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This is a question Siblings

Brothers and sisters - can't live with 'em, can't stove 'em to death with the coal scuttle and bury 'em behind the local industrial estate. Tell us about yours.

Thanks to suboftheday for the suggestion -we're keeping the question open for another week for the New Year

(, Thu 25 Dec 2008, 17:20)
Pages: Latest, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, ... 1

This question is now closed.

My youngest brother
.xls at school. The oldest one's already a .doc. But the other one's a pdf file.
(, Sun 28 Dec 2008, 16:54, 6 replies)
Siblings...I've had a few...
I've been jolted out of my recent QOTW torpor by this one, though it isn't so much of a light and frolicsome piece as a case study in secrets and lies. Come to think of it, the tale bears a remarkable resemblance to the Mike Leigh creation of the same nice. But I assure you, dear readers, that however prone to exaggeration I may sometimes be, that this is utterly and absolutely true.

And massive. Sorry about that.

Until the age of fifteen, I cavorted and stumbled about the place under the misapprehension that I was the eldest of two kids.

Mnemomic Minor, I will note here, is one of the sweetest, most innocent-natured creatures that was ever besmirched and shat upon by this uncaring world, and as such is an utter anomaly within the brood of rat-bastards that comprise the rest of my family (within which designation I do not hesitate to include myself.)

He's five years younger than me, and I'm reliably informed that for several of his most influential years my pastime of choice was to perch on his (third floor) windowsill, declaring that I was about to fly off to Neverland and not return, and wouldn't relent and come down until he was in a state close to asphyxiating fits from crying and pleading with me not to go.

Which isn't as bad as when my older cousin convinced my younger cousin to drink dog piss running down a pavement by telling him it was lemonade. But I digress.

One fateful morning, when I was fifteen and he ten, my mother (generally speaking an undemonstrative creature) came into my squalid pit of a bedroom, and perched herself awkwardly on the end of my bed, hands in her lap. Disgruntled at the invasion of my sovereign space (and the unwanted interruption in my rapacious devouring of the latest Harry Potter), I grunted something vaguely approaching an inquiry as to the purpose of this interview. I remember thinking with horror that this might be some kind of birds and bees chat, as recommended in that week's Bella.

She leant towards me. There was something in her hand. So consumed was my brain with the refrain of 'please don't let it be the sex talk, please don't let it be the sex talk', pounding through my overinflated teenage cringe gland, that I failed to notice this for some moments, although it was clear that she wanted me to. Eventually, she caved.

'I got a letter this morning,' she said.
'Oh?' said I.
'Yes,' said she.
'So?' I grunted.
'It's from your sister', she said.
'Wha?'

Turns out that, a long time ago, she'd had a child she'd been forced to give up for adoption. A familiar story - it was the sixties, she was nineteen, it was simply not the done thing. She was in denial about the pregnancy right up until the end. And this is where it gets sad (although I suspect this unfortunately won't be a singular tale in the chronicles of those times.) My teenage mother was refused pain relief by the anaethestist, on the grounds that she ought to suffer for what she had done. She had to crawl on her hands and knees down a ward corridor, because the nurse wouldn't come when she called. She gave birth for the first time, alone and terrified and with no medication, after having been in labour for thirty-six hours.

And then they came and told her the baby was to be taken away. She hadn't a say in the matter. Except then, for whatever reason, they didn't. My mother was left to look after my sister in the hospital for six weeks while they found her a suitable home. She fed her. She named her. And then one morning, my mother woke up and my sister was gone from the cot beside her. And that was it - she got her coat and went home.

I'm not a parent - although I know some of you are - and so I can't fully imagine what it must be like to have a six week-old baby taken from you. What little I can conceive of, I can't really handle. Suffice to say, it messed my mum up. Her family just wanted to forget about it, and it was never spoken of again. She told my father when they married but not us, or anyone else, even her closest friends.

When my mum told me this story, it made sense of a lot of things. I'd never really been close to her - we'd had a lot of problems and her behaviour towards me was often very irrational, with her reacting violently over quite trivial incidents. Apparently when I was born, she didn't sleep for days on end and wouldn't leave my room, because she was terrified someone would take me away. It all sort of made sense in the light of what had happened.

But to return to the story. My sister had through the help of a friend finally tracked her down, and had written her a letter seeing if she'd like to make contact. My sister had been adopted by a very well-off family (lucky swine), had had a great time of it, and was married and living in Bristol. To cut a long preamble short, they met, and then we met, and it's all worked out extraordinarily well, actually. They are shockingly similar (my sister is nothing at all like her kind but very straight-laced adoptive parents, and is a fashion designer. My mum is also a fashion designer.) And my sister is beautiful and happy and in general has a life I'm rather jealous of, in a good sort of way.

To return, though, to that morning, and to me, bemused in the bed, and having discovered I had a half-sister. Mum asked if I'd like to read the letter, and I said I would. She left the room. I had just about finished, and was trying to let it all sink in, trying to make sense of this sudden familial expansion, when my dear old Dad stuck his head around the door. (If you can, imagine his part in the following dialogue conducted in a thick Welsh accent.)

