MMF Sex with My Brother & Husband Ch. 03

tagIncest/TabooMMF Sex with My Brother & Husband Ch. 03

When I woke up — late the next morning — they'd both left already. I sent my husband a text message saying I missed him already, then drew a big bubble bath and lay there for an hour. I wasn't going to see a lot of him over the weekend because he works a full day on Saturdays and Sunday would be Father's Day so we'd be spending it with our own families.
It was true that I missed him already — in fact I missed both of them quite sorely. As I lay in the bath, the house was still and everything was quiet except for the sound of bubbles popping in the water, and I realized I felt an absence. It seemed strange – but I wished they were both there with me – my brother too.
As expected, my husband was exhausted and still a little-hungover when he got in, so we ate, then snuggled up and had an early night. We didn't talk much except to say that we loved each other. He fell asleep first, and as I held him there against my breast, listening to his breathing, I couldn't help thinking whether we'd be able to keep the newfound freedoms the three of us had discovered with each other. It was like we'd found something so rare that it was impossible to value – like we'd been given a stolen masterpiece. I didn't know what to do with it, but I knew I wanted to keep it.
The next morning, I drove over to my parents before lunch, and as I parked my car, my brother pulled up. He got out and helped carry the bags of ingredients I'd bought for the desert. I asked him how he was, and he said strangely good, and I said, yeah me too, and by then we were already at the door where Mum was waiting.
I should maybe point out that we're not especially close to our parents. They were quite old by the time they had us, and they pretty much left us to our own devices. They 've always explained their distance away by saying it was us, not them: we are like peas in a pod – thick as thieves – we speak our own language. That sort of thing. But it's them too. Our father sometimes seems to love gadgets more than people, and our mother sometimes cares less about other people than about what they think of her. Okay, maybe that's a bit harsh. They certainly care about us in their own way. Ask them trivia — like our birth weight. They could name it to the ounce. Ask them what our first bank account numbers were, and they could give you all 16 digits. But ask them about the real stuff — our interests, dreams and inspirations, they'd draw a blank.
Anyway, you can imagine what having lunch with them was like. My brother and I sat together and often ran our own conversation between theirs. Like, they began talking about a particular political issue, and we were surreptitiously rolling our eyes at each other, or clearing our throats to avoid laughing. There were a couple of points at which one of them had something particularly inane or ridiculous, and he'd nudged me under the table with his knee. I decided to take my spoon and flick him on the thigh with it.
When nobody noticed his reaction, I began jokingly running my spoon up and down his leg. Well — half-jokingly: I got bolder too and curved it over his thigh to touch it on his zipper bulge. He looked at me sideways and nudged me again with his knee, but he didn't push it away, so I began running it up and down there while we finished lunch. I thought of my husband briefly at one point — how close they were, and how funny he'd find me teasing him like that. Not that I knew for sure whether it was having any effect. Maybe he was just ignoring it. But when I got up to prepare the dessert and asked him to come help me, he said- for no particular reason – that he'd be there in a minute, then sat staring blankly into space.
In the kitchen, we started joking around again – preparing the fruit as suggestively as we could, while holding completely straight faces. He placed the two rock melons on the chopping board, nipples up, and caressed them suggestively. I slowly split a peach in my hand and inserted my finger into the slit. He stuck a raspberry onto the end of his finger and held it up. I ran my finger up and down the centre of a halved orange, and made it squirt juice as I applied pressure. Then I got out the can of whipped cream, and things got a bit silly, and when I shot some onto his face I told him to come to me so I could wipe it off with my hand, which I did slowly and suggestively, licking it off my fingers. That was when we heard Mum come in and we jumped apart.
We were just in time. She was like: What are you two were conspiring about? But she didn't wait for an answer — just placed the lunch plates at the sink and told us that Dad wanted us to bring dessert into the lounge so he could show us some kind of slide show.
Dad had paid one of those digital restoration companies to scan a bunch of old photos Mum had taken of us during childhood, and he'd got them ready to play from his laptop onto the TV projector. My brother and I sat on the couch eating our dessert while Mum closed the curtains and cut the lights.
