Date: Mon, 9 Jun 2008 12:25:34 -0700 (PDT)
From: Tim Stillman <novemberhourglass@yahoo.com>
Subject: incest m/m m/f  "The Last Summer"

			      The Last Summer


				    By


			     Timothy Stillman


(Dedicated to Horatio and to Philly and the summers when being young was
green lawns forever)

We lived on the outskirts of Cologne. Today, it would be called, I suspect,
a suburb. Then, we lived in summer, it seemed, always, in a large manor
house, with a huge flower garden, which was created by my grandmother, and
continued by my mother--it was a vast tapestry of brilliant beaming sunny
colors, to offset the brown chocolate colored highly proper house, where
we, my sister, my brother, and I ate and did homework and listened to radio
and heard the silent fears of our parents over a potential, no, a definite
threat of a coming war. We slept in the back yard, in a tent, when our
parents allowed. We played and had our days there in that huge yard. The
flowerbeds were in the front and the back, and there was a view of all the
stars in the sky we would look at, as we lay on the grass so green and
imagined and touched.

Our parents were strict, did not even allow us to drink wine with meals,
and were assured we did well in school and that we attended to our
studies. But we three, Simon was 9, Simone was 12, and I, Christof, was in
the middle at 10. We had been sexually experimenting for some time, though
we didn't know what it really was we were doing, just that it felt so nice
and fun and warm and comforting. The wolf is at our doors, father often
said. We had no comprehension as to what that might mean. Only that he
looked grim, and always snapped the left suspender on his shoulder when he
said it. Then and then alone did he do that.

At studies, and I suppose in what I laughingly refer to as reality, we were
average, but with each other we were beautiful and handsome. I guess I
would have to say Simone started it. At least, it's how I remember it.  It
was a summer like this one, hot and filled with cricket sounds, out in the
country, our family wealthy, our family Jewish, and on that some certain
children bedeviled us, though we had no idea why. There was something
coming in the wind. But the wind that final summer before night would
descend in the daytime too, we played. As Simone taught Simon and I, the
delicate beauty of her endlessly wonderful body; though it was not so
radically different from ours at that age. She had scraped knees and elbows
just as did we, from our summer games. Though that curious slit between her
legs fascinated us. As I think our tiny penises and testicles fascinated
her.


Mine was in truth no larger than Simon's, though I was older, which was
always a sore point with me, but Simone smoothed things out.  She would
have us in the middle of early dark morning, in the grass, naked and on our
backs, as she, equally naked, would touch us with fronds of grass and make
us giggle, as she would trace us with a tender finger all over, especially
on our penises and make them stand up, then turn us on our backs and
continue the procedure. As we rubbed ourselves on the warm green grass. She
said she especially liked to see us do that. She found where we were
ticklish, as we did, her, when we did the same to her body. She inspected
our penises closely and finally one day in a whoosh of pleasure for me at
least stuck my balls and hard penis in her mouth and tickled them with her
tongue and sucked and held them between her teeth, as she slyly looked up
at us as she played with our almost non-existent nipples. As Simon's eyes
almost popped out of his head, staring so hard. I had a little orgasm, but
mostly I experienced shock. She examined our hard penises so minutely, so
close to her eyes, ever millimeter and we were in love, we three, I
think. Oh those warm hands.

When we sucked her nipples, and examined her vagina, opening the girl leafs
of it and putting fingers there and gradually, one, two, tongues there as
she clamped her legs round our heads, each in turn, and pressed, while we
shot dry orgasms on to her, and were amazed at the artful ways our bodies
were made, the secrets inside them, and how those secrets would bridge one
of us to another. Then one hot July afternoon, behind the thick, tall
bushes at the end of our back yard which was quite large, as the big sun of
summer beamed down on us so mercilessly that you would have to be a child
to fall in love with it, and new to this world, which seemed so peaceful
and calm, the birds flew, the ants roamed, and Simone said that day behind
the huge bushes, I want you to fuck me.

Our stomachs went butterfly tilting at the hot July breeze that was almost
non-existent, and we were slack-jawed at her as though she had totally lost
her mind, though truth was, we had no idea what fucking meant. It was a bad
word, and we should not use it, and yet, there must have chromosomes in us
that did know what the word meant, for since we were naked. save for Simon
in his playsuit still, I went immediately hard and Simon blushed and held
his head downward. Simone laughed and touched our chins and made us look at
her, for I had suddenly gone shy round her, when at other sex play, we had
never been shy.

