Lucky Charm

  • Posted on August 14, 2017 at 6:15 pm

By Shay

{ This story was originally posted at the now-defunct Sisters in Love }

When my love came home to me,
Pleasant summer bringing,
Every tree was out in leaf,
Every bird was singing.

There I met her in the lane
By those waters gleamy,
Met her toward the fall of day,
Warm and dear and dreamy.
Did I loiter in the lane?
None was there to see me.

Only roses in the hedge,
Lilies on the river,
Saw our greeting fast and fond,
Counted gift and giver,
Saw me take her to my home,
Take her home forever.

 — “In The Lane” by Christina Rossetti

The windshield wipers flailed against the ice as I idled in front of the Greyhound bus terminal. I rubbed my red-mittened hands together and tried to see if Janeen was getting off the big creaking silver coach, which had just pulled up in a cloud of exhaust and racket of air brakes.

Janeen, Janeen. Mom and Dad are waiting to twirl you on a spit and feed you to the wolves. You changed your major again. Then withdrew from all your classes entirely. And then lost your job, and with it your income. And now you have come home.

Suddenly I see you. Yes, there is your long, unruly dark hair and a blue scarf draped over the front of your army jacket. You’re wearing jeans and boots and struggling with a backpack and bag whose rollers won’t work on the snowy pavement.

I throw open the door of my little Honda and go half-skipping, half-sliding across the street towards you, leaving the car running.

“Janeen!” I shout to you and your face turns toward the sound of my voice and then you see me, your dopey little sister coming to get you. A tired but sweet smile crosses your face.

I run to you and throw my arms around you, hugging you tightly.

“Oh, Shammy,” you say, calling me by the nickname you’ve always had for me. Your lucky shamrock, your four leaf clover. And there we are, arms wrapped around each other in the middle of the sidewalk, me in my bright red jacket, hat and mittens, you in your slept-on-the-bus things.

I grab your bag as you hoist your backpack in place, and we hurry as best we can to the semi-warmth of my car, which, mercifully, has not been stolen.

So there you are, all five-feet one-inch of you, tired and coming home to face the music — and you know what? When I look at your sweet face, at your mind-of-its-own hair, hear your husky voice… I have the same reaction that I have always had. My heart twinges sharply with love for you. I want to stand between you and anything or anyone who might harm you, I want to bask in your presence and just relish the Janeen-ness of you. I have always admired you, and I do right then, even at your lowest point. To me, you shine, and the world finds you at its center.

You look at me and smirk and slap me playfully on the arm. “Do you even have a license or what? Can you drive this toy car?”

And my heart sinks a little, because I’m always just your dopey little sister, catching on to things a beat late, always running to catch up in your wake.

As I drive, I notice you eyeing me slyly. “Sooo,” you begin, “break any hearts lately? Any swains?” You say the word “swains” in your teasing voice.

I shake my head and look at my hands on the wheel. “No. No swains.”

Shall I tell you that when I’ve been with boys my mind has wandered, so much so that I don’t bother with them anymore? How my mind always turns to you? What it might be like if I could take you in my arms and kiss you, and tell you with my kisses how I feel about you, have always felt, will always feel? Just to be able to reach out and really touch your body…

My hand fidgets on the wheel at the thought and I have to bring myself back to reality. It will never happen. And where does that leave me?


At dinner, the atmosphere is tense. Dad suddenly sets down his fork with a metallic clank on the plate, and starts in. “I just don’t understand how you could just… quit like this!” There is horror of your failure in his face. You have done this to him, it is clear. Mom studies her salad. You have taken your life and cut him with it. You have cost him money, time, hopes, pride. Bad girl. Evil girl.

I have a headache. I am no longer hungry. He wants to extract a price for this. You have cost him, and now it will cost you. It will cost us all. Shall I say, “Please, pass the butter?” It would be like trying to stop the iron clouds in the sky outside the window. They will do what they must, and we will look up helplessly or hunker down someplace and wait it out.


We used to have tea parties. Our dolls and animals arrayed around a little table. We made forts. Inside, under the blanket walls, we would share our secrets and laugh till our sides hurt. Once, piled in a mound of stuffed animals, there in the cozy dark, you hugged me and said, “Shammy, you bring me luck, I swear you do. You are this human rabbit’s foot or something.” And you laughed at your own joke and sighed and squeezed me tightly. And I felt special to be your shamrock, your charm.

I have trailed along after you, down the years of our growing up. You have been this beautiful star, unattainable, but so near at the same time, warming and tantalizing me. And despite your lovely light, a thousand thousand miles out of reach.


I pad down the hall to your old bedroom. My stomach is upset and I am worried for you. I am wearing this big pink nightshirt. You always tease me for my love of things pink.

I turn the knob carefully. I don’t want to disturb you if you have managed to go to sleep. I step in.

And there you are sitting on the bed. The lamp is on, casting a yellow glow across your face, and I see it is stained with tears. There is a razor in your hand. And a long thin cut on your arm, weeping red blood.

At first I think the worst, and my breath stops short and my heart lurches in my chest. And then I understand — you are letting the pain out.

Tears fill my eyes, but I can still see your shoulders start to shake as you sob helplessly by yourself on the bed, with your bleeding arm. In an instant I am at your side, gathering you into my arms, covering you with kisses and rocking you and making shushing sounds.

“I… I just…” you try to explain, but your pain won’t let you. I hold you and we cry together there in the dim glow of the small lamp.

“Don’t do this,” I whisper urgently to you, and lightly touch your hurt arm.

