“Bryan,” she said, “I’ve got a little problem, and I need your help.”
It was a Wednesday afternoon, the day after New Year’s of a year early in the new millennium, and my little sister, Vicki, had just walked into our parents’ living room, where I was sitting on the couch reading the newspaper.
We’d both driven home from our respective schools for the multi-week break. She was a nineteen-year-old sophomore at the University of Washington, in Seattle, and I was a twenty-three-year-old second-year graduate student at the University of Wyoming, in Laramie.
“What’s up, Vick?” I asked.
“Well,” she began, “you know that I have a part-time job at school, don’t you?”
“My boss didn’t want to let me take much time off for the break, but I talked her into three weeks,” she went on. “She was pretty unhappy that I wanted to take so much time, and she told me I’d better be back by this coming Monday—or else. So I really have to be back or she’ll fire me.”
“Okay,” I said, “if you leave tomorrow you should be there late on Saturday. That’s plenty of time.”
“Yeah, ordinarily,” she said. She pointed at the newspaper that was still in my hands. “Have you looked at the weather?”
“No,” I said.
“There’s a big winter storm moving in this direction. It’s centered over northwestern Nevada now. They say it’ll be over the Nevada-Utah border a day or two from now, and then it’ll move into the western parts of Wyoming and Colorado. They think it’ll be a blizzard by then. Mom and Dad don’t want me to drive through it. They don’t trust my old car, and they don’t think I’ve driven enough to be able to handle that kind of weather.”
“If it’s that bad of a storm, Vicki, I think I agree with them—on both counts,” I said. She had an old Ford Mustang—at least a dozen years old—and I didn’t think much of it, either. “I don’t think I can change the weather. And that would probably be easier than changing their minds. So I’m not sure what you think I can do about it.”
“I talked to Mom about it over her lunch hour,” she said. “She’s willing to trade cars for a for a few weeks, and let me take her four-wheel drive Subaru to Seattle.”
“Well!” I said. “Problem solved! Where do I come in?”
“She still doesn’t think that I can handle driving in that weather,” she said. “Even in her car. Please, Bry! I really need this job.”
“I get that,” I said. “I had one, too, when I was a sophomore.” I was pretty much on my own, now, holding down a teaching assistantship while I worked on a master’s degree in chemistry. But the assistantship barely paid my bills with a little left over for a beer every now and then, so I sympathized with her. “Mom and Dad both have pretty good jobs, so they have money when they need it. But they kept me on a short leash, too.”
“Yeah,” she said, “If I get fired, I’ll have to find a cheaper apartment, probably with a roommate. And there won’t be any wine in the fridge. Not even El Vino Cheapo!”
I thought I’d figured out where I fit in, now. I prompted her, “And you want me to…”
She replied, “She’ll let me go if you’ll go with me to handle the bad-weather driving.”
I’d driven back and forth across country a number of times between Carbondale, Illinois, where I was in college, and Denver; and I’d done it in all kinds of weather—so my driving skills were pretty well established. Vicki, on the other hand, was the “baby girl.” That was pretty sexist of Mom and Dad, but parents will be parents, and there wasn’t anything we could do about it.
I had plenty of time on my hands; I didn’t have to be back in school until the fourteenth. But I wasn’t sure how we could make this work. And I was about to say so when she gave me that pleading look that cute little sisters all seem to be able to produce under the right circumstances. You know the look—it’s the one they use when they think that their big brothers (or their fathers) might not do what’s wanted of them.
“She and Dad will pay for a plane ticket from Seattle to Denver so that you can get home. Then, in a couple of weeks, you can take a long weekend, drive my car to Seattle, and bring Mom’s car back to Denver.” The pleading look intensified. “Please!” She stretched that last word out over—oh, I don’t know, about ten or fifteen minutes. By the time the word ended, the pleading look was a masterpiece of pathos.
My heart wasn’t made of flint—ice-cold flint, at that—so, against my better judgment, I said, “Let me see what the Weather Channel has to say before I make up my mind.”
She picked up the remote from the coffee table, sat down next to me, and brought up the Weather Channel. A few minutes later, the screen displayed a huge storm over the westernmost part of the country—right where Vicki had said it was. The announcer told us that the snow it was dumping on an area hundreds of miles wide was to be measured in feet, and that it was moving east. On the map, Çapa Escort it looked like it had Denver centered in its sights—along with all of the westbound highways out of the Denver area.
