Ginger's Gift to Our Mom

Everyone is 18+ in the this story of love and lust with family.

Ginger’s gift to our Mom.

We’re a typical family for 2005; we are just the four of us, like most folks. My Dad is Bob Allan Bogart, 52. He stood six foot three. Weighed close to two hundred and fifty pounds with Brown eyes, and his hair turned to salt and pepper over a year ago. He’s a Tort lawyer, a damn fine one; we live in a five thousand square foot five bedroom, three and a half baths home. My Sister and I share one bathroom together. Dad added an entire gym last year in one of the more oversize spare bedrooms over the garage about three years ago and a below-ground pool in the back yard. Mom was a former Miss Texas when she was in college. Ms. Bobbie Joe Reynolds now Bogart. She stood above all my friend’s moms at six foot two and weighed one hundred and fifty pounds with bright red hair from a box and blue eyes like my Sister and I. Mom was fit, and beyond hot her 36-32-38 was a joy to watch her walk.

My Eighteen-year-old Sister Ginger Alice is my twin womb friend and friends for life; she is more intelligent than me and better looking. Standing six foot two like Mom and weighted maybe a buck and a quarter, her perfect figure of 38C-34-36 meant most boys would not talk to her. Her blue eyes matched mine. We shared the same hair color, but her light brown long hair was slightly longer than mine. It’s only been two years that I’ve been allowed to grow my hair out.

It was a while ago, but what led to growing it out was a traumatic event for my Sister. The preacher was getting her to work at the church charity, right, like he has for years.

I found out the work he wanted her to do was oral sex and molesting her. I was there a young man who was four inches shorter than the priest. I heard no and felt my Sister try to scream from the hallway. It’s all it could have been; the plumber heard nothing. I was there helping clean a pipe leak flooding the hall mopping. I dropped my mop and picked up a five-inch pipe from the plumber’s toolbox. The door was locked, but I heard a slap and a. “Fuck No!”

The door did not stand up to my kick; the frame shattered. The pipe kept my hand from breaking on the priest’s jaw. He struck me, knocking me back and splitting my eye ridge open. My Sister kneed him in the balls; as I climbed up, I was pounding him in the head, holding the pipe in my fist. Both my hands were bleeding. My legs held him around his waist as his blood spattered on me. He fell back to the floor, my Sister stomping his knee. Something cracked, and getting in close over him, I kept hitting him. I was not stopping; I saw red, nothing but red.

I sensed my Sister’s hand on my shoulder, a gentle squeeze. Then I hear my Sis say, “Stop, Danny, stop. You can’t kill him as much as we want him to die but STOP!”

My face was distorted with hate. I looked at you, and I got up and held you. Words were unnecessary, but three people were watching from the door, scared to enter. My Sister’s dress was torn open, your bra showed you had blood from scratches on your chest, and you were bleeding from your lip as I was. Your blue panties were torn and almost staying on you.

I say. “I taking my Sister to the restroom to adjust things. Call the police and you tell them I made a citizens arrest on this bastard. You let him get away. You won’t walk straight again.”

I walked half carried my Sister to the restroom, wetting my bandanna. I dabbed up your blood; your blue panties were down at your knees now.

I say. “I’ll step out and let you get your clothes in order, Sis.”

I took my shirt off, giving you my undershirt for you to cover you with; it had less blood. It’s white made your eyes bluer. I go to leave your hand has not let go of mine yet.

You pull me close and say. “NO, you’re with me, Danny; pull them up for me. You’re keeping me safe. You know I love you so much more than a brother.”

You were fighting back significant tears. I did what you asked, looking only into your eyes, pulling them up with my fingers, and feeling your young body. I clean the blood off your chest above your breast. I put my shirt on you, and we walked out to a hallway full of police; they parted and let us pass. Two male officers started to ask questions. I was calm, but you could hear the anger in my voice.

I stood and say. “Get a female officer here; she’s not talking to you!” So I sat you down on a bench and called our Mom.

I held my Sister as she cried, an officer says. “We need to take her statement, but we will wait until your mom arrives.”

Mom was there in ten minutes; she beat Dad there by twenty as he had further to drive.

Mom came in like a lioness protecting her cubs. We went to a room, and I was ordered to leave the room, and Ginger, your hand still in mine, you had not let go yet.

In a voice that left no doubt, as you say. “My Brother stays with me, or I hurt anyone who tries to remove him.”

