Moans of Venus - Charles E. Magness - ebook

When Jerry hears Jenny masturbating through a shared wall, he responds as any young man would.In a moment of whimsy, worldly and promiscuous Jenny seduces nerdy, inexperienced Jerry, and offers to put out for him if he will only pay her price. Caught in a moment of weakness and wanting very much what she offers, he agrees. But he resents the way she has fleeced him, so he blackmails her into putting out again. Riding bareback, he threatens his ultimate revenge—to impregnate her.Then she catches him peeping and masturbating while she is nearly naked. Can things get any worse?Moans of Venus is a tale of voyeurism, seduction, blackmail, redemption, and love.

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Moans of Venus

By Charles E. Magness

Artwork by Moira Nelligar

Copyright 2015 Charles E. Magness

~~ All characters in this book are 18 or over. ~~

Chapter 1

We were all tired that evening, and we went to bed early. And, shortly after I went to bed, I heard her—my twin sister—masturbating. I don't mean that I heard the juicy sounds of her fingers sliding around in her wet folds. Those sounds might've come through, for all I remember. But I wasn't listening for sounds like that, because I didn't even realize, then, that there might anything to listen for. What I did hear was what came from her unguarded mouth: the sighs, the moans, and the grunts that accompanied her fingers' action.

We had moved that day, and this was our first night in our new house. Jenny and I were just a few months over eighteen, and it was early the summer after Jenny and I had finished our junior year in high school. Our parents had both gotten their promotions to full professor a couple of years earlier, Dad in philosophy and Mom in psychology. Thus, even in the high-priced real estate market of mid-Eighties Boulder, Colorado, they could afford a better house than the one Jenny and I had grown up in.

Still, it was an old house, and the rooms were quite large. Jenny and I hadn't talked to each other about it before we had the movers set up our beds; later we found that, in spite of all the room we had, we'd put them next to each other, right up against our shared wall. That wall seemed pretty substantial, but I discovered that evening that it wasn't soundproof—not by a long shot.

She went to bed just before I did that night because, gentleman that I was, I let her have the bathroom first. I got back from my turn in the bathroom and I lay down, naked, for the night. Like most eighteen-year-old guys would do, I was asking myself whether I was going to masturbate before I went to sleep. As I pondered, I gave my dick a few experimental strokes—just to see if I was in the mood.

And then, still undecided about my mood, my half-soft dick in my hand, I heard her noises through the wall. I'd never heard anything like that before; but I guessed, instantly, what she was doing. Thoughts of her female body lying so close to me, and of the part of that body her hand was on—the part of her body that made her a girl—filled my mind. So did thoughts of replacing her hand on that part of her body with part of my body—a part that sprang to attention. And, suddenly, I was definitely in the mood.

Her noises grew, and I realized that she was muttering—incomprehensibly at first. But as she got closer and closer to her orgasm, she got louder. Not that she shouted: You couldn't have heard her from out in the hall, even from just outside her door. But I heard her distinctly through the wall: "Oh, fuck me, fuck me!" She repeated it, again and again, sometimes adding, "Fuck me harder!" And shortly after that, I heard, a lot less distinctly, the incoherent noises that signaled her orgasm.

My trial strokes became much less conjectural, and as the resulting sensations became more demanding, I realized that I was about to groan. But I knew, now, from the way I could hear through the wall, that Jenny would hear me. So I managed to stifle myself. And, somehow, I contained all of the other noises—including noises from the bed—that a guy is likely to make while bringing himself off.

That's a difficult thing for a young man to do. But I was an introverted—even nerdy—guy, and I valued my privacy highly.

That probably explained why I didn't have much experience with girls. I was too geeky and too afraid of girls, though I'd managed a few dates. But I'd been too shy and awkward to try to kiss anyone (let alone put a hand on anyone's boob), and nothing had ever developed out of those dates. Awkward though I might have been, I was pretty good at keeping secrets when I wanted to, and being able to hear Jenny through the wall was a secret I wanted—desperately—to keep.

Jenny was different. She was extroverted, outgoing. She attracted guys; and she liked their attention. She'd had a number of boyfriends since she was fourteen—enough that I lost count. But none of those guys lasted long. She always seemed to get dissatisfied with her current guy pretty quickly. Each new boyfriend might last all of a few weeks before she dismissed him and started on another one.