“Vicki,” I said, “I’m not sure that I want to drive in that. It looks like it’s going to track right across Interstates 70, 80, and 84. They’ll probably close those highways, so I don’t think anyone’s going to be driving from Denver to Seattle very soon.”
“Bry, I have to get back!”
“You could fly,” I said. “If Mom and Dad will pay for me to fly back, surely they’ll pay to fly you there.”
“But then I wouldn’t have a car!” she pointed out. “And I without a car I couldn’t get to work or to school! You have to help me!” She was almost crying, now.
“It’s at least a two-day drive. Two long days. Three is more like it, even in good weather,” I went on with my objections. “We’d have to spend at least one night in a motel, and then I’d have to do the same on the way back. I don’t have the money for that.”
“I’d split it with you, Bry. I’d planned on spending a night in a motel on the way back by myself, so I can pay for that. And if I don’t lose this job, I’ll have enough to help you pay for one on your way back. Please?” This ‘please’ wasn’t as dramatic as the last one had been, but she was still pleading.
With her help, I could afford it, though I wouldn’t like spending that much money. “Let’s look at the map,” I said, trying to postpone the death sentence I knew I was going to have to pronounce. Actually, I was tempted, in spite of myself. A road trip seemed like a good way to liven up what was proving to be a pretty boring vacation. But snowstorms in the mountain west are nothing to trifle with, and that one looked pretty awful.
We dug out Dad’s road atlas and compared the national highway map with the weather map on the TV screen. Just as I had guessed, the storm was moving right down the principal routes that lead west from the Denver area into Oregon and up to Seattle. But then, as I was about to deliver final judgment, I noticed something. I pored over the map some more and looked back at the Weather Channel display—extrapolating the storm’s path, guessing at where it would cause trouble, and transposing that to the roadmap.
“You know, Vicki,” I said, “I think we can do it. It looks like it’s a little longer, but if we go straight north into Montana, and then turn west, we can go around the storm—or, at least, around the bad part of it.”
She gave me a winning smile and her blue-gray eyes flashed at me. “Does that mean you’ll do it?”
“Sure,” I said, “I’ve got the time, and I’ve always liked road trips.”
“You’re the best big brother ever!” she exclaimed. And she threw herself at me, hugged me, and kissed me on the cheek. It was a chaste sister-to-brother kiss—nothing particularly special about it. But the hug was something else. Her tits, which I’d admired—really admired—ever since she’d grown them six or seven years earlier, pressed into me. They weren’t especially big, but they weren’t small, either, and I’d never been able to help but wonder what they would feel like in my hands. And wondering about that always made me wonder about what other parts of her body would feel like in my hands—not to mention against other parts of my body. Her Part, in particular, against my Part. And around my Part.
Yeah—I know. A guy isn’t supposed to have thoughts like that about his little sister. And I always paid for those thoughts later, when the guilt associated with desires I knew were unnatural tormented me. When the guilt set in, it led me to ask myself What kind of a man, wants it with his little sister? I didn’t really have a good answer to that question—but that didn’t stop the thoughts.
Since I’d first really understood what it means to want a girl, I’d probably spent a total of several months’ time wondering what her naked body looked like. And then a few more months’ time beating myself up (not to mention off) because of the thoughts that naturally followed those of her nakedness—the thoughts, that is, of doing it with her.
It had gotten worse as we got older. Just a couple of years ago, I’d finally admitted it to myself: I was in love with my little sister. I’d worshiped the ground she walked on since I was 18; I wanted to take her away with me somewhere—some place where no one knew us or how we were related to each other—and share a love nest with her. Naturally, I’d never told anyone about my forbidden love. For one thing, I couldn’t begin to imagine what the guys I knew would say about someone who admitted to being in love with his little sister. And I knew that if she ever learned of my forbidden love for her, she’d never want to see me or to talk to me again. That would be worse for me—far worse—than anything else I could imagine.
But she’d just thrown herself against me, and if I didn’t know what her tits felt like in my hands, Çapa Escort Bayan at least I now knew what they felt like against my body. She melted against me. For a moment, I was in heaven; and I responded naturally: I put an arm around her waist and squeezed back.
She pressed herself against me a little more tightly, and she hummed a little moan. Then, she broke away from me. As I let go of her, she cooed, “Oo! Muscles! Strong, hard, guy muscles! You give good squeezes.”
I was about five feet, ten inches, and 170 pounds; and I’d never thought of myself as particularly buff. But evidently she had liked what she found when she hugged me. A bit embarrassed, as well as afraid that she would guess how much—and, God help me, why—I’d enjoyed the touch of her body against my own, I reddened and mumbled something to the effect that she gave good squeezes, too.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she went on as she got up to leave the room. “I’ll never forget this!” She bent over and kissed me again—this time on the lips. That flustered me even more, though she kept her lips closed.
And she skipped away—before, fortunately, the tent in my pants made it evident that the “guy muscle” there was getting hard. The way her butt wiggled as she went did nothing to discourage that.
She left me with the memory of her embrace—and the torment of unnatural desire that it had awakened in me.
We talked it over with Mom and Dad at supper, and later the four of us spent some time with the Weather Channel and the road atlas. We agreed that it looked like the northern route would work.
Then I had an idea. “I’ll be happy to go,” I said. “But it looks like it’s going to be clear up north for the foreseeable future. Vicki could sure do this alone.”
Mom didn’t like that. “No,” she said. “The storm could change its track, and I don’t want her to be caught in it by herself. Either you go with her, or she doesn’t go until after the storm’s well past.”
“I don’t think she’d have any trouble by herself,” I replied. I looked at Dad, hoping for a little support. Instead, he gave me his the-Commander-in-Chief-has-spoken-and-orders-must-be-obeyed look. I knew that look of old: it meant that there was no sense in arguing—for either or both of us.
I looked at Vicki. She gave me a look full of daggers. Evidently, she’d been looking forward to a brother-sister road trip and didn’t appreciate my effort to promote her independence. With no support from either of those quarters, I did the only reasonable thing: I folded my hand.
“How many days are you going to spend on the road?” Dad asked. “Two,” I said. “That’ll cut down on motel costs.”
He looked at Mom, and she looked back at him. “That’ll be ten or twelve hours of driving each day,” he said. “That’s pretty rough, even if you’re sharing the driving and the weather stays good. Do you think that’s wise?”
I looked at Vicki; she looked at me. We both knew the answer to that question, but neither of us wanted to admit it. When it became clear that Dad was waiting for an answer, I tried to evade the question. “We can’t afford two nights in motels,” I said.
“We can,” Mom said. “We’ll pay for the motels. It’ll be worth it to not have to worry.”
Dad nodded his head. “We’ll feel a lot better, knowing that you’re only driving seven or eight hours a day.”
I had almost finished getting ready to leave early the next morning, and it was getting close to bedtime, when she came into my room. As I packed the last of my clean shirts, she placed a hand on my arm, and said, “Thanks for doing this, Bryan. It really means a lot to me.”
I turned to look at her, and I saw that she was giving me another of those winning smiles. I smiled back at her and said, “Anything for my little sister!” That was an exaggeration, but not by very much. Now that I thought about it, I was looking forward to spending some time with her.
Her smile turned into a grin as she looked up at me. “I really do have the world’s best big brother,” she said. And then she threw both arms around my neck and pulled me into a tight squeeze.
She’d surprised me, but that didn’t keep my arms from going around her and squeezing back. She kissed me squarely on the lips. Again, her lips remained closed, but she held the kiss for a while. Desire flooded through me again, and my “guy muscle” reacted—to her kiss, and to the soft, curved, 125-pound body she pressed against me for the second time in only a few hours.
She broke the kiss and loosened her arms’ grip on me enough to be able to look up into my eyes (she was six inches shorter than I). Still pressing the lower three- quarters of that lovely body against mine, she grinned through the lock of light brown hair that had fallen across her face when she threw herself at me. “I’m really glad that you’re coming to Seattle with me. But you can be such a dope! Escort Çapa You almost blew it by suggesting that I could do it by myself,” she said.
And then her eyes widened a little, and her grin turned into a smirk. Shamelessly, she wiggled her hips so that her lower belly rubbed against my growing boner. “Perv!” she said.
