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From: Jan Vincent <jan123@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Twin Brides (ff, inc, wedding, true) 
Date: Mon, 15 Sep 2003 20:10:11 -0400
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Foreword :

This story is based on a true event related by Elizabeth Freeman, the author
of " The  Wedding Complex ." In an interview she was asked what was the best
wedding story she had ever heard, and her reply was the basis for this
story.

To know more about the background of this story and read my other stories,
just go to my site at:

http://www.sistersinlove.org

-jan








"You cannot marry your sister, Brenda."

"Why?" I was defiant, furious with my mother.

"Because sisters don't marry their sisters."

"And why not?" 

My mother's stern face was losing its patient expression. I was her
10-year-old  daughter, dressed in white taffeta, the flower girl in my much
older cousin  Louise's wedding.

My grandmother Rose came in my rescue. She looked at me with a mellow,
ingratiating  look. "Oh, let them be, Grace. They're so cute together."

I smiled at Granny, so absolutely happy that she had confirmed that I could
marry my twin sister, Sylvia.

Sounds naive, doesn't it? But when you're 10 a lot of things make sense in
your head, even if they defy what is socially acceptable. And because you're
10 everything can be seen as innocent play. Since I was a child I've known
to whom I wanted to get married. It was not to a man, a groom... It was
Sylvia. 

However, as Sylvia and I got older and entered our teenage years I realized
how foolish I had been. To marry Sylvia, my own twin sister, was an
absolutely  ridiculous thought. Sylvia was interested in boys, when I
wasn't. In a way  I envied the easiness she accepted the flirtations of
boys, whereas I was  cast away in my dream world, alone, musing about things
that could not be. 

My infatuation for Sylvia was platonic. I didn't want her sexually... I just
knew that I liked her company, embraces and kisses on my tickling cheek.  I
could get jealous of other people being with her. It was childish, I know,
but I was a child and children are supposed to be childish if not arrogant
and selfish. It is part of their development, when they attain the sense of
their true self. 

I had my own friends as well, mostly girls who were into heavy stuff like
punk rock, piercings, vampires, Goth paraphernalia -- like metal-studded
bracelets and belts as well as black-tinted makeup and baggy clothing. There
were a few boys in my gang, but I would usually hated them because they
would lust after Sylvia, who was a kind of a living doll, always pretty,
always with makeup on. We could be identical twins physically but we could
not be more different from each other in our tastes. Despite our differences
we got along, especially when we were by ourselves. She liked to tickle me,
because she knew how sensitive I was on my ribs and under my arms. Tickling
was a game that made us relax and be intimate without crossing the barriers
of the unacceptable. Did I want more? It's hard to say. All I knew was that
I enjoyed her touch, her knowing fingers looking for the right spot,
attacking me with no mercy. I loved her winning smile the most. She was
gorgeous, with her long blonde hair and her shimmering blue eyes. She was a
happy person, and her joy was contagious, the perfect remedy to bring me out
of my morose nature and my periods of self-imposed isolation and loneliness.
We completed each other. More than friends, more than sisters, we were soul
mates. Soon we would become lovers, too.

It happened when we were 15, and we were supposed to be in a party. My
sister  didn't want to go without me. She wanted to see Chad, her most
horrible boyfriend  who had hit her more than once, out of jealousy, out of
drunkenness. I had  argued with her so many times about him. I could not
understand why she had  still feelings for that creep. She deserved better,
I told her. But she wouldn't  listen to me.

"C'mon, Brenda... Come with me, please."

"No way, Syl." 

"Why not?" 

"'Cause I hate those parties... I hate sissy boys... and most of all I hate
creeps who hit their girlfriends."

"He's not a sissy boy. And..."

"And?" 

"He hasn't hit me since..."

"*You* lucky girl."

She was displeased with my irony, but she kept begging.

"Why do you want me to go with you? Call your stupid friends and go with
them." 

"They are at the party already. I don't want to go there alone."

"You won't be alone. All your friends are already there. You said so
yourself." 

"I know," she said, lowering her voice as she sat in my bed right next to
me. She held my hand, her soft hands caressing my studded bracelet and
wristbands.  "But I want you to come with me. I feel safe when you're
around." 