'Alright Jenny?'
"Yes, I'm alright. I think so.'
'Your mum tell you then?'
'Yes. Can't believe it, really.'
'OK. Well, there's one more thing.'
'What?'
'Oh. Well you know Sam Walsh from down the pub. The barman.'
'Yep?'
'Right. Well, he's your half-brother too. I used to be married to his mam. I'll put the tea on, shall I?'

Yes, I think you'd better.

And that, ladies and gents, is how I was shunted from the first of two siblings to the third of four in the space of around twenty minutes. Surprisingly, it wasn't all that traumatic, and things have pretty much pootled on as they always have done. But that's village life for you - we do things differently here.

Still, good job I didn't snog Sam Walsh that time he tried to grab me round the back of the village hall a year earlier. Now that would have been a Trisha special in the making.

Length? Depends on who the hell you ask, in my family...
(, Sun 4 Jan 2009, 23:55, 7 replies)
Lisa and Dottie
I’ve got a sister. She’s remarkable in the number of surgeries she’s had, organs she’s missing and various diseases she’s suffered. Only now, she’s your normal 32 year old mum. No fun there.

The tale I wish to tell is about my friend Lisa.

I set the scene: we’re 10 year olds in my backwards cowfucking hometown. We were the social misfits – I was a geek because my dad was my English teacher, Lisa wet the bed on a school camping trip. Our lunch hours were spent hanging out on the monkey bars, repelling all other students with our sheer hideousness.

Then one day a new girl started at the school. Lisa and I traversed the playground to take up residence on our monkey bars, only to find the new girl – Dottie – had beaten us to it. As beggars certainly couldn’t be choosers, we became firm and fast friends with Dottie. Our ‘gang’ expanded to three, and we spent most all of our spare time together. They were my very best friends.

Time came for a familial introduction, and Lisa invited our families to her house. The room went quiet, the tension was palpable. I assumed they all hated one another.

Weeks passed, then Lisa’s family sat her down for a talk. Lisa, they said, you’re adopted. When we lived in Florida, we found a teenage mother – your mother – and adopted you from her. Dottie’s mom is your mom. Dottie is your sister.

Dottie’s parents had, by extraordinary chance, moved thousands of miles to a no-mark town in the middle of the Michigan woods. Lisa and I had, by chance, become great friends with Dottie. Lisa had, by chance, invited Dottie’s parents to meet hers. Lisa and Dottie were sisters.

What a way to find out you’re adopted, by befriending your biological sister.

Lisa, sadly, died last year from cervical cancer. This is for you, Lis…
(, Fri 2 Jan 2009, 10:16, 6 replies)
My dad has now emailed me a picture. Allow me to introduce...
Ewan Geoffrey Scott, born 12:45 on the 30th of December 2008.




A ray of sunshine on what otherwise was, for me, a rubbish day.

Edit: I've also figured out what this picture reminds me of. "A frickin' 'laser'".
(, Tue 30 Dec 2008, 22:55, 30 replies)
Just a few examples from a catalogue of millions.....

Siblings? Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus Jumping Christ.
Let me introduce you to...... my brother.


Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen....


First, please let me direct you to a previous post: b3ta.com/questions/mycollection/post69836


Nobody knows but Jee-sus...


He once came up with a brilliant idea. To find out how long he could keep an ice-cube on his arsehole. The Holy Grail, Olympic Gold and undisputed Heavyweight Champion of the World Title rolled in to one would be his reward if he kept it there till it melted.

So off he trots into the garden, handful of frozen water cubes in hand. Pulls his pants and trousers down, lies on his back, spreads his legs, and ‘lays down the challenge’.

Fifteen seconds later he’s running round the garden screaming, with tears in his eyes.

“Man that knackered!” he sobs.

“Hmmm,” I reply.

“What a stupid fucking idea,” he continues.

“Hmmm” I repeat.

“Why did you let me do it?” He implores.

“Because you’re a cunt”.


Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen....


Flashback to early/mid 90’s. A new cosmetic personal hygiene product has been released in the UK, and has taken the market by storm. Simplistic in design, yet efficient in application, and economic in price, these genius inventions help remove blackheads from your nose. By simply applying a slightly adhesive square of paper, then peeling it off, you can remove whatever nastiness might have been clogging up your nasal pores.

Forget years of scientific research, never mind a R&D budget of millions, put all thoughts of the thousands strong workforce that made this thing a possibility out of your mind. My brother decides to create his own version with some super glue and the paper instructions from a kinder egg toy.

I wasn’t there to actually witness the moment of truth. I didn’t see him for two weeks afterwards. But even after all that time, he was still walking around with two layers of skin missing from half his nose, the other half covered in paper, and the whole sorry mess covered in writing, complete with cartoon diagrams, on how to construct a little wind up plastic car.

He very proudly told me about the sorry events that had led up to him looking this way. I had asked my mum, but she just sighed, shook her head and stared sorrowfully at the floor.


Glory Hallelujah...
(, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 10:48, 4 replies)
fun with anaesthetic
My Little Brother punched this guy out, from behind as he was trying to run away.

