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Sympathy — Part 1 — Comedy of Errors
If you have not read any of my stories before, it would probably be useful to read Part 5 before you start, as this could ease you through my personal writing “quirks”.
It started the summer that I graduated from university. I was twenty-three, my sister Rosemary was nineteen, and was just about to start at university.
I had nearly five weeks’ holiday until I started my first job. During the second and third of those weeks, three ex school-mates and I had planned on walking some of the Pennine Way — from North to South, with the idea that if we had time — after getting to Edale — we could take the final few days, to make our way to Buxton, and from there — walk the Monsal Trail ‘southwards’ towards home, to catch a train from wherever was convenient at the end of our planned days away.
Rosemary had, more or less, the same two odd weeks at home, and then was off to Mallorca to party for a couple of weeks with some school friends.
During those first two weeks of my holiday, Rosemary and I would be living in our family home, while Mum and Dad were doing a month-long tour by coach and ferries for the sights and delights of Lakeland; the Scottish Borders; and the ‘Highlands and Islands’.
Anyway, these five weeks were going to be the last of my ‘free-and-easy life’ for some time (that ‘free and easy life’ being, of course, outside the swotting/cramming I had done during my final few months at Uni.).
Having just graduated with an engineering degree, I was to start work as a designer/consultant for a company that designed large installations for mainly middle- and far-eastern countries: – electricity generation plants (including dams and reservoirs, where necessary); water purification plants; bridges; tunnels; that sort of thing. Most of the actual supply and construction activities came from in-country, where possible, but we designer/consultants/systems engineers were always required to guide and monitor the work. I was going to be trained for that type of rôle. The company had a new project that they were to employ me for, that actually was planned to start ‘breaking ground’ in a couple of years, so I had to get involved with basic company training — as well as, a bit later, getting into the nitty-gritty of the designs.
So, what with basic training; then training for the project; and site visits, I didn’t expect to spend much time at home for the next year to eighteen months.
For the first couple or so days that we were at home, both Rosemary and I were tied up with things: –
Mum and Dad’s preparations to escape from the ‘brats’, for their first ‘alone’ holiday in twenty-five years. (Dad was looking forward to it, Mum wasn’t, really. After all — how could she relax while ‘her babies’ were off doing their own thing?);
winding-down from school or university (as applicable), and getting over the last few day’s excesses of drinking and partying;
and catching up with friends and relations (where we wanted to).
We had been home for nearly a week before I realised that I was getting … um … looks[?] … from Rosemary. They weren’t really obvious, but she had a way of standing when she did it, that I had never noticed her do before. But then again, we hadn’t been around each other much in the last four years or so, so I thought it could have been just another aspect of her developing personality. The looks seemed to be mixtures of admiration; regret; speculation; and, of all things, fear.
Now I had never purposely done anything to escort ataşehir hurt or scare Rosemary; however, my driving did make her uncomfortable at times (though not intentionally on my part) — but, with respect to that: – I felt that she was over-hesitant in many things. Not that I thought that she was a bad driver, just that she seemed to take over long in weighing up ‘what’ to do, or more specifically ‘when’ to do it (pulling away onto a round-about, for example); so — I couldn’t fathom-out why she kept giving me that particular look.
Anyway, the looks started putting me a bit on edge, so when I realised that I was getting one, I would freeze, and peer at her. She would then tend to jump, as if being caught doing something inappropriate, and then carry-on with whatever she was doing, even if that was just reading the paper.
So, we got to the last day before we were off to our choice of holiday. We each spent most of that day doing final preparations and packing. It had taken me longer to do my packing, as I was effectively packing for two situations — the hike, and the ‘relocation’.
She seemed nervous, or at least unsure about something. I had ‘internalised’ my attention, so paid little heed to her mood(s), even when she wandered into my bedroom two or three times, and engaged me in short, halting conversations, or discussions; about not much of anything, it seemed to me. I should have asked her outright, what was going on with her, but — as I say — I was too caught up in my own plans and concerns.
Then — the next day we were off. Her friends collected her at about 3am for their 6am flight.
A friend’s father picked-up me and our other friends, and took us upcountry to a mainline rail station, for our rail journey to Scotland.
