Unspoken Pleasure (erotica)

Lucy’s hardwood floors felt even better than my carpet. We were facing each other again. Hearing my sister’s gulping breaths, feeling her body tremble nearby, all of it conspired to take my experience from a solid 7 to a tremendous 10. Moments later, I was shooting hot seed into my shorts.

“You go?” Lucy asked. She looked about to hit the precipice, herself. Her cheeks were pinker than her shirt.

“Yeah.”

“Ahhhhhhh,” Lucy was overtaken by her own orgasm. Her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed. “Fuck that’s nice.”

Lucy picked up her head and met my eyes. Her look was dreamy, distant. Yet there was something focused beneath the surface. Like she was making a decision.

We shared a goofy grin.

“That’s it for you?” Lucy asked.

“Pretty much,” I said. I had no doubt I could squeeze another orgasm out of myself. But the rubbing took a lot out of me. Something about it was so much more taxing than the usual stroking off.

“Well, OK,” Lucy said, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

I knew, right then, that she wasn’t making the usual, trite statement. It was an appointment.

A promise.

*

Sometimes it takes a while to settle into a new habit. Retraining your body, your mind, to incorporate a different routine. That was not the case for Lucy and me. We were barely past our first day of this and already our fresh tradition felt expected. As if we’d been doing it our entire lives and would continue to do so forever more.

Lucy called it pressing and so that’s how I came to think of our activity. It wasn’t always at the same time or even every day, but we managed to have regular regroups. One morning we might wake up, press together, and get ready for the day. Or after lunch, we’d have an afternoon press in between doing chores or playing games or whatever. And if we missed both of those (or were having a particularly ‘active’ day) we’d go for a press after dinner, right before bed.

Outside of our little meetups, everything else was normal. We weren’t flirty with each other. We didn’t even talk about what we were doing. We always wore clothes when we did it — Lucy with some sort of shirt and panties, me in my t-shirt and shorts. We met up, pressed, and went back to our lives. Like all of this was happening in some separate, bubble universe.

The way everything became casual, however, was also nearly our downfall. Three times, with three separate people, we were almost caught.

The first was my fault. It happened a little over a week after we’d started our escapades. The family had finished dinner and was watching TV. It was one of those rare evenings when all six of us were home, and Lucy and I found ourselves sitting on the floor, in front of the couch.

Lucy turned to me, mid-episode, and cocked her eyebrow. She subtly jutted her chin. That was all I needed to know. I gave her a single nod.

It was on.

A moment later, Lucy said she was feeling tired and went to her bedroom. I waited what felt like a good amount of time (but was probably only two minutes) and followed her upstairs.

I found my sister already lying on her pillow. She gave me a big, goofy grin as I lay down next to her. The process of this had made me start to chub up, but I’d learned to (literally) push through such things. We humped the ground together, the sounds of boring TV news playing in the distance.

There was this strange intimacy to our act, stolen in little moments. For the most part, I stayed within myself, engaged in my own fantasies. But then I would hear Lucy make a little gasp as she hit the right spot. Or I would grunt with the exertion of the act. Sometimes we’d accidentally bump each other — arms or legs, never anything more. It was strangely reassuring, an encouragement of the illicit actions we were sharing.

“What are you guys doing?”

I froze. I slowly turned my head to the source of the sound. Our younger sister, Lindsay, was standing in the doorway. In my haste, I’d forgotten to close Lucy’s door. Damned.

Lindsay was 17, mousy and thin, with light brown hair (the same color as mine) that hung almost to her waist. She was wearing her usual workout outfit — a tanktop and yoga pants. She eyed us, confused, like someone searching for an obvious word but unable to find it in the moment.

“Nothing,” Lucy said, like this was a perfectly satisfying answer. She didn’t even get off the pillow. Just spun around and stared up at our younger sister. “Go away.”

Lindsay did not do that. Instead, she stayed at the door, narrowing her eyes like she was processing everything.