The guy deserved it, he was 3 years older than Dessie (who was 15), and trying to bully him.

Anyhow, Dessie broke his fist on this bloke, so has to go to hospital. Apparently the anaethatist was very pretty, awesomely beautiful with a kicking bod.

As dessie is coming round from "the gas and air" he looks up at her lovely face, said I like you, and pulls his knob out and has a wank. In front of my Catholic Mam, and 3 Nurses.

Apparently Mam was ineffectually swatting at his hand as, stoned of his skull, he tugged himself off.

What a star!!
(, Tue 30 Dec 2008, 10:06, 6 replies)
My Sister
Was never what you'd call an academic.

She was usually far too busy prancing round her room to Duran Duran whilst applying enough hairspray to her Flock of Seagulls barnet to asphyxiate a small army.

My sis would ask me, her little brother, for help with her assignments.

I think my personal highlight was when she had to make a presentation in front of her whole year at school for history class. My sis always loved being the centre of attention so jumped at the opportunity to be admired and adored by her peers.

Turns out the info I gave her was wrong. And she nearly killed me when she came home from school that day.

The queen of the Iceni tribe who led an uprising against the occupying forces of the Roman Empire was not, in point of fact and as I advised, named Cheetara.
(, Tue 30 Dec 2008, 15:10, 3 replies)
Pearoast time!
Back in the days before my parents divorced, my dad considered a 'great holiday' to consist of loading up our Ford Sierra estate and matching trailer full to bursting point with camping gear, clothes, my long-suffering mother and my brother and I.

I was about to turn eight; my brother would have been five.

After what may well have been days of driving down French motorways, my mum was looking forward to some proper amenities- anyone who has ever visited an old-school French motorway service station will be familiar with 'squatting' toilets. Those who aren't can probably guess the arrangement.

We finally arrived at the campsite, rendezvoused with my grandparents and set about settling in. My dad struggled with our massive tent, my mum went to wash some clothes at the facilities block and my brother and I acted like young children.

Soon, my brother approached my mum saying he needed the toilet. She pointed him in the direction of the gents, next to where she was washing the clothes. He disappeared inside and came out just a few seconds later.

"Mum, there's just a hole in the ground!"

"Oh no," thought my mum "we're going to have to squat for the whole blooming holiday. Fan-bloody-tastic."

"Just use it anyway, dear. It's just like the ones on the autoroute."

A few minutes pass, and my brother emerges from the block in tears, soaking wet.

He'd been peeing into the showers.

And he'd tried to flush.
(, Sun 28 Dec 2008, 16:31, 1 reply)
Boob tube and knickers
I was a confused child.

I have it on good authority (well, my mates and oddly enough one of our cousins), that my sister was (and still is) hot.

When I was a kid I went through a phase of doing odd things when I had the house to myself. Having already fucked my way through everything in the fridge to try and find something that felt like 'a real woman'* And having already had the obligatory five wanks while the rest of my family were out, I found myself in my sisters bedroom...

Moments later I found myself standing infront of her full length mirror wearing a spangly boob tube and a pair of french knickers, with my cock and balls hanging out over the top.

Is it wrong to admit that at that moment I felt the sexiest I have ever felt in my life?

I couldn't look my sister in the eye for a month after that afternoon.

And to this day it is my secret shame that I have, in point of fact, been inside my sister's knickers...


* Vanilla slice was the best, closely followed by a cleverly and anatomically correct hollowed out mellon/vagina with a bit of KY jelly added for extra realism.
(, Wed 31 Dec 2008, 9:24, 10 replies)
I once heard my brother screaming.
This was the screaming of an animal in pain, a dying brother... I rushed to the scene.

The cries led me upstairs to the bathroom, behind which I could hear my brother's plaintive wails.

'Charles! What's wrong' I called through the door

'GET MUM!' came the reply

I rushed downstairs and found our Mum, I dragged her upstairs, we were both worried about what could have happened.

My Mum entered the bathroom and I hid round the corner listening to a conversation that would haunt my brother forever.

'What's wrong Charles?'

'THE POO WON'T COME OUT! THE POO WON'T COME OUT!' Came the reply.

I enjoy telling all his mates that one.
(, Mon 29 Dec 2008, 13:45, 10 replies)
"And you can forget about Christmas too"
Ah, time for some bitterness to start the New Year. Actually I wouldn't mind some second opinions on this, because I'm pretty sure I'm not to blame for this one, but I do wonder, sometimes. The way you do.

I've always thought that my older sister got the better end of any deal going. I wouldn't say that I was deprived, exactly, but if there was leeway to be won, she would invariably get it.

Here's a short list of things that have rankled over the years. I'd better keep it short because this is a work keyboard and if I begin pounding it with my fists they might object.

When I was six, I had a plastic sword, complete with plastic sheath. The sword was blue, with a basket hilt and everything. The sheath was bright yellow and most unswordly. Nevertheless, whenever swordplay was required, the princess would get to use the Blue Rapier, and I'd be stuck flailing around with the yellow sheath.

I wanted a Land Rover for my Action Man. My sister wanted a car for her Sindy. Apparently we "didn't need two cars and could share" (actually I think my dad was deeply suspicious of me wanting to play with dolls in the first place, whether they had manly scars and gripping hands or not). Two years later I got my Land Rover anyway. My sister broke the tailgate on it while Sindy and Action Man were out on a date (which I did not sanction I might add)

Speaking of cars, she refused to go back to university because she hated it. "Would it be better if you had a car, darling?" "mm. Yes." When I was at university it was Shanks' Pony all the way. When I got my first job, though, I got my mum's old car because she'd stopped driving altogether, which was nice. Until she decided to sell it six months later and I had to go and buy my own. Ho hum.

Parties, clothes, holidays, you name it, the litany of disparity goes on. Small stuff, mostly, but you notice. You might think, then, that having had her own way all through childhood, now that we're in our mid 30s things might be settling down into a bit of a balance. It's not such a big deal, really, just little things. And I daresay she remembers times when I got the better part of the deal. I'm sure there were some. Mind you my mother does still do all her washing for her, and if the house needs redecorating they'll be there with the paintbrushes while she goes shopping, and so on.

But she *is* my sister, after all. We're on the same side. No need to make a big deal out of things.

So, as the years went by she'd got married, got divorced, found someone else, got settled, decided to remarry, all of that sort of thing. And I'd found someone that I was engaged to, and all was nice and friendly between us all.

Then - bad news. The worst kind: my fiancee's brother from Australia was diagnosed with what looked like it would be a terminal cancer. He announced that he was coming over to visit us while he still could. He was going to have some initial treatment to try to arrest the cancer, then travel. This would be about six months hence, arriving the week before my sister's wedding, and going back a few weeks later. So we hatched a cunning plan that we would bring our wedding forward a few months so that it would be when he could be there to share it.

Well, you're limited in choice for booking registrars and things, but this would put our wedding three weeks after my sister's second wedding.

Not a problem, I thought. That's her remarried, honeymooned and back with a week to spare before we start the parties again.

But apparently this was a problem. "You've been living together for years. Why have you chosen that date to get married?" she asked. I explained, and that was the last anyone saw of her for days. She just buggered off. Bear in mind that my parents would normally see her several times a week, and then she suddenly cut off communication. Rather alarming for them. Eventually a meeting was arranged between her fiance and my father at a neutral pub (oh the drama!).

The gist of the problem was that we'd be taking the spotlight away too soon. "She will", it was claimed "still be in her post-wedding glow, looking through photographs and things. Those two [that's us!] will be detracting from that".

Baffled, I rang her up (I live hundreds of miles away) - of course she wouldn't speak to me. I spoke to her other half, who didn't want to discuss it because - and I quote - "Talking about things just makes them more confusing" (At this point I began to suspect that he wasn't helping matters).

What to do? Tough one. It was important for my girlfriend that her big brother would be there for her wedding. We couldn't ask the Australian Sibling to cancel his flights and rebook. We offered to arrange to move it forward to the week before her wedding, but apparently that was even worse, and if my parents went to my wedding before hers then she would get married in private and not invite anyone at all. After years of pandering to her every whim, this must have seemed like a real kick in the teeth for my poor parents.

I did consider suggesting a joint ceremony, but my own fiancee started making snarling noises at that point so I hastily moved on to plan D, which was to sit tight, do nothing and let things calm down.

And Lo, the Lord moveth in mysterious ways, because it turned out that my sister couldn't get married on the arranged date, because her fiancee was already married to someone else and hadn't bothered to mention it. So that was suddenly all off - and how! - and we were able to press ahead, and she even came to our wedding and we all pretended that none of the previous unpleasantness (only some of which I have itemised in the interests of keeping you awake until the end) had happened.

That was all 5 years ago. My wife and I are still happily married, and we've all agreed between us that it was all stupid and let's all be friends and forget about it.

Except I can't, quite. It was so aggressive and unpleasant and unecessary, it's hard to put it aside completely. Sometimes when I'm sitting with my sister I look at her and remember those phone calls and think "You selfish cow". And I haven't forgotten about the blue plastic sword either.
(, Mon 5 Jan 2009, 18:05, 16 replies)
My Uncle, right
He's a cross dresser... called Sybil...

Right... stay with me....

Once, I sucked his cock.. and he ejaculated in my mouth so much...

I couldn't keep all of SYBIL IN!

Sybil in! Sibling!!

Sibling!!

Apologies for length, but his cock was huge!!

Haha! LENGTH!
(, Mon 29 Dec 2008, 16:58, 10 replies)
Pot Noodle, The Slag Of All Snacks
I have one sister. We get on like a house on fire, we have never argued, never fallen out and never been jealous of each other at any point during our lives. So first of all, I think I’m pretty lucky.