We had pretty poor weather for our trek, which took longer because of sodden ground, so we weren’t inclined to do anything other than get home once we reached Edale. This meant that, in the end, I was home two days earlier than anticipated. I was knackered; so, having eaten, and — minimally — unpacked, I hit the sack around 9pm.
Romancing the Porcelain
My morning woody roused me around 9am, so I dragged myself out of bed, still stiff and achy from my days of slogging through mire and bog with ‘half a ton’ of camping gear on my back; and so, groggy and bleary from my long sleep of exhaustion, I stumbled half-blind and starkers into the bathroom. I leaned forward over the pedestal, propped against the wall with my left arm, and forced Mr Wood down to point at the bowl, and waited until my muscles and valves and things relaxed enough to allow my bladder to drop my piss. Then I groaned in appreciation as it started to pour into the bowl.
A giggle from behind my right shoulder informed me that I wasn’t alone.
My brain started to turn my head in surprise before it was alert enough to realise that my body followed my head.
My head didn’t realise that it hadn’t sent the message to my PC muscle to clamp-off the flow as I turned.
So — I arced a yellow stream out from the bowl, and up the wall (as I neglected to keep Mr Wood under control), and then out across the bathroom.
Rosemary squawked in alarm, and tried to scramble out of the way to try to — understandably — avoid getting pissed on.
This meant that she moved towards the bath.
But as she moved, she tripped over her shorts and knickers that she had slid down her legs as she undressed for her shower. They were pooled around her feet, and before she had had time to step out of them, I had stumbled (naked — remember[!]) into the bathroom.
Whereupon — she froze; and fixated on my erection.
Anyway, so while trying to evade kadıköy escort bayan my stream of piss, she tripped, and although nearly catching herself on the edge of the bath, she still slid, quite gracefully, down into the bath, head first.
Whereupon she screamed as my yellow arc followed her across, and into the bath, and onto her.
“Oh shit!” I squawked, as I used my right hand to pinch off the flow; then, bending nearly double in extreme discomfort, I spun back to the pedestal, to finish pissing. Once I was nearly empty, I was able to straighten-up, and look over my shoulder at Rosemary, and keep Mr Newly-Floppy pointed at my target — my ‘proper’ target.
Honest — I didn’t know whether to groan in embarrassment; or laugh.
There she was, wriggling around in the bath, trying to move to — get out[?] — get upright[?] — but with both she and the bath covered in my piss, she just kept slipping around. She was naked from the waist down (or should that be ‘waist up’ — as she was head-down in the bath?). Her left bra strap had slipped off her shoulder, and the bra had twisted in her slide into the bath, so her left cup had slipped awry, and her boob was now exposed, and, of course, she was covered in my piss. Including her hair.
I quickly shook the drops off Mr Turning-Turgid; and turned to help Rosemary.
“You shit! Why’d you do that?”
“Uh, what?” My attention was on the Brazilian in the room. Not as big as an elephant (in this case anyway) but just as attention grabbing.
“Piss all over the place?”
“You surprised me, and I was too dozy to control it quickly enough.” The pink shiny lips were hard to ignore, as well!
” ‘Too dozy’ being the operative word here! WILL you stop staring at my fanny and help me UP!”
“Look — you weren’t here when I went to bed last night, alright[?]. I thought I was the only one home.”
I intended to help her by sliding my hands into her armpits, with the idea of just lifting her body straight up off the bottom of the bath. It was a good idea, if only she wasn’t wriggling and slithering around.
But she was.
The immediate result was that first of all, my right hand missed getting to her left arm-pit, so I ended up clutching her bare boob — the stiff nipple sending a shockwave up my arm from where the palm of my hand touched it; then, after I let go, and again reached for her armpit, my wrist stroked along the edge of both her boob and the nipple. She gasped at both contacts, and also shivered on the second one.
Then, having successfully got both my hands under her arms, I did lift her up. She is only about five foot six tall, and nine stone, so it was no real struggle.
She stood in the bath dripping, as I stood, almost face to face with her bare boob. Ohhh … shit! I had no idea of her bra size, but I thought her boob was beautiful. A nice, even, slightly convex sided cone (base to tip, if you know what I mean), and no suggestion of sag. It looked as if it would only overflow my palm by the reach of her long, stiff, dark pink, nipple (but I have quite slim hands, for my size). The centre of my tongue started to itch.
