little julie s sister
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‘Little’ Sister free porn video
Author’s note: This story takes place in the Richard’s Enterprises universe: Kitty & Teddy, LLC, K&T, LLC, [K][T] and Family. At least some understanding of the events of those three books is necessary. This story is about Siobhan. I consider this a coming of age story, even though the main character is in her mid-20s.
There is no sex in this installment.
Prologue—Moving Out but Not Going Away.
I dreaded my return to Hanover. Summer in New Jersey had been, quite literally, coming home. It was not to a place I had never been before, but it seemed like it more than once. I reconnected with a brother I had long adored, met a new sister I dearly loved and found my place in the family. Unlike three months before, the crusty old manor was home. So, I was leaving home to finish school.
What can I say about Ivy League graduate programs, that has not been covered by a dozen movies? The campuses are beautiful. The classes are impossibly difficult. Student life is student life. Politics are politics.
T. Woodrow Wilson, when he ran for President, claimed faculty wife’s lunches as his grounding in politics. Washington did not overwhelm him. Politics in academics is the same give and take on a smaller scale. In the humanities and social sciences, we study politics as a subject, so we have a grounding in theory on which to base our practice. While I was home, I had abandoned almost all my political friends.
I was bound for New Hampshire. The signs said I might be there a while. Wheels were already turning and my name was closely associated with the process. If I was the mother, then I needed to be prepared to change the diapers. Politics being what it is, I wondered how my new look would go over. It was certainly better suited to the cameras and donor luncheons. On the other hand, a number of people had given me support when I wanted to dress down. What would they think?
Chapter 1—In the Beginning
I should tell you about myself. My name is Siobhan Richards. I grew up hating the name, because no one could pronounce it correctly (shuh-VAHN), even when I sounded it out. Jo is the usual nickname, so I went by that. It was a good nickname, because I hung with the guys and flirted with the girls, not that it worked.
I am 181 cm tall (5′ 11′). My famous and powerful brother is only 177 cm (1½’ shorter). In addition to my unreasonable height, I have a face not even my mother loved. ‘Fleshy’ and ‘strong boned’ are not words of endearment when describing a young girl’s features. A scar or other disfigurement might have helped. Those are subject to surgery. As you might image, my high school years were not pleasant.
Sean, the rich and powerful brother I mentioned, was always my protector. He is several years older and acted as my parent for most purposes. Mother and Father fought with each other, sparing me no notice. This lasted til I was ten. They never divorced, but everything short of that was done in one weekend. Father did not attend my graduation.
When Mother threw Father out, it was worse. My maternal grandmother was a famous socialite. Mother’s childhood was full of mother/daughter events. She had hoped to repeat them in the parental role, so my lack of suitable looks cramped her social life. During my developing years, mother’s attention was usually to inform me that I was unattractive and always would be.
Puberty was something else. For once I was the best in my class in something nonacademic. In 5th grade, Theresa Waltermuth was tallest in the class at 158 cm [5′ 2′ (she still is)]. When school started that fall, I was 160 cm and growing fast. More to the point, so was my chest. I was first in my age group to develop adult breasts and also had the largest ones. The attractive girls quickly decided I was a threat and ramped up the attacks. Bless Sean, he tried.
Sean is my big brother, which is ironic because I am now close to two inches taller, more like five inches when I wear heels. Sean is shortish and compact, fit and fairly attractive for a guy. I have always looked up to him, from the time I was barely walking and he reached down to hold my hand. His face, over my upraised arm, is one of the enduring images of my childhood.
I think Sean was about ten or eleven, which is an age when many older brothers decide that younger siblings are contagious. Sean was never said I was someone else’s sibling or a child of one of the staff. Such things happened. There were not a lot of occasions the cute girls made me feel sympathetic, but that story is one of the times.
It could not have been easy for Sean. He was several years older and two schools ahead, but he would not tolerate anyone treating me badly. One girl, Trina, insisted that it was her right to treat me as a punching bag, since I was unattractive. Sean scolded her the first time. The second time, he notified the school. For once I was in the Principal’s office when someone else was in trouble.