The slideshow was ordered chronologically. It started when we were infants –playing, sleeping, bathing — then went through our childhood – parks, holidays, family events. There were even some photos of my husband and brother when they were young — at a football match, playing video games, playing min-golf. It wasn't until our later teen years that they became really interesting though. There was one set in particular at the end. I was 19; the boys were 18. We were at the beach, and it was clear Mum had taken the photos because she wasn't in any of them. We were wearing nothing but swimwear, and it was impossible not to notice the development of our young adult bodies. In one shot we were in the ocean, splashing each other, a curtain of water frozen in time, arching from my brother's hand toward me. In another the three of us were walking up the beach, drenched in water, our swimwear clinging to our skin and announcing the contours of our bodies. In another we were lying face down on towels, covered in dry sea-salt, sunbathing, and you could see the goose-bumps on our skin from the wind — running down my thighs, along the back of my husband's broad shoulders, and in among the downy hair just above my brother's tailbone.
As I sat there in the dark looking at their lithe young bodies, I felt my desire for them return. Although no-one could have seen anyway — I crossed my arms, careful to keep my hand hidden — uncurled my fingers to sneakily reach out and touch my brother's ribs. He twitched, then crossed his arms too.
Our fingertips met.
As we continued to look at the beach images, our fingers caressed each other, interlinked, separated, touched each other's ribs, higher to the edges of our chests, lower to our hips. At one point he had a knuckle resting under my breast, so I hooked two fingers into the waistband of his boxer shorts. I couldn't reach any further, so I pulled them out again, and I was suddenly worried that everyone heard the pop of the elastic.
Nobody noticed.
Still, we'd teased each other into a state of mild arousal by the time the slide show was over, so as Mum stood to open the curtains again, I told them all I'd left a box of summer casual clothes in the sleepout a couple of years ago and I was hoping my brother wouldn't mind helping me to dig it out and carry it to my car before we went home.
He agreed quite readily. So later, after we'd said our goodbyes at the front door and our parents had gone back inside, we went around to the sleep-out.
The back garden's a quiet place: tree-lined and secluded, and the sleepout is a single room with just one large window looking west towards the valley. We were both well aware of the privacy it offered us.
He pulled the box down from on top of the storage cupboard, and I opened it on the bed. Inside were summer dresses and skirts from a couple of seasons back. I needed to try them on, but there was no mirror in the sleepout, so I told him I needed his opinion about which I should donate and which were worth keeping.
Before he could respond, I quickly kicked off my sandals, lifted my blouse over my head and dropped my jeans to my ankles. He got a little fright and looked out of the window towards the house, then back at me. My bra and knickers were not especially sexy — just a dark grey cotton — but the shock of my undressing seemed to make his eyes widen and his lungs inflate.
He sat down on the edge of the bed as I rummaged through the box, pulled out a simple grey dress and began to step into it, standing side-on to him. As I expected, the dress was a little tight, and it picked up my ass a little as I pulled it up and eased my bottom half into it. I looked at him momentarily. He was staring at my body, exhaling long and slow. I leant forward, slipped my arms into the sleeves and turned my back to him so he could do up the zipper. His fingers weren't exactly shaking but they were a little unsteady, and I felt a little frisson of pleasure as they ran up the length of my back with the zip.
As I turned to face him, he complimented the dress on its cut, but said he thought it was more suited to summer work-wear than to casual-wear, which I thought was fair enough. Then he asked me if I needed to try on the little white summer-dress that was hanging over the edge of the box.
I stripped again, enjoying his eyes on me, then slipped into it. It was vanilla-white, and translucent, and as I stood by the window for his appraisal, I realised the light was shining right through it, and he was enjoying the chance to look at my body with full permission.
When I turned and asked him how the dress looked from the back, he began describing how perfect it was, and I felt like he was talking more about the shape of my ass, than the cut of the fabric. I turned back again, moved over close to him, just a few inches from his face, levelling my breasts at his eyes. Was it too revealing? I asked.
I didn't hear his response. Just the feeling alone of his eyes on the shape of my breasts made me a little lightheaded, and my nipples began to harden. He asked me if I remembered how I when we were young, I always asked him to play dress-ups and other games like doctor and nurse, or teacher and student, or mother and father? I said I did remember — very well. Then I told him I had an urge to play an exploratory game like that again — for us to inspect each other.
I put my hands at the back of his head and held him to my breast. His hands slowly rose up the back of my thighs, bunching my dress up. But before they could reach my ass, I broke away, took his hand and dragged him outside into the garden.
