1

We were friends and we were enemies. I fell in and out of favour with my sister by turns. It became clear each morning which it was to be. Some days Emily would wake happy. Some days her hackles would rise at the back of her neck and she would snap and growl at me right from the start. The days of irritation were more than made up for by the good times. There was a joy in being the favoured one. Her approval was rare and that made it a special thing. Occasionally she would have a fondness for one or other of the aunts, but really, I was the only one who could ever reach her. Really reach her. And it felt special.

Not my memories

The following pieces of writing are not my memories at all. They are someone else's dreams and nightmares. I am getting into character. Into her head. Perhaps the resulting book will be something I like enough. So. Something new. Starting now.

bit more from it

His back teeth ache. A shot of saliva leaps into his mouth and he swallows. He is touching her breast through her dress. He can feel the hardness of her nipple, the way it rises, tenting the fabric. She holds his hand in her own and guides it, slipping his fingers under the low plunge of her dress under the bra and he has her breast in his hand. His hand is shaking. Now that he is aware of it, it is all he can feel, his fingers rattling against her tight nipple, the palm of his hand sweating against the swell of her breath. He grabs at her and she eases his shaking fingers away, her fingers stroking herself very gently, teaching his own fingers how she wants to be stroked. When he has learned this, she lets him take over, he feels her hand retreat and he has her whole breast in his hand and he is moving his fingers back and forth in the rhythm she taught him, feeling the tight bud rub against is fingers as he does so.

a bit from it

When she slides back against him he is startled by it. He feels his body stiffen. His arms lock tight against his chest. His knees are dovetailed planks. He tries to swallow but it is impossible. She is leaning against him. She has shifted so that her bottom is in his lap. He has a flash of the first moment he saw her, the miracle of secret folds and hair and the glisten of damp. He is hard. She nestles closer and he can feel the heat of her skin separated from his penis by a meniscus of fabric. He would be touching her. If she were naked, if he were naked, he would be pressed against her now. She reaches backwards towards him and he is a statue of himself. She almost has to wrestle his hand into her own. She pulls his arm over and around her body and clutches his fist between her breasts. His fist is between her breasts. He is aware for a moment that his breath will be warming the back of her head, moving her hair like grass in a late warm breeze. He would touch her hair, except his hand is a fist clamped between her breasts. He knows what her breasts look like, soft and very round and with brown nipples spreading across them. He shifts his hips closer against her. This is what she wants, he supposes, to feel that he is hard and tight. This is why she shifted onto the feel of it. He pushes it against her, almost a challenge. He has a hard on and it can’t be hidden so it is here. He wants her to know that it is here.