pants just from seeing it after getting so strangely over-heated.

Dinner finished, Dad did us a real favor by saying that he didn't want to take a walk with us. He picked up a magazine and sprawled out on the hide-away that would be Marge's bed that night. Putting on our jackets, promising not to be gone too long, we stepped out into the night, and while the air was crisp it couldn't have been more beautiful. The ocean was just a sound in the distance; a silvery moon had cast a silveriness over the entire landscape. Hand in hand, we walked down to the beach. We had never hidden anything from each other (and Marge had frequently been able to explain things to me that I couldn't grasp), so as we walked along I told her what had happened.

She listened quietly, then she said, "You honestly don't know what was going on, Davie?"

"I wouldn't be talking about it if I knew!"

"Well ... Well, it's like this. A lot of times people of the same sex like each other, or ... well, at least if ... Well, what I'm saying is, two men can have sex together and you and Dad ... well, you were probably right on the edge of it."

"You mean...? But ... how?"

She was nice enough not to laugh at my naivety. She just gently explained things that I probably should have figured out for myself: mutual masturbation, the friction method with both cocks pulled up between bellies, blow-jobs and browning. But when she was through, with a note of worry in her voice, she said, "I just hope Daddy doesn't ... well, want to use you for a substitute."

"I dunno," I answered after a few more steps, remembering some of my own earlier thoughts and feelings. "Maybe that'd at least be better than what he does to you!" It swelled over me; I stopped us dead in our tracks and pulled her to me, almost crushing her. "I don't want anyone else fucking you, Marge, not ever! Not Dad or anyone else!"

We didn't go any farther. We lay on the sand and went into each other's arms, our mouths crushed together. The jackets kept it from being free-feeling, but it was better than nothing. We kissed and our hands roamed, and finally I had gotten her skirt pulled up and her panties pulled down and she had gotten my hard whang outside my pants. I put my hands up under her blouse and got her bra loose enough that I could play with her tits; keeping them active there, I rolled her over onto her back. She guided my rigid pole to the right spot and we started our perfectly matched motions; I went deeper and deeper into her and she, as she always did, began crying out, "Oh, fuck me, Davie! Fuck me!"

Our coming was like a gigantic crash of the sea behind us. I thrust my cock deep into her and both our bodies quivered as I spurted out shot after shot, dropping it into the juicy lake that she had already created. Our bodies gave their final trembling, then I collapsed over her and felt myself going soft in her warm moistness.

"Ummm," she mumbled, "that was good, Davie, good. And it feels so good having it in me like that."

I squeezed her. "Promise me, Marge. Promise me you'll never let anyone else fuck you."

"Silly! I've already told you I'd never let anyone else."

Walking back along the silvery beach, hand in hand, Marge slowly said, "You know, Davie, it looks like Dad's coming back to life after all this time. Maybe ... we ought to try to find a woman for him. He's shy, you know, but if we..."

But when we got back to the cottage we found that Dad had been drinking, and even after Marge and I had gone to bed he sat at the dining table and kept at it. I lay awake listening and hating it, but at the same time I thought that I at least partially understood it; what had happened that afternoon had probably stirred things up in him and drink was an escape. I was convinced of that when, later, I heard him stumble to the living room. The only satisfaction, if it could be called that, was that Marge was able to talk him out of fucking her. He lay back and let his "Laurie" blow him. Later, when he had fallen asleep (or passed out), Marge and I half-carried, and half-dragged him into the bed that he and I were to share. We gathered up his clothes and put them in the bedroom. It was, we had decided, better that he didn't know what he did in those drunken moments.

In the morning-as if he sensed that something had happened-Dad had changed again. He went quiet, almost morose; the possible newfound friend had disappeared, giving way to the half-sullen man who had always been around the house. He moped around, but Marge and I didn't have to see it; we went to the beach by ourselves and spent most of the day-and then the days that followed-there. Dad and I were never naked in front of each other again, and if anything had started to germinate during that first afternoon, it had died a quick death. And, needless to say, with Marge and I able to find our moments together, I was never horny enough that even in my sleep I'd touch him.

Cindy stirred a little, making a soft, murmuring sound. She slid her hand down over my flat stomach, pushed her fingertips through my pubic hair and wrapped her hand around my half-limp dong. She held it a few moments and then, as if satisfied that it was still there, let loose and rolled away. It was just as well; if she had held oh for long I'd of gotten hard again, and at the moment (with time slipping past) I was more interested in sorting and sifting my thoughts than screwing again. I gently eased myself off the bed and went out into the other room; without turning on the lights, I mixed myself a drink and then went into the living room with it. Sprawling out, I sipped slowly as I went back into the past again.

Looking back, those days at the beach held more significance for me. For instance, I could remember a few times when Marge and I had been sitting on the sand just enjoying the surroundings and talking quietly. A shadow would fall across us and we'd look up; a teenaged boy from one of the other cottages would be standing there looking down. From that angle we would see strong legs, a crotch (and a couple of them, with tight trunks, left no doubt as to the size and shape of their cocks!), chests and above it the youthful faces. The eyes always said that they had looked Marge over and liked what they saw-it added up to one thing. They wanted to fuck her. I couldn't help but compare them to myself; they were a little older, their bodies filled out a little more than mine, and a couple were far better-looking than I. But while Marge was friendly enough about it, she not only didn't encourage their attention, she let them know that it wouldn't do them any good to try. It was very satisfying, knowing that she could look at those almost naked young males and still only want me.

Then, too, it was almost as if that were the end of our childhood and the beginning of our adulthood. I was fifteen, Marge sixteen; our fucking at home, up until that time, had been youthful. It seemed to mature down there at the beach. At least, the way things happened, once we were home again we seemed to be going into a new phase of our relationship; in talking it over later we both agreed that we felt we had left our childhood down there with the ocean and the sand. With Dad in the background (a potential sexual object so far as we both were concerned), the older boys in hot pursuit of her, and our own sexual activities on the beach and up on the cliffs that overlooked it, our love seemed to have been faced with threats and not only survived but grown stronger.

Be that as it may, time elapsed and the day came when we had to pack up and start back to the city. Our routines would be picked up again, the leisureliness of those days next to forgotten. Dad was scheduled to go back to work the following day, Marge and I would start school. It was the end of a period of our lives, but at the same time it was a semicolon rather than a period. There was more to be added, more days to be lived.

I didn't have to think too much about the next four years. They had been beautiful years; Marge and I had both finished developing physically, and even if I do say so myself (and many people said it to us!) we were a fine-looking pair. Our bodies had filled out, we were so completely happy that it showed on our faces. Of course, no one realized that part of that happiness was the deep love we felt for each other, a love reaffirmed by almost daily sexual meeting; no one realized that while they saw us as brother and sister we saw each other as a mate-for-life. It seemed to both amuse and please people that when we went out it was always on a double-date, and we did go out; we were careful not to let anyone grow suspicious. We had no idea that it couldn't last, no fear.