We went to the western side behind the sleepout, to a hidden grove of fruit trees where we used to play. In the middle of the grove, was a rope swing under an overgrown pear tree. I wiped away the cobwebs and sat on the hardwood seat. The branch creaked above me as it adjusted to my weight, but I wasn't worried at all – it was such a solid old tree it could easily take the weight of ten men.
He sat at my feet as I swung a little. The seat was lower to the ground than I remembered, and I couldn't swing without dragging my toes along the mossy ground. After a while I stopped, told him I had something to confess, then reached down and lifted my skirt to show him how the gentle eroticism of the afternoon had made my knickers a little damp. He took my hand and held it to his chest so I could feel the thumping of his heart.
I wondered what it would mean if something sexual was about to happen. I thought about my husband, and about how he'd encouraged it. It wouldn't be cheating. It was my brother, he was a part of me — of both of us. If we touched each other, it would be something pure — like making love, or even like childish masturbation. But it still gave me a frisson of the forbidden.
Either way, I wanted to play with him, so I stood up and asked him to take a turn on the swing.
As he sat, I hitched up my skirt and lowered myself onto his lap. We swung back and forth for a while, and I leaned back so his chin was resting in the crook of my neck. I looked up at the summer leaves filtering the the light and took a deep breath to inflate my breasts. He took one hand from the swing and wrapped it around my waist, but the swing began to wobble so he had to hold on again. I enjoyed that he was powerless to touch me for that moment. I began shifting my weight in his lap, grinding myself against his jeans. Then I realised how uncomfortable it must have been for him with my full weight crushing his fly buttons into his hardness, so I reached down to open his jeans, and at the same time I told him that I wanted us to play a those childish games now. I wanted us take off all our clothes and to explore each other's bodies.
He put his feet down, bringing the swing to a stop, and asked whether I thought it was safe. Maybe they would notice our cars were still there and come looking for us?
I thought a little, then asked him: When have they ever come looking for us?
He stared straight at me. I was right. But that didn't mean we were safe. To be honest I was aware of the possibility of being caught. That was part of the thrill.
Our body were aroused, and our hearts were beating hard. We slipped off the swing, lay down on the mossy earth and began to undress each other.
I stripped off his shirt and he lifted my dress off. It was incredibly intimate — being in broad daylight, with only the dappled shadows of the trees to cover us, and we removed those outer layers like we were unwrapping gifts — as though we were about to see another nude body for the very first time.
We were very alert at that point. If a branch creaked above us in the wind, or a bird twittered through the leaves, we started, twitched. But we carried on undressing anyway, nerves and senses heightened.
Once we were in our underwear, I spread my legs, took his hand and put it on my knickers. It was like the fabric formed a cotton membrane over my damp entrance, and as he began circling it with his finger, he gently and evenly spread the sensations all around the nerve endings of my pussy.
I could see the outline of his penis resting in his boxer shorts, so I placed my palm against it and began rubbing up and down, caressing it with the fabric and curling my fingers over the bulge at the top. I kissed him too, and we teased each other with our fingers and tongues until I couldn't bear it anymore. I wanted to be completely naked, and for us to show each other every part of our bodies. I wanted to imprint myself onto him, and for him to be imprinted onto me – for our most intimate details to be permanently stamped into each other's minds.
I dragged down his boxer shorts then sat up to unclasp my bra and slide my knickers down. He sat up too, and we were face to face, nude, legs entwined. I asked him again if he would explore me and told him I would describe for him each area of my body that he was touching.
I spread my legs wide and took his cock in my hand. He looked down at me and I whispered to him as he ran two fingers around the mound. That's my outer labia, I told him, and he nodded, exhaled, and grew a little stiffer in my hand. Then he slowly probed a little further, sliding his middle finger up and down my inner labia, parting them a little further with each glide, like he was running his finger gently across sand and opening a little valley in it. Again I described what he was doing, and whispered what I was feeling into his ear, and I watched his eyes follow his finger, taking in every detail, bump and ridge as he parted my pussy lips and discovered the wetness inside. As I described how his finger had gently touched my urethra, his cock again got harder in my hand, and I began to rub it up and down, exploring him too: the way his skin bunched up and unfolded as I drew it up over his glans, the way the little goosebumps on his testicles protruded as they shifted with my touch against the mossy ground, the way the little slit at the top of his cock opened and closed a little when I gently squeezed him.
By this point we were immune to the little sounds the trees and birds were making. If anyone were to come looking for us, there's no doubt we'd be caught. We knew it, but we also knew we were too aroused to care.

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