Her Last Touch

  • Posted on October 18, 2017 at 6:25 am

By Marie Marshall

{ This story was originally posted at the now-defunct Sisters in Love }

“When’s your flight?” I asked quietly, standing before my sister, hands awkwardly clasped behind me.

Helen shrugged. “Tomorrow morning – I forget what time. The taxi will be here at some ungodly hour.” She looked listlessly at her luggage, flicked at the catch on her case, then glanced up at me, a slight frown on her face.

“This time tomorrow, I’ll be in Canada,” she said. “You’ll finally be rid of me.”

“Don’t say it like that,” I protested halfheartedly.

“Come on, Ronnie,” she said, knowing how much I had come to detest that diminutive – I much prefer my full name, Veronica. “You know we don’t get along, you and I.”

It was true. Ever since the time she reached her teens, two years ahead of me, I’d been an irritant to her; I was her embarrassing little sister. Often when she wanted to go out, our parents would make her stay at home to keep an eye on me. And it was no use her trying to have friends round, or a boyfriend, because I was always in the way. Helen had blamed me ever since for her lack of success with the opposite sex. I suppose her bitterness had rubbed off; I had long felt resentment towards the big sister who always seemed to hate me.

Now that we were both in our twenties, there was no love lost between us. We were on totally different wavelengths, and hardly spoke anymore.

“It wasn’t always like that,” I said sullenly.

She shrugged again, her expression neutral. Why was she like this, damn it? Helen was the one who started all this ugliness between us; the one who turned cold first. No point in saying so, of course — she would simply shake her head and say I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Perhaps my memory was longer than hers; didn’t it stretch back to a time before our enmity, when we were simply playmates – our role playing games with dolls, our rambles on the beach, our sisterly laughter? Perhaps the years in between had blotted all this out for her, so great was her resentment towards me.

Now here we were, in our mother’s echoing house, the day after Mom’s funeral. She’d sold her half to me for a song, and was on the eve of leaving for Ontario, and a new life.

“I’d better say goodbye now, before turning in,” she said. “I don’t expect you to get up to see me off. In fact I’d rather you didn’t.”

Why was I surprised by this? Come to that, why was I hurt? Why didn’t I just tell her to fuck off to Canada and leave me in peace? I had to face it, a part of my life was about to disappear, and suddenly I felt more connected to the playmate of my youth than to this ill-natured half-stranger standing there fussing with her luggage. People said we didn’t resemble each other, but now I actually looked long at her, and began to see the likeness. Now she seemed more like a mirror image; apart from her face being thinner and her hair darker. It caused a pang to see echoes and shadows of my old playmate where I did not expect them.

Suddenly Helen surprised me by stepping up to me, putting her arms around my neck. Surprised? More like shocked, as I caught the scent of her perfume and her sweet breath.

For a moment neither of us spoke or moved. Then she kissed me.

It was a light, gentle touch on my lips. I’d never kissed a girl, so the softness of her mouth came as a complete surprise to me. She broke away and rested her forehead against mine, traced figure eights on the back of my neck with a fingernail, and sighed.

“Damn you, Ronnie,” she whispered, her eyes lowered.

I felt my heart banging against my ribs… but with excitement rather than anger.

Then she nuzzled my face, her lips searching for mine again. This time her mouth lingered as she kissed me. The strange thing was that, instead of pushing her away, I stood there wondering if my lips felt as soft to her; realizing that this must be what it would be like to kiss myself, thinking that she was my sister and we shouldn’t be kissing this way – but none of this seemed to matter. What mattered was to experience this thing, to hold onto her, to hold onto this piece of my past.

Her hand was still behind my head, but now our mouths were pressed together and open, tongue touching tongue, her lips nibbling mine. Helen’s eyes were closed, but I couldn’t close my own, still wide in disbelief — even denial.

I studied her face, her expression softer than I had ever seen it before, and with a shock I realised that she was beautiful. Having seen that, I closed my eyes too, and enjoyed the dancing of her tongue.

Thoughts danced around my head in time to her probing tongue. This is what it’s like to kiss a woman. It’s wonderful, and I never knew! Would it be like this with other women, or was there something special about Helen’s forbidden kiss?

Then suddenly I felt a panic, as I realised that I was falling into a lesbian passion for my own sister; but that very thought suddenly thrilled me! My emotions flipped and shifted this way and that. And all the time, that caress of tongue on tongue as our mouths slid sensuously together.

I now found myself with both hands up Helen’s sweater and cupped around her breasts, my thumbs flicking her nipples. Somehow I registered the thought that she wore no bra. Again her forehead was resting against mine, again her arms were around my neck, but now she had arched backwards to let my hands touch her body. She looked at me from under lowered eyelids.

“You fucking bitch,” she said.

“Shut up! Kiss me!” I gasped.

She did so, desperately, almost brutally, as though quenching a deep, deep thirst. And as she kissed me she seized my breasts, her hands stroking, fondling… her fingers telling me beautiful lies. My mind raced, rational thoughts battling with helpless arousal. She was doing wonderful things to me – had she done this sort of thing before? Had she practiced on herself? How could I think such things about my sister? And yet, here she was – here we were making out as though our lives depended on it. Over all this two thoughts hammered away in my brain: I hate her… I want her… I hate her… I want her…

More lost minutes, vaguely aware of tearing clothes from each other’s bodies, no words spoken but low growling through clenched teeth, and labored breathing. Then all too aware of where we were, how we were – naked and entwined upon my bed, our mouths pressed together in a kiss more passionate than any I’d ever shared with a lover. She was grinding herself against me, and I found myself matching her movements.

