Boys in the Attic
- 2 years ago
- 4
- 0
One Evening In The Attic free porn video
In the shafts of light coming in between the curtains I see her, lying asleep, and what I see are spheres and slopes and sweeps of skin. The streetlight's glow outlines suggestions of hills and mounds, tied together by shadow-cloaked valleys. She had been my land of dreams and now I float offshore, as it were, gazing at my dreams made real. I am home.
Karla is a large girl, pleasingly rubenesque, lush in her proportions.
I used to think as society had programmed me to, that anorexia, bulimia and heroin-chic were 'beauty' and 'desirability', but another woman had changed that opinion for me, and I began to see beauty all around me.
I see it in the undulations of womanly flesh as these ladies move through the world like majestic cruise ships, every deck packed with delights. I see it in full breasts, no matter their size, a lack of slackness, a rich impression of fruit at the height of succulence. I see it in bottoms so round and full that they call to me to wrap my hands around them and hold them for hours. I see it in women with figures, with tits and asses that look like what they are, instead of infected insect stings, bare bumps upon a board-like body.
And the personification of all this beauty I found in Karla.
I had to have her, I had to love her, I had to make love to her, I had to fuck her, I had to explore every cleft and crevice of her, I had to lose myself in her flesh and her mouth and her cunt, I had to devour her and be devoured by her. She obsessed me.
The fact that she was my younger sister only postponed the inevitable by 6 months.
I was 19 and Karla 18 when our mother moved us all to a new city, although calling it a 'college town' would be more accurate. And it's a good thing it was a college town. The college employed Mom and that helped her afford our enrollment and allowed us to have certain luxuries.
Our father had said his goodbyes when I was 6, and Mom had put her nose to the grindstone and kept it there ever since, leaving Karla and me to raise each other, with only occasional guidance from her. Overall, we did well. We could go out in public together or separately and not embarrass each other, or our mother. We got compliments on our manners. We probably were closer than other siblings but reciprocally, our fights were probably fiercer. Karla's size had helped her win the physical portions of those fights for years, until my hormones decided they were tired of me getting my ass kicked and decided to give me a few more inches and more muscle mass.
I had endured a lot of grief because of my sister during our high school years.
Karla craved love, physical affection and acceptance. But as an overweight girl in high school, she got derision, a collection of friends in the same boat as she, and hoards of dates where the guy refused to be seen in public with her, but would let her blow him.
And after each disastrous night out, I would find myself with the unenviable task of comforting her, trying to help her put her psyche back into some kind of functional shape, mouthing words about her physical attractiveness that I didn't believe at the time.
And while I felt I had the right to say negative things about her physical appearance, although I never did, I was, by God, the only one allowed to. So, teenage males being the way they are, I got in a lot of fights. I racked up a lot of visits to the principal. The only saving grace was that Mother was on my side. I could tell her I took offense at comments someone made about Karla and she'd have my back against any principal, any teacher, anyone. My Mother saw a lot of herself in Karla, as they were both very similar in build and appearance.
And now that my sister had joined me in college, the whole cycle was starting again. She had a date with a guy I'd run across in one of my classes. I knew she was in for another bad night.
And that was what I'd been praying would happen.
Once I'd had my sexual landscape changed from the plains of angles and sharp points to the delightfully decadent realm of hedonistic, mountainous excess, I had been hard pressed to control myself around Karla. Her beauty, new to my eyes, blinded me and as my physical desire grew, it changed my love for her as well. I began to love her as a person, a person I wanted to be with, a person I desired, a person I wanted to make happy, a person whose happiness mattered to me to an ever-increasing degree. All this was in my heart, but at the forefront of my reality was my desire for her.
I began to create more friction between us, more excuses to fight, although not pushing her so far as to anger her, just enough to annoy her. I realized quickly that no matter how much I wanted to lose each and every fight, to lay defeated beneath her, covered in the avalanche of warmth and sensuality that is her body, to do so would look suspicious. Although in my heart of hearts I felt I had no chance of my plan succeeding, to tip my hand too soon would destroy any small chance I might conceivably have, and bring the fantasy castle I was building in my head crashing down. So I won about half our fights, and lay there upon her, gloating, for longer than I might have previously, always carefully keeping my crotch out of danger, and out of view. No good could come of letting her see my erection, straining beneath my pants.
I have laundry duty in the house. For years I've had to endure the trials of dealing with women's lingerie, but now I looked at them in a different way. Not a laundry day went by when a couple of pairs of Karla's panties wouldn't go missing along with me up to my bedroom. One pair, clutched in my left hand, crushed against my face, my nostrils slowly breathing in the traces of her, her cunt, her musk. The other pair, in my right hand, I wrapped around my dick as I masturbated furiously. Then, spent, I and her panties would return to the laundry room to finish the chore. If it was a heavy laundry day, the panties and I might make two trips up to my room.