You roll your tear-filled eyes and squirm as if you were caught in a trap. “Oh, just one more failure, what’s the difference? I—”

I place my fingers gently across your lips and shake my head. I look into your eyes and everything shifts. I have always idolized you, felt myself a little admirer in your shadow. But now, I suddenly feel strong, like a mother grizzly bear. I am going to stop this, I am going to claim you, bring you back to yourself. I will show you yourself through my loving eyes.

“No, sis. You’re beautiful. Always were… always will be.” And I lean in and kiss your hairline and your cheeks and you let me.

Then I take your arm tenderly in my hands. I lean down and kiss where you have hurt yourself. You try to draw away, but I hold you firmly.

“Never again,” I say to you, a drop of your blood on my lips. “I won’t allow it,” in my very softest voice. Then I strip off my nightshirt and wrap your arm with it. I lick my lips clean, and lean close to you.

“Janeen,” I say in a tone I have longed to use with you. “You are more beautiful than anything that may have gone wrong.” I stroke your collarbone with my thumbs as if I were handling a precious artifact. “You are more beautiful than anyone’s anger, more beautiful than anyone’s disappointment.” I kiss your ears lightly, and whisper to you, “You are more beautiful than anything or anyone.”

With my heart pounding in my chest, I move your hair aside and cup your face in my hands and kiss you long and lingeringly on your mouth. You hesitate at first, but I keep kissing you, tenderly, lovingly, putting all of my emotion into it. And then with a little cry deep in your throat, you begin to respond to me.

“Oh Janeen,” I breathe, and feel as if I will start to cry for joy. I hold your small body close to mine and kiss you over and over. Slowly, we lie down together on the bed — me naked, you still dressed in your jeans and dark blue t-shirt, wrapped in each other’s arms and sharing a long, deep, soulful kiss. You are crying, but your tears now are entirely different from what they were a few minutes ago.

I pull away gently and smile at you as I slowly swing over on top of you, then scoot up and lean over you so that my breasts are near your face. “I love you,” I say. Then I cup my right breast in my hand and say, “Please, Janeen… it’s all right now… go ahead, sweet wonderful Janeen. You’re safe with me now.”

And then you take my breast in your adorable small hands and invite my waiting nipple into the warmth of your mouth. Oh, my God, the pleasure is so intense, and not just physical. I gather your head in my arms, relishing the feel of your hair on my skin as I nurse you.

“Yes, Janeen, oh it feels so good.” I close my eyes and concentrate on suckling you. I feel I am healing you. I am letting all my love flow through me and into you, restoring you, filling you with needed warmth. I begin to rub my hips against your body.

Your suckling becomes more and more urgent until you simply abandon yourself to the joy of the moment, and then you are unabashedly moving from one breast to the other, sucking, nipping, kissing and licking me. I am in ecstasy. I coo my approval and love to you.

After a very long time — and after I have left a very wet spot on your shirt where I’d been straddling you — we part just enough for me to help you to undress. I am glowing with pleasure at the light I see now in your eyes. I have to make love to you. I have to make you mine. Right away.

The feeling of our bare skin mingling is electric and we both cry out in delighted surprise. We love moving against each other, slowly, sensuously. We cover each other in loving kisses.

I don’t think you’ve ever been with a woman before, and your surprised joy ignites my passion. I climb gently atop you, and begin moving against your body in a steady rhythm. We are perfectly synchronized, in total unison and harmony. As our passion increases, I begin to whisper in your delicate ear.

“I love you, Janeen.”

“I treasure you.”

My words are in time with my loving movements, making them part of my lovemaking.

“You’re safe now, you’re with me.”

“Open yourself completely, sis, let me love you completely, like I’ve always wanted to do.”

“Janeen, Janeen, I love you.”

“We’re so close.”

Janeen had begun to thrash beneath me, clearly nearing her first climax as my lover.

“I’m your sister, Janeen,” I purred, tightening my embrace, “and I adore you with all my heart, forever.”

With that, my precious older sister bucked wildly underneath me, and I held her for dear life as she orgasmed, calling out to me in her pleasure. Her joy sealed our bond and I knew we would always be together now, my wildest dream come true. This thought pushed me over the edge and I climaxed — what I can only describe as a heart-gasm, my body expressing the deep excitement and satisfaction of my soul.

Janeen and I lay together, breathing hard, toying with each other’s hair as we slowly recovered.


In the morning, I’d already packed things for us both when my father knocked on the door and, seeing my bags open and full, asked where I thought I was going.

I’m tall and I looked him right in the eye as I told him, “I’m taking Janeen someplace safe.”

“Safe?” he blustered. “What kind of crazy talk—”

I didn’t hear the rest because Janeen and I had swept past him, hand in hand, and I was drinking in the defiant smile she gave him, her strength and beauty fully returned.


I love my sister. I make love to my sister. And it is the most fulfilling thing that I have ever done.

One day in summer I came back to our apartment to find Janeen up on a ladder, placing something over the doorway. It was wooden. It was green.

“It’s a lucky shamrock,” she said to me, smiling her gorgeous smile.

I embraced her. “I’m the lucky one,” I whispered.

The End


5 Comments on Lucky Charm

  1. Misty Meadow says:

    I’m jealous; not because I don’t have a sister, but because I wish I could write as well as you, Shay. Most stories here at Juicy make my pussy tingle. This one made my heart soar.

  2. Myka says:

    Lovely …

  3. JetBoy says:

    I adore Shay’s stories, and wish there were more than the handful she posted at Sisters in Love. That romantic passion of hers is something I’ve often labored to achieve for in my own work… but to her, it comes as naturally as drawing breath.

  4. sue says:

    We couldn’t put it any better than Misty Meadows comment.

  5. Tim says:

    I agree with Sue, Misty said it all. Lovely tender heart warming story.

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