known. I gathered her in my arms, pulled the sheet over her, wiping the sweat off her head and throat with a corner of it.
She lay without a motion for a good while. Then, as I was putting her hair in order, I discovered her eyes were open and she was looking at me. She was staring.
“What’s wrong, Gunilla?” I said. She just shook her head. “Are you unhappy?” She shook her head and began to smile a very sweet smile.
“I’m completely happy,” she said. “And grateful. And a little frightened.”
“Frightened of what?” I asked.
“Let’s not talk about it now,” she said touching my face. “I’ll explain later. It’s not a bad kind of fright. It’s maybe the most happily exciting thing I’ve ever known I suspect-if you can call that being frightened.”
“Well, then, maybe you could finish my lesson. You wandered from the point.” She smiled, and her eyes twinkled.
“So sorry,” she said. “Well, then?” She sat up with a wonderful indolent motion. Her magnificent breasts bobbed. The motion instantly hypnotized me. She noticed, and leaned forward. She affectionately cradled each breast in her two hands and brought them alternately to my lips. I kissed each with my mouth open. “These are my tits, darling. The people of the world call them mammary glands or mammae. The same dreary people with their withered souls call them bosoms. The ugly people call them boobs or boobies, or knockers, or cantaloupes, or headlights, or handles, or milk factories, or breastworks, or bumpers. You can call them breasts, and it’s all right, but they are really tits or titties.” She pushed the breasts together so I could suck at the hard tips of both at the same time. “And those are my nipples, darling. What the people used to call teats.”
The nipples were growing as I kissed them, growing longer and fatter and stiffer. She caught sight of my penis lying half limp on my thigh. She laid her cheek on my leg beside it, and spoke to it with a curious mixture of deference, affection and respect.
“And you are my little brother’s cock. You are also properly called my little brother’s prick. You may, under some limited conditions, be called a penis or dick. You must never be referred to as a wang, yard, club, hammer, rod, or lollypop. Nor by any other of the words that try to diminish your tremendous beauty.” She reached forward with tenderness and freed the sacks that were imprisoned below. Still with her cheek on my thigh, she spoke to them. “And you poor beauties without a name. You we must refer to as balls, because otherwise we must say nuts or testicles or testies- which are unacceptable.” Her fingers cradled my cock-as she called it. She stroked the red top of it with her thumb. “This is the head. It is here and just under the ridge of it here that you get so much pleasure. This is the most sensitive part that gives you the great pleasure when it gets rubbed as you move in and out of my hole. When we are fucking. Also known as screwing. And as getting laid. Or, just barely permissible, getting a piece of ass, or a piece of tail. What in jazz circles is known as work. What in gentle moments can legitimately be called making love. But never as sexual intercourse, or having sex, or coitus, or cohabition, or fornication, or union, or congress. It was once making the two-backed beast, but no more. It may be called tail or ass, but not banging, tupping, humping, doing it, or having your ashes hauled. Nor does one service a woman, plow her, drill her, nail her, nor tup her. It is not a hop or jump or trick. It is not a roll in the hay. Nor is it a tumble. Nor to mate. One may, perhaps, refer to a girl putting out, but never to being in the saddle.”
As she stroked on and on during this speech, I began to grow. The limpness gave way to a rigidity. The last part of Gunilla’s speech was said almost abstractedly. The tip of the cock had grown almost to her lips. She crooned to it:
“And would you give me your liquor if I sucked you? If I was a cocksucker, would you fountain in my mouth? If I go down on you, would you come in my throat? The people who don’t understand speak of blowing you, but I want rather to worship you. To kiss and lick and suck you. Ah, I see the clear juice is oozing from your little mouth.” She licked at the clear liquid that began to seep from my cock. She licked with the tip of her tongue delicately as a cat. “Ah, beauty. It is the greatest flavor in the world-except for that other, that thick white miracle that they feebly call sperm or seed or gyzm or come. Come, my darling. Let me worship you. Let me coax you to spurt into my mouth so the taste is thick in me, until the thick glory clogs my throat and I must swallow the living white glory of you. Let me suck on you till you come deep in my mouth.” Her lips closed on the tip, with a hot, wet, velvety suction. She released the tip. She held it adoringly in her hands and licked the length of it. She opened her mouth to it again. More and more she took into her mouth. And more. Her mouth glided wet and suckingly back and forth along it. Steadily. Three shallow motions, and then a deep sucking one.
