Archive-name: Family/sibed01.txt Archive-author: Michael Kalen Smith Archive-title: Siblings - The Early Days - 1 From SIBLINGS -- a novel in progress ("The Early Days") [NOTE: I've posted seven more or less complete chapters from this novel so far, under individual titles. Some readers have gotten interested in the background of the main characters -- how they came to be who they are and so on -- and have asked enough questions to prompt me to post the following, which are key excerpts from the first five chapters. There are no sex scenes as such, but you'll find plenty of romance, a dollop of amateur psychology,... and plenty of more subtle eroticism. SIBLINGS is a full-dress novel -- or will be when it's finished -- and I've gone to some effort to make the people and the situations four- dimensional, to provide motivation and logical results, and to avoid 'deus ex machina' contrivances of the sort that are rife in many of the stories posted in a.s.s. Comments, criticism, and discussion are welcome,... but PLEASE post them in a.s.s.D! If you haven't read the previously posted sections, please be aware that the overriding theme throughout the novel is *consensual sibling incest*, about which my basic feelings should be obvious by now. If the very idea turns your stomach, you're more bent than most of the readers hereabouts, and you should change the channel NOW....] [...from chapter 1...] My sister, Alexandra, and I had (and have) an unusual relationship, and it was the direct result of birth order and our closeness in age. At least, that's what I prefer to think -- that it was circumstances beyond our control. I was born in Mendocino County, California, at 3:45 a.m. on January 6, 1955. Alex was born at 3:52 a.m. on the same day in 1956. One year and seven minutes difference. We looked very much alike: dark auburn hair, gray-green eyes, lots of freckles, a certain sharp narrowness in the nose. We were about the same size, too, especially as teenagers. People frequently assumed we were twins, we were so similar. And especially because there was only a single digit's difference when we had to fill out bureaucratic forms that required a birth date. More than once, some clerk increased Alex's age by a year or shaved a year off mine. Before we were even in school, we had begun to think of ourselves as twins, too, in all the important ways, identical twins who happened to be of the opposite sex. We weren't the only kids in our family. Jack was five years older than me and Philip was eight years older -- post-World War II babies, both of them. They had half a decade in which to become mutually supportive before Alex and I showed up, and the difference in age between them and us was large enough that we were almost like two separate families. I don't mean they picked on either of us. I realized later that they could have made our lives hell, but both of them behaved well enough toward us. They were just too far ahead in age to have anything in common with us. So they practiced benign neglect toward "the kids" and Alex and I stuck more and more to each other's company. More important, our parents naturally were more concerned with the school activities and career plans of their two oldest boys. When I was starting junior high, Philip was a year away from finishing his college degree and was beginning to interview with company recruiters. Jack was about to go off to a good college on a scholarship and had his own ambitious plans. Nobody was much interested in what I was learning in seventh grade. For whatever reason, I never developed any bitterness about this casual disinterest. I didn't throw tantrums or break windows to get my parents' attention. I was proud of my brothers and they did give me their attention when I sought it out (which wasn't often). But they could have been uncles instead of brothers. Alex had it a little worse. She wasn't "planned," of course, being so close to me in age, and she became aware early on that her conception had been unexpected. When we were little, we both heard Dad making what had obviously become a standard joke to friends and relatives -- that their only daughter had arrived postage-due, "but we kept her anyway." And he didn't mean it maliciously, which was almost worse. It was an unconsciously hurtful thing to say, and Alex WAS hurt by it. That stupid joke made me angry as well, and it bonded me even closer to my sister. I was only eight or nine years old, so I could hardly say anything to my father about his unfeeling jokes, but I comforted Alex when she cried in her room. We began about that time to think of ourselves not even as twins, but in some way as one person. By the time I was twelve, Dad had reached a moderately successful level as a regional sales manager in his company and he began to travel much more extensively and frequently around his enlarged territory. He was often gone two or three weeks at a time. At about the same time, Mother's arthritis, from which she had first begun to suffer at the age of 35, became increasingly severe in her legs. Now, she was confined to walking only very short distances and was often in a wheelchair. She chafed at the inactivity forced on her and discovered new ways to do her shopping and cooking and laundry. She hated it when people tried to do things for her that she could still manage to do for herself, so she didn't demand our sympathy and constant attention. Looking back, I admire her for that determination not to be a burden. At the time, however, it had the principal benefit for us that she almost never came Upstairs. It exhausted her and she showed up above the ground floor less and less often. After Jack abandoned his room and went off to college, Upstairs became *our* territory, Alex's and mine. Dad usually came up for a few minutes when he returned from a trip, so we kept our rooms as clean as anyone has a right to expect from active adolescents. We hauled our laundry down to the washer and took turns mopping out our bathroom once a week. We folded and put away our own clothes and changed our own burned-out light bulbs. We made sure Dad was satisfied with our attention to our living quarters and he pretty much left us to manage the upper part of the house to suit ourselves, which confirmed our territoriality. And it gave us an almost adult sense of privacy. Again, looking back, I realize Dad just wasn't much interested in the two of us. Philip and Jack together formed the focus of his