Chapter 1

 

 

We were all tired that evening, and we went to bed early. And, shortly after I went to bed, I heard her—my twin sister—masturbating. I don't mean that I heard the juicy sounds of her fingers sliding around in her wet folds. Those sounds might've come through, for all I remember. But I wasn't listening for sounds like that, because I didn't even realize, then, that there might anything to listen for. What I did hear was what came from her unguarded mouth: the sighs, the moans, and the grunts that accompanied her fingers' action.

We had moved that day, and this was our first night in our new house. Jenny and I were just a few months over eighteen, and it was early the summer after Jenny and I had finished our junior year in high school. Our parents had both gotten their promotions to full professor a couple of years earlier, Dad in philosophy and Mom in psychology. Thus, even in the high-priced real estate market of mid-Eighties Boulder, Colorado, they could afford a better house than the one Jenny and I had grown up in.

Still, it was an old house, and the rooms were quite large. Jenny and I hadn't talked to each other about it before we had the movers set up our beds; later we found that, in spite of all the room we had, we'd put them next to each other, right up against our shared wall. That wall seemed pretty substantial, but I discovered that evening that it wasn't soundproof—not by a long shot.

She went to bed just before I did that night because, gentleman that I was, I let her have the bathroom first. I got back from my turn in the bathroom and I lay down, naked, for the night. Like most eighteen-year-old guys would do, I was asking myself whether I was going to masturbate before I went to sleep. As I pondered, I gave my dick a few experimental strokes—just to see if I was in the mood.

And then, still undecided about my mood, my half-soft dick in my hand, I heard her noises through the wall. I'd never heard anything like that before; but I guessed, instantly, what she was doing. Thoughts of her female body lying so close to me, and of the part of that body her hand was on—the part of her body that made her a girl—filled my mind. So did thoughts of replacing her hand on that part of her body with part of my body—a part that sprang to attention. And, suddenly, I was definitely in the mood.

Her noises grew, and I realized that she was muttering—incomprehensibly at first. But as she got closer and closer to her orgasm, she got louder. Not that she shouted: You couldn't have heard her from out in the hall, even from just outside her door. But I heard her distinctly through the wall: "Oh, fuck me, fuck me!" She repeated it, again and again, sometimes adding, "Fuck me harder!" And shortly after that, I heard, a lot less distinctly, the incoherent noises that signaled her orgasm.

My trial strokes became much less conjectural, and as the resulting sensations became more demanding, I realized that I was about to groan. But I knew, now, from the way I could hear through the wall, that Jenny would hear me. So I managed to stifle myself. And, somehow, I contained all of the other noises—including noises from the bed—that a guy is likely to make while bringing himself off.

That's a difficult thing for a young man to do. But I was an introverted—even nerdy—guy, and I valued my privacy highly.

That probably explained why I didn't have much experience with girls. I was too geeky and too afraid of girls, though I'd managed a few dates. But I'd been too shy and awkward to try to kiss anyone (let alone put a hand on anyone's boob), and nothing had ever developed out of those dates. Awkward though I might have been, I was pretty good at keeping secrets when I wanted to, and being able to hear Jenny through the wall was a secret I wanted—desperately—to keep.

Jenny was different. She was extroverted, outgoing. She attracted guys; and she liked their attention. She'd had a number of boyfriends since she was fourteen—enough that I lost count. But none of those guys lasted long. She always seemed to get dissatisfied with her current guy pretty quickly. Each new boyfriend might last all of a few weeks before she dismissed him and started on another one.

And she talked to me about how much she enjoyed "fucking" those boyfriends. And, yes, she used exactly that word: She was pretty foul-mouthed when our parents weren't around—as foul-mouthed as any of my male friends. Because of that, and because of her behavior with boys, I had reluctantly decided a year or two earlier that Jenny was...well...slutty. I didn't like that part of her behavior. In fact I hated it. But she was still my twin sister, and I guessed it wasn't my place to say anything about it to her. Moreover, I have to confess, I really envied the way that behavior got her laid frequently.

Now, here I was listening to her masturbate, while I did likewise! I knew that I should have been ashamed of myself. After all, she was my sister, and not just my sister, but my twin sister—my womb-mate.

We weren't as close as many twins are. We'd been a lot closer when we were small, but by the time we got to high school, we had a relationship that was more typical of teenage-siblings.

I can admit, now, that I was secretly glad to have a sibling my own age, and I think that she felt much the same way. Naturally neither of us would have admitted to those feelings then, though it must've been clear to observers. We spent a good bit of our time with each other. We often watched TV together—though, of course, there were the mandatory fights over what we were going to watch. During the summers, we hiked together; in winter, we skied with each other. When school was in session, we spent time studying with each other—not only for the things we were taking together, but for the courses we were taking separately. We seemed to get along with each other pretty well, and I thought we liked each other.

More than "liked," I guess; there was genuine affection between us. We touched each other frequently. When we met or parted, it wasn't a bit unusual for either of us to give the other a quick caress or a squeeze, or even a kiss on the cheek.

Late in the summer of the year before we moved, her appendix burst, and the way I hung out around her hospital room, night and day, until she was out of danger, was a family legend. During the fall after that, I sprained an ankle trying (unsuccessfully) to do an ill-advised stunt on a skate-board, and during the week or so I spent on crutches after that, she drove me everywhere I had to go (or just wanted to go). She even carried things for me when I couldn't handle them together with the crutches.

But neither of us would acknowledge that affection explicitly. And like most siblings of about the same age, neither of us shied from taking advantage of the other whenever an occasion arose. We put each other down when possible, and we squabbled over silly things whenever something silly (like what we were going to watch on TV, who got the larger piece of pie, who got the only car available that Friday evening, or whose turn it was to do the dishes) arose to squabble about.

So I knew I should be ashamed of myself for masturbating while I listened to the sounds that came through our shared wall—ashamed of myself for thinking not only of what her body must be like, but what I'd like to do to it. I felt guilty about that—especially two days later when I heard her again and reacted the same way as I had the first time. But within a few weeks I settled into a routine. And as my listening—along with the accompanying thoughts and actions—became routine, my guilt faded.

I figured that I'd had a nice stroke of luck in discovering the nature of the wall before Jenny had, so I kept myself quiet when we were both in our rooms—not just when she might hear me getting myself off. I didn't want her to hear my noises, because I was afraid that she would realize just how easily sound penetrated the wall. I even considered playing with myself only when she wasn't in her room. But the routine developed as quickly as it did because she masturbated three or four times a week, right after we went to bed. Naturally, the noises she made always gave me an erection—and a pressing need to do something about it. But I always kept myself silent, perfectly silent, as I brought myself off.

As a result of my new entertainment, I was sleeping better. Mom and Dad both suffered from insomnia; they even took sleeping pills every night because of it. Jenny and I were beginning to think we had inherited the problem; in the last few years, we had found that we were beginning to have nights every now and then when we slept poorly—or even not at all. Mom and Dad didn't want us to take their pills; that hadn't stopped me from helping myself, on the sly, of course, to one a couple of times. But regular orgasms incited by Jenny's activities—and therefore more intense than the perfunctory ones all guys are used to—seemed to be improving my situation.

Another side effect of my listening pleasure was that I began to pay more attention to Jenny's body during our waking hours. I found myself looking at her frequently. And I often undressed her with my eyes when no one (especially Jenny) was looking.

She was shorter than I by several inches, and she had a nice figure. She wasn't unusually attractive, but she was a healthy girl, and she was definitely good-looking. She had all of the standard female equipment, in all of the standard places—at least as far as I could tell when she was fully dressed. Her boobs weren't particularly large, but they were much more than merely...