Covidiots Pt. 06
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Covidiots part 6
Another Covid Confession
For those of you who haven’t read any of my earlier portions of my Covid diaries, let me start off by telling you a bit about my sister, Red. Red is a MILF. Maybe a bit of a tease, or maybe just scared. She is a sexually frustrated woman struggling with her desires and an underlying resistance to give in to her darkest, sweetest desires. Red is all those things, and more.
Red and I have been in lockdown together since mid-March. She has some health concerns that put her in a high-risk group for the coronavirus, and I was laid off, so she asked me to come stay with her down in her small town on the Gulf Coast of Florida. I call her Red because of her beautiful curly red hair. She is tiny and thin and fit with eyes so green they look like fake color contacts. I doubt anyone who sees her guesses she is over 40. No one would ever guess is that she is over 50, and if she showed you her driver’s license, you’d believe it is a fake. Must be an illegal immigrant from Ireland who hides her accent well and stole some older woman’s ID, but not a day over 40.
One more thing: Red is nature’s warning color.
The thing is, we’re all going to die. Maybe a slight exaggeration, but every day it looks more and more like it. And if I am going to die here in my hot sister’s house, I am going to have more fun doing it than any man legally is allowed to have.
I didn’t start out trying to corrupt my sister. In a sense, she corrupted me with a kiss. One hot, wet, messy, amazing kiss that she tempted me into. The next night got a little wild, and I licked her into two orgasms and she sucked one out of me. That was enough scratching to satisfy her itch for a while, but it lit what had been smoldering inside me for so long that, once ignited by that kiss, consumed me totally. When I decided to make corrupting her my quarantine goal I cannot pin down exactly. It wasn’t hard, because she wanted to be corrupted. She just fought it better than I did.
I had more practice, though, because I fought it for years. She must have run around the house without a bra and those miraculous boobs bouncing and headlights poking through her shirt one more time than any man can stand.
Fuck it. We’re all going to die. Before then, I am going to seduce my sister. Corrupt her. Make her want it as much as I do. We’ve got plenty of time, and not a hell of a lot else to do.
It probably won’t surprise you that we both enjoyed the other masturbating us. After that first time we gave each other handjobs, we did it every day. Sometimes we made out while diddling each other, while other times we just sat next to each other. We tried doing one at a time, but didn’t like that so much, so we did each other simultaneously after that. She took longer than me, but I didn’t mind. Sometimes after I came, she kept holding onto me as I finished her off. Then one night, she started stroking my cock again after she came a second time.
I was still hard. “Are you…sure you didn’t…take a little blue…pill?” She tried to laugh, but I rubbed her button more firmly, so instead she closed her eyes and gasped. But she kept pulling until I came a second time. Two seconds later, she came, too.
It just got crazy. I really wanted to go down on her, to taste her again and feel her warm thighs pressing out their rhythm on the sides of my face, but she spurned my efforts. Not that I could complain, not with my sister letting me cum on her stomach and boobs and on her thigh. Almost enough to convince me to give up my goal of manipulating her into seducing me.
I mean, it was hot! After beating each other off, we lay there holding each other until we fell asleep. Some nights that took a long time. Some nights, I did her again while lying behind her, holding her. Some nights she slept only in panties, but never fully nude. I guess she had some idea in her head that would keep me from screwing her while she slept, but that is not what prevented me from doing it.
No, my love for her kept me from screwing her while she slept. That and the fact that lying there, holding her boob the way I did every night, is my goal of convincing her to seduce me. Well, that is part of it. Because I did love her, the way I had since my mother brought her home when I was three, a little bald butterball who cried all the time. Back then, she held onto my finger and stopped crying. I remember how much I liked her holding onto my finger like that.
Now, she held my rod the same way. I liked that even more.
Our love had changed, though. At least mine had. And it’s not pretty when your love for your sister turns into romantic love. That is what kept me awake at night. That and how good her breast felt in my hand.
I guess it was a little more than a month ago, back in the middle of June sometime. The Covid news had begun to turn to shit and it was becoming clear we were going to be locked down a lot longer. We got our Niğde Escort food mostly online, through delivery, because even I didn’t want to go into a store by then. We had meat and fruit and veggies and milk all delivered, and I did keep fishing because I could go off somewhere by myself, away from everyone. I really didn’t want to bring the virus to my sister. We knew how contagious we were locked up there by ourselves.