“It’s fine, Lindsay,” I said, the panic rising in my throat. “We’re hanging out.”

“We’re planning your birthday gift,” Lucy said. This was a particularly bad lie, since we were doing nothing that looked like planning. And Lindsay’s 18th birthday was still a good two months away.

But while our youngest sister was super sweet, she wasn’t very sharp. She wasn’t a dope, just far too trusting. The kind of girl who couldn’t understand that people might lie to her for their own benefit.

“Oh!” she said, brightly, “OK.” And quickly scampered away.

I wasn’t going to argue with our good luck. I got off the floor, gently closed Lucy’s door, and returned to what we were doing.

The second time we almost got caught, though, was on Lucy (somewhat). It was a Saturday afternoon, a week or so later, and she found me watching TV in the living room. She was wearing a white t-shirt with a pink Tom Nook on it, as well as a pair of green sweat-shorts. Her breasts and bottom seemed liable to break out of both at any minute.

Lucy gave me our signal and I got off the couch. But instead of leading me back to her bedroom, Lucy shook her head.

“Here,” she said. That one word was shocking, for all that it implied. I glanced around the room. Right out in the open? We were sure to be seen.

“No one’s home,” Lucy said, “They’re all out doing errands or whatever.” She grabbed a pillow off the couch — blue, small, and squarish — and dropped it on the floor.

“Are you sure?”

Lucy gave me a chastising look. You’d think that would be hard based on how she was lying on her groin, getting ready to fuck the hell out of that poor cushion. But, somehow, my older sister still managed to look disdainful. I shrugged and dropped next to her.

I have to admit, changing our surroundings did something to the whole experience. I’m not saying we got bored of the usual stuff, but after weeks of it, there was a sort of numbness to the routine of it all. Doing it in another place — a room where we spent so much time with the rest of our family — gave everything a sharper edge.

I went over the top first. Unlike Lucy’s peak, mine required some post-orgasm maintenance. So, I got up to go find a tissue. Fortunately, my splooge had mostly stayed in my shorts, though I had a drop or two on my leg.

As I went toward the bathroom, however, I felt a hand on my chest. I stopped in place. Standing in front of me, right at the top of the stairs, was our oldest sister, Jan. My twenty-three-year-old sibling had obviously seen everything. So much for an empty house.

Jan raised her eyebrow at me in a way that was totally different than Lucy’s come-hither gesture. It was more like drawing a dagger.

“Tell me you two aren’t doing what I think you’re doing,” Jan said. Even though it was a weekend, she was dressed in a nice, pink blouse and a dark navy skirt. She had her near-black hair tied back in a severe bun. She’d done her makeup, as well, making her angular features appear almost devastatingly beautiful. I felt very much like a turd she’d found on the stairs. “Tell me this isn’t what it looks like,” Jan repeated.

I paused. I didn’t know what to say, except to parrot it back. “It isn’t what it looks like,” I said. Like that was going to make a difference.

Jan’s blue eyes, remarkably similar to Lucy’s, hardened.This text is © NôvelDrama/.Org.

“It’s not,” I said.

“OK,” Jan said. I braced for the impact. Instead, my oldest sister stared me down for another moment, then spun on her heel and walked away.

Later, I told Lucy about it, expecting her to freak out. Instead, she laughed.

“Don’t sweat it,” my blonde, older sister said, a smile still playing on her cute face. “Jan’s not going to do anything.”

“I don’t know,” I said, “She seemed pretty angry.”

“Jan’s always angry,” Lucy said. I couldn’t argue with that. “I’m sorry she caught us. I didn’t realize she was home. But Jan’s not the tattling type. She’s happy to ignore us. Trust me. We just need to be more careful.”

Our last brush with danger came soon after. It was by far the most chaste, yet it felt like the riskiest moment of all. Lucy and I had finished dinner and were headed upstairs for our evening session. But as we were about to go into Lucy’s room, Mom called after us. Lucy and I shared a nervous look. We walked back down to the kitchen.