I drilled a hole in the wall of my closet, coming out in the shadows beside her chest of drawers. The angle gave me a perfect view of her bed. I would watch, huddled in my closet, no lights, pants around my ankles, hand on my dick, as she came in from her nightly shower.
On an average night, she would come into view, wrapped in her towel, wisps of pubic hair visible out the bottom, the large bath sheet style towel barely large enough to contain her. And as she removed the towel, beginning to dry herself, turning this way and that, her exquisite flesh began to move with a hypnotic quality, and as she began to dry more vigorously, I imagined that it was my thrusts into her that were moving her so, and matching my strokes to her rhythm I slipped deep into that fantasy. I never lasted until she'd finished drying off. Several times I'd come so hard that I grew weak in the knees and bumped my head or moaned something under my breath. And if Karla had known how much I wanted her, or had a self-worth that allowed for the faintest possibility of someone wanting to watch her, the jig would have been up. As it was, she wondered about mice.
And then there were the special nights, when Karla came in from her shower, stripped the towel off, laid on the bed and got out her toys.
The first time I saw this, I swear I could have died and gone to heaven a happy man. My sister had appetites and she couldn't find someone to feed them, so she'd feed them herself.
I intended, given opportunity, to help her with that problem.
First she'd pull out her butt-plug. She would lie on her side, opening her legs, giving me an unobstructed view of her pussy, covered with hair and framed by thighs so plump and full and soft and smooth that I would be ensorcelled, focusing only on them, and I wanted to be licking them, gently biting them.
She would lube her plug and gently work it into her ass, slowly, sensuously, and I wanted my tongue to trade places with it, I wanted to run gentle circles around that brown, puckered hole, until I swirled my tongue deep into her, my head resting upon her ass cheeks.
Then she'd reach for the control wand and turn it on. When I saw the look on her face, I wanted to give the plug a try myself. The look on her face wasn't one of orgasm, but rather the beginning of an unstoppable count-down to orgasm.
She'd leave the vibration strength low, and proceed to gently insert one end of her double-headed dildo, parting her vaginal lips with the tip slowly, teasingly. I'd pray that if things went as I'd planned, I could be somewhere close to as gentle and loving. I doubted my strength though. To be so close to her, to be free to love her, I was afraid my control would vanish. And as I was reasonably sure that our encounter, should it happen, would be her first sex with another person, I wanted it to be special and gentle and painless.
Occasionally she'd forgo the butt plug and insert the other end of the dildo in her ass, and while it seems she enjoyed it, she apparently enjoyed the butt plug more.
As the butt-plug's vibrations would excite her, her juices would flow like a river. She'd begin to move the dildo into her, back and forth, back and forth. My sister was a quiet one, no screaming or moaning, only the occasional whimper as she pleasured herself. And I'd be dreaming it was me inside her as my eyelids closed partway and I'd be lost in a haze so deep I could almost feel her there with me in my closet. It was usually around that point that I came so hard that it hit the towel with a sound like rain. My eyes would open wide to capture more fully Karla on her bed and my hand would continue to stroke my cock, the combination of my lust and the sight of her forcing me through the post-orgasm sensitivity/pain and on towards yet another.
As the intensity of her masturbation would rise, she would periodically turn up the vibration on her plug. Her orgasms would become more frequent, closer together. She'd found that perfect rhythm of vibration and thrusting that kept her exactly where she wanted to be. From the flush on her face, to the bullet-like hardness of her large brown nipples, to her swollen and reddened cunt lips, to the cascades of rippling flesh as orgasms moved up and down her body like storm clouds across the hills, I could only imagine that she had gone to a place where she was loved and cherished, desired and adored, worshipped and revered, and then past that place into that bliss and mindlessness and one-ness with all things that is orgasm at it's best. She'd stay there as long as she could, and who could blame her?
I wanted to join her there, be with her there so badly that I'd debate just leaving the closet and going down the hall to her room, opening the door and falling to my knees at her bedside to profess my love and desire for her. But then, as I'd think about it, I'd realize she'd probably scream, and then proceed to beat the shit out of me. And I'd deserve it if she did.
Somewhere in amongst all my fantasizing about going to her, I would cum again, and no amount of lust or love or visions of beauty could convince my hand to remain on my cock a second longer, as my post-orgasmic sensitivity had me wanting to look at my dick, to see if it was the piece of raw hamburger it felt like.
So I'd finish, collect the towels I'd laid down, wiping myself clean, very gently and then I'd watch her until she finished.
