One In The Same
It was all very likely inevitable anyway.
After all, Maggie and George lived in the same townhouse. Downtown and a mile north of the theater district, they owned the old stone upright outright, were its only occupants, and so had the entire place to themselves. They lived in the same building but in separate apartments, on different floors, as a reluctant and ill-defined nod to propriety; she on the 2nd floor and he on the 4th, with the 3rd floor between them sound-proofed and dedicated as a studio and the ground floor empty and closed off to all but the property’s sole tenants. Maggie as well had a key to her brother’s door and occasionally liked to wander around inside and for hours while George was either in the studio or on the rare occasion outside altogether. In his place alone, sipping cold wine that he kept only for drinking with her (George always ordered out for food; one cupboard held surplus whiskey and cartons of cigarettes, and within the refrigerator the balance of room around the wine bottles was beer), Maggie would tune in an oldies station through the stereo and smoke Kools and roam around the furniture from room to room, half-listening for the songs she and George had once recorded and lazily snooping through drawers and cabinets as a lover, albeit unconsummated, looking for evidence of infidelity.
George Lawrence & Geraldine Margaret (Maggie) Satellite were fraternal twins, rich and once celebrated, inarguably talented and intelligent if not particularly schooled, still young and, especially Maggie, attractive. Tall and solid at 5`10`` and 137 lbs., heavy breasted and bouncy, with a trim waist and a taut, meaty behind, Maggie moved with a graceful strength and sensuality that all men longingly noticed – rolling her buns with a provocative rocking tick-tock away from all whom she parted company, always happily unescorted. She was of gorgeous, Amazonian voluptuousness and she knew this. (Her face was by contrast only melodious: large, inviting eyes and a straight nose were all that were notable, her mouth unremarkable save for an a appealingly toothy smile). Maggie had never really abandoned the breezy, cosmopolitan fashions of her adolescence and, favoring hoop earrings and clear fingernail polish, often barefoot and wearing her blond hair straight and waist-length above the beltline of cinching, threadbare denims, her dress complemented a serene cerebral posture – and yet she was proud of and notorious for being recklessly but casually demanding and a harsh and seemingly omniscient judge of character. She was coolly contemptuous of men for their puerile, simpering advances and dismissive of their women for their envy.
As Maggie was an alluring physical symmetry of plush curves and warm promise, George’s handsomeness was by comparison, and defeating the genetic advantages he shared with his sister, all lanky straight edges and points and corners; with the lean, rawboned strength of corded steel or re-bar and murderously dark half-moons underscoring a starved, vacant countenance, his features were largely honed sharp by hard drink, lost sleep, and an often black moodiness that lent him the irresistibly dangerous beauty of the haunted and damned.
Nonetheless, Maggie had always loved her Georgie, desperately and protectively, and George as well loved Maggie – and would have gladly killed in her defense, to safeguard what was his – however heavily veiled his avarice. Indeed, given their affluence and influence, their beauty, and the requisite intelligence to rationalize any indulgence (or sacrifice) – that they at best were politely considerate of outsiders and all but worshipped themselves and each other; as one was the synonymous, opposite-sex approximate of the other and that they had long fought a peer-sibling rivalry as to whom would possess the other – it all may very well have been merely a matter of time.
Of course Maggie loved her brother, and was even in love with him, she supposed (her twin brother, she’d fondly emphasize, suggesting to herself a cosmic simpatico between them she hoped would absolve her of the stigma of her creepy lusts) and had so much as vaguely entertained a crush on him since they were teenagers; a seemingly innocuous crush that their fans and the media continued to dismiss, to her relief, as just the mutual affection of a brother-sister music act – just a couple of cute kids – still now and despite their maturity; a caress, a teasing squeeze, a quick kiss on the lips – the flirty, spirited one just being affectionately supportive of her brooding, reclusive brother (backstage before one performance many years ago, as the club emcee tried to assuage a half-drunk and rowdy, almost violently skeptical house – really, these kids rock! – a beered-up George gave Maggie’s ass cheek a lingering little squeeze and whispered to her “wish us luck …,” a gesture from then on that Maggie outwardly allowed with a smile but secretly welcomed). However, for the years since they last toured and having settled surely and amiably into the “Hey, didn’t you used to be …?” genre of obscurity, Maggie had been of the disturbing certainty that she harbored a lust for her brother that was unsettlingly sexual, far more than mere familial possessiveness. And the long evenings spent together in his apartment – now and then, at first, and each party propped up on separate furniture, just lounging about, drinking and talking and watching t.v. – had become inordinately frequent and decidedly more intimate with Maggie cuddling with George on the overstuffed sofa, lying back against his chest and cradled between his legs, his arms draped loose about her midsection. He had begun resting his hands under her shirt and playing with her navel and sometimes softly and unexpectedly kissing her throat and neither, least of all George, minded. These evenings had thrilled them both but despite their tacit practice of being always direct with each other, professionally and personally and regardless of how cruel the honesty –
“Try not to re-write ‘Imagine’.”
“Big talk, coming from the Cute Beatle.”
“Genius is knowing ‘She loves you, yea-yea-yea’ works; you’d have written ‘She loves
you, indeed’. And Lennon wasn’t a hillbilly.”
“Your feet are dirty, Your Highness.”
For the first time in their lives they only jokingly addressed what they were really doing and how it made them feel. George would remark how her nipples poked ridiculously prominent from behind her shirt, even through her bra, and Maggie would disingenuously note that she’d complain of his erection against her lumbar if the boorish lump weren’t so small, and in the wee a.m. hours they’d sleepily disentangle, yawn, listlessly mumble their goodnights to each other, and Maggie would go downstairs to her apartment and George would pour himself a nightcap or four to calm the nervy charge running the length of his body.
