Secret Hiding Place

It was a little after my eighteenth birthday when I discovered my father's secret hiding place. It wasn't a hiding place for him as such, but a hiding place where he could stash away his secrets. It was a treasure trove of sorts, mostly of personal artifacts. There were a few cheap jewellery items, whose value was more sentimental than real. There were a few pictures of old buddies and a few letters from old cohorts. He had some cut outs from newspapers of stories that only held some meanings for him. There were also a couple of handkerchiefs with monograms that I couldn't recognize and a few stubs of tickets to a movie, a play, or a game.

Then there were the more intriguing items. He had three letters from old flames. Two letters were from the same woman, who signed only her initials at the bottom—and they didn't seem like initials my mother would have used. Third letter was from a woman whose heart my father broke for some trivial matter and she was begging him to come back. I also found three pictures, or rather pictures of three women, all young and beautiful and all most likely his REAL secrets. One of them I recognized to be my aunt, my father's older brother's wife. I didn't know if her picture was from before her marriage to my uncle or after.

These items held only a passing fancy for me. I wasn't really concerned about my father's past or why my mother hadn't discovered these items and burnt them, now that he was also her past. The item that held my interest was an old book, a sort of cheap imitation of the Kamasutra.

It was a really cheap book, all pictures and positions were basically cartoon drawings and paper used was the same as – if not worst than – the newsprint. My young mind saw more than a cheap book though. I saw a book that held the wonders of the world for me.

In our village of 100 households, with mostly middle-aged and elderly people farming their lives away or tending to a meagre cattle post, here at the edge of South Africa, this book became my entertainment centre.

My mother spent her mornings at our farm while my sister tended to the small convenience store—a legacy of my father. In the afternoons, my mother took over the store while my sister came home to prepare the evening meal. My duties were to tend to the farm and the cattle in the afternoons, which sometimes went well into the evening, what with the animals being unpredictable in their wanderings and my having to chase them from all over.

Our evening routine was set in stone. I would come home all tired and dirty and bath in the cold water from the borehole. My sister would get me my dinner and then continue with her sewing. She actually made good money sewing and cleaning clothes for other families in the village, especially those whose young'uns had moved to the city ages ago. My mother would go next door to her one and only friend, Precious, and wither the night away in a carton of Chibuku, or some other drink she pilfered from the store. She had trouble waking up early the next day and that was one of the reasons why my sister tended to the store in the mornings. My mother spent early part of the day tending to the farm, but that was only an excuse. She used that time to nurse her hangover.

I spent my evening hours fingering through the book and fantasizing about experiencing some of those positions with someone at sometime in the future. There was no one in the village that would be a possibility. Mostly there were married women or old women and none very attractive. Precious WAS a possibility, but so was the hiding I would get from my mother if she found out that I held secret desires for her friend.

The only young and attractive woman in town was my sister and she was living in a world of her own. If you are wondering why we didn't move to the city like other young people, the answer lies in lack of relatives willing to put us up until we found something to do. My father and my mother had alienated their family members way before we were even born and by the time we thought of moving away from the stink hole known as our village, we really had nowhere to go.

My sister was four years my senior and lived in a world of her own, which was constructed out of characters she found in the magazines we sold in our store and in the gossip columns of the newspaper. Actually we used to buy only one or two magazines and only one newspaper. It was a weekly newspaper and, along with the magazines, it circulated from one hand to the other until everyone had read it from end to end. The magazines and newspaper always ended up back with us where my sister used them to copy the next outfit from or imitate a new hairdo, or even apply the makeup in one form or another. You see, my sister was also the local beautician and the dressmaker. She also made good money from the women who wanted to look like movie stars or dress like models. My sister saved her money in a secret place of her own. She was keeping it hidden from my mother until one day she had enough to fly the coop.

I was carefree. No school to attend and no one to answer to. My only duty was to make sure that the cattle were well-fed and the farm was cultivated when rains came. Other than that I was roaming through the savannah like a young lion, just marking my territory.

For some reason, I would always put that book back where I had found it. I knew it was my father's secret hiding place, but now it was also my hiding place. That book was now my secret and I kept it hidden in the same place. Every evening I would take it out and every morning I would put it back carefully in the same place. I not only guarded the secret, but the position of the book, with almost religious zeal.

That's why it wasn't difficult to discover that there was another reader of the book.

Someone else had also discovered the secret hiding place, and thus the secret. I felt violated.

I knew it wasn't my mother who discovered the place. It had to be my sister. Otherwise, things wouldn't have stayed in the same place. My mother would have destroyed them.

My sister was as careful with the book as I was. I knew that she probably looked through it in the afternoons when I was at the post. She would put it back by the time I came home. I didn't know, however, if she knew that I also read the book.

Now, the problem. Knowing that the secret was no longer just mine, knowing that the secret now belonged to both of us, and knowing that she probably looked at the very same pictures that I did and fantasized about the very same positions that I did, from the opposite point of view of course, I had found a partner to practice the positions with; albeit, only an imaginary one. The problem being that this partner was my sister.