paternal instinct. They were born in the lean years following Dad's discharge from the Army, when he drove a cab and sold furniture while going to college on the G.I. Bill. He and Mother lived in a tiny apartment and scraped along through the tail end of the 1940s, first by themselves and then with a son. In 1950, almost 30 years old, Dad finished college and landed a good sales job with a company that wholesaled office machines. Jack was born a few months later. By the mid-'50s, when I showed up almost as an afterthought, my older brothers were in school, riding the forward curl of the Baby Boom wave. Apparently, Mother and Dad had intended to stop at two children but took a chance on a third, and never expected a fourth at all. So our parents weren't cruel or even deliberately unkind. Just not terribly involved with their two youngest. As Alex and I outgrew clothes or toys, they disappeared from the house, passed on or donated somewhere, with an air of relief hanging over them. * * * * * When I went over to some friend's house to play, we usually did things in his room -- especially if he also had brothers and sisters. Any younger sibling who entered the room uninvited was pushed out and the door shut behind him or her. I accepted this as natural and normal at the time. It wasn't until I was entering adolescence that I realized that very few of my friends or Alex's had ever seen the upper half of our house. We had a large den and TV room downstairs where the family's supply of games was stored (now used only by the two of us), and that was where we usually played with our friends, whether separately or all in a group. Since Alex and I were so close in age, we had several good friends in common. Those few were the only ones ever invited Upstairs, and then only rarely. When children begin to enter puberty they become physically very self-conscious. Bathroom doors are shut and even locked. Boys discovered sorting their sisters' underwear out of the dryer are tongue-lashed by its owner. One of my friends once playfully hid his younger sister's first training bra, and she nearly had hysterics when she realized her brother had actually touched it. Anyone who's not an "only" has had similar experiences, I'm sure, especially in a brother/sister mix. I mention these things only to say that Alex and I were different. When Alex was standing in front of the hall linen closet in her first bra and panties, digging out the fluffiest towel she could find, I didn't make snide cracks. The first and only time I hooked a finger under the back strap of her bra and snapped it (doesn't every brother do that?), she ignored me ... until I turned and began to walk away. Then she snapped me with a towel with such accuracy and finesse it felt like a needle had been jabbed in my ass. I jumped, she giggled "Gotcha!," and that was all. We were even-up and there was no escalation. We usually helped each other make up both our beds simply because it went much faster. The first time she noticed the stiff places on my bottom sheet where I had had nocturnal emissions or had jerked off, and asked me what *that* was, I flushed in embarrassment. She could have made capital on that for weeks, but she chose discretion and shrugged. So, we were normal kids in most respects. We simply never did anything to hurt or upset each other. "I'm telling!" was not something either of us ever said to the other. An enlightened and mature attitude, I suppose, but I know neither of us ever reasoned it out. I can't remember a time we weren't best friends. That was just the way it was between us. We played pranks on each other, and we exchanged the usual teasing insults, and we argued frequently. We even had occasional fights and got angry at each other, but it was always over a serious and substantive issue, not just because "siblings always fight." And we always made up in a day or so and never carried grudges. It took us both awhile to realize, from visiting friends' homes, that our relationship was not the norm. * * * * * We were protective of each other in the outside world, too. When Alex was in fifth grade and I was in sixth, she chanced one spring week to get on the wrong side on three boys in my class. For several days, they pushed her around at recess and sabotaged her assignments in class. She didn't know why they had singled her out but for awhile she was half in a rage and half in tears most of the day. Typically, she kept her problem to herself and when I finally asked her what was the matter she wouldn't tell me. I lagged behind her the next afternoon, however, and deliberately spied on her. Our house was only four blocks from school, so we usually walked home. The villainous sixth grade boys were on bikes, though, and they charged out of an alley while she was crossing a street in the middle of a residential block. They circled her like Mongol raiders, knocking the books out of her hands and jeering at her tears. Several other homebound students witnessed the raid but most kids learn early not to draw attention to themselves when one of their number becomes the focus of unwanted malevolent attention. I was in a different situation regarding the victim, of course. I was not a fighter, not in any way. I never picked fights, preferring to use my already sharp tongue. And if my tongue caused someone to chase me, I ran. I may not have been physically courageous but I wasn't stupid either. But this was something else altogether. I didn't stop to think about it. I just dropped my book bag and my gym shoes on the sidewalk and ran the fifty yards to the marauders, becoming more angry with every stride. My profanity wasn't very developed anyway, so I kept my mouth shut. I also knew instinctively that taking on three boys my own size required surprise tactics. I was heading directly toward Alex, though I had no idea what I was going to do when I reached her. As it happened, one of the bastards nearly intercepted my course without yet noticing me, and I jumped in the air knee-high and kicked his bike with my feet as my body hurtled into his. He never knew what hit him. His bike and his head bounced off the asphalt simultaneously, with a satisfying double-crash. I scrambled up and saw a hand reaching for me with an unbelieving face behind it as the next rider missed hitting me by inches. I grabbed the hand and the wrist and hung on, and the boy yanked himself off his bike by his own momentum. He landed on his knees and tried to grab