We already had caught something else from each other. Whether it is more dangerous than Covid remains to be seen.
“I am so bored,” she said one afternoon. We were watching some movie on Lifetime about some cheerleaders who liked to kill each other. Now I like cheerleaders as much as any red-blooded American man, but she had a point. Why didn’t they play the Flowers in the Attic series? That would have been hot to watch with my sister’s head lying in my lap.
“Your phone has not rung since lunchtime,” I said.
“Yeah. They are going to start laying off people before long,” she said with a sad expression.
“Is your job liable to get cut?”
“Depends on what?”
“If they find out I spent a half hour on the clock making out with my brother.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” I answered.
“Are we safe here, in our little bubble?”
Pulling her close with my arm around her shoulder, I said, “We’re safe.”
“Are we? Seriously, Jennie and Mike were staying safe, working from home and all, and now look at them!” Those were her neighbors two doors down. They were both in a local hospital. Mike was in ICU, and it sounded bad. Which is a shame. Jennie is really hot. They are married, not perverts like Red and I, Jennie in her early 30s, with long black hair. I almost didn’t tell Red that Jennie sunbathed topless in her backyard, worried Red might put the kaybash on the yardwork I pretended to do while she was working. It’s funny when your sexy, thirty-something neighbor is not as sexy as your sister, yet you are worried that your sister will get jealous.
I told her anyway. She laughed because she knew. And she knew I knew. Red never ceases to surprise me. “We’re safe.”
“How can we know for sure? What if—what if we get sick. You know, before…”
Her office phone rang, so she jumped up. We were halfway across the house from the bedroom she used as her office, and she sprinted so they would not begin suspecting she was cuddling with her brother watching Lifetime movies on company time. From behind, I only got a glimpse of how running braless in that tight top looked, and wished I was down the hall in her office watching her run towards me.
Before what? Could be anything. Before sports returned. Before they found a vaccine. Before the 4th of July? The thing I hoped she meant was, what if we got sick before we consummated our love.
Nah, it couldn’t be that, could it? Wishful thinking on my part. Although, because of that damn call, I had to wonder if she was breaking or if she wanted to live to see season 6 of Outlander.
“Look in section 4 of the policy,” she said to someone on the phone when I walked in, and she looked up and twirled her finger near the headset. A muffled voice of some dude came out in the quiet as I walked up behind her. I massaged her shoulders, and her head tilted back a little. One hand reached back to pull her ponytail out of the way. That’s how she wore her hair much of the time now, because it was getting so long and she did NOT trust her brother with her hair and a pair of scissors. When the chair blocked my hands as I worked down, she leaned forward so I could massage a little lower. “It’s right there in the second column, Part E,” she told the guy who had no idea what was going on. I reached around and took a boob in each hand and lightly massaged them. Those eyes turned up to me, narrowed in a warning, but then she smiled, so I just squeezed them a little.
And then I left her to explain to that guy how she was going to screw him because of what column 2 said.
“Let’s get drunk tonight,” she suggested after dinner. A fantastic idea. The liquor store still delivered, and I had ordered some more expensive whiskey, but she wanted white wine. Okay, it is possible to get drunk on white wine, but it takes some time. Wine is fine, but liquor is quicker. “It will help us forget for a minute.”
“I know what will make you forget for ten minutes, at least,” I said, but she went for the wine. She had four or five bottles in the fridge, so she must have been planning this for a while. Having exhausted Netflix’s limited selection of films featuring sister-on-brother fun, I let her pick. The first bottle emptied before we knew it, her leaning against me on the couch enjoying another date night. The only disappointment was she wore the unsexist outfit she had in at least a week—a loose tee-shirt and scrub pants she got from somewhere. That and her choice of some film which had no sex scenes at all made me concerned that we were going Niğde Escort Bayan to drink until she fell asleep, and I’d carry her to bed, tuck her in and be satisfied squeezing her boob.