She smiled, a radiant glory of a smile, all bright and her face and eyes
were so cheerful and happy, I thought of a cartoon chipmunk at the cinema
one time, before the movie started, and you just had to smile back at her,
both of us, because she made everything such a lark, so very wonderful.
Her hands were always touching us as we were always touching each other and
her. We thought summer and we would go on forever, that growing into
something approximating mother and father was never going to happen, was
simply unthinkable, for we had, thanks mostly to Simone, learned to love
our bodies, to be fascinated with them, to even watch as one of us
peed. Not like mother and father who, never seemed to touch, who had to
come to America for us to see them, in some desperation, kiss even a peck
on the other's lips, and then let go, unsure what to do next, but cough
politely and move away from each other, and to us, we talked it over later,
we children, it seemed obscene.

Simon and I were hard most of the time, while Simone loved to pull our
penises very very gently and rub us to orgasm as we moaned and smiled and
gasped and felt so good shuddering our penises in her warm brown bread soft
hand.

We wanted to very badly what she said in the sunlight of high afternoon,
while mother and father, British born and bred, were having tea in the
garden no more than a yard from us, for we loved doing daring things they
never had knowledge of us doing, so Simone went to Simon and slowly and
sexily unbuttoned his playsuit, kissing him and licking him down the center
of the chest.

We all had brownish hair. Simone had blue stark eyes.  I had brown and
Simon had gray. Simone was beautiful, like a cameo of a young woman who was
pretending to be a small child. Her body was like a series of waves, gentle
and delicate and all of a form. Simon's body was a little stockish but
still wonderful, with arms that held closely all of us, a little puppy dog
face and a smile that was all happiness attendant with Simone's. I was
wearing long brown hair, much the length of Simone's shoulder length hair.

Our parents for their entire stricture were very liberal, so they
thought. The books they read and the philosophies they discussed, so
seemingly over our heads, at dinner, which were indeed over the two sons'
heads, but not Simone's who happily later on as we lay naked with each
other in our bedrooms or on the grounds, in very succinct, very mocking
style, explained what our parents had been saying, and made it all
senseless as it probably had been, that had us giggling till our tummies
hurt.

I seem to be delaying the passage of our fucking, I suppose it is a
treasure I take out on my sadder days to look at and hold warmly in my
hands; I don't want it to be shopworn, giving less luster every day. She
took my little brother, now naked, by the hand, not the penis, she had, as
I tried to learn, while Simon didn't ever try, because she was a great
believer in the dignity of all mankind, especially the children who she was
wont to say "did not make this great big mess they've left us with." Still
holding his hand, she lay herself under a spreading green thick leafed
shade tree, with the attendant silence, the occasional laugh from mother or
father a million miles away, laughing at a personal joke or a stupid news
story in the paper--how could anyone believe anything like that could
possibly happen?

I would hear one or the other of them say often--she gently pulled shaking
Simon down to her, spreading her legs as Simon gulped and though a
constantly wide-eyed kid, he had never been this wide eyed, lay him on top
of her, and said defiantly and softly as sisters should be, I think, "Now
put your penis inside me, that slit right there, and Christof you guide it
in for him and look closely as my brother fucks me, so you will no how to
next."

I was--terrified, hard as I have ever been or more, my penis throbbing as I
rubbed it with my trembling hand--did as she told me, thus pushing his
little rod into her, both hot entering and hot her vagina hole, as she
gasped and adjusted Simon's body to a better position, less weight on her
thin body, I guess, and she said to me, "put it in again, it slipped
out--right there--here, let me spread further, you can see it, Christof."


I had never seen this far up her and was fascinated, examining girl shadows
perhaps she herself had never seen, as I pushed Simon's little dickie into
her hole again, this time the angle seemed to be right, as she gasped and
said wait a minute, then after that, she put her arms round him and her
legs round his legs, and told me as she pushed her hair off her eye, to
hold his butt and to help him move in and out, so I did, and it was
extraordinary to see them fucking, for that, after all, was just what it
was.

I kissed Simon's butt and have no idea what made me do it, for it seemed
disgusting, but all of a sudden there was my tongue for a moment in his ass
hole, and I felt his butt muscles clinch, as he held a quite oh Christ, all
of us knowing we must not shout, because that would end our fun for
sure. And when I licked his dick and what he had entered, I felt and saw
him dry cum in her, and it was like leaning my hands on a distant sea as I
held his body and hers as I lay then by their sides, and felt Simon
experiencing this thing that had been secret from us, and which united us,
as we had thought we had known all along, but were wrong. They trembled,
they kissed, they held tightly and included me in, and we were so glorious
in that hazy early afternoon sunlight, where kids get dizzy from twirling
round and round.