I was surprised by her confession of vulnerability and her willingness to
accept my protection. I had learned a few things with the boys... I had
learned  how to fight and hit a guy's most sensitive place -- the balls. It
was street  knowledge a girl should know, and the tomboy I was soaked it up
willingly.  Apparently my streetwise reputation had reached her ears.

And then she looked into my eyes and smiled at me with a slightly dreamy
face. "And... if you come with me, I'll promise..."

"What?" 

She giggled as if embarrassed, her face approaching mine, her hands grabbing
hold of mine. "I promise I will say yes."

"To what?" I really didn't know what she was talking about. So much for that
myth that a twin knows everything the other twin is thinking of.

"Remember you wanted us to get married when you were little?"

I must have grimaced, even winced, because she laughed easily at my own
expression. 

"I know we were little," she went on, "but I think that would be fun. I
don't know why I remembered that. It's just... nice... to know... you're my
sister." 

And she had said it. It was lovely; she was lovely. My gorgeous twin sister
had reminded us of my early obsession, long forgotten by common sense and
acquired knowledge of what society expects from us. And I went with her, as
if I were her boyfriend, the perfect escort of a frightened young girl, my
own sister. She wanted me to come in with her and -- despite my protests --
I tagged along. 

Sylvia had this magnetic personality: she was hounded by so many boys, and
even some girls, who wanted to be friends with her. Still, in a way, she was
insecure about herself, as if that open adulation was only a façade,
something she could not really trust. Sylvia was also a terribly jealous
girl as far as her love interests were concerned. The first time Chad had
hit her was during a nasty scene of jealousy between those two zany
hotheads.  I didn't know why she wanted to see him again, but perhaps my
sister didn't  know it either. I saw her blue eyes scanning the rooms for
Chad, but Sylvia's  boyfriend was nowhere to be found.

I saw her disappointment grow on her pretty face, the preoccupation of
getting  rid of the boys and girls who wanted to talk to her, dragging her
with them  by the arms. I followed her in that maelstrom of loud music, soft
lights and half-drunk youngsters.

"And who is this?" asked a guy who looked like 17 or older.

"My sister Brenda." Sylvia didn't have time to explain it further, as she
was pulled away by two pairs of hands, a boy and a girl who kept talking to
my sister as if it was the end of the world.

I faced him and saw his appraising stare, looking me over as if I was a
piece of meat to be sold in the market first thing in the morning. I am
probably  being unfair, but it felt that way.

"Wanna dance?" 

I shook my head, avoiding his leering smile.

"C'mon." He grabbed my arm and pulled me to the center of the room where  we
stood. 

"Let go of me," I cried, twisting my hand free from his grip.

He turned around, grinning, as if satisfied by my reticence. "What? The punk
girl doesn't want to dance? The music's not good enough?"

"You can say that..." I stepped away from him, bumping against a sea of
people, which gave me a bad case of claustrophobia. "And stay away from me.
And don't *you* touch me again!"

"Or what?" Predictably he went after me, still unwilling to accept that I
didn't want anything with him. "Or WHAT?"

I stopped and faced him again. "Stop following me. Leave me alone, or I'll
scream my head off."

An amused smile appeared on his face; suddenly, he lunged forward and pushed
me against the wall. His unshaved face reeked of alcohol and his clothes
stank of cigarette smoke and sweat. His hands grabbed hold of my head while
his lips searched for my mouth. He was hurting me, his body against mine,
squashing my ribs and lungs against the wall. I wanted to scream but
couldn't, too overwhelmed to make my threat true. We struggled and I managed
to avoid his kiss -- *I'd throw up first*, I remember thinking. Then, as
suddenly  as it all had started, I felt his body being shoved away from me.
I saw Chad  punch my attacker, busting his upper lip in the process. A
vicious brawl followed but Chad was able to kick that guy's ass until that
bozo surrendered and accepted defeat.

"Are you okay?" Chad asked.

"Yeah, I'm okay," I replied, angry at myself, Chad and the clown that had
wanted to force me into a kiss.

"Are you alone? Is your sister with you?"

"Yeah." 

"What do you mean, yeah?"

"Yes, my sister is with me. She's looking for you, actually."

"Where is she?" 

"I don't know, look around."

He glowered at me. "I've just saved your ass, and you're behaving like a
bitch. A thank you would be enough."

"If that makes you happy," I said, my anger growing even though I really
didn't know why. He was probably right but I was too proud and too hurt to
avow it. "*Thank you.* "

"Oh, forget it," said he, walking away, disgusted by my sarcastic gratitude.

A little later, calmer and with a beer bottle in my hand, I caught a glimpse
of my sister and Chad talking at the end of the main hallway of the house.
It was obvious their conversation was escalating into an altercation. I know
my sister very well, and she was getting mad at him. Secretly, selfishly,  I
hoped to God it were true. I was jealous of him -- so absolutely,
unequivocally  jealous of him. I watched them from the doorway of the den,
until Sylvia spotted me. Before I could say anything, she pounced on my arm
and dragged me with her, while Chad came after us, vociferating, spewing out
a stream of insults... There was one that I remember clearly: "Bunch of
fucking dykes." 

*Was I?* I asked myself as Sylvia compelled me to go with her,  her hand
clasping my arm so tightly that it hurt.

We were at least one hundred yards away from the party when she collapsed
and burst out in tears. I was surprised by her sudden crying fit. I wanted
to hug her, to make her feel better, but I hated any public displays of
affection.  I looked around in the deserted street, illuminated by
lamp-posts and the  headlights of an occasional car. I hunkered down on the
sidewalk, brushing  her satin-like hair away from her flushed face.

"He doesn't deserve it, Syl. He doesn't deserve you."

With teary eyes and a wet face she looked at me. Her longs arms snaked
around  my neck and her lips kissed my cheek. I think I heard her whisper
"thank you," but I am not positive. The only thing I know for sure is that I
smiled at her and made her stand up. It took us an eternity to reach home,
as Syl wanted us to walk slowly, very slowly, as though going home was like
the final admission she had lost Chad forever. Apparently he had dumped
her... Apparently he could not stand her jealousy, her lack of trust in him.

When we arrived home our parents were still awake, watching TV in the den.
They were surprised by our early return but I was able to explain the whole
situation without raising the painful subject of Chad. Silently we got
undressed  in our room, brushed our teeth and went to our respective beds.
In the darkness  surrounding us I could hear and feel her anguished
disappointment. 

"Syl?" 

"Yes?" 

"Come to my bed, or I won't be able to sleep with you crying all night."

"You sure?" 

"Yes, I am." 

There was a moment of absolute silence, as though we both had stopped
breathing.  I heard and felt a shadow raise on her bed and scuttle toward
mine. 

"Thanks, sis." She hugged me and kissed me, my cheek becoming humid with
her own tears. "You're too sweet."

She turned over, her right hand draping my arm around her waist, her back
pressing against my breasts. We remained in that position for a while, my
other hand playing with her golden locks, which smelled so good and felt so
smooth between my fingers.

"Syl?" 

"Yes?..." 

"I want you to look at me. I want to ask you something."

She did as she was told, her eyes glimmering in the darkness. I wanted her
to forget Chad, ease her pain, soothe her somehow.

"What?" she asked, curious.

"Will you marry me?"

I could feel her surprise in the way that she gasped right next to me. She
chuckled and then giggled. "You didn't forget."

"Of course, not." 

"Then I have to say yes, I will marry you. I promised, didn't I? You, my
future husband." 

"No," I protested. "I'm not a man. I'll be your future wife."

"But I am not a man, either. So, who's gonna be the groom?"

"There will be no groom, but two beautiful brides, me and you."

"Yeah," she said, giggling again. "Two twin brides. That would be
something." 

I laughed as well, feeling incredibly excited, my secretions making me damp
down below between my legs. I wanted to cover her with kisses, making her
mine, all mine. Almost involuntarily my hand left her waist and touched my
sex, so hot and soaked with lubrication.

"What are you doing?" she asked, a giggle dying in her mouth.

"Nothing," I said, removing my hand from between my legs.

"Are you hot?" she asked with a deceivingly innocent intonation.

"Well... yes. All this stuff is making me... hot."

She laughed. "What? Why?"

"I don't know," I said, losing all fear, being overcome by the moment and
my growing lust. I began to rub myself in earnest. "Probably because we'd
be so hot in matching wedding gowns, I'd hitch up your veil and you would
mine, and we'd kiss..."

"That would be so frigging cool," she exclaimed, becoming excited as well.

"But before that we would dress each other. I would help with your petticoat
and garter belt as you would mine."

I kept describing her the whole process of getting a bride ready, the soft
feel of lace and satin against our bodies, as my hand kept rubbing my oh so
wet pussy and my other kept playing with her hair. I could feel she was
being turned on by my shameless act, but nobody could stop me now. I was so
close to an orgasm.

"Go on," she murmured. I felt her touch herself for the first time, first
her own breasts then the space between her thighs. "Go on, please..."

"Then we will walk down the aisle together, hand in hand, and the priest
will bless our union."

"Yes, go on," she said with urgency, her hand causing squishing sounds, as
if her fingers were buried inside her pussy.

"And then we will have our own party, and a cake. You'll grab my hand and
we will cut the cake together. We will feed each other... and we will drank
champagne together..."

"Oh, yes... Go on, Brenda... Please..."

"Then a limousine is gonna pick us up and it will take us to our honeymoon
suite." 

"Oh, Brenda," she moaned. "You making me..." She didn't continue, her voice
rasped, as though she was on the verge of an orgasm herself.

"And we will sleep together, like two brides in love with each other."

And that did it. I felt the explosion of pleasure hitting me with violence,
the heat radiating from my sex onto my stretched thighs, my breasts and my
nipples. I moaned lowly, like an animal, like a wolf.

"Oh, Brenda... That's so..."

"Let me help you," I said, without measuring the consequences.

"H-H-Helping me?" 

"Yes, helping you." I was unstoppable. I was crazed with lust for Syl.

When I touched her pussy for the first time, she moaned into my mouth. "Oh,
Brenda... Brenda..." Her voice went weak, as her arms went around my neck.
"Oh yes, Brenda... Yes.... Oh.... Oooh... Uhm... Brenda, my love." And
overcome  with my passion she gave me our very first kiss. "Oh baby, you
make me so  hot, so hot... No, not like that..." She clasped my hand and
guided my fingers  through her outer lips and onto her clitoris. "Slowly,
then hit my clit, like this... Yesssss... Like that." She kissed me again,
more passionately, as my fingers tried to follow her advice. "Aahhh!" she
moaned against my ear. "Yes, yes, yessss... Please, baby, harder, hit my
clit, yes, like that."

I felt her body wave against my thoroughly drenched hand, while she covered
my face with wet kisses and filled my ears with her guttural moans of a girl
in the throes of a pre-orgasm.

"Please, don't stop, don't stop," she begged me. "I'm almost there..."

Then she came with a contained howling moan that rose from the bottom of
her throat. She squeezed my neck so tightly that I suffocated for a moment,
but then, as her orgasm subsided, her grip became less intense and I was
able to breathe again. She remained quiet for a long time, her eyes closed;
a nervous twitch of her mouth the only movement.

I saw her eyelids raise, despite the darkness. Her hands began to caress  my
cheeks, her eyes staring into mine. I could see her questions and doubts,
but I could see also that there was something different in her. She loved
me, she was falling in love with me... She was able to accept the fact that
we had crossed an invisible barrier of what's acceptable in our society
and...  she didn't care. And to sort of prove that she pulled us together
and we kissed for hours. She was untiring, as though she had waited for this
moment all her life.





This is the present now, and we are 21 years-old, fresh out of college, and
still much in love with each other. We have decided to make true my
childhood  wish. We have already ordered the cake, the champagne, the
limousine and the honeymoon suite. Sylvia looks absolutely amazing in her
wedding gown. As in my impossible dream, I wear an exact replica of her
gown. I wanted us to look exactly the same, even our hairdos look the same,
and because we are mirror-image identical twins we also look very much the
same. I am ecstatic and can't believe I have a sister who's crazy enough to
make my dream come true.

We have no guests, this wedding is only for us. It is our statement that  we
love each other to death, and no-one -- and I mean *no-one* -- will  ever
come between us. 

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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