I had become so excited licking and lapping her that I was near the point of climax when she stuffed me back into her mouth and I could feel her beginning to come again too. As I felt her force her pelvis down juicily into my face, pinpricks of pleasure started to stab me all over the loins and I thrust up toward her throat only to feel her withdraw her mouth and use her pistonlike hand to pull me up to a blazing climax.
She had pulled her thighs away from me and was milking the last droplets onto my strawberry-smeared belly and abdomen.
“Now for dessert,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“A strawberry sundae with whipped cream.”
She bent over me and, starting at the base of my abdomen, licked upward, not missing a morsel of the strawberries nor a droplet of the cream.
When she reached my mouth we kissed long, fluidly and peacefully, as if our bodies were one, which they were.
“We better get back,” she said.
“What for?”
“Grandma must have lunch by now.”
“I don't want any more lunch.”
“She'll be hurt.”
“It'd be like-I don't know-I just wouldn't want to spoil the feast I've just had.”
“What would it be like?” she asked tauntingly.
“I don't know-it'd be like going to some old second-hand stale bread store to eat after you've just had a huge wedding banquet.”
She laughed, got to her feet and dragged me up with her.
“You've still got mush on your ass and your back,” I said.
“Do I?”
“Yeah. I better lick it off.”
She turned around and I started at her ankles, working all the way up around her ass and through its furrow up to the back of her neck. Then I turned around and she did the same for me. Only she lingered a little too long at my backside and when she inserted her tongue into my anus I shot up with excitement all over again. When she finished at my shoulders she put on her panties and shorts. I just stood there.
“Come on, Terry, get dressed.”
“I don't feel like it.”
“I can see what you feel like. Save some of it for later. We've got all afternoon, all night and all summer.”
“I want you now. Besides, there's plenty more where that came from.”
She pulled on her jersey and slipped on her sneakers.
“Well, if you're so excited you can stay here in the strawberry fields and play with yourself forever. I'm going back.” With this she took off running.
“Hey, wait,” I yelled, pulling on my shorts, grabbing my tee shirt and sneakers without putting them on and dashing after her. “Wait for me!”
FOUR
Halfway to the old brick house Sandy suddenly stopped and wheeled around. I hated her for a second as she stood there doubled up with laughter at my expense, and I felt like a fool, running like crazy with my pants falling down, with a shirt in one hand and my sneakers in the other.
“What did you have to run away for?” I said as I pulled up to her, panting. “I was coming.”
“I know you were coming. That's why I ran away. Now get dressed, silly. Grandma's going to see you.” She pulled up my pants, tucked in my cock and zipped my fly as I pulled on my tee shirt.
“You're a real bitch,” I said as I pulled on my sneakers.
“Come on, let's look real innocent now. Hold my hand.”
We walked briskly up to the house swinging our joined hands between us and smiling cherubically.
Grandma was in the kitchen when we entered through the back door. She was fussing around the stove with a wooden ladle in one hand and a pot-holder in the other.
Sandy walked up alongside her and shouted, “Can I help you with anything, Grandma?” The old lady jumped several inches off the floor, held her heart, then turned around and beamed.
“You're back!” she said. “Just in time. No, no, it's not quite ready yet, but you can help me take it up when it is. You want to get washed up or anything?”
“No, Grandma,” I said, “we feel just right as it is. We don't want to spoil it.”
“Where have you been all morning?”
“Out in the woods,” Sandy said. “Down by the stream.”
“That's nice. You look so rosy-cheeked and healthy, both of you. The fresh air is good for you.”
“Sure is.”
“Now you go in the living room, Terry, and Sandy and I will have lunch in a jiffy.”
I wandered where she said and flicked on the TV. A twelfth rerun of I Love Lucy. Trk. A giveaway show. Trk. Cartoons. Trk. A soap opera. Trk. The educational channel had basket weaving. Click.
I picked up a magazine. Worse crap. Some meaningless election they were having. The paper. All ads for ugly off-the-wall clothes that would probably fall apart in the first rainstorm and for big “last chance before the hogs get it” sales at the local supermarkets. I looked at a couple of the new bestsellers Grandma was reading but after flipping through them I figured they were written for old dried-up people like her, so I picked up an old copy of the Sunday New York Times Magazine and looked at the dirty pictures.
Dinner was served, or luncheon or lunch or brunch or whatever Grandma chose to call it that day. Grandma had made a soup, her own secret blend of vegetables and stock, but I wasn't hungry at all. I nibbled on a roll, dunking it into the soup occasionally, but all I wanted to do was to steal infatuated glances across that table at Sandy.
“What's the matter with you, sonny? A growing boy like you has got to eat more than that. Where's your appetite? I thought you were running around in the woods all morning.”
“We were, Grandma,” I yelled.
“Then what's the matter? Something wrong with my soup?”
“Soup's great, Granny. I just can't eat.”
“You can too eat,” Sandy said.
“Can I?”
“And how!”
“Yeah, but this is different, I mean this is soup. It's not the same thing as you…”
“Well,” Grandma said, “if he doesn't want it, take it away, Sandy, we've had ours.”
They both got up, Sandy to clear the plates, Granny to fetch the next course. I picked the strawberry seeds out of my fingernails and ate them. The ladies returned.
The food looked pretty good-rainbow trout, poached or something, and chilled in tomato aspic; potato salad and sliced cucumbers and tomatoes in a garlic and vinegar sauce. She heaped my plate high and told Sandy to fetch some wine from the icebox.
“They call this chablis, but I think they make it out of lemon peels. Your mother let you drink wine?”
“Sure,” we shouted.
“No wonder, the way she puts away the hard stuff.” She poured each of us a goblet of the chilled wine and settled down to eat. I sipped at the wine and poked at the fish, pretending I didn't know how to take out the spine.
“Terry, stop playing with your bone,” Sandy said.
I laughed.
“Sandra, will you tell him to eat?” Grandma said. “He won't listen to me.”
“Terry,” she said with a bitchiness that must have rivaled the first Queen Elizabeth's. “Eat!”
I started to get up, as though to climb across the table at her.
“Your food, you jerk!”
I sunk back into my chair, pulled the bones adeptly out of the fish like a zipper and, given an excuse to glut my appetite, immediately began to do so.
“Amazing,” Granny said, watching me stuff my mouth. “You know, Sandy, he was just like that when you were little.”
“What do you mean.”
“He wouldn't listen to anybody but you. He was like a little sweet-faced Lucifer with your mother and father. He wouldn't do anything they said. In fact, if your father told him to do something he'd refuse to do it on those grounds alone, even if it were something he wanted to do. The only one he would listen to was you. He'd do anything you say. He followed you around like a slave. And you took full advantage of it.”
Sandy sat there gloating over this and I kept on eating, pretending not to hear, but I was getting a hard-on just listening. It proved that what I felt for my sister had been there all along.