There is an eight year age gap, I’m 25 and she is 33, about three Christmases ago, she came to stay over at the Mom and Dads where I was still living at the time. Like most Christmases I get drunk ten days straight, fall back to the Mom and Dads and just eat all there food, use there electricity and generally have a free Christmas, not my idea, but, my adoring parents. Anyway, this particular year I went out on the 22nd I think, got major drunk, decided my salt, sugar and E number intake for the day had not been achieved so stopped off at the 24 hour garage to get me a Pot Noodle. Now, at this point in time, Pot Noodle were running the slogan, ‘Slag Of all snacks,’ Great slogan I hear you cry, except this night, it wasn’t a particular good one for me.

I stumble in drunk out my face, I mean, I’m making a late Oliver Reed look sober. I boil that bad bot kettle up and squeeze evry inch of that Woucester source goodness into my Pot Noodle. The next thing I can remember was waking up, in bed, naked, Pot Noodle juice all over my chest, bed and most embarrassingly genitalia, with the pot somewhere by my face and the fork somewhere in my hand. I look up, at to my eternal shame my sister is holding my shoulder, she just muttered the phrase, So Brother, is Pot Noodle really the ‘Slag of all snacks’

I was fucking mortified.

Sorry this wasn’t a brilliantly fitting story about a sibling but hope it made you smile, because it still makes me feel slightly sick.
(, Sun 28 Dec 2008, 11:57, 4 replies)
A nice yummy pearoast!
A few years ago when my family was still council estate scum, my brother was lucky enough to be bought a brand new racing bike for his birthday.

Now, my brother loved like that more than a human should love a method of transportation, and more often than not he'd be either riding, cleaning, or fixing his two-wheeled, pedal-driven wonder.

Anyway, one day, my bro is walking back from school (they didn't have bike sheds and he didn't want to risk a TWOC-ing) when what should he see but some kid riding HIS bike up the main road towards the shops our kid had just departed from.

Of course, my bro wasn't too pleased about that, and at once legged it towards the approaching youth and questioned why he was riding his pride and joy:

Youth: "I'm borrowing it to do my paper round"
Our Kid: "I don't think so, give it back"
Youth: "Piss off or I'll kick your head in"

It was at that point that my bro shouted for help, and luckily enough there was a bit of a bruiser walking past who came over to assist...

Bruiser: "Give him his bike back"
Youth: "It's OK, I'm his brother, I'm only borrowing it"
Our Kid: "No he isn't, he's nicked it"
Bruiser (seeing our kid starting to cry): "Give him his fucking bike back or I'll do something you'll regret"
Youth (laughing at the whole situation): "Honest mate, I'm his big bro" (turning to youth) "Aren't I?"
Our Kid (now in floods of tears): "No, you're not, I want my bike back"

At this point the youth is shoved off the bike by the bruiser, my tearful brother gets his little friend back and witnesses the bruiser giving the youth a bit of a slap as a form of vigilante action.

So, justice done, you might think.

Well, hang on.

Firstly, the bike 'theft' wasn't the crime.

Why?

Because it was me on the bike.

Yes, my brother pretended to some stranger that I nicked his bike (which I was genuinely borrowing to do my paper round on), and to top it off witnessed the bloke giving me what would warrant Actual Bodily Harm in a court of law.

The aftermath?

I kicked the shit out of my brother when I got back after my paper round. After I told my mum (yes, she of the wardrobe out of the window post), he got a bit of a hiding off her too.

Harsh, but fair, no?
(, Sat 27 Dec 2008, 21:24, 2 replies)
My Sister. Not Blood.
I'm not ashamed to tell this story, if anyone has any problems with it, they're their own. My mother married my step father when I was seven. He already had a daughter who was also seven. We were poor, South London and all, and they made us take baths together until they stopped.

My step dad was a really smart bloke though prone to drinking. He'd spent a good part of his youth working in Egypt, on stuff from the pyramids - not exploring them, like, but the artifacts and stuff, examining photographs. He worked for the British Museum and had articles published and was hugely enthusiastic about his job, even after being relegated to teaching in a shitty university for no money, to the point of naming his first son (with his first wife, died of reasons my mother never told me) Osiris, or Oz for short. His daughter's name was a little held back, Yah, or Iah, though spelled phonetically: Yah, which was their ancient word for moon. He homeschooled us both, and we didn't go out a lot until we both went to do our A-Levels in a boarding school. This is about her though, not him.

So yeah, we took baths together up until we were sixteen, actually - it was a sort of quiet life we lived, I'm sure that kind of thing maybe creeps other people out - and we were always acutely aware we weren't blood relatives. I've always been quite practically unashamed and aware of the female body because of this. Both of the parents worked and so all of the time we were left alone in the house together. We were good at cooking and keeping things clean and we fought at much any children could fight, and we were very close.

We were in the bath on one of those ugly and bright afternoons, where everything is quite quiet and depressing, and she leaned over and touched my penis.
"Do you wank?"
I shrugged. I didn't know how to answer it really, but wanted to seem cool. I guess maybe the lack of external influence on my sex knowledge up until I did leave home has left me with a different viewpoint on the whole thing than most people. I knew about stuff, like, we had TV and weren't completely in seclusion, we had friends etc. It's just a lot of the knowledge about these things comes from socialising in school and that's one experience I never went through.