She released me, squirmed out of my arms, and headed for the door. Halfway there, she turned to look back at me and said, “I’ll see you in the morning.” Then, seeing that she’d rattled me, she gave me still another winning smile. “Not to worry,” she said. “You’re a guy! And that happens to guys. Even brothers!” She continued toward the door. When she reached it, she looked back again. Still smiling broadly, she said, “And girls like it. Even sisters!” She closed the door behind herself as she left.
A little later, I went into the bathroom to get ready for bed. Her cosmetics bag sat open beside the sink. I didn’t really think anything of it until I was almost ready to go back to my room, when I happened to look down at it. There, clearly visible, sitting amongst the other girl things was a particular girl thing that I was sure she didn’t want our parents to see when they came to bed.
I zipped the bag shut and took it with me when I left the bathroom. She’d closed her bedroom door, but her light was still on. I tapped lightly on her door and said, softly, “Vick? Are you still up?”
There was a flurry of motion on the other side of the door, and it opened. Vicki stood there in a babydoll nightie. The nightie was opaque, but that didn’t keep me from enjoying the view. My heart almost stopped when I realized how very short it was, but then I saw that she had matching pants on under it—so it wasn’t as spectacular as it might have been. Seeing that I held my finger to my lips, she whispered, “What, Bry?”
I handed her the bag, saying, “I found this on the sink in the bathroom. Open. I don’t think you want Mom or Dad to see what’s in it.”
Her jaw dropped. “Darn!” she exclaimed. I’d seldom heard her use so strong an expletive. “I forgot that. Thanks! Dad would have a cow if he found out that I’m on the Pill.”
“Mum’s the word,” I said. “I’d never tell.”
“I wish he could be okay with it,” she said. “But hiding this from him is better than the alternative. He’d have a dozen cows if James got me pregnant.”
James was her boyfriend at school. She’d told me a little about him, but she hadn’t mentioned that she’d been getting it on with him. Not that she’d have thought that it was any of my business, really, though we’d always been pretty open with each other about our sex lives.
“I’d probably have few cows, too,” I said, “if I thought you’d been careless. I’m glad you’re protecting yourself.” A tide of jealousy rose within me, but I suppressed it. Nevertheless her body was back in my thoughts, which wouldn’t be suppressed so easily—nor would the boner that they caused. But I knew that I could never have what I wanted with her, and I couldn’t expect her to give up love and sex on my account—especially since she didn’t even know that I might think there was a reason she should. I leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Good night,” I added.
“Good night, Bryan. And thanks, again.”
The guilt that settled in as I returned to my room—guilt for thinking about her body and for thinking about what I wanted to do with that body—didn’t keep me from jacking off before I went to sleep. And doing that with her body in the forefront of my mind, didn’t lessen the guilt.
We left home the next morning at about seven. The sky was overcast, and, though it was light, the sun hadn’t risen yet. Neither of us was fond of being up so early, but we wanted to beat the Thursday morning traffic. I took the first shift behind the wheel; we would switch after lunch.
We weren’t quite awake yet, so neither of us had much to say until we were approaching Cheyenne—about a hundred miles into the trip. We stopped for gas and coffee, and we’d been back on the road for about five minutes when she reached over, put her hand on my thigh, and squeezed it. “Bryan,” she said, after pulling her hand back, “I’m really happy that you’re doing this with me.”
“Me, too,” I said. “You could do it by yourself easily. But, you know? Now that we’re on the road, I’m glad Mom wouldn’t let you.”
“I’m glad, too,” she said. I glanced over at her; she was smiling at me. “It occurred to me last night,” she went on, “that we might never get to spend much time with each other again.”
“I hadn’t thought of that, but you’re right,” I said. “That makes me kinda sad.” Boy, was that an understatement. But I couldn’t tell her how devastating I found that thought without revealing my forbidden love.
“I don’t like it, either,” she answered. “I guess it’s part of growing up, though. And I’m glad we’re doing that.”
We sat there in silence, each lost in our own thoughts for the next few miles. Then she put her hand on my thigh again and said, “I shouldn’t have called you a ‘perv’ last night, Bry. I was just teasing, but it was mean. I don’t really think you’re a pervert. I’m sorry.”