And she talked to me about how much she enjoyed "fucking" those boyfriends. And, yes, she used exactly that word: She was pretty foul-mouthed when our parents weren't around—as foul-mouthed as any of my male friends. Because of that, and because of her behavior with boys, I had reluctantly decided a year or two earlier that Jenny was...well...slutty. I didn't like that part of her behavior. In fact I hated it. But she was still my twin sister, and I guessed it wasn't my place to say anything about it to her. Moreover, I have to confess, I really envied the way that behavior got her laid frequently.

Now, here I was listening to her masturbate, while I did likewise! I knew that I should have been ashamed of myself. After all, she was my sister, and not just my sister, but my twin sister—my womb-mate.

We weren't as close as many twins are. We'd been a lot closer when we were small, but by the time we got to high school, we had a relationship that was more typical of teenage-siblings.

I can admit, now, that I was secretly glad to have a sibling my own age, and I think that she felt much the same way. Naturally neither of us would have admitted to those feelings then, though it must've been clear to observers. We spent a good bit of our time with each other. We often watched TV together—though, of course, there were the mandatory fights over what we were going to watch. During the summers, we hiked together; in winter, we skied with each other. When school was in session, we spent time studying with each other—not only for the things we were taking together, but for the courses we were taking separately. We seemed to get along with each other pretty well, and I thought we liked each other.

More than "liked," I guess; there was genuine affection between us. We touched each other frequently. When we met or parted, it wasn't a bit unusual for either of us to give the other a quick caress or a squeeze, or even a kiss on the cheek.

Late in the summer of the year before we moved, her appendix burst, and the way I hung out around her hospital room, night and day, until she was out of danger, was a family legend. During the fall after that, I sprained an ankle trying (unsuccessfully) to do an ill-advised stunt on a skate-board, and during the week or so I spent on crutches after that, she drove me everywhere I had to go (or just wanted to go). She even carried things for me when I couldn't handle them together with the crutches.

But neither of us would acknowledge that affection explicitly. And like most siblings of about the same age, neither of us shied from taking advantage of the other whenever an occasion arose. We put each other down when possible, and we squabbled over silly things whenever something silly (like what we were going to watch on TV, who got the larger piece of pie, who got the only car available that Friday evening, or whose turn it was to do the dishes) arose to squabble about.

So I knew I should be ashamed of myself for masturbating while I listened to the sounds that came through our shared wall—ashamed of myself for thinking not only of what her body must be like, but what I'd like to do to it. I felt guilty about that—especially two days later when I heard her again and reacted the same way as I had the first time. But within a few weeks I settled into a routine. And as my listening—along with the accompanying thoughts and actions—became routine, my guilt faded.

I figured that I'd had a nice stroke of luck in discovering the nature of the wall before Jenny had, so I kept myself quiet when we were both in our rooms—not just when she might hear me getting myself off. I didn't want her to hear my noises, because I was afraid that she would realize just how easily sound penetrated the wall. I even considered playing with myself only when she wasn't in her room. But the routine developed as quickly as it did because she masturbated three or four times a week, right after we went to bed. Naturally, the noises she made always gave me an erection—and a pressing need to do something about it. But I always kept myself silent, perfectly silent, as I brought myself off.

As a result of my new entertainment, I was sleeping better. Mom and Dad both suffered from insomnia; they even took sleeping pills every night because of it. Jenny and I were beginning to think we had inherited the problem; in the last few years, we had found that we were beginning to have nights every now and then when we slept poorly—or even not at all. Mom and Dad didn't want us to take their pills; that hadn't stopped me from helping myself, on the sly, of course, to one a couple of times. But regular orgasms incited by Jenny's activities—and therefore more intense than the perfunctory ones all guys are used to—seemed to be improving my situation.

Another side effect of my listening pleasure was that I began to pay more attention to Jenny's body during our waking hours. I found myself looking at her frequently. And I often undressed her with my eyes when no one (especially Jenny) was looking.

She was shorter than I by several inches, and she had a nice figure. She wasn't unusually attractive, but she was a healthy girl, and she was definitely good-looking. She had all of the standard female equipment, in all of the standard places—at least as far as I could tell when she was fully dressed. Her boobs weren't particularly large, but they were much more than merely noticeable. And, suddenly, I found that noticing them was pleasurable. Her butt was one of the nicest butts I've ever seen, and I loved the way her pants curved around her pussy and displayed its contours.

I hadn't seen her naked since we were four or five. But I had a good imagination; my mind's eye saw right through her clothes. (My mind's eye knew what was there to see from looking at occasional copies of magazines, like Hustler, that friends "borrowed" from older brothers.) And what that inner eye saw caused more than one erection and brought about more than one session in which I locked myself in the bathroom to, shall we say, work something out.

Soon I was daydreaming about her. I heard her moans in my mind. I thought about what her naked body must look like. I fantasized about what her pussy would feel like as we put my dick in it. At school, I found that I had to force myself to think about something else near the end of each class. As long as I was sitting in class, no one could see that I was erect, but if I stood up in that condition, the tent in my pants would humiliate me. Bringing myself off in a stall in the boys' room was risky and problematic, but I managed it a few times.

I started going to bed earlier. Our parents didn't say anything, having learned years earlier that if they complimented me on behavior they liked, there was a very good chance that I would change it to behavior they didn't like. But they must have been pleased when I started going to bed an hour or two earlier. By some strange coincidence, which didn't seem to catch their attention, I was now going to bed just before Jenny went to bed. I'd lie there in my darkened room, listening. And, several times a week she'd unknowingly serenade me with her moans and her sotto voce pleas to be fucked—harder, harder, harder.

In the few months after we moved, I reached a randy equilibrium. I spent a lot of time thinking about my sister's body, and I must've pumped out several pints of semen during those months. Every two or three nights, it was the same. Shortly after I'd gone to bed, I'd hear barely perceptible moaning from her side of the wall. Slowly the sounds would grow, and I'd lie there naked, slowly stroking my stiff dick.

As her moans intensified and became faster and more definite, my stroking increased in speed and strength. Soon, I'd hear her begging to be fucked. I was usually about to explode when I heard her orgasm. Sometimes, I even thought I could feel the floor shaking—but that was usually when I was so far out of sync with her that I didn't come until some time after she was finished. It was probably my imagination.

What did I do with the semen? I used the tee-shirt I'd worn that day to avoid making a mess. Jenny and I each did our own laundry, so I didn't worry about being discovered on that account.

And then things changed.

The two of us usually walked to and from school together. But I came home from school alone one mid-September afternoon. The friend I'd been planning on doing something with that afternoon had been sick, and he hadn't come to school. Jenny had thought I'd be busy, so she'd made plans of her own to go to out with some of her girlfriends.

Mom and Dad both had committee meetings that would keep them on the university campus until nearly suppertime. So I found myself alone in the house with nothing to do.

Soon after I got home, I decided that this would be a good opportunity to try the expensive new headphones I'd just gotten for my stereo. In order to buy them, I'd done extra chores around the house to earn more money, and I'd even spent some of the allowance money I'd socked away in my savings account.

That was another way Jenny and I differed. I was pretty good at saving my money. In fact, I hated to part with it. Compared to most guys my age, I was a miser. In fact, I had a hundred dollars stashed in my top dresser drawer right then and, even after buying the earphones, I had a couple of hundred dollars in the bank. But Jenny never had enough for what she wanted to buy. Always being short, she frequently tried to wheedle money from me. When we weren't fighting, I usually lent it to her. She paid it back reliably, in a reasonable amount of time, because she knew that if she didn't, I'd stop lending.

I rarely used the stereo after we moved, for fear that Jenny would hear it and learn the secret of the wall. But I got those headphones because I loved classical music, and I missed listening to it. (Hey—I said I was nerdy, didn't I?) So I closed my door, put on the headphones, turned on the stereo, and tuned it to my favorite station.

As luck would have it, the station had just begun playing one of E. Power Biggs' organ renditions of J. S. Bach's Toccata, Adagio, and Fugue in C Major. There's a lot of amazing pedal work in that piece—meaning heavy bass, which I loved. So I turned the volume up, put on the headphones, and lay down on my bed to listen.

As I listened to the Toccata, I thought about what I'd heard through the wall a couple of nights before. My dick responded as it had that night. By the time the Adagio began, I was naked, and I was engaged in two of my favorite activities at the same time—both involving organs, so to speak.

The music is perfect for what I was doing. I pumped slowly through the Adagio; compulsion built within me. The Adagio ended in a sequence of majestic chords, and the bright Fugue subject began. Slowly, the music's strength grew, its intricacy deepened, and the pedal took up the subject. My stroking intensified with the music; J. S. Bach, E. Power Biggs, and I were on track to climax together. The three of us were about to peak when the door flew open, and Jenny stepped into my room. She took a few steps, and then what she saw registered.

I froze in mid-stroke. She froze in mid-step. Her eyes bugged out and her jaw dropped. Through the headphones, I heard her squeak—as if someone had poked her in the butt with a sharp stick. Seconds later, her lips moved. I couldn't hear what she said, but it looked like "Oh, my God!" Her hand came up, palm out, as though to block out an intolerable sight, and she turned her head.