So I said, "Yeah, lots."

"Can you show me?"

I nodded and held my cock and started stroking it. I hadn't masturbated before - probably the only sixteen year old to ever feel that - and so this was odd for me, but soon enough my little man was hard and proud and I was polishing it with my palm as much as I could. Then my arm started to get tired. I told her this and she took over. It wasn't as good when she did it, and I told her to go faster and hold tighter. While she was working on it, switching hands like a maniac, I asked if she'd suck it. She obliged and put her lips around the head. I began to felt queasy and then it happened, and my little pearly drops of sperm spurted out and onto her supple breasts.

My soul was filled with God's love, it was truly a profoundly religious experience. I'd never liked going to church, and we only went on Christmas and Easter, but I felt like Jesus himself was in the sun and those beautiful warm rays and the cooling bath water were enthused with the holy spirit itself. I was panting and sweating and knew the world as it truly was, the slow vibrational hum of God's pure love. I screamed out in ecstacy. That was the first time I'd cum by Yah.

Length? 5 years, paedophiles. Your IP addresses have been acquired.
P.S. Sometimes writing this stuff makes me uncomfortable.
(, Fri 26 Dec 2008, 12:28, 7 replies)
They say one in every 6 people is chinese.
I dont know who it is in my household. It might be my Sister, Sarah, or my brother Xao Ming Chen, but my money's on my elder brother Dennis.
(, Fri 26 Dec 2008, 10:27, 2 replies)
My bro
There's quite a big gap between me and my brother -- almost eleven years, in fact -- which means we've tended to fight tooth and nail ever since he was born. He was always sniffing around me like a little puppy when we were kids, always doing his best to annoy me in that special little way that only younger siblings can. Of course, he got away with murder, what with being so much younger than everyone else and knowing just when to turn on the waterworks.

Despite this, and all of the irritation he's caused me over the years -- including one memorable incident where he 'accidentally' set one of my girlfriends a little bit on fire (a story for later, methinks, when I have more time to type it out in its glorious fullness) -- I've always been incredibly protective of him. For a kid, he's had an extremely tough life. He not only suffers from pituitary dwarfism (which means that, even though he's only about three feet tall, he's still roughly in the right proportion, and not particularly stocky), but also from Crohn's disease, which meant he had to have an operation when he was about six to remove a section of his small intestine that was so badly inflamed it was in serious danger of killing him. As a result, he's only capable of absorbing about half of the nutrients his body takes in, leading him to be ridiculously underweight (to the extent that, even in a family of beanpoles, he sticks out as being excessively skinny).

He's ten now, and weighs no more than about three and a half stone.

He ain't heavy, but...

/coat
(, Sun 4 Jan 2009, 22:14, 6 replies)
I wish I could remember more of these
I've always been very close to LittleSisterCrow - certainly it surprised me that most of my friends didn't get on with their siblings. So obviously, I have tried to be understanding and behave myself when she asks that I do not let on to her friends that her nickname amongst the family is "Moose."

She does, however, have a peculiar and scatological outlook on life, (which I have been told is similar to mine...should I have been offended by that?) which has led her to come out with some rather 'special' little quotes. Sadly many of them escape me right now, but I shall tack them on to the end of this post if I remember more:

"Do bears eat trees?"

"So was Jesus...a Jew?"

And upon hearing that my housemate had borked his leg:
Moose: "So has he got a wheelchair?"
Me: "No, he's on crutches. Wheelchairs cost a small fortune"
Moose: "Can't you make him one?"
Me: "Make him one?"
Moose: "Yeah. Make him one. Out of physics."

More to come when I remember them. If anyone cares, that is.

Update: Just remembered a recent one. She commented that the gas bill in her student flat was surprisingly high one quarter:
Moose: "We're just surprised, 'cause we haven't had the heating on, and the oven's electric."
Me: "What about the hot water?"
Moose: "Does that use gas as well?"
Me: "Yes, it comes from the same boiler as your heating."
Moose: "Oh..."
Me: "Where did you think it came from?"
Moose: "...water company...."
(, Mon 5 Jan 2009, 13:56, 9 replies)
Socks
My youngest brother has a definite sense of what he wants to do. One day I observed that he was wearing only one sock.

"Why you wearing one sock?" I asked.

"Because that foot's cold."
(, Mon 5 Jan 2009, 11:42, Reply)
my brother has a few problems.
He's dyslexic, and he also has severe burns. Not only that, he's a paedophile.

He tried to have sex with an underage grill.
(, Sun 28 Dec 2008, 8:31, 1 reply)
Bathtime with sister
My sister and I were both very young, I think 4 and 6.

We shared the bath and my mum left to answer the phone or something.

I not sure who was the culprit but a poo was spotted floating submerged slowly but steadily towards our vunerable naked bodies.

We tried evasive tactics but there is not much escape in a council house bath. The poo followed now with speed caused by our movement.

