29-09-2023, 02:21 PM
"Shit! I can't believe they cancelled it!"
It was my sister's angry voice crashing through the two sheets of drywall and multiple layers of paint that separated our bedrooms.
Her shout was followed by a loud thud a second or two later.
"Fuck! Now my phone's broken!" she wailed.
Whatever was wrong with her was escalating rapidly. Being the more level-headed of the O'Malley siblings, I decided to try to bring the boil down to a simmer before the pot overflowed. I abandoned my League of Legends game and raced over to her room.
Turning the corner, I saw Emma lying on her bed with her arm dbangd across her face and tears streaming down her cheeks. Her long red hair was splayed across her pillow. Her knees were in the air and her chest was thrust upward. I tried not to notice the perkiness of her breasts in her striped tank top at that angle, or the lovely sprinkling of freckles across the skin above her milky white cleavage. Or the fact that her legs were spread in such a way that a flash of her yellow panties was visible at the gap of her red short shorts. Colour-coordinated she was not.
I gave the rest of the bedroom a quick visual scan and saw her dismembered smartphone on the floor beside her dresser. She'd apparently flipped it across the room in a burst of agitation.
I walked over and picked up the pieces of the phone.
"It's not broken," I said. "The cover to the battery compartment just popped off. And the screen is fine."
After putting it back together, I walked over to her bed and handed it to her. The tears stopped and her look of agitation broke into a smile as she reached out to take it. Her delightful grin shone all the way to her eyes, so I knew her gratitude was genuine. That was always the tell-tale sign for me when she was trying to manipulate someone: cute dimples and glistening teeth, but no sparkle in those dazzling emerald eyes. But this time there were fireworks in those limpid pools. Not to mix metaphors in a completely contradictory way or anything.
"Thanks, Shame," she said gratefully.
I should explain. My name is Seamus O'Malley. If you haven't guessed, our family is of Irish descent, though we've been in Canada for three generations. Despite us being "Irish twins" born just 11 months apart, my sister Emma and I are the only progeny that our parents could muster. Or perhaps the Catholic imperative against birth control lost its grip on the O'Malley household.
Emma has seemingly forever enjoyed saying that my name is "Shame Us" - which she often shortens to "Shame." If she only knew where my thoughts about her had been lurking in recent months, she'd realize that "Shame Us" couldn't be more bang on. And "bang on" was exactly what I wanted to do to her delectable body. Of course, I had never dared let on that I was harbouring incestuous thoughts about my kid sister. I tried hard not to ever stare at her to the point of being noticed - just stolen glances when nobody else was looking. And what I saw in brief glimpses was the woman of my dreams. It didn't help that she was easily the best person I knew, notwithstanding her occasional propensity for manipulation with that megawatt smile.
Emma stood up and shoved the phone into her shorts pocket. Then, to my surprise, she leaned in for a hug. I felt the warmth of her supple young bosom invade my chest like a shot of tequila. Then she leaned her head on my shoulder and made a sound that resembled a purr.
"I'm glad I have you, Shame," she cooed.
If you only knew how much of me you have, Sis, I thought silently. I wrapped my arms around her and buried my nose in the fragrance of her shampoo, holding her close. And then I felt it, for the umpteenth time - my unmistakable reaction to her close proximity.
My erection was immediate and massive. I worried that she would feel it, too. And so I released the hug, grasping both of her shoulders and pushing her gently away while I held her gaze. I thought I saw hurt in her eyes, but it was displaced by relief after I spoke up.
"I love you, Enny. And I'll always be here for you."
So I guess you're wondering about "Enny." No, it wasn't a nickname that arose from me being unable to pronounce "Emma" as a young child. It was my deliberate retaliation for her use of "Shame Us" into our teenage years. I had declared to her that her real birth name was "Enema" and that the hospital administrator who'd recorded it for the birth certificate had misspelled it as "Emma." So I got my digs in by calling her "Enny" as a shortened form of "Enema."
"You don't know how much that means to me, Shame," she replied, sitting back down on the edge of her bed. "By the way, did you see the school announcement?"
"No - what's up?"
"There's sure to be an email in your inbox," she said.
"I only check emails once a week or so," I answered. Text messages were the only way to go if you wanted to get my attention. Emma knew that and nodded, showing no surprise at my response.
"Graduation is cancelled," she said glumly. "They're going to mail our diplomas in the fall."
"Oh, fuck," I cursed, surprising her. I was angry not for my own sake, but for Emma's. We were both due to graduate high school next month, since I'd been held back a year when I was slow to master reading at the start of my scholastic career. I'd caught up later and was now an avid reader, but Emma was downright brilliant. She'd excelled in school for 12 years, even in the 'virtual learning' environment we'd operated in since late March. Taking school classes from home was the reality in this strange new coronavirus world. Emma was a shoo-in to be our school valedictorian, with the reward of delivering a keynote address at our graduation. She'd been pumped about it and was already working on the speech. Now all of that was gone in the wake of social distancing due to the horrid COVID-19 pandemic.
