Page 9 of Sweet Twins For My Brother's Best Friend

His tongue laps at me, cleaning off my labia and thighs and drinking in my juices.

I run my fingers over my labia lips and feel how soaked I am, really. I’m coated in a sticky gloss.

I hurriedly kick my pants and underwear off and lie back down. My clit throbs with desire, and I give in to it, finally movingmy finger back and forth across the delicate knob, feeling my orgasm swelling and building.

I beg him to lick inside me. “Please, please, please,” I whisper, coiling my fingers through his black curls until I can’t tell where his hair ends and my fingers begin.

He lets me guide his mouth closer to my opening and I feel his warm breath against it as he breathes. His tongue plunges inside and I let out a moan that turns into a scream of delight as he holds my ass to push his tongue further inside me.

I can feel his cheeks flat against my thighs. I stroke his forehead as he laps at me like I’m a delicacy. “You taste so good,” he whispers, looking up at me before going in for seconds.

My orgasm explodes from me, and I let out a breathy moan as I feel the release throughout my body. I feel it most in my chest and realize I’ve been holding my breath.

My heart pounds in my chest and in my pussy, and I continue stroking my clit, feeling it throb beneath my fingertip.

I let off some of the pressure, only illuminating the spot with soft touches. The cum on my finger dries quickly, and I finally relax, melting into the mattress beneath me.

As a 25 year old virgin, one thing I know how to do is touch myself. I have developed a strategy that works every time. My masturbation sessions are short. My orgasms burst and typically taper off quickly, but this one was a little different.

This one was longer and came in oscillating waves, each one crashing over me more heavily than the one before.

I breathe heavily, lying on my soaked sheets, and consider whether or not I should go to the gym tonight for a shower to wash off all the sweat and cum I’ve accumulated. Before I can think about it too hard, I fall into a delicious sleep.

Chapter Four

Christopher

The next day, I wake up alone in my condo like I always do. I water my plants like I always do, one at a time, humming as I go because I read once that it was good for them, and then I make myself breakfast like I always do.

Today, it’s an egg white frittata. I save the yolks for baking later. In they plop, mixing with the other yolks in the Tupperware, dropping like a rock in a lake, and then I stand over the stove, listening to nothing.

I have a pact with myself which states that, in the mornings, I can’t use my phone for at least the first hour I am awake.

I stay out of the news, off social media, and away from podcasts while I shower and make breakfast. By then, usually an hour has passed and I’m ready to rejoin society and the world at large.

I walk around my condo naked, and I even cook naked, leaping back from the oil splatters as I do.

I find comfort in rituals. When rituals end, there’s change, and where there’s change, there’s often discomfort and, occasionally, devastation.

My therapist, a nice man named Jerry with a red beard and gray hair, tells me that it’s a byproduct of being left at the altar. So much changed in that one day.

I decided to go on my honeymoon alone for two glorious weeks, I felt free. I drank and danced and pretended nothing was wrong or different.

Then I got home, and my fiancée had moved out completely, leaving me nothing, not even a note. She took the ring I gave her and the puppy we’d adopted together that year. I didn’t fight for either one, and I never got an explanation as to why she left me on our wedding day.

Sometimes in my sessions with Jerry, I want to ask, ‘Even now? Five years later? It’s still about her?’ but I’m afraid he’ll tell me that it always will be, so I refrain.

After I finish my frittata, I pull on some workout clothes – basketball shorts and a tank – and I fit a pair of headphones into my ears.

I turn on a motivational podcast, one where a woman talks slowly in a low voice and birds chirp behind her, and I go outside and start to run.

I’ve heard all sorts of takes on running. People say it makes them feel alone but in a good way, people say it stops the voices, people talk about the so-called runner’s high.

When I run, none of that happens.

I simply feel. I can’t think about anything. At all.

I feel the bottoms of my feet on the pavement and my toes squished against the narrow sides of my running shoes. I feel my shirt dragging across my skin and the sun on the top of my head and my lungs bursting open like hot sand against wet skin.

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