There was nothing left to do...so I cried and then my sister cried. Tears of anguish for the inevitable doom of the homing poo submarine
(, Thu 25 Dec 2008, 20:26, Reply)
My twin
I was, in fact, born with a terrible affliction that marred my early live. I was a conjoined twin. Myself and my brother were joined at the hip. At first it was great, my brother always there, and I was frightened of loneliness the eventual separation would bring. But soon our joined lives became terrible, not just because of the lack of mobility, but also because my brother was a damn freak... we shared certain parts, but we both had our own *essential* parts. However, he found it hilarious to mess with me, and used to tell me it wasn't really me etc. Every day was abuse time.

Eventually, it was time for separation, and the whole series of operations and procedures went well, well enough so that we both learned to live full but very separate lives.

My brother eventually went on to become very big in the physics field, whilst I went into IT. He excelled, so much so that he went on to work on a Nasa programme that allowed him to make a flight on the shuttle.

However, he did come back to the UK every now and then, and when he did, he would make his way back to my parents (where I was living at the time) and he would start again, taunting me about the former abuse.

My therapist said that maybe I should write some of my feelings down, and an attempt to get them out in the air. So I did, and I came up with this poem:

First I was afraid
I was petrified
Kept thinking I could never live
without you by my side
But I spent so many nights
thinking how you did me wrong
I grew strong
I learned how to carry on
and so you're back
from outer space
I just walked in to find you here
with that sad look upon your face
I should have changed my stupid lock
I should have made you leave your key
If I had known for just one second
you'd be back to bother me


Apparently, it had already bindun.
(, Wed 31 Dec 2008, 14:14, 4 replies)
My Brother, Age 5
The rest of the family sit in the front room, watching tv, when my brother nonchalantly appears. In his pants.

"Where are your trousers?" asks my dad.

Little brother thinks for a while. Finally, the inner spin doctor comes up with an appropriate response.

"They're getting nice and dry." he announces, triumpantly.
(, Fri 26 Dec 2008, 14:37, Reply)
Pearoast from 'Family Holidays'
**** The Director's Cut: edited a little bit, because I can, so there ****

When I turned four my parents decided it was time for our first family holiday. My younger brother was barely 18 months old, so a trip abroad would have been hell. Plus we couldn't afford it, so Butlins* was the natural second choice. By the end of an exhausting week (for my parents), all the kids in the camp were rounded up for a final magic show with a sensational prize: a HUGE bucket full of lollipops.

Believe me when I say I wanted those lollies more than anything before or since.

Dad was looking after my sleeping brother at the back of the room, so I pressed forwards into the pre-school mosh pit at the front, hoping it might increase my chances of winning the magical tub of sugarjoy.

Tension built as the magician rummaged around in a top hat full of our names. Finally, to a chorus of rapturous squeaks he produced a crumpled scrap of paper and announced... somebody else. I remember feeling gutted and sulking immediately. In the background I could hear my dad shouting something but I was too consumed with grief to care. Eventually, my attention re-focused on the stage as the magician was still waiting for someone to come forwards. He kept repeating the winner's name, and each time he did so, dad's calls to me drifted pointlessly over the sea of kiddynoise, into one ear, and straight out the other.

The magician grew bored and asked his pint-sized audience if he should draw another name. The reply was a resounding, fever-pitch “YAY!” from all of the mewling brats below. I shouted louder than anyone, struggling to believe that I’d been granted a second chance to win all those lollies.

By now, dad was wading through the swirling maelstrom of ankle-biters towards the front of the stage, which only made me more determined to win before he took me back home. Just as he got within grabbing distance, the magician announced a second name. The winner (a girl standing right next to me) bounced three feet onto the stage to claim her prize. I felt my eyes welling up with tears.

These were soon shaken away as I received a clip round the ear from my fuming father. The first name the magician announced had been my baby brother’s, so my dad had been shouting at me to put my hand up on his behalf. My lolly-induced tunnel vision and selective hearing, combined with exceptional 4-year old naivety meant I’d ignored my bro's name and missed out on a share in the ultimate prize.

When I realised the magnitude of my error five seconds later I cried for the rest of the week and had recurring nightmares about it for years afterwards. My dad and brother still remind me of what could have been every single time they see anything lollipop-related.

I’m 29.


* For those who haven't experienced Butlins, it's similar to Auschwitz but with more clowns.
(, Thu 8 Jan 2009, 4:02, 11 replies)
Chess
My younger sister is here for the weekend, with her 9 year old son.

He's become interested in chess, and was asking me about how the various pieces move. I'm not that much of an expert on the subject, and some of his school friends were insisting that a pawn could take a piece directly in front of it in some cases.

I'm not sure about that, but I know there are some strange cases where pieces can move in a different way.

So, cue sister walking in whilst I say: "Look, I'm not sure, just search for pawn in google, and that should tell you".

Oops.
(, Sun 4 Jan 2009, 13:10, 8 replies)
Steve, and the true meaning of Christmas
Steve is a glass-half-empty kind of guy, and has always been like that. He was 5 or 6, and we were sitting in the front room on Christmas Day, feeling pretty good about the world, when he turns to me and says

"Christmas. That's it. Come and gone again"

With the kind of hangdog delivery that Tony Hancock would have been proud of.

My Dad nearly had an aneurysm he laughed so hard, whilst Steve scowled at him from the other side of the room.

What a gem.
(, Tue 30 Dec 2008, 18:51, Reply)
Smelly poo
When my youngest sister was born, my parents decided to partition my big bedroom into two small bedrooms to give the little sister somewhere to sleep. The paper-thin partition wall meant that you could hear everything from one room in the other.

My little sister was 12 years younger than me, and being a good older brother, I looked after her and made sure she was okay. When she was still very young, she took to knocking on the partition wall if she couldn't sleep, and I'd go and read her a story or have a chat until she dropped off.

One evening, just after my mate Dave had come round for a two-player game of Daley Thompson's Decathlon, there was a knock on the wall from next door. I paused the game, and went to see what was up. In a sad but crystal clear voice, my sister pointed towards the floor and declared "There's a smelly poo in my potty, and it won't go away!" She was, of course, factually correct.

Having made the smelly poo go away, I returned to my room next door to find my mate Dave crying with laughter, and rolling on the floor clutching his sides. To this day, the phrase "there's a smelly poo in my potty and it won't go away" gets a regular outing whenever I meet with Dave.

My sister is now 21, and I haven't yet reminded her of this story. I figure she'll get married sooner or later, and these things are worth saving.
(, Mon 29 Dec 2008, 23:01, Reply)
...Late entry alert...
My sister came back from the gym at the weekend and announced:

"I love Virgins! All the bits are newer so they don't smell so bad".
(, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 13:29, 5 replies)
My brother from another mother
I will start by saying I am an only child. Well I may as well be an only child as my biological father, whom I have never met and never wish to as he beat my mother whilst pregnant with me, has 3 other children that I also haven't met.

I digress...

From a very young age, say three or four, I was absolute best buds with a lad that lived around the corner from me. We were as thick as thieves, some said we even looked similar and we did everything together. I remember countless times playing transformers or lego together, playing board games and hide and seek - all the usual kiddie stuff. I also remember the sleepovers we had where we would completely destroy the room and make a pretend fort and just play games in until we were caught and told off for not going to sleep or just fell asleep as it was so late. Growing, up we both were into the same things, computer games, racing cars, sports and more importantly at the time stealing booze from his dad and get wasted and play 3am knock down ginger with our neighbours. We were practically brothers and even our own parents called each of us their 'surrogate sons'.

So life is as usual until we reach the age of wanting to explore the realms of the opposite sex. I was abnormally shy, though I could speak to girls no problem - sealing the deal was seemingly always unobtainable but my mate apparently was the Don Juan of the teenage world. Girls loved him and he loved them. Yeah I was jealous that he had got to 4th base before I had, a kind of sibling rivalry I guess, but really to me it made no difference.

So fast forward a little bit and one day we are having our usual tipple of his dads pinched gin (I now HATE gin incidentally) and he divulges some information that took me by suprise....

"Spangulum... I have something to tell you..."

"oh yeah...?"

"I haven't really had sex with a bird yet... I was just lying so nobody would know my true feelings..."

"fair enough" was all I managed to get out before he continued.

"...I actually really fancy you...love you... and want you to be my first."

...


...


...

I ran... ashamed to say it but I got up, left his house and bloody ran all the way home: shocked, stunned and just really confused at what he said. I was categorically not that way inclined, and am still not for the record, and never really considered myself homophobic at all - but this just really freaked me out. The whole night I couldn't sleep, just thinking about what was just said and the situation I was put in. Sobered me up damn fast I can tell you!

The next day he saw me again and pretended to not know what happened so naturally I did the same... I guess just hoping each other would have forgotten as we were both pretty drunk but it was pretty obvious due to the tension in the air that we both were very well aware.

We didn't really speak anymore after that... it has now been about 12 years that I haven't seen him and miss him as a mate - and kind of miss that feeling that I had a brother of sorts. God knows what I must have put him through by running like I did epsecially when he put his heart on the line like that. I still feel bad to this day and wish I had handled things differently.

Sorry for the lack of laughs or puns - this is just something that has been locked away inside my head for a long time and I suppose needed to get out.
(, Tue 30 Dec 2008, 16:37, 10 replies)
Indigestion
Back when I was a kid my sister apparently lost the use of her legs.

Well, she would always get me to fetch and carry stuff for her (the lazy sod).

Anyway, when I was thirteen(ish) and my sis was (and always will be) a couple of years older, sat round the dinner table one Sunday afternoon having endured the usual Catholic-bashing at church in the morning, my sister turns to me and says:

'Spanky, be a love and run up to my room and get my indigestion tablets.'

Normal procedure after my mum's infamous Sunday lunch.

So, being the good lapdog that I was, I bolted upstairs, found the tablets, and returned in a flash, tossing the little packet onto the table like a hunter-gatherer returning with a great hunk of dead mammoth.

Silence.

My sister looked horrified.

My mum turned a strange colour purple.

Still, not really my fault - how the hell was I supposed to know at that tender age the difference between Rennie and birth control pills???
(, Tue 30 Dec 2008, 10:24, Reply)

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