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Revelation - Pt. 01

How come she left a pair of panties on her bed? She has never done it. I have been going in her room for last 3/4 years, every morning, when she leaves for the shop. Every morning I find her room done like a hotel suit. Since I have never seen her panties on this decent display – which was unintentional for sure – it never came to me how thrilling the site of my sister's panties could be. Panties! No, they have never been in my fantasy. Perhaps, because I am young, I am decent, I am romantic. I picture her always in the conservative business suits she wears for work and in the decent robes she wears in the house, or at best in her natural profile: a goddess-like slender face, two big round breasts, a spread-out lady-like gorgeous ass, long tapered legs, two delicate feet – nothing is disproportionate; my sister is tall and her physical fortunes have perfectly been set in her healthy, slender body. Her image in my mind – I'd better say in my heart – is that of a rare mythical goddess: asexual, spiritual, or maternal, at least. It's true that I have been in love with her for many years, and don't forget I'm young. But sex never intruded in my love as a major enemy.

I entered her room, I breathed in on her pillow for the scent of her hair, I lay where she lies. It has become a ritual for me. And yes, every morning and evening I jack off thinking of her. But like most of the guys of my age, I have never thought of doing those kinds of sexual things with her which are supposed to be normal in a session of masturbation. Thinking of her during my gratifying sessions comes in a swoon. I stroke my cock, and think that I am hugging my sister as I am going to sleep, and I feel my love for her. It's my own platonic sex with my sister. But this is only in my imagination. To tell the truth, I've never been able to think of her as a sexual being. This is because, perhaps, I love her so much and I have such deep respect for her that I am incapable of thinking of her being naked, or doing the kind of things that sex commands. All these things of deep feel are also a kind of revelation to me. A revelation inspired by the pair of panties I discovered this morning at one side of my sister's pillow. It was so shocking, so unexpected that this is the first day since its beginning I did not lie on my sister's bed just to feel her in one of many ritualistic swoons I am capable of undergoing thinking of my sister.

Aha, HER PANTIES. A white conservative pair of panties. They're sprawling beside her pillow. They're cotton and they're trimmed with some fine white laces. It's not that I often don't steal a glimpse at panties while passing by a lingerie shop. But I have never seen or thought that a pair of panties could be this beautiful. It's, in fact, my sister's taste. Even in her undergarments, she maintains some fashion, some decency.

I took the netted fabric in my hand. I touched the soft cotton as if it is a fragile living being. If I squeeze it, my sister will be hurt. I caressed the material between my palms, gently rolling. It was still warm from her body. And clean. She must have worn it a few days. Yet it was as clean as the one from the washing, except for her smell on it. No, it did not smell of anything raw, at least I didn't think so. It was radiating some unknown fragrance. It's as if a gate closing a piece of garden in a corner of paradise opened to my nose. The fragrance is more defined, and sweeter, at the crotch. I became jealous for unknown reason. If Cologne produced an aftershave of this smell, I would use it for the rest of my life. I could not but touch the depth of the crotch with the tip of my tongue. A watery fluid seeped into the hollow of my mouth from all corners of my mouth-walls and an irresistible force drove the flood toward the tip of my tongue. A holy spirit made it known clear, the fluid wanted to reach the part of the fabric that covered my sister's sex. Thus the crotch became wet. Once it was wet I could not resist to chew on it. And chew I did, unashamedly, voraciously; nobody was my witness; I gave in to my long-suppressed and hitherto unknown fetish. My own saliva became my sister's after it swam across the crotch of her holy panties as many times as I sucked in and out the fragrant and sensual material inside my mouth. The thrill was all-encompassing. Down my black-belt belly, between my thighs, I became so hard that I could club to death all the oppressors of the world with my proud brotherly cock.

I upturned the material to get better access to the sweetness in the crotch. Yes the inside was sweeter, darker, more aromatic, and more tangible to my taste. My previous ministration from the other side of the crotch seemed a waste of time. I chewed and sucked on it so arduously that the material threatened to become as dry as it had been before I kissed it. Then I daren't to suck on it any longer, because I needed it wet. I held the elastic band, I shook the panties to flatten the fabric. A golden hair rolled down on and clung to the crotch. It had hidden itself somewhere up the crotch.