In time, their game was not so platonic. Languidly draped over one another on the couch, George would fondle Maggie’s breasts until, finally discarding any pretence of innocence, he one evening put his hand between her thighs and scrubbed at her vagina through her bluejeans. She drew up a leg in acquiescence and he scratched and dabbed at her clitoris through the denim while she ground her hips between his legs, neither of them watching the television they were looking at, his erection threatening so much greater now than when they were kids; when they were both thirteen and George was outweighed and out-muscled by a coltish, teenaged Maggie and she could, and would regularly, wrestle him down at will; when he was still unaccustomed to wet dreams and a thought of sex, or arithmetic, or Spring, or the wind equally could make his penis stiffen, and Maggie’s breasts were still just blossoms and her cupcake-butt only boyish as his, and rough-housing with his boy-crazy sister at night in front of the t.v. always happily resulted in her playfully dry-humping him through their nightwear during commercials and they had enjoyed each other’s company alone those evenings far too much for even their own comfort. This evening though, years later and each overtly predatory of the other, she arched heavily and agreeably against her brother, her head thrown back on his shoulder and her face to his throat. He rubbed and tugged at her harder and then whispered to his sister in a once-ambiguous lyric from one of their own songs a particularly unnatural desire of his for her and she abruptly crushed back into him in one violent, involuntary writhe: an ‘uhuh’, and then a trembling rush of breath past his ear, Maggie came and her crotch went damp, the sky-blue cotton between her legs darkening, and she dissolved back again against George. She kissed the underside of his jaw line and they continued to cozy, watching the news and comfortably saying nothing.
An hour later, before leaving for her own apartment and still without a word between them regarding her glow, they bid goodnight with a loose embrace and an unhurried kiss, their tongues slowly swirling about at the heart of their incest.
Maggie found George’s porno stashed in an otherwise empty third drawer of a dresser set back against the far wall of his walk-in closet. She stood inside over the open drawer, among his clothes and amusedly thumbing through a back-issue of Abased Babes, a fringe publication of explicit photos exclusively of popularly pretty college girls being boned in the ass: triple-x still-frames from motel room productions of anonymous cocks rooted up the butts of ambitious co-eds, too fabulously fast-track to wait tables – moonlighters, going for the bonus pay, first-timers – hastily buttered belly-down over a pillow and put to the white-knuckle work, their expressions wide-eyed and focused acutely on an unseen astonishment.
“Eeew-yuck goddamn, Georgie,” she lamented, laughing, out loud and un-sticking some of the magazine pages and imagining her critically-acclaimed brother masturbating over these pictures – her masculine twin, bug-eyed and hunched over his poor wiener, squirrelly self-absorbed and tossing-off over this vacuous loveless-ness – and she quickly ignored an arrantly jealous annoyance with him for not approaching her with his need, however inconceivable the concept. Taking a long pull from her cigarette and then a longer swallow of wine, she set the magazine aside and pulled from the drawer from beneath some videotapes a framed photograph of herself.
It was an 8x10 inch glossy original of her modeling an indiscreet blue bikini for the celebrity swimsuit edition of a sports & fitness magazine last summer on a remote South Pacific island shore 2 minutes after sunset: she was spread wide and low on froggy all-fours and pointed toward the ocean and tropical twilight – her knees planted firmly in the sand and granules spilling through her fists, holding onto the planet and the soft crack of her luscious tush a gaping shadow beneath the sheer blue fabric of the tiny bikini bottom. Loop earrings shone like small halos and her hair hung pooled at her breasts brushing the beach. For good measure, she was gazing over her shoulder and smiling dreamily into the camera. A string of murky spots diagonally dotted the glass pane covering her image.
Maggie’s heart began wildly thumping and her knees were wobbly with adrenaline; the shirts and slacks and jackets that hung about her and packed close on their hangers suddenly smelled so strongly of George that he might just as well have been present. She reached back into the drawer and removed with one grasp the three boxed videotapes that had been stacked on her portrait: Anal Blondes – Vol. 7, Poop-Chute Cuties (8 Ass-Blasting Scenes! Blonde Voy`age!) and, somewhat incongruously, The Art Of Anal Sex.
Maggie’s breathing had condensed to coarse, rapid pants and with considerable effort she inhaled a roomy breath to clear her head and slow her pulse. Reflexively, still unable to think anything, she took the plastic videocassettes from their boxes and placed them aside, returning the shiny cardboard, the off-Hollywood rag, and the photograph of herself to the back of the drawer. Reconsidering, she reached back into the drawer and, retrieving her portrait, she as well discovered an unopened 13oz. squeeze-dispenser:
Petroleum-Based Anal Lubricant
Active Ingredients: Benzocaine (Topical Anesthetic) 11%
Maggie gathered the videocassettes, the photograph, and the tube of lubricant together and carried them out to the main room and dropped them into her tote bag on her way out the door and back downstairs to her own apartment.
The following Friday had been leaden and coolly overcast, then alternately heaving and steadily raining throughout the afternoon, and would do so all that evening, when Maggie dialed the downstairs studio number:
“Hey love …” he answered.
“Hey baby, I’m calling from your place. You coming up soon?”
“Yeah. Anything on cable?”
“I haven’t checked. Ten minutes?”
“See ya then.”
Maggie closed the phone and opened a window. She took a last look through the video camera’s view glass, made sure the sound was on, and poured herself some wine. She preemptively poured a tall scotch & ice for George. