Images of My Youth

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So many fragments of memory, some of them shrouded and hidden. Yet now, how clear they are. It is said that one's life passes before one's eyes.



I was 13. Walking through our cavernous house late at night was always an adventure. The property was very old and the spirits of those long dead could be heard in every creak of floorboards and sigh of the wind. Tonight, there was another sigh. I stopped outside Alison's door and heard it again. A long intake of breath..silence..and a low moan as she exhaled. Alison. My sister. 17 then, and beautiful. I was in awe of her body and curious as to whether mine would develop the same curves as she. Was she ill? I crept closer to her door and peered intently into the room beyond. Lit by one solitary candle, it was, at first, hard to see, but as my eyes grew accustomed to the light, Alison could be seen lying on her bed, naked. Her firm breasts thrust upwards to the antique ceiling and the moist flower of her sex exposed. Oddly, it is her scent that I remember most vividly. As her legs opened ever wider this wonderful lustful and inviting aroma caressed me. Then, she stiffened and cried out and I saw her convulsing between her legs. I went back to my bedroom and ran my hands over my emergent, bud-like breasts. Below, I felt the tingle of anticipation in my awakening clitoris.



(Four years later)



Only Alison and me now, in that old rambling house. Cancer can be a sudden and cruel killer and it had snatched our mother from us in a mere six weeks the previous year. We had lived alone there since, although the house was for sale as it was far too big for us to manage. Again, an excursion into the night. This time, voices. Again, Alison's solitary candle burned, but on the bed she lay with her best friend. They were clothed, or partially, at least. There was a wonderful innocence about them. Claire's hand tracking gently down the flatness of Alison's tummy and slipping gently under the waistband of her knickers. Alison arched her back as Claire's fingers stimulated her. I couldn't see the detail of what was going on, but the expression of utter pleasure on Alison's face told its own story. Did I imagine the material of her knickers darkening as the cathedral of her sex wept its benediction of love onto the invading fingers? I don't know. When the orgasm struck, there was no doubt though. The material bulged, darkened and Alison was screaming in exstacy and urinating at the same time. This time, the loneliness and my own need took over. I stood and opened the door wide.



How long did I just stand there? A minute? An hour? Time lost all meaning for me. Alison rose from the bed and took my hand. She led me to her bed and took Claire's hand in her own. Gently, with such unutterable love, she guided Claire's hand between my trembling thighs.



Another night, and I lay beneath the weight of my boyfriend as he made love to me. I felt detached; as if this was so unreal. He moved, I moved, the tension built, but this night, it was always to be unfulfilled. Alison stood in the doorway, a single tear rolling down her cheek. I rolled gently to one side leaving Michael on his back, his erection pointing up like a beacon in the night.



I led Alison to my bed, and in gratitude for what she did for me, closed the door behind me as I left the room.

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