Three shallow ones. A deep one. Three shallow. A deep, deep one. Always deeper. She had somehow taken almost all of me. The sucking seemed to be reaching into the farthest outposts of my body. Everything was being sucked down and down toward her mouth. The pleasure was almost unbearable. Incredible! The sucking. That sucking. That mouth of her sucking! I gathered the hair back from her face so I could watch. I saw her mouth stretched around my flesh. I saw my cock emerging from her lips, and sliding amazingly into that place that was not supposed to accept such alienism. I saw the wetness on me. I saw her face accepting me into her mouth. And sucking and sucking. I was being sucked out of me. My soul was being sucked out. She had all of my cock somehow in her mouth.
And sucked! And sucked! I was coming. I was dying. Into her mouth? Was she really going to let me come in her mouth? I tried to draw away in the sudden fear of disgusting her. She dug her fingers fiercely into my legs, refusing to let me pull back. A wave rose in me. Rose and rose. A tremendous bright wave that had come in a long way. That was gigantic now. Was towering up and up over me. That sucking. That face. Those stretched lips. That sucking. That sucking. Sucking. And then her eyes opened and looked full into mine. She was my slave! The wave broke. Smashed down on me. Tumbling masses of ecstasy. I could see directly into her soul! The wave collapsed full on me. Everything was a joy and darkness. And I died. And the sucking continued.
I don’t know how long I slept. I must have awakened. I was lying with Gunilla’s breasts on my face. Such softness. She was telling me some stories about Mother. Wild things. But I couldn’t really focus. She was saying something about how we were going to watch her and Father tonight from Gunilla’s room. And we were going to do whatever they did. I couldn’t really follow it.
Then there was the sound of an automobile outside. Gunilla started, saying: “They’re back. Mother is sure to look in here to see if I’ve been poaching. I’ve got to go, little darling.” She scrambled from the bed, gathering her clothes. She came to the bed, looked deep into my eyes and said: “I don’t understand it, Lars, but I belong to you completely. I worship you.” And she bent and sucked my limp wet cock into her mouth and then started away. I grabbed her arm, hard. She looked into my eyes and stopped. “But they’ll catch us!”
“Show me your pussy,” I said.
“Yes, Lars,” she replied. She quietly laid down, raised her knees, and softly opened her cunt with her fingers. I slipped my fingers in and out until I was sure. I knew now she would do anything I said, even let Mother find her here like this. I owned my little sister completely. I slipped my fingers out. After a second, she opened her eyes. She obviously understood. She said very meekly, “Shall I go now, Lars?”
“Yes,” I said. She walked to the door in a trance. “Gunilla,” I said. She stopped and turned. I looked at her beautiful heavy breasts, her cunt dark from the wet. “I love you, Gunilla.” She began to cry with happiness. She opened the door and left, her clothes in her hands.
Chapter Eight
I went to breakfast quietly, turned inward. Only Mother was there. Something was closed in my mind. The experience of yesterday-the knowledge-was something that churned deep in me, which I relished and processed secretly. Without consciousness. After breakfast when Mother instructed Annie to serve our coffee in the living room I barely noticed. I followed her wordlessly across the hall and sat opposite her on the couch. She sat in a Morris chair. Annie brought our coffee and left. I took a sip, then looked at her over the rim of the cup.
She was showing me a camera that she’d got me yesterday as a surprise. Any other time in my life I would have been excited by it. But this other excitement that seemed to live in me always now left no room for anything else. As she was talking and showing me the shiny, new gift and I was saying how pleased I was, I was busy with other things. I was looking at where the dress was strained over her breasts.
“Tits,” I was thinking. “Mother’s tits: that’s what Gunilla said they were, really.” And as I sat there in the