Then forever after Simone was the more "mature man" because he had fucked
Simone first. We didn't know the word "incest" for we were a literate,
liberal family, there were certain things those as mother said frequently
"in our social circle, we have nothing to do with, even saying the words,
such trifles," therefore a great deal of guilt I'm sure other children
face, we did not have to.

 And when Simon helped guide me in, my penis was like inside velvet, and it
was being stroked, as I kissed my sister's nipples, little buds beginning
to grow, a nice girl taste to them and spongy as I felt my body, which was
a bit taller and fuller than Simone's, lie on the length of her, with my
penis in her vagina, as Simon was working my hips, which were flat, sad to
say, and his mouth on mine and then on her tits, and then he rubbed his
hard on on my cheek and I kissed it and tried to take it in my mouth, but I
was rocking so hard, as was Simone, it was impossible. And Simone and I
were almost wrestling, so intensely, held sweaty and as though stuck bodily
to one another, as I pushed my cock into her as far as I could, as I felt a
little barrier and pushed against it, as she cried and said wait, wait, and
then, all right, yes, fuck me fuck me. I was coming and wished I could come
a load like boys talked about in school. As I bit her tits and sucked on
them.

Simon sat there, in cross-legged style and watched us as he masturbated,
touching each of us till I came in her. My body was digging into hers, I
could not get enough of her, and she was kissing me all over my face.  Her
legs round me almost hurt. My balls mashed against her and I shook and she
grasped me. My penis was in a dance of squirming as her pussy seemed to go
starkers itself, all pulling and pushing and caroming and making her
breathe so hard and exhausted, while when Simon came in her, she was
excited, she obviously enjoyed it, she had kissed him feverishly as they
write in romance novels, and stroked him and had made sighs and was not
kidding him at all, but it took some time for me to realize girls had
orgasms too, and her first one, I suppose it was, we were so close and
shared sexual secrets only with each other, imagining the hell rained down
on us and especially our parents if we had `been' with other children or
god forbid `adults,' with a cock in her, which was mine, was her real
milestone. She did tell me later about how I popped her cherry. That little
barrier I had felt that had hurt her. There had been a mite or two of blood
as well. But she told me it was normal, not to worry, calming my fears I
had done her an injury.

Idiots can be bought. We lost everything of course. For flight.  For
hopeful freedom. Away from all we had ever known. We never went back to
Germany, even after it was all over. We never went back to Europe. Though
length of time could have been ours and there were ways to pare down the
nightmare from our own doorstep, it seemed inevitable, and prolonging
summer was more cowardly than heroic.

 We boarded a train and then a ship and the night was deep dark for a very
long time. We came to America and lived the tenement life you've probably
read about or heard your ancestors talk of, or have seen in movies, or live
in today. We stayed together. Age and illness took our mother and father
though I think it was heartbreak and loneliness that really did them
in. Loneliness for their beautiful chocolate colored manor house, their
vast green summer lawns, their book collections, all in leather binders,
the society they lived in, the high teas, the servants at our every whim,
the original oil paintings in the drawing room, the golden banister that we
held to go to our second floor were our bed chambers were.

We children are still alive. We have had even great-grandchildren. We never
had sex with each other again. It was like we had left three children back
there who had somehow for whatever reason had pretended were us. We
gradually grew ashamed of all of that. We had finally learned our lesson,
though I at least never knew what that lesson was or why it was we had to
learn it in the first place. We put on clothes and even when we bathed,
always separately, it was like we still had clothes on anyway.

We went to our own lives, our own destinations, and see one another very
rarely at family gatherings. It is so terrible what old age can do to a
person. We become not us. We become sad mockeries. A brother looks at my
eyes, I turn away. A sister looks at my eyes and turns away, ashamed, take
off that horrible false face and that awful body disguise, give us back us;
we lost, so horribly and we blame each other; we seem still embarrassed
that we could not defend our parents, and our home and our world and the
entire world most probably. Or defeat growing up and growing old and taking
each the other along with us as time speeds up so forcefully.

For we had learned here how to feel guilt. Loneliness can be a kind of
suicide; only sometimes it takes so damned long. After that final
afternoon, we children gathered behind the heavy green protective bushes,
took off our clothes, put our arms round one another. Neither Simon nor I
were hard.  We held to Simone as we always did, for where she was, love was
too, and we did something, we had never, I believe, ever had done in those
halcyon days, all three of us, leaving finger marks on each other's
shoulders we held so hard, like trying to hold back the bastard devils of
time and small evil little men who think themselves the thunder of all
creation in their little mouse squeaks:

We wept.