Some of my earliest memories of playing make-believe games were with my sister when I was five or six years old. From that time forward, we became inseparable as young children. We would spend our hour-long rides to the school together, side-by-side. We would slip into each other’s rooms at night, just to share a bed or to talk; and for the years up until I was about eleven, our parents allowed us to shower together. We played in the water, we soaped each other and helped each other wash… and yet in those early years I never remember even a remote desire to experiment sexually or even “play doctor”. My sister was different from me, and I knew it, but it didn’t affect me one way or the other, I suppose more than anything it was the fact that I had no idea at that age the pleasure that could have come from some of the experiences I regret never having with someone so little, so close, so willing. In the end, though, Madhana and I had no secrets, still have no secrets, and I suppose all is well that ends well, and there is not an inch of my younger sister that I haven’t explored in the years since.
In the years following those showers and baths together, we both grew up, and eventually hit puberty. I remember being the one to ask her if anyone had explained to her the changes her body was going through… and how quizzically she looked at me before saying “Oh yeah, we talked about that stuff in Girl Scouts”. To some degree it was a relief that she didn’t have to learn from me, and I suppose at that age you could say I was already trying to find reasons to have her include me in her sexual life… I wanted to ensure she was safe, but also a part of me wondered where that conversation would lead.
Throughout my early teenage years I grew up in much of the same awkward in-between position. I knew she was my sister, and yet every time she would lie on the floor and ask for a back rub, I found my hands wandering. For her, it was innocent at first, and when I would tell her things like “removing your shirt would make it more comfortable”, she did so without a thought. I would straddle her bottom and settle in-between her soft bubbly bottom through my jeans, and as I massaged her, I would put slow pressure, allowing myself pleasure as I rocked back and forth, up and down her back, and she would never speak a word about it.
As the years progressed and Madhana’s body fully developed, I extended my musings of her body to requesting she remove her sports-bra (she always wears them, even today). She continually refused, but asked me to move my hands underneath it so that it would not interfere with her massage. I did for a long while, before eventually sliding my fingers lower and lower along her sides… and eventually… slowly… over agonizing weeks of waiting and pushing ever lower, I suddenly felt the swell of her breasts, and stopped my hands exactly where they were, relishing the new soft flesh I had found, and the wonderful way it pushed outward into my hands. It may have only been the sides of her breasts, but my thirteen-year-old mind was in heaven. It was the first time she ever objected to my massages, and she said she had enjoyed a massage for long enough, and then put her shirt on, and left.
From that point on, the minute she felt my fingers against the soft flesh of her breasts, she would pull her arms tight to her side, and while she didn’t say anything to me, her arms were always at her sides from that point on. She would still ask for a back rub, or a deeper massage, and she would still remove her shirt and look shyly at me before lying down, but she ensured I had no way to access her sides, or the swell of her developed breasts. It didn’t stop me, though, from pushing my fingers into the elastic of her shorts (did I mention she also always wears basketball shorts?) and pushing another boundary every once in a while. She would let me feel her bottom, at least the very top of the curve that separated her lower back from the beginning of her pelvis and the soft, fatty tissue that felt so fantastically springy under my fingers. I never pushed very far, though, afraid she would cut off these sessions altogether. I loved the feelings as my fingertips would roll over the crevice of her bottom, and she would make a soft sound before looking back at me, as if confused.
Needless to say, I realize now that what I was doing would be termed as molestation, I was forcing my fingers upon her and grinding hard member into her bottom as I pleasured myself at her expense. Each and every session would end up with her relaxed and watching television upstairs with my parents while I headed to my bathroom to relieve the immense pressure that had built up. I’m sure she must have felt it, but she never said anything, perhaps she was too young to understand, but since she was only a year younger than I was, I have a feeling there was more going on there than I ever thought about at the time. I wonder sometimes if these sessions aroused her like they did me.
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