How long had she been saying that? I stepped back. Then it was as if I had been hit on the back of the head as I realised what I was actually seeing as the Brazilian and I stared each other down. I lost — and gulped in a shaky breath. Both Brazilian and boob were brown! Tanned. Well tanned! No lines! No white bits. Not even any pale bits! ANYWHERE!
“Ian?” The stresses on that utterance were entirely different to the previous one. This one seemed to be more … pleading[?] than … accusing[?].
I looked down towards her eyes.
She was gazing down at me.
I looked down escort bostancı where she was looking.
Rocket Man! How the hell had he managed to sneak in without me noticing.
“Oh, Ian!” she pleaded.
With her gaze still fixated on my Saturn 8, her arm drifted behind her back. Her shoulders gave a half-hearted mini-shrug, and the bra slid off her arms
I took a slow step forward as my arms rose around her and pulled me in. Each hand was filled with one of her bum cheeks — so soft, smooth, firm and sleek (even if it was my piss that helped with the sleekness).
Oh, God! Now my palms were itching as badly as my tongue! I pulled the Brazilian firmly against my belly. God! She felt so good. Stooping, I started to scratch that itch in the centre of my tongue with her left nipple. Then with the right. As I used her bum cheeks to scratch my palms. I didn’t care that her boobs and bum were covered in my piss, because wherever I touched felt heavenly.
When I couldn’t resist pinching a nipple with my teeth, she gave a shudder and groan, and sagged slightly as her knees weakened.
With a sense of numb wonder, I lifted her out of the bath, my left arm around her back, her right around my back; and my right arm under her knees, her left arm over my right shoulder; my cock-head got to nestle in her bum crack. (Like an ‘An Officer and a Gentleman’? … But naked[?] — so — NOT really!) We started kissing. I’ve no idea how long we kissed, but eventually she started making strange noises into my mouth, so I moved it back.
“Shower!” she said as she sort-of flapped her left arm in its general direction
I moved us into the shower, still kissing her.
“Down!” she muttered past my lips.
As I stood her down, she nearly sagged to the floor. But gripping the shower controls, she managed to turn the shower on. We gasped and squeaked until the water got up to temperature.
Then, exhaling deeply through her nose, she relaxed; and passed me the body shampoo bottle. I mumbled my thanks as I gazed at her.
She now took hold of my Pink Submarine, and stroked him a couple of times. She kissed me, then nudged me: – “Shampoo!”
“Urg!” I grunted in distracted acceptance, and I squirted some onto her head, and started, slowly, washing her hair — as I feasted my eyes upon her. She held out her cupped hand, and I squirted some shampoo into it. Then she stood with her back pressed to me as I gently massaged the shampoo into her scalp, shoulders and upper arms — and those wonderfully firm, satiny breasts, with their stiff nipples — as, with her right hand, she shampoo’d my kelp beds, and the Pink Submarine that lurks within —- and, with her left hand, but behind her back, she stroked the ballast tanks, that seemed to be keeping my Submarine aligned in a ‘surfacing’ manoeuvre.
An indeterminate time later I realised that I had my arms around her from the back, holding a breast with each hand, as I watched (in envy) as my self-propelled hands squeezed and caressed her nipples with the tips of my thumbs and index fingers, as I kissed and mouthed and nibbled her neck and shoulders. Everything around my groin had stiffened and started to throb. The realisation that I was about to cum crashed into my awareness.
“Rosemary!” I squealed, “What are we doing? What are you doing? I’m gonna … oh shit … Oh shit … Oh shit … Oh shit … Oh shit!” I finished in a breathless whimper.
Despite my fatigue; embarrassment; terror[!]; and the fact that it was my sister wanking me off; my two weeks of sharing a tent with school mates (no wanking opportunities, thus leaving my balls fully loaded); and terror; and not least because I was having some erotic contact with a naked woman, and that that naked woman was, indubitably — my sister; and the fact that it was my sister wanking me off — and especially the fact that it was my naked sister wanking me off — caused me to have my strongest orgasm of all time.
End of Part 1
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