Read this before you get on with reading the story. This is a work of fiction, even though it is loosely based on real things that happened to real people. It is an erotic story, and if you're not 18 yet, it's not the kind of sex that will appeal to you, nor the kind of story you should be reading now. So please stop reading and get out of here, fast.

If you're 18 years of age or more and can continue to read this, please remember that by opting to read on you have implicitly agreed that artistic description of sexual relationships does not offend you or make you giddy. Please also remember that sex is best enjoyed by two people or perhaps a group of people who share a concern for each others' pleasure. Other than masturbation, sex cannot be a selfish game. A natural corollary to this is that we have to be responsible in our sexual behaviour. Practice safe sex. Protect children.

MF inc bro-sis

Discovery comes in strange forms. When I got this job in Calcutta, I had been through hell at my last workplace, in Delhi and like they say misfortune comes in twos and threes, I had also been through the pits in a relationship. Calcutta is my hometown, where we have an ancestral house, and my parents my little sister Shweta and our younger brother Avishek have been there through the fifteen years I was away. I have never had a comfortable relationship with mom and dad, but it would feel good to be back home anyway, in my old room with its view of the garden, and its ceiling discolored by water stains.

My dad is a solicitor who operates from a crusty old office near the High Court and comuets to work in a rattletrap black Ambassador car (comes with the professional norms) and my mother is a social worker who never got off her moral high-horse all her life. They could never see their son as a long-haired, pot smoking fashion designer. Don't blame them either, it's the old thing about social stereotypes that a whole generation never grew out of.

Little sister doesn't quite fit into this strain, though she's done normal things like read Eng Lit and work for a publishing house, which is what she's doing up until now. Through the decade and a half I'd been away from home, she was my only contact with family. Shweta was a delightfully sweet 14 when I'd left home, and she'd remained an eternal 14 in my memory, as we spoke on the phone, wrote (and later e-mailed) one another across many and varied lands and time zones. I was in the US, in France, in Bangalore and finally in Delhi, and all the while, though we were in touch we never met, not even once.

I still remember the last night at home. The next morning I was leaving for design school halfway across the country, and I was out painting the town red, partying with my friends till I could drop. Back home I found Shweta had stayed up for me, half asleep and nodding in the tv room in her shapeless and colorless T shirt and shorts. She needed a farewell party too, and I felt more than a little sorry I had so little time left for her. Anyways, we sat down with a bottle of sweet rum and Pepsi cans, and soon she was pleasantly sloshed. I was of course fairly blown out of my mind. Reclined on the carpet in my room, she cosied up with me to softly whisper how much she'd miss me. I still rmember the vague, half-felt thrill all over me as she cuddled into my arms, resting on me, giggling, whispering and sometimes crying a bit, rubbing her softly filling curves on my chest. I felt a keen thrill electrify my nerves as I felt her rub her soft breasts, without the constrains of a bra, and through the flimsy cotton of her baggy T shirt onto my bare chest. We had to call the party off when my parents got wind of the fact that we were up and drinking in my room, but not before she demanded and got a special goodbye kiss. It started as a series of wet mouth-to-mouth pecks punctuated by her giggles, but ended in a few long and passionate kisses, tongues winding into every corner of each others' mouth. We were both panting when we hugged each other goodnight, reluctantly, and she went back to her room.

Through the years we've grown up in different parts of the world, Shweta and I have shared each others personal lives down to the most intimate details. The act of sharing has been mostly very clinical, though, with me playing the role of a wise older brother, though usually not sanctimonious, as I can't even efford to get holier than thou. She's always laughed at my not-so-holy lifestyle, and to put it in a few words, we've had a naughty and fun long-distance interaction. Shweta and I are very close true, there being just four summers between us, and we certainly have missed one another over the major part of our formative years. But then, the world's a large place and end of the day when your present takes up such a lot of space and attention in your conscious mind, you tend to forget bonds that have been important in the past. If not forget outright, you tend to marginalise them in favor of the more immediate ones that make up the present. So, I never thought of Shweta as more than a childhood friend and a little sis.

When I touched base with home Christmas before the last, to tell them about my new job, mom and dad were formal as ever, but Shweta was just squealing in delight. I was a little surprised at the sheer ecstasy of her response. Our youngest sibling Avishek, the pragmatic man who has always toed the line and now sits with dad in his crusty old office, was his usual cagey self.

Sis and I couldn't speak a lot, because she was in a hurry to go out partying with Sajan, her boyfriend, but she was very disturbed to hear that my relationship with Tara had messed up not just my personal life but my social life as well. She promised to call me back at night. I remember I asked her to call on my cell since I shared a flat and a phone with a newly married couple who were housebound that Christmas eve and who I didn't want to overly disturb.

When Shweta got through it was three in the small hours and I was fast asleep. She sounded very concerned, but she was really happy I was going to come home, and actually be there. But she also warned me not to expect my parents to go over the edge to welcome me back, and that the real reason she couldn't speak to me when I'd called was that dad was getting uncool about her chatting me on the phone. Not surprising, I thought, I've always been the Social Enemy, the Slur on the Sinha Family.

Hardly mattered to me except that I also wanted to be pretty sure I was getting my fair share of prime property held over four generations of Banerjees in one of the swankier neighbourhoods of Calcutta, and I was determined to see that through.

Shweta had all along been giving me subtle signals that I was going to lose my inheritance to Avishek, but that night she spelt it out. She's been my adoring (and adorable) little sis but isn't terribly close to Avishek. It's always struck me that Shweta and I don't quite take after Sinha stock, we're the strange mutants.

Anyways I enjoyed 31st. night as my friends from Paris were down vacationing in indai and we partied at my place till the wee hours before heading for the mountains. The first week of Y2K was spent trekking up to Nanda Devi base camp. I was in Calcutta toward the end of January.

Shweta's voice changed one bit, as she squealed when she saw me get off the escalator at the airport. It had been the same right from when she was 14 and over the years that we'd speak through telephone cables. But what had changed was her appearance. She was now a mature woman of 29, tall, svelte, pretty and dusky with those same big warm, dark eyes framed in a mature face. In fact I just shot my eyes from out my face, I couldn't believe that this drop dead gorgeous lady in a black shirt, a maroon blazer and black lycra skirt was my dear little sis. Hugging her I pretty much lost my breath, drunk in her exotic perfume and dazed by her beauty. "You've grown so amazingly beautiful baby," I said, "You just got me palpitating zoooop down a roller coaster." I was greeted by a barely articulate squeal whose verbal content was something like "You're soooo sweeeet..." and another tight hug in response that got my heart jumping and bouncing inside of me. Then as a plug-in I got this warm and wet kiss on my mouth, so sweet I could swoon.

She drove me down to the city. I was expecting the rattly old black Amby but was pleasantly surprised to find a cute little Suzuki Wagon R in its place. I found her driving as edgy and wild as mine, and the music on the car stereo was my old scratchy bootleg tape of a rock concert.

To relive old times, she pulled up at a soda fountain in a roadside dhaba , a bistrot that is, and asked for Pepsi. I sat and looked at her admiringly, as we drank down our cups of Pepsi. Shweta had lodged her one leg across mine, her skirt spilling onto the differential and a long slit riding up her shapely thigh. I tickled her up along the slit, and she giggled in response. As she revved up the car and pulled out of the dhaba, she gave me another kiss on my mouth, licking my lips with her tongue. My heart missed a couple of beats and suddenly I was again in my room, partying with her to mark my last night home! Taking it up, as though, from where we left that night.