I caught and hold the hair as a talisman. One single pubic hair of my sister, hardly an inch and a half long and curved like a half-moon, it was difficult to hold in my hand. I tried to get its smell and I found nothing. I chewed it, a sharp thread of dry silk cut through my tongue. It least I could touch my sister through this hair. I wished it had been dipped in her perspiration or gilded with a layer of century old sand assembled between her legs. But it was not possible. My sister is not only a paragon of beauty, but also a paragon of purity and cleanliness. I became a libertine at the touch of this God-blessed hair. I ran to my room holding the hair in my one hand and the panties in the other. I closed the door. First I put the hair in the pocket of one my shirts. I would decide on it later on. I threw my t-shirt and boxer away. I flattened my sister's panties and wrapped my rock-hard cock with it. Ahah, what bliss. The wet crotch of my sister's panties is wrapping the front of my cock. I prayed to God. I became religious, at such early age. I delved into my wild imagination. Is not it possible, if God willing, someday, the same way, my sister's sacred vagina enwrap my rigid penis with the same warmth, same intimacy.

The hair is still in my pocket. I don't know what to do with it. One thing I am sure of. I will preserve this, like the mummified pharaoh Tutankhamen. I will preserve this pubic hair of my sister in a gold chamber so that brothers in the twenty-eighth century know how much I loved my sister.


"My Holy Brother," Anita sighs, embracing the diary into her bosom. "Where is he?" she shudders, as if he has died, or disappeared. He's off for basketball. A small sigh of relief escapes her bone-deep beautiful countenance, hued red by one after another tormenting blushes. Holding the elegant dairy, which she has given him on his 18th birthday for writing his poems, Anita enters her room. She opens the wall-length window of her bedroom. The air in the garden pours into the room and caresses her red face with autumnal cool and absorbs the heat produced by the shocking revelation in her brother's diary. The cool air sooths her nerves.

Winter is not far away. Anita loves this time of the year. Being a very romantic girl, she welcomes winter, darkness, rain, and gloom. The winter exposes her to a world which lightheaded girls of her age hate. Winter is a world inside a world and Anita loves to drift herself along its course. But Anita enjoys autumn, which none of her acquaintances take any heed of, which is to them just the final days of sandy summer.

With the air, comes along ripe light of late afternoon. Her sumptuous bedroom invites the glassy light to shower and worship its mistress. The bedroom window opens to its private garden. There is nobody to see her if she were naked. Anita closes the curtains only at night when she sleeps. Every morning before bath, she undresses, slides the deep-blue glasses open, and spends time in the nude and enjoys the flowers outside her window. She feels equally pure, original, and delicate.

Now Anita's old, innocent, and romantic world is shaken to the root by the fateful diary. The young poet, who happens to be her brother, who she has been raising with maternal love since the death of their father five years ago, has violated her person and purity. She was late for work this morning and forgot to put her discarded panties in the laundry. It's no fault of his. It's hers. No, she doesn't feel wicked or sinful. Rudra loves her. She loves Rudra more than anything else in the world, much more than Rajesh, her scientist lover, who gets embarrassed to look directly at her loins.

"Where's the hair?" Anita rocks again. But she doesn't dare to go to his room and check for herself his pockets to discover the strand of her pubic hair. 'Rajesh, cursed Rajesh,' Anita cries, 'doesn't have time even to have a look at my private parts. Here my brother has stolen a strand of my pubic hair and already decided to preserve it for the brothers of the posterity.'

Anita discards her dresses. She takes off her blazer and puts it up in the cupboard. She takes off her vest, her slack, her tee-shirt. With gentle movements, she takes off her bra and panties, and puts them in the right places. She sits on the coach facing the garden. She looks at the flowers: rose, carnation, and gardenia. She looks away. She looks up. She looks down. Shaking, she looks at her loin. Her legs are splayed.

Strands of golden hair, none longer than two inches, form rings and ringlets and adorn the white skin of her groin. The strands seem a strip of land in the desert adorned with blond grasses. Yes, it's beautiful, Anita blossoms like a flower in her garden. Why it's so beautiful, my pubic hair? She asks herself. Yes, I am seeing it through the eyes of my brother.
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