Let's say that I took fancy to the position where the man was standing behind the woman, who was on all fours close to the edge of the bed, my cock poised only an inch or so away from her hole, ready to enter her and make that smile on her lips even wider. In my imagination, I was that man. I was the one whose hands grabbed her waist and whose buttocks tightened as he concentrated his energies to the middle of his body, ready to thrust forward in one mighty swoop. Now, in the same pose, my sister would be imagining herself to be that woman about to be impaled by the mighty warrior standing behind her with a penis that extended to lengths beyond human possibilities. My sister must have smiled as wide as the woman as she anticipated the penis entering the folds of her womanhood and reaching inside her belly and tickling the base of her heart.

Now let's take the opposite point of view. What if my sister took fancy to the position where the man was lying on his back as the woman straddled his body and lowered herself on top of his cock, engulfing that huge cock of his into the mysteries of her interior? In her imagination, she was the woman descending upon the man, swallowing his manhood into her pussy. In my imagination, I was the man, fondling her breasts as he was experiencing the joys of being immersed in a wet, warm, and wonderful orifice of pleasure.

Where I was the live man entering that cartoon woman; in my sister's mind, she must be the live woman that the cartoon man was entering. I was entering the woman, as the man was entering my sister. I was entering and my sister was being entered into. I was, therefore, entering my sister.

The arousal those thoughts gave me was just unbelievable. The guilt that came with it was equally unbelievable. I couldn't imagine myself entering my sister without the guilt that said I am not supposed to do it with my sister. The pleasure of entering someone like my sister, my real sister, seemed much stronger than some other woman, say Precious. The possibilities of having sex with a young, vibrant, and beautiful woman like my sister were much more exciting than with a middle-aged woman like Precious. If I was going to have sex with Precious, I might as well have sex with my mother. After all they both were about the same – age and physical build wise. Another attack of guilt, and some shame, came when I imagined my mother in one of those positions.

I didn't like the guilt associated with my fantasies. I used to fantasize about experiencing those positions with someone who had no form or definition. Now I was fantasizing about someone who did have form and definition, but made me feel painfully guilty. I had to find a solution, and quick.

I went with the solution that my other head suggested. I found my fantasies to be a lot less guilt ridden by putting the head of Precious on the body of my sister.

Now when I looked at the woman lying on her side, with her one leg raised in the air, I was the man between her scissor-cut. The leg under my butt or over my shoulder was my sister's; the body lying on the bed was my sister's; the pussy and the face, however, belonged to Precious. I was thus able to experience the thrill without the guilt. Even when I was sitting in a chair and she was kneeling in front of me, holding the head of my cock in her mouth, while seductively looking into my eyes; it was the body of my sister in front of me but it was Precious' mouth swallowing my release. In the missionary position, my sister's legs were wrapped around my waist but I was inside Precious. I touched and caressed my sister but I fucked Precious. That was the difference that my brain created to get rid of the guilt. I could touch my sister, but I couldn't fuck her.

A few times, just for fun, I tried to fuck the body of Precious and put my sister's head on it, but I couldn't look into her eyes without looking away in shame. As a side effect, I discovered that I could put my mother's head on Precious' body and feel no remorse whatsoever. But, none of those fantasies were as fulfilling as with my sister's body and Precious' head. Soon, even Precious' head didn't matter. I could visualize my sister's body with only a silhouette on top. This became even better because now I was really having sex with my sister in those fantasies without involving Precious, or any other person. That silhouette could easily be my sister and it didn't matter any longer. Soon, thereafter, whenever my sister flashed a smile in my imagination, I was able to keep the guilt at bay.

And, then, soon thereafter, I started to see my sister in a new light.

Knowing that she looked at the same pictures as I did and probably fantasized herself as part of the poses, like I did, I became somewhat obsessed with knowing which of the positions she fantasized about the most. Or rather, I wanted to know which position was her favourite. I wanted my fantasies to be more focused and even have more substance. The only way to get that was to know which position she focused upon the most, so I could spend more time in that position as compared to the others.

I couldn't come out and just ask her. As a matter of fact, we weren't even supposed to know that the other knew our secret. I knew she read the book as well; she also probably knew that I too read the book; but it wasn't something we could acknowledge to each other. The embarrassment would be tremendous, for whatever reason.

I had to find a subtle way of getting a hint out of her as to which position was her favourite. Of course, without having any direct—and acknowledgeable—means of communication, the task was Herculean.

While I wondered about her favourite position, I also wondered about how she fantasized, or rather who she fantasized with. Just like me, the prospects of a suitable fantasy partner were slim to none. She didn't even have an equivalent of Precious in her life. So, who did she picture in her fantasies? Who played the part of her male fantasy companion? If the first task was difficult to figure without any direct means of communication, then the second was impossible in comparison.

It was the onset of South African summer. The sun was bright and sharp. The animals spent most of their time sitting under the shade of our giant trees, as did I. It was during one of those lazy days that I had my epiphany.

It occurred to me that we did have a direct means of communication—the book itself.