It did not end there. Trina had an older cousin, who tried to shake Sean down. Oops. The guy came back with two friends. While that fight was going on, there was a chance to settle with Trina. I may have been seven years old, but I understood how torn clothing and bruises could work against me.
First, I kicked off a shoe and pulled off a sock. Then I grabbed Trina by the hair and dragged her around the corner. Before she could cry out, I stuffed the dirty sock in her mouth. In the process, she grabbed my shirt and tore it, along with some scratching. I do not know which was more satisfying, roughing her up or watching her admit she had torn my shirt. Regardless, Trina stayed far away for the next two years.
If you are getting the idea that my childhood was difficult, you have the right track. Father was rarely around and Mother disliked how I reflected on her social standing. Sean filled a big part of the gap. He was really cool to be around, because he always treated me like an equal. Even better, I always know what he was thinking.
Sean has this habit. He thinks aloud almost nonstop. If you listen, it comes as a low confusing mumble. That never bothered me, because I learned to read his lips. It’s ironic, because Sean has trouble putting his finished thoughts into words. I could always follow his thinking as it unfolded, which is much more illuminating. Over time it has proven a useful skill. A great deal of my famous timing is based on it.
All good things end. My childhood ended early in many ways, but puberty was just the most obvious. It was also where I needed to draw my own line it the sand. I was the tallest kid in my class and the only one with frontal development. What had been sniping and back biting became continuous warfare. Sean kept trying, but he was out of his depth.
The problem was that Sean was not a parent or guardian. No standing. Worse, he was still in high school, which made him suspect in many adult minds. Sean met with the Principal and several girl’s parents. In each case, the parents asked why he was interested in their underage daughter. Before things became ugly, I asked Sean to pull back.
With Sean out of the way, my tormentors thought it was open season. Verbal sparring quickly went to new levels. In passing, learned how much could be accomplished with a sneer or a disdainful look. It only spurred my tormentors on to physical means. All was not lost. Sean’s otherwise futile efforts gave me time to plan strategy. Indeed, deferring to him had preempted some creative payback. When new attacks came, I was ready.
Physical intimidation was never an easy option, since I was biggest and strongest. A couple of girls gathered packs and tried anyway. That played into my hands. In groups there is always a hierarchy. Physical confrontations became a matter of figuring out who to take down first. That was easy, but aftermaths could be messier. Following one dust up, the girls tried to bring in official parties. With Sean at my side, I explained that fiv
e to one is unfair, even if I was bigger. I received detention. They were suspended and lost places on various sports teams and spirit squad.
After that incident worked its way through the culture, things became more covert. In this my ability to read lips was invaluable. My locker was broken into and drugs were stashed. When the Principal asked me to open my locker, I knew to insist that the police be present to dust for prints. One cheerleader’s boyfriend was expelled. That did not stop the smaller stuff. During gym, my bra was cut up. I went without from that day on.
Not surprisingly, I was soon on a first name basis with the office staff. I did not report problems, but the lack of bra was noticed in my first class. I was able to pull the two pieces out of my backpack. More often I was accused of something. Occasionally it was even true, but usually my payback was more subtle than their imagination.
My speed was more along the lines of wardrobe malfunction. The wrong bra size is a real pain, but who will complain in public? I went through whole bottles of red ink. Buttons popped off. Zippers stripped. Purse handles failed. I rarely bothered to watch, which helped create solid alibis.
Most of the time my accuser’s story was pure fiction and easy to disprove. Once or twice I had to do some investigating before I could quiet things. A pattern developed. Eventually, the office would simply take statements and file them as unsubstantiated. By junior year, it was acknowledged I was too much trouble to mess with. Rah team.
That, of course, is ironic. There was no team. By then, Sean had done two years at Brown and joined the Army. Both were designed to irritate my mother. She believed in Harvard Med, Yale Law and Princeton Engineering. Brown was bad enough, but Sean’s enlisting in the Army was close to the last straw. Sean joined me on the list of disappointing children. It did not matter that Sean essentially took over running the company, by email, two years before his Army term was up. As soon as I finished high school, Mother moved to California and discovered tequila.