my leg with his other hand, so I kicked him hard in the face and let go of him. Instinct again. Had I stopped to think about what I was doing, he would have beaten the crap out of me. But he shrieked, went over on his back, and clapped both hands over his nose and mouth. The third boy had slewed his bike sideways in a frantic attempt not to run into his buddy, and now had gotten the cuff of his jeans caught in the chain. He had his back turned as he tried to extricate himself from his machine. I yelled wordlessly and jumped on his back, grabbed his hair, and began knocking his face against the horizontal bar of the bike. Kids don't fight "fair" when it's a serious contest; they take any advantage they can get. He reached behind him, managed to grab my ear, and tried hard to pull it off. I yelped at the sudden pain and tried to disengage, but he hung on and twisted himself around where he could get both hands on me. I wasn't going to get out of this unbruised; some of my anger began to be replaced by fear. But all this time, all two or three minutes of it, I'd forgotten about Alex. She was angry, too. As the third boy cocked his free arm, preparing to bury his fist in my eye, my sweet sister let him have it from behind with her history textbook -- the thick, heavy one. I was focused on that fist and heard three separate thudding sounds before I realized what was happening. The repeated concussions made the third Mongol forget all about me. He was crying and yelling and trying to get away. He finally escaped by tearing his jeans, leaving part of the cuff wedged in the chain, and falling over his bike. The pointed front of the bicycle seat caught him square in the nuts and then he was rolling around in the street, clutching his crotch and moaning. The first boy was trying not very successfully to sit up. Blood was running down his neck and across his head and he had managed to smear it across his face. At first glance, he appeared to have been scalped. The second one was still covering his lower face with his hands and there was blood all down his shirt front and one tooth lying in the street. He saw it too, and picked it up and stared at it. The only blood on me belonged to the other three, though I had managed to rip two buttons off my shirt. As I said, I'm not a fighter, and I suddenly began to shake, sitting there in the street. The thrill of victory was whooping somewhere in the back of my mind, but it was mostly obscured by growing fear. Mother and Dad were going to kill me. I'd probably be expelled. Maybe I'd have to talk to the police. Alex was alternately sobbing and laughing as she hung onto my arm. When she felt me shaking, though, she came to her senses more quickly than I did. "C'mon," she said urgently. "Let's get outta here." She pulled and pushed me to my feet and quickly gathered up her scattered school books. We both looked around. Perhaps a dozen other students of varying ages were standing, frozen, up and down the block, some in the street and some on the sidewalk. I saw only one adult -- a man who had been parking in front of his house ten yards away and was now standing and leaning over his open car door with his mouth open. I paid attention to him especially. The other kids were just kids, but adults were a different species. The man finally found his voice. "I saw it all, kid, it wasn't your fault. You two get on home and I'll take care of these bullies." He looked disgustedly at the three losers and I felt some relief. Alex and I hurried back to where I had dropped my own stuff, noting the nervousness or fright of the smaller children we passed. Those our own age mostly grinned, though. The boys in the street were not popular. Probably nobody here was going to volunteer evidence against me. We walked quickly down the block and around the corner, making a two-block detour to get home; I didn't want to have to walk again past the boys I had beaten up. That's when I realized, for the first time, that I *had* beaten them. Three-to-one odds, and I had won. A satisfying thing for an adolescent boy to discover about himself. But there was also the sobering knowledge that I couldn't get away with that kind of surprise attack more than once. The story would be all over school by the end of tomorrow's classes. And I'd have to be careful or I was going to get my own self beaten up by kids who had decided I had stepped out of the pecking order. Not to mention the revenge these three losers would undoubtedly plan against me. As usual, Alex was reading my mind. "Michael, don't worry." We were both out of breath from our attempt to escape the scene. "That man was Charlene Huff's father. He's a cop, a lieutenant or something. I don't think he's going to bother us or he'd already have done it. Besides, he said he saw the whole thing. Maybe those creeps will be in more trouble than us." It was typical that she said "us" and not "you." She'd only gotten in three blows and her school dress wasn't even mussed -- never mind that she was the victim -- but it was still "us." Then she squeezed my arm and smiled and said "My hero," without a trace of irony. She made it sound lighthearted but she meant it. I was no knight in shining armor and we both knew it. She also knew, now, that I was willing to risk serious trouble on her behalf. I don't think it came as a surprise to either of us. We found out later that her estimation of the situation was pretty much correct. Detective Lieutenant Huff apparently displayed his badge of office to the three Mongols, which frightened them into giving their true names and addresses. Then he made a point of going around to each set of parents to explain how their sons had ended up in such a sorry condition and why they hadn't better "assault a little girl" again. Charlene knew the three, of course, and presumably filled in her father on their previous terrorist activities. Nobody I knew had ever *seen* the inside of Juvenile Detention and nobody wanted to. So I was a minor hero for a few days, mostly to earlier victims of the gang. And Alex, without telling me, made sure through her girlfriend network that the word went out: Don't start on me or my brother, or Charlene Huff's father will hear about it. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Copyright 1993 by Michael K. Smith. Copies may be made and posted elsewhere for personal enjoyment, but all commercial rights are reserved. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~