I mean she read whatever was in the book just like I did. What if—what if—what if I were to send a very subtle and inconspicuous—almost non-existent—message through the book. If she was into the book as I was, which I vehemently hoped for, she would pick up on it. Whether she would respond to it or not, was another story; but at least I would have made a move; to what end or extent, I didn't know.

Well, I did know, sort of. It was a move towards some sort of clarification to my fantasies. I wanted to know what my partner liked the most, and then, in my fantasies, I wanted to make my partner happy by doing what my partner liked. My partner being my sister was irrelevant. We were only talking about fantasies, not actually doing anything in the real world.

I was much more aroused by thinking about doing what she liked than by thinking of her doing what I liked. Go figure!

If we were tuned to each other, as the fantasies would have surely connected us, then she would know instantaneously what message I was sending and would respond without hesitation. On the other hand, if she didn't respond, even after she picked up on my message, then she would basically be telling me off. I really didn't want to be told off, though.

With shaking hands and an equally trembling heart, I took a pencil and drew a star next to my favourite position.

I was basically telling her what position was my favourite. I expected her to see that star and read into it as a communication of sorts. I was essentially opening the dialog by saying that this is my favourite position and hoping that she would then respond by putting a star next to her favourite position. We would, in a non-committal way, express our preferences without actually being held liable in case the other didn't like this sort of conversation.

When I picked up the book the following evening, my hands were quite literally trembling like a leaf. My breath was uncontrollable. My blood was rushing through my veins so fast that I heard the sound of wind in my ears. I was aroused like I had never been aroused before. My eyes were out of focus as I quickly went through all the pages looking for some sort of mark from her.

I found none. The disappoint I felt was heavy and it lifted the excitement from my brain. I went through the book again, more carefully this time and with a subdued enthusiasm. I was disappointed, to say the least; I was actually upset and felt depressed. I don't know why but I had put so much hope into getting a response from her that when none came forward, I felt very dejected, almost to the point of being miserable.

Even after looking through every page ten times, I found no hint from her. I assumed that maybe she didn't look through the book that day and that's why she didn't see it. While it lifted my spirits a little with the hope that maybe I'll see something the next evening, the disappointment loomed large in my psyche for days to come.

I checked the book again and again for next few days but no response came forth. I gave up after about a week, realizing that it probably is not a subject to be discussed between her and me. That she being older and wiser, thought better of encouraging me and simply shut me down, or told me off; either way, subject closed.

I had calmed down by the time I gave up on her communication. I went back to my fantasies, only this time, she became less prominent and I wholeheartedly started to use Precious in them, body and head. It was better, at least, because she didn't tell me off.

That's why when I looked through the book on the 10th day of putting a star next to my favourite position, I almost missed the check mark next to another position in the book.

When I realized that there was another mark in the book, my heart leapt to my throat while missing a beat at the same time. I was instantly aroused for some reason and I almost tore the pages off while flipping back to where the mark was. When my eyes rested on the mark itself and I realized that it was real after trying to wipe it off with the back of my hand, I gave a muffled scream.

My favourite position was with the woman on all fours at the edge of the bed and man standing behind her with his hands on her waist, ready to impale her. Her favourite position was with the man sitting in the middle of the bed with his legs stretched in front of him, while the woman sat in his lap with her legs around his waist and stretched in the opposite direction. His cock was inside of her and his hands were fondling her breasts, while her arms were around his neck and both were locked in a passionate kiss.

I liked a position of power while she opted for a tenderer pose of lovemaking.

I felt exhilarated, to say the least. I was thrilled to death at the response. I felt the connection become real. She was at that very moment somewhere else in the house, probably thinking of me discovering her response and visualizing my reaction to it. I tried to visualize her reaction when she must have discovered my star. I was actually prepared for her communication but she wasn't for mine. Her reaction must have been more spontaneous and her surprise must have been genuine.

I wondered about what was going through her mind after that discovery. I also wondered about why it took her so long to respond.

The only thing that was going through my mind was my sister sitting in my lap as my hands fondled her breasts and we kissed in a never-ending, passionate kiss. I no longer allowed Precious to come into the picture. It was my sister through and through and I was through my sister like a knife through butter. I tried to picture how it would be if my sister was really sitting in my lap and her naked butt was on my naked thighs, my hands were fondling her naked breasts, and—don't laugh—my naked dick was in her naked pussy.

I had opened a channel of communication and she had responded to my subtle question. Now what? I had to now continue the communication; otherwise the whole exercise was a waste. But, I had no clue as to what I was supposed to say – or do – next. I stayed awake almost the entire night thinking about my next step.

Next day when I saw my sister, I tried to see if there was something different in her demeanour. If there was, she hid it well. Yet, I knew that she knew that I knew that we had communicated to each other about our favourite sexual positions. What that meant was beyond me? What that implied was also beyond me? I was aroused with the thoughts of knowing my sister's favourite sexual position and my response was very intense to the fantasies of being her partner in that pose. I, however, did not want to masturbate and lose that intensity. I wanted to stay on fire all the time.