I guess being worried about death killed her sex drive. I was not worried, and every time her hand touched my leg or she leaned on me cranked up my sex drive a little higher. I pulled her close and kissed her neck, and she smiled at me, then turned back to the movie.
When the movie was over, she said, “Well, that was boring.” Then she laughed.
“Don’t blame me.”
“Next time, you pick.” I started pull her against me to cuddle, because it might boost her mood a bit, but she pulled away. “Is there more wine?”
“Are you okay, Red?”
“Sure. Fine,” she said in that way women do when they are upset about something. The way she cuddled made me think it wasn’t me, but since I am the only human being she had been in a room with for three months by that point, the suspect list was very short.
“Are you in a bad mood?”
“A bad mood? Of course I am in a bad mood!” Oh, shit! Sensing a fiery redhead about to blow—and not in the way I wanted—I began planning my escape route. “How can you just sit there while people are dying around us every day? The world is falling apart around us, we are trapped her inside this house and cannot even go to the store, and you wonder why I might be in a bad mood?”
The key to handling her anger and frustration, learned many years ago, is to listen and give her options. Most of my childhood I enjoyed pushing her buttons, teasing her to inflame the situation, but even then I knew how to calm her. To this day, I still enjoy pushing her button, but I’d rather lick it.
“What if I have an idea?”
“This had better be good. Right now, I’d do anything to forget about all this shit!”
Now she’s talking! “Have you ever done body shots?”
She was walking back with a full glass in each hand, and she tilted her head to the side and her scowl relaxed a little. “No. Saw a movie where they did it though, and it looked so sensual. I can’t remember what movie it was.”
“It works better with Tequila and limes.”
“Did you buy any Tequila?”
“Well then, we are shit out of luck.” She plopped down beside me with force sufficient to bounce her boobs merrily, but in that big shirt, I had to imagine it. Even her nipples were only hints lost in that thing.
“We can make do,” I said, not willing to give up. My mind scrambled. I don’t know what brought body shots into my head, but didn’t have any better ideas, so decided to run with it. “Does white wine stain?”
“Depends.” The green in her eyes glowed a little.
The sheets on my bed in the guest room were a dark pink. I know, don’t give me any grief. Besides, I hadn’t slept there in a week or so. “Think white wine will stain pink sheets?”
“How ’bout I take you to my place for a change?”
“We need to establish rules,” she said as she plopped down on my bed. “I don’t want you taking advantage of me.”
That makes one of us. Then again, once the wine and a few shots off her more sensitive flesh had its effect, I hoped she might decide to take advantage of me. Remember, my goal is to convince her to screw me. This bad mood could be turned to my advantage. “With Tequila, you lick salt off the person’s body, then drink the shot, then take a lime from their mouth.”
“And with wine?”
“Good question. How do you want it to go?” See, there is another rule I learned many years ago. You cannot force a woman to do something you want them to do if their mind is against it. Not without turning them against you and filling them with anger and resentment. What you CAN do is to let them decide. When you give a woman control, its 50/50 she will do pretty much what you want her to do, because women are horny, too. Remember, she said she has needs.
“How does it work? Do I drink from your body, then you from mine?”
“Sounds good,” I said, because it did.
“What parts to we drink from?”
“What parts do you want to drink from,” I glanced down, eyes following her body, “or for me to drink from?”
“There must be limits,” she meekly protested.
“Of course. Whatever you want.”
“I have an idea!” She disappeared almost at a jog, and returned holding another bottle and wearing a bikini. Kind of a mom-bikini, but there was plenty of skin to drink from. “Is this OK?”
“It’s perfect,” I said, and it pretty much was.
“Then take off your shirt.” I tossed it on the floor and lay back as she knelt next to me, walking across the mattress on her knees holding the open bottle in one hand. Scanned me from eyes to crotch. The first time she smiled all day. “Where to start?”
“So many choices,” I encouraged her.
“What if it spills?”
“The drinker should probably lick it all up, right?”
“Probably so.” Her eyes were focused on my torso. I Escort Niğde bet she wished I had started so she had some idea what to do. Then she decided, and tipped the bottle over my sternum.