It all sounds lonely, and it was, but even high school loners have peers. A couple of the computer geeks would talk to me, but my real circle were the outcasts. Many were Goth, before Goth was cool. Several claimed to be lesbian. I did not exactly fit in, but they did not throw me out. For my adolescent years, that counted as a win.
By senior year, I was attracting another kind of attention—the kind that comes from elite test scores. Computers and math were never my thing, but I was death in everything else. I could have graduated after my 11th grade year. I finished while taking full load of advanced placement and remote classes through the New Jersey University system.
For Senior Composition, I did a paper on Huckleberry Finn, describing him as a victim of child abuse. It worked its way to the Sociology department at Yale. One thing led to another. Two weeks before graduation, I drove the Mercedes to New Haven, Connecticut and met the Social Sciences faculty.
That day at Yale I also met Alice Dumervil, the vice chairwoman of Women’s Studies. We connected on a fundamental level. She was more than forty years older and in poor health, so social contact was out of the question. After my freshman year, she retired and died not long after. Still, I refer to her as my mentor.
Chapter 2 — Yale
You will hear that it is extremely hard to get into Ivy League schools. That is usually true. It is also true that top schools recruit, sometimes fiercely. Alice pushed me to file the proper forms and essays, while greasing the wheels at her end. I spent my 19th birthday moving into a shared flat in New Haven. It would make a fine story to say that there was a coven of witches in residence, but it was just one pharmacy major named Fiona. She dabbled a little in Wicca and sold herbs on the side. Most of them were legal.
Yale was both harder and easier than high school. Academically, few students are ready for the workload and most cannot handle it. That made it a simple challenge—just do the work. Simple may not be easy, but the grades tell you how you have done. I did very well. The easy part is that everyone left me alone to study. It was almost Halloween before I noticed I never did anything but house chores, class and homework.
Fiona organized an All Hallows house party. It was not my first experience with alcohol, but it remains the deepest. Instead of ordinary weed, our pharmacy major obtained genuine hashish, plus other things. Halloween was Friday. I woke up Sunday in a bed full of naked female bodies, with someone licking my pussy. I passed out again and never even knew her name. It suffices to say Monday’s first class was not a highlight.
From that point on, I was acknowledged as a member of the house lesbian circle. I could never remember what I said or did, but there it was. For the most part, it made no difference in my life. Six days a week were consumed by school and homework. Saturdays I would occasionally go out with the other girls.
Five years later, I looked back on those two years with a critical eye. My alter ego, Frau Doktor Richards, dissected the string of one night stands. It is not something I am proud to acknowledge, but I had made progress. This was a tribe. I became a member in good standing—complete with appropriate dress.
The piercings were the simplest. I paid money, bought jewelry, endured some pain. Viola. I had a new ring or stud. Tattooing was common, but not universal. I never bothered. My look was distinctive enough without it. I almost never wore a bra, though I kept one around. Cut pants, heavy boots, torn T-shirt and black makeup can be done with surprising variety. For example, try a small bell dangling through a tear in the T-shirt, from a nipple ring.
Chapter 3 — Boston
The summer between my junior and senior years was the first big change. All the social sciences require field work. The one I chose was to the slums of Boston. In some ways it was like living in the flat, without the homework. My alcove became a dorm bed, with half a closet and a military foot locker. Showers were communal and hot water a rare privilege. Food was done on a chore schedule. Same old, same old.
Forty hours a week I spent working at a transient shelter. Another twenty were at a legal aid office, filling out government forms for people that could barely read. It was something that stayed with me when I went into politics. Another few hours were spent on daily notes. The rest were spent with Veronica.
Roni loved Elvis Costello’s song Veronica. She would hum it all the time. Whenever we were about to do something daring, or even just a bit risqué, she would sing the line, ‘You can call me anything you like, but my name is Veronica.’ Her name in lyric seemed empowering. Certainly, she was as wild as the girl in the song.
We met standing in line. Veronica sang that line, over and over, til she was called. In seconds, she was a screeching harpy, gouging flesh out of a civil servant’s hide. I stood to one side and handed her things as the need arose—paper, pen, copy of the regulations, etc. I was the perfect contrast, standing quietly, but towering over the desk.
Eventually, the clerk picked up his phone and progress was achieved. Roni hrumphed with feeling. I presented my paperwork for the clerk to stamp. That done, we left the office. Once the door was shut behind us, she threw her arms around me and said, ‘I don’t know who you are, but I owe you coffee. They never give in that fast.’
Veronica bought two lattes to go, then I walked her home. She invited me in. We spent an hour on her sofa necking. Things might have gone further, but her roommate came home. Introductions were made and I left, promising to call. The next night we attended a poetry reading. The night after, Saturday, it was a 1930s art film marathon til five AM. We slept together and had sex f
or breakfast. She could not cook any better than I could.
It’s easiest to describe Roni was a stereotypical redhead Irish New Yorker, with temper to match. She was Dutch, brunette and no freckles, from Providence, but her attitude was so familiar my New Jersey roots felt at home. For two months Roni led me around. Perhaps that’s why I let her put a ring in my nose. Actually, it was three rings, but one sufficed to give her control a literal reference.
When I say it that way, it sounds bad. It was not one sided. I learned a lot of things about sex, women, the club scene and politics. Always the politics. Veronica was a master of offering you three ways to make her life better. She could make you grateful for having a choice. Fortunately for me, she was not the Mistress of choices. That might have ended more badly.
I was an intern for my thesis research. Time with Veronica was like a second internship. Of the two, Roni taught me more. My sister-in-law, Sheila, has a lovely phrase for it, ‘Learning hurts, because part of your innocence died.’ They make up words like bittersweet to describe my relationship with Veronica.
The end came a few days before I was going to blow off fall semester and stay on at the shelter. As was my normal routine, I left the legal aid office, stopped by the news/coffee/sundries store and picked up two lattes with an extra shot. I knew as soon as I opened the door that something was wrong. Two hours later, still with two lattes in hand, Veronica was gone from my life. She always told me a clean cut heals best.
I did not cry then, or ever, about the break up. Cruel cuts were an old enemy. I knew how to hold the edges together til scar tissue formed. Oddly, it made things easier at the shelter and legal aid center. No one knew Veronica, but they knew her tactics. If you read Othello, the only person that believes Desdemona was unfaithful is her husband. I was the only one that thought Roni had deep feelings for me. All the people I worked with considered her a manipulative bitch.
Maybe Roni’s abrupt approach did leave less scarring. It kept me from taking some irrevocable actions, for which I am thankful. Not having her around allowed me to focus on my notes and preparation for my thesis. My new emotional state caused me to reconsider my basic approach. It may be funny to think that a sociologist would forget human factors, but that is what I had done.
Work proved good therapy. My last Monday, I dragged in on less than three hours of sleep. Mimi Montenegro, the director, told me to grab a cot and get some sleep. Four hours later, they had pulled together a going away lunch. I was touched. While I made no friends that summer, several people respected my work and my dedication. We had a fine time over chicken wings and pizza.
It came as a shock when someone asked about Veronica. Suddenly, the whole room went quiet. It was so much like a movie, I had to laugh. That broke the ice and soon everything was back to normal. Later that morning, Mimi told me that she had been worried about suicide. I did not mean to laugh, but I couldn’t help myself. Then I couldn’t stop.
Mimi pulled me into her office and closed the door. When I stopped shaking, she said, ‘OK. Not exactly what I expected, but it’s something. Why does suicide strike you as funny?’
I may have been a bit loopy, but I could tell this was a very serious question. Since I did not want men in white coats visiting, I had to chose my words carefully. To stall for time, I put my head my hand and waved the other index finger at her. Mimi allowed it.
Looking up, I said, ‘Thank you. I appreciate the concern. It is not entirely misplaced, but it is not really needed.
‘If I understand your thinking, it goes like this. Jo is an unattractive girl, who has never had a serious affair of the heart. Along comes a major league player, who uses that heart for a doormat. Break up happens. Heart shatters. Jo throws herself into her work, while self medicating with God only knows what. After a long binge of a weekend, she shows up looking like something the cat threw up, then goes into hysterics.
Rowan
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