Some nights, when she had finished and lain there in cool-down mode for awhile, she would heave a great sigh, a sigh that sounded of resignation, and she'd remove her toys, heading towards the bathroom on shaky legs to clean them and return them to her bedside table drawer.
But other nights, when she was through, she would just curl into a ball and sob, sometimes for as long as half an hour or so. I'd sit in the closet, briefs around my knees, watching her and hurting for her, hurting with her, wishing I could hold her and tell her that it would be alright somehow.
Karla and I had claimed the attic of the new house as soon as we saw it. The previous owners had made it into a rec room for their kids, dividing it with bookshelves so that a quarter of it, closest to the stairs, was a small kitchenette: shelves, a small sink, a microwave and a tiny fridge. The rest was set up as a large TV room, with a circle of couches and end tables around a 5 foot square low table, and a second, much smaller, circle of loveseats over in a corner. We didn't put a television up there, but we had brought up my old stereo.
Our mother had a very lenient drug policy, at least so far as pot and liquor were concerned. Hard for her to be too tyrannical when she herself smoked recreationally and drank socially. We could smoke and drink, but only at home, and we could never tell anyone that she was cool with it. She lived in fear of losing her job. While Karla didn't have much chance to break the first rule, I did, and did so often. The second rule we never considered breaking. We both realized how extraordinarily lucky we were, and went to great lengths to protect our privilege. It didn't hurt that the woman Mom bought from had access to some truly killer smoke, much better than what my friends and I were finding on our own, and that she had good taste in booze.
And so we had our "party" area up in the attic, next to a window that overlooked the back yard.
I knew that when the date went badly, this would be where Karla headed.
And there she was, huddled in a knot of pain on the loveseat, one hand holding a pipe that had already gone cold, a Crown & 7 in her other.
"Hey Sis, you okay?"
"No, no I'm not" she responded, tears both shed and unshed thickening her voice.
I walked around behind her and started rubbing my hands together, warming them.
"Let me guess. Another asshole that in a perfect universe it would be legal for me to kill" I asked.
"No, just another guy who realizes what a fat, ugly, disgusting pig I am."
I stood behind her, staring down at her. Yes, by societal standards, she was overweight, fat, but not morbidly obese. She carried her weight well. Even through the wreckage her tears had made of her makeup I could tell that she didn't make 'ugly'. Hell, I'd seen her first thing in the morning and she didn't make 'ugly'. And even at the height of my passion for twig-like women, my sister Karla had never been disgusting.
"Sis, please. You know that's not true. I won't argue that you're overweight, but as for the rest? Please? You're beautiful, and if no one else can see it, the problem is with their vision, not you."
I began to gently knead the muscles in her neck and shoulders through her silk blouse, the silk making it easy to glide across her skin and making my massage all the smoother.
She began to cry again and I leaned down, wrapped my arms around her, the inside of my forearms across her soft breasts, and started to whisper in her ear.
"Karla, baby, it's alright. I can't know how much you hurt right now, but I'm here, and nothing is going to hurt you while I am. So just cry as much as you need to, I'll hold you or work on your shoulders and back or whatever you need me to do."
"Hold me, please?"
"No problem at all." I slid over the back of the loveseat and sat beside her, bringing her towards me as I wrapped my arms around her.
For a moment, I considered my plans, and wondered at what I was doing. Was it right for me to use her pain as way to get what I wanted? Was it right for me to take advantage of her in an emotionally vulnerable and chemically altered state? Perhaps it wasn't. But I knew that my plans were in no way intended to hurt her, although it was a possibility. And I knew that there was the chance that my plans could end up helping her and bringing her happiness.
The scent of her hair, and her skin, filled my nose and I breathed it in deeply.
"I'm sorry to be such a pain" she said, misinterpreting my breath for a sigh, trying to move away and pull herself together.
I drew her back into my arms, her head against my chest, against my heart.
"No Sis, you're not being a pain. I was enjoying the smell of your hair. You know, that's one thing I've always appreciated about you. Even in the middle of a shitty night, you still smell good."
I felt what I thought might be laughter vibrating through her, and through me.
"Well, that's something I suppose. If I'm going to ruin your evening, the least I can do is smell good."
"Sis, no, you're not ruining anything for me. My social life this evening was watching TV and vegging on the couch. I decided to come up here for awhile before going to bed. And no, before you start worrying about it, you're not keeping me up." At least not in any way I could tell her about at that moment, but the closeness of her had my cock painfully hard.
Uma
- 16.05.2020
- 9
- 0
Shercock Holmes and the Case of the Haunted Attic
- 3 years ago
- 27
- 0
The Suitcase in the Attic
- 1 year ago
- 7
- 0