She told her story, and then I said mine. My eye was closed and turning black, and my hands were missing skin and bleeding from the knuckles. It feels like a few might be busted. The priest was carried out on a stretcher and handcuffed to it. Dad got there, and I was taken to the Emergency Room; they x-ray my hands, and one was taped to a splint. The other hand just bandage a few stitches on my face and hands. Ginger was back holding my arm now as my hands looked like they hurt, and they did. We went home and went to our rooms. Ginger opened the door to the bathroom as I was kicking my shoes off.

Ginger says. “Stand in the doorway and let me hear your voice as I shower.”

I did. Mom comes in and sees me turn my back to the door frame. The door open, and I was talking to my Sister about nothing. Her shower was over twenty minutes long. Mom pulled a chair over. Mom had me sit down as you held the ice on my eye as I told my Sister about everything or nothing. Dinner could have been better. My Sister ate holding my arm; when she was not holding my arm, your hands shook, and it was not till you touched my arm you could eat without the shakes.

TV was not something we could do; we wanted to hold each other, we say. “Goodnight.” Nothing else was needed to tell our folks understood we were not normal.

I took you to bed, turned on your TV, and started your favorite show. You won’t let me go; you pulled the bed covers over you as you had me lay down on top of the covers and hold you. I heard about an hour later; Mom went to my room with a soft hand on my shoulder as Mom put an ice wrap on my hand and eye, and you gave me some pain pills.

Mom says. “Come on, baby, let’s get you to bed.”

Ginger’s hand came out from under the covers and held my arm; you looked at our Mom. No words were said, but Mom left and came back with a blanket, and you put it on me. Then, leaving the door open, you left. I heard voices outside down the hall. I see a shadow as Dad comes into the room from the hallway.

I hear him say. “They look just like when they were sick with the Flu years ago, they know love and comfort, but it’s not going to end well. We’ve talked about this before, dear.”

As they walked back to their room, more angry words were said, but the pain pills made me drift off to sleep, not hearing words, just anger. I had to pee, got up, and could not open the buttons on my PJs. I felt warm hands slip around me; my fly was opened, and I pulled myself out and peed. I feel your head on my back as you press against me; you can’t see, but my pee makes a lot of noise.

I hear you say. “Kinky, I should be holding you, but….”

You started to cry, and I put my penis up, left the fly open, and turned and held you. Your warm body against mine, words were not needed. Then, we heard loud words; someone slammed a door, and someone went down to the kitchen, and a car started and drove off.

It was odd, but I still held you as you sobbed. Then, finally, I see our Mother at the door, her hand over her mouth, and Mom start to cry. I waved you over to us, and we three held each other as you two cried.

I got pancakes, bacon, and eggs; my eye looked like a lousy prize fighter, as did my hands. Over thirds on my part as both ladies were not eating. Mom tells us Dad went to his Moms they are trying a separation. That night was two years ago now, and Dad and Mom were divorced. At least the ugly part of the settlement was that our college would be paid for. Mom never said another word about me getting a haircut again. My Sister and I tried to get Mom hooked up with a man; it became our hobby.

Ginger said it just a week ago. “The only man in Mom’s life was you; we must do something. She has been a Bitch these last two years; she needs to get laid and show she is desirable and lovable even if we had to do it.”

We made plans to get Mom to take long walks with us getting her to the gym, and we all started eating right. We knew that Mom lasted all week without the sin of masturbation, but by Saturday, she made our life a living hell. I grew up big time over the last two years. I gained four inches, no longer shorter than my Sister.

We both stand six foot two, and I gained thirty pounds by working out. I am not a skinny kid with lousy skin anymore.

I weigh one hundred and eight pounds, and my long hair matches my sisters’ color and length, a light brown. In the last two years, the three of us have grown close, but Mom is not dating, nor is she looking. So our nineteenth birthday was last Friday. We had a killer party at the Country Club Mom is a member of. Our Dad came by with his new twenty-something-year-old girlfriend, Bambi, and he gave us a used car each, a blue Jeep for me and a cute Fiat 500 Hatchback in pink for Ginger.

Mom was hurt, but I was unsure if she still cared for him. Or if it was the second childhood for my Dad dating a girl half his age, that hurt her more. The next day Mom runs to the club and plays Golf and tennis. We got her to do it, hoping she would meet a guy or a gal but nothing. I heard the car drive off, and I sat in my bed as you stand at the bathroom door with your Birthday suit on.