"I'm so sorry, Sis," I comforted, putting a hand on her shoulder. I was safe for the moment in doing so, as my erection had calmed down with distance and bad news.
Tears began to well up in Emma's eyes. "I didn't give a flying fuck when they cancelled the prom," she said. "And it was okay to have a 'virtual party' online with my friends for my birthday. But this just plain sucks."
Emma is by no means a party animal and so the prom and her 18th birthday party were not high on her priority list. I, on the other hand, was really bummed about missing these social events. But graduation, as the culmination of 12 years of hard work, really bit the big one - especially for Emma.
"Yeah, it sucks," I said. "But maybe I can find a way to cheer you up."
Her face lit up, that genuine smile radiating to her eyes.
"Ya think?" she asked.
All the sudden, I was on the spot. I'd had nothing in mind when I said it, and now all that sprang to mind was ripping her shorts and panties off, spreading her legs right there on the edge of the bed while she lay back, and licking and suckling her teenage pussy all the way to a writhing, mind-bending orgasm.
"Um, yeah," I replied. A dead silence followed.
Finally, Emma quirked an eyebrow.
"Any ideas?" she asked.
I wanna make you cum, I thought. And then pound your beautiful pussy so hard with my dick that you forget all your troubles... and can't walk for a week.
"No," I said.
Emma's face blossomed into a mischievous grin. "I have an idea," she said.
You're gonna sit on my face and then grind on my tongue. Please, please, please. Pretty please, with a cherry on top...
"What'cha thinkin'?" I replied hopefully.
She smirked as if revealing a devilish idea.
"Let me cut your hair," she responded.
Well that came out of left field, I thought.
"Don't tell me," I answered sarcastically. "Let me guess. Since you don't get to do your valedictory speech, you've decided to become a hairdresser."
"No, dumbass," she replied, "I just have a creative side that needs expression. And I know that haircutting hasn't been deemed an essential service, so you can't go and get it done. Besides, you've been looking a little bushy lately."
I know of a little bush I'd like to look at, my Neanderthal brain spoke silently.
"But what if you do a hack job?" I said out loud.
"I've got skills," she said, standing up. She seemed to have taken affront at my question. "At least - at least I think so. Besides, you can't go anywhere for anybody to see you."
"But what about my online friends?"
"Both of them?" she laughed, that elfin grin returning. "But seriously, dude, you don't have to turn the camera on with them if you don't like what you see."
It was my sister's angry voice crashing through the two sheets of drywall and multiple layers of paint that separated our bedrooms.
Her shout was followed by a loud thud a second or two later.
"Fuck! Now my phone's broken!" she wailed.
Whatever was wrong with her was escalating rapidly. Being the more level-headed of the O'Malley siblings, I decided to try to bring the boil down to a simmer before the pot overflowed. I abandoned my League of Legends game and raced over to her room.
Turning the corner, I saw Emma lying on her bed with her arm dbangd across her face and tears streaming down her cheeks. Her long red hair was splayed across her pillow. Her knees were in the air and her chest was thrust upward. I tried not to notice the perkiness of her breasts in her striped tank top at that angle, or the lovely sprinkling of freckles across the skin above her milky white cleavage. Or the fact that her legs were spread in such a way that a flash of her yellow panties was visible at the gap of her red short shorts. Colour-coordinated she was not.
I gave the rest of the bedroom a quick visual scan and saw her dismembered smartphone on the floor beside her dresser. She'd apparently flipped it across the room in a burst of agitation.
I walked over and picked up the pieces of the phone.
"It's not broken," I said. "The cover to the battery compartment just popped off. And the screen is fine."
After putting it back together, I walked over to her bed and handed it to her. The tears stopped and her look of agitation broke into a smile as she reached out to take it. Her delightful grin shone all the way to her eyes, so I knew her gratitude was genuine. That was always the tell-tale sign for me when she was trying to manipulate someone: cute dimples and glistening teeth, but no sparkle in those dazzling emerald eyes. But this time there were fireworks in those limpid pools. Not to mix metaphors in a completely contradictory way or anything.
"Thanks, Shame," she said gratefully.
I should explain. My name is Seamus O'Malley. If you haven't guessed, our family is of Irish descent, though we've been in Canada for three generations. Despite us being "Irish twins" born just 11 months apart, my sister Emma and I are the only progeny that our parents could muster. Or perhaps the Catholic imperative against birth control lost its grip on the O'Malley household.
Emma has seemingly forever enjoyed saying that my name is "Shame Us" - which she often shortens to "Shame." If she only knew where my thoughts about her had been lurking in recent months, she'd realize that "Shame Us" couldn't be more bang on. And "bang on" was exactly what I wanted to do to her delectable body. Of course, I had never dared let on that I was harbouring incestuous thoughts about my kid sister. I tried hard not to ever stare at her to the point of being noticed - just stolen glances when nobody else was looking. And what I saw in brief glimpses was the woman of my dreams. It didn't help that she was easily the best person I knew, notwithstanding her occasional propensity for manipulation with that megawatt smile.
Emma stood up and shoved the phone into her shorts pocket. Then, to my surprise, she leaned in for a hug. I felt the warmth of her supple young bosom invade my chest like a shot of tequila. Then she leaned her head on my shoulder and made a sound that resembled a purr.
"I'm glad I have you, Shame," she cooed.
If you only knew how much of me you have, Sis, I thought silently. I wrapped my arms around her and buried my nose in the fragrance of her shampoo, holding her close. And then I felt it, for the umpteenth time - my unmistakable reaction to her close proximity.
My erection was immediate and massive. I worried that she would feel it, too. And so I released the hug, grasping both of her shoulders and pushing her gently away while I held her gaze. I thought I saw hurt in her eyes, but it was displaced by relief after I spoke up.
"I love you, Enny. And I'll always be here for you."
So I guess you're wondering about "Enny." No, it wasn't a nickname that arose from me being unable to pronounce "Emma" as a young child. It was my deliberate retaliation for her use of "Shame Us" into our teenage years. I had declared to her that her real birth name was "Enema" and that the hospital administrator who'd recorded it for the birth certificate had misspelled it as "Emma." So I got my digs in by calling her "Enny" as a shortened form of "Enema."
"You don't know how much that means to me, Shame," she replied, sitting back down on the edge of her bed. "By the way, did you see the school announcement?"
"No - what's up?"
"There's sure to be an email in your inbox," she said.
"I only check emails once a week or so," I answered. Text messages were the only way to go if you wanted to get my attention. Emma knew that and nodded, showing no surprise at my response.
"Graduation is cancelled," she said glumly. "They're going to mail our diplomas in the fall."
"Oh, fuck," I cursed, surprising her. I was angry not for my own sake, but for Emma's. We were both due to graduate high school next month, since I'd been held back a year when I was slow to master reading at the start of my scholastic career. I'd caught up later and was now an avid reader, but Emma was downright brilliant. She'd excelled in school for 12 years, even in the 'virtual learning' environment we'd operated in since late March. Taking school classes from home was the reality in this strange new coronavirus world. Emma was a shoo-in to be our school valedictorian, with the reward of delivering a keynote address at our graduation. She'd been pumped about it and was already working on the speech. Now all of that was gone in the wake of social distancing due to the horrid COVID-19 pandemic.
"I'm so sorry, Sis," I comforted, putting a hand on her shoulder. I was safe for the moment in doing so, as my erection had calmed down with distance and bad news.
Tears began to well up in Emma's eyes. "I didn't give a flying fuck when they cancelled the prom," she said. "And it was okay to have a 'virtual party' online with my friends for my birthday. But this just plain sucks."
Emma is by no means a party animal and so the prom and her 18th birthday party were not high on her priority list. I, on the other hand, was really bummed about missing these social events. But graduation, as the culmination of 12 years of hard work, really bit the big one - especially for Emma.
"Yeah, it sucks," I said. "But maybe I can find a way to cheer you up."
Her face lit up, that genuine smile radiating to her eyes.
"Ya think?" she asked.
All the sudden, I was on the spot. I'd had nothing in mind when I said it, and now all that sprang to mind was ripping her shorts and panties off, spreading her legs right there on the edge of the bed while she lay back, and licking and suckling her teenage pussy all the way to a writhing, mind-bending orgasm.
"Um, yeah," I replied. A dead silence followed.
Finally, Emma quirked an eyebrow.
"Any ideas?" she asked.
I wanna make you cum, I thought. And then pound your beautiful pussy so hard with my dick that you forget all your troubles... and can't walk for a week.
"No," I said.
Emma's face blossomed into a mischievous grin. "I have an idea," she said.
You're gonna sit on my face and then grind on my tongue. Please, please, please. Pretty please, with a cherry on top...
"What'cha thinkin'?" I replied hopefully.
She smirked as if revealing a devilish idea.
"Let me cut your hair," she responded.
Well that came out of left field, I thought.
"Don't tell me," I answered sarcastically. "Let me guess. Since you don't get to do your valedictory speech, you've decided to become a hairdresser."
"No, dumbass," she replied, "I just have a creative side that needs expression. And I know that haircutting hasn't been deemed an essential service, so you can't go and get it done. Besides, you've been looking a little bushy lately."
I know of a little bush I'd like to look at, my Neanderthal brain spoke silently.
"But what if you do a hack job?" I said out loud.
"I've got skills," she said, standing up. She seemed to have taken affront at my question. "At least - at least I think so. Besides, you can't go anywhere for anybody to see you."
"But what about my online friends?"
"Both of them?" she laughed, that elfin grin returning. "But seriously, dude, you don't have to turn the camera on with them if you don't like what you see."
जिंदगी की राहों में रंजो गम के मेले हैं.
भीड़ है क़यामत की फिर भी हम अकेले हैं.
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