Suddenly she tore her mouth from mine, trailing her tongue down between my breasts. Then she took an aching nipple between her lips to suckle, and I cradled my sister’s face to my chest. Helen’s tongue circled the pink tip, and my head seemed to spin right along. I felt her hand slipping between my thighs, and a whimper escaped me as she palmed my now dripping vulva.

I wanted to be the aggressor now. Sitting up, I roughly flipped my sister onto her back, then got on top of her, claiming her mouth in a crushing kiss. I reached down for her cunt, needing to take my bitch of a sister, to make her mine. I thrust two fingers into her vagina and began fucking her, hard and fast. A scream broke from her lips, and her nails bit into my back. We were sharing rough, unrestrained love that was definitely flavored with hatred… but that only made our incestuous coupling so incredibly, unbelievably hot. And we kissed again and again, as if we were passionate lovers instead of fighting sisters.

Somehow Helen and I got into a 69 position… legs thrust apart, faces buried deep in each other’s pubic curls, licking at the pink flesh we both found there, no longer caring that we were sisters, simply wanting, needing, desperate… I could think of nothing now but how wonderful she tasted, how beautiful her pussy was, how much I loved what she was doing to me.

Was it hours or mere minutes that we fucked like that? I couldn’t tell, lost as I was in her heat, exploring a black nebula of lust with two burning women right there in the middle. It felt as though we were melting; sweat poured off us, mingling with the juice of our arousal, and I felt as though I was drowning in it.

But there was nothing we could have done to stop this, as we plunged headlong towards orgasm. Helen was making a continuous keening noise, trembling uncontrollably. We clasped our arms around each other’s bodies as tight as iron bands cooling around a barrel, and forced our faces between each other’s soft thighs, licking, licking, tasting one another’s essences; we clung desperately as we both heaved in climax, Helen screaming, me gasping. Then we collapsed in a hot, sticky heap.

Rolled away, feeling cold air on my body, gooseflesh beginning to rise. I looked at the ruin of my bedclothes and at my sister. She had one hand over her face, weeping. I put my arms around her, as tenderly as I could. She reached out and pulled me close to her; now she was giving out great sobs, and with each one she thumped a fist ineffectually on my shoulder-blade.

“I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” she said, through gritted teeth, each great sob seemingly torn from her lungs.

“Shh, Lennie, Lennie,” I said, remembering and using her own nickname from all those years ago, kissing her cheek, brushing her tears away with my lips, tasting my own cunt on her. “It’s all right. It’s all right. Shush now!”

I stroked her and talked to her until her sobs subsided into whimpers. She no longer hit me, but lay close, snuggled in my arms, warming herself on my body. I felt her lips gently brush my cheek. I drew back to gaze into her eyes… and before I knew it, we were kissing again.

We fucked over and over again that night. No words were spoken, just the sharing of pleasure. My sister and I explored every inch of each other’s bodies, and it was utterly wonderful. I marveled at having grown to adulthood without making love to another woman.

Finally, utterly spent, my sister and I lay quietly, our naked bodies curled together. Eventually her breathing became regular and quiet, and I could see that she was asleep. She looked relaxed, young, beautiful, and I kept myself awake for hours just to look at her, in wonder at her beauty and almost in disbelief at what had just happened between us.

I must have fallen asleep at some time, because my next recollection is of waking. I was alone. The duvet had been drawn over me, and I could hear Helen moving around somewhere else in the house. I got up and struggled quickly into an old rugby shirt and a pair of jogging pants. In the hall Helen was fussing with her luggage again, and putting on her shoes. We didn’t speak. I kept watch at the front window until headlights drew into our avenue.

“Your taxi’s here.”

The taxi driver took her bags out to the car. Without a backward glance my sister said, “’Bye, then,” and walked out of my life. Forever, except for a Christmas card every year. And that’s the end of the story.

Except it’s not really the end. I’ve been haunted by this episode ever since – when two playmates of long ago gave way to a flood of emotion so strong that they could not find a name for it, and had to find another way to reach one another. And except also for this: as Helen left without looking at me, for a brief second she took hold of my hand. She let it go quickly, but traced her fingers across my palm, down my own fingers, right to their tips. Her last touch – I can feel it to this very day, and feel as though I am branded…

Five years later, not a day goes by when I don’t think of my sister, remembering that night when we shared our bodies as lovers. Not a day when I don’t long for her kiss, her touch. I’ve taken other partners since then, both male and female, but none have lasted for long… none have truly satisfied that deep, deep hunger I feel for Helen.

Somehow I know — and I’m not sure how I know — that my sister and I are destined to be together again. One day, the need I feel for her will become too great to bear… or perhaps she can’t take another sleepless night, dreaming of me. Then one of us will go to the other, and the two sisters who were enemies will be lovers once more.

The End

1 Comment on Her Last Touch

  1. JetBoy says:

    I love this story… one that examines desire from a very unusual perspective. Hate and love are sometimes much more in sympathy than we care to admit.

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