White wine is cold, and she poured a little more than the hollow between my pecs could hold, and some of it drained down to my stomach. A cold trickle dripped down my left side.
“Oh, damn!” Quickly putting the bottle on the bedside table, she bent over to suck the puddle from my chest. Her hair flopped down into it, which she brushed back over one shoulder before finishing up. Then she licked down the cold path it took, her tongue warm on my stomach and side. She giggled uncontrollably. “Oh, my god! You’ve got a hairy chest! I can’t believe I just did that!”
Neither could I. I sat up. “My turn.”
Wood already sprouting, she lay before me. For a second I considered following her lead to drink from her sternum, but decided something different might be better. Her belly was the obvious place, so I chose the hollow at the base of her neck instead. Not much fit in there, and she shivered from the cold, sending half the wine over her shoulder and neck. I drank the shot, then leaned across her to follow the trail across her skin with my tongue.
When I lay down again, there was no hiding my wood. Staring at it, she said, “Really? Already?”
“If you wear that bikini and drank off every guy in America, you could put Viagra out of business.” Bottle aimed at my belly, I sucked in an instant before she poured. Cold as shit, she poured way too much. At least I am skinny, and the wine spread all around without overflowing. Her lips sucked as much as she could, which tickled like mad, then that pink tongue licked all over my stomach. Long licks, then inside my belly button.
This time, I did copy her, and drank from her belly button, too. I mean, come on! That was hot! Skinny as she is, she hollowed out her belly well, so nothing spilled. My tongue circled around inside her belly button long after all the wine was gone, and her stomach shook with laughter. I crawled up over her, my knee between her legs. “Your turn.”
“On your belly,” she commanded, then paused. I turned my head so I could watch, and she settled on the small of my back. It must hold a lot, because a cold puddle grew, and I wondered if it would overflow into my crack. But she stopped before it ran off anywhere and drank, her hair falling on my back as her tongue flicked away every drop.
That was such a good idea I considered copying her again, but decided to drink from between her boobs, instead. Carefully pouring, although I really didn’t care if it ran all over her, but she brought her arms in, pushing in her boobs to keep it in place. A trickle ran up across her chest, back into the hollow of her neck and back down her shoulder and neck again. Savoring each drop from the valley between her breasts, my cheeks touched boob on each side.
My tongue licked her boobs clean, and I may have accidentally licked where the wine never reached, but she did not object, then followed the drops all the way to the back of her neck. Neither of us were laughing then. Too intense. She drank from my neck and had me lay on my stomach again with my arms pulled back to create something to drink of between my shoulder blades; I drank from the back of her knee, then from the cup the hollow of her back formed. She lay on her back, waiting for me to choose, and I ran my hand over her stomach.
“How do you like body shots?”
“I love them,” she said.
Holding the bottle next to her face, I said, “Open wide—but don’t swallow.” Being careful not to pour too much, because her choking on it would be bad, her tongue wagged invitingly through the puddle of wine. My tongue took it, lapping it up, then she squirted some into my mouth and swallowed the rest as our tongues turned in slow circles. Red rolled me over and poured the bottle into my mouth and we kissed it away again.
I probably could have found more hollow places, and had thought about trying to pull her leg wide to see if I could drink off that crotch muscle—she is skinny, too—but decided the game was over. Well, almost over. Roughly rolling her over beneath me, I looked into her eyes, then down at her bikini top. Not the sexiest, but good enough, a gold and yellow geometric pattern that covered way too much boob. I slowly pulled it above her right breast, expecting her to stop me, but didn’t move until it popped out to jiggle a little.
Neither of us said a word. I poured a few drops onto her nipple and watched it tighten up, bumps rising all around an areola almost the identical color as the rest of the skin on her body. Then I poured a couple more drops on the same spot before sucking the wine from her nipple. That amazing, wonderful nipple. Pulled in to a little more than half its normal size, but still larger than most.
“Do you know you have freckles on your nipple?”
“I know! It’s disgusting!”
“Nipple hair is disgusting; nipple freckles are hot—and beautiful.” I kissed those freckles, each one. I counted four inside this areola and knew the other had three.
When I finished, she began shaking, her boobs jello an inch from my face. “Nipple hair?”
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