I heard Caroline lapping more below. My sister's fingertips pressed tight into my neck. Her breath came hollow, hot, into my mouth, and then she felt down for my prick and traced the rigid outline through the cloth.

“D'you wannoo, Harry?” Her voice slurred-slurred with a passion and a slyness both.

“Want what?” I wanted her to say it, say.

“Fuck me-put your cock up, darling. Do it now.” Blur of the wonder of her words, a slow revolving of her hips to the teasing tongue of Caroline. The plums of Berthas and of Adelaide's bottoms perched upon their saddles: suddenly I thought of that-the dark and secret places in between their thighs, quims squishy, rubbing on the leather as they rode.

“Yes-oh god, yes!” I knelt, unbuttoned, pushed my trousers down while Caroline sat up and wiped her mouth.

“No, take them right off, Harry, take off everything. Oh, Adelaide, oh look-it's quite a big one-what a knob!”

“Oh!” My sister stared at it-my dangling balls-then turned upon her tummy, hid her face, but Caroline bent and rolled her over again. Then Adelaide looked up at my stiffened prick and put her finger in her mouth.

There are some who think of every act of love as much the same. For myself, I do not segregate the ones I most remember according to the postures one adopted or the words one said. Rather does each one have its own small tag. This one squealed a little, was held down; this one cried and kicked her legs; this one lay still and worked her bottom just a little to ones thrusts; another came and came-could not contain her cries of joy; one talked a lot, spun out obscenities; another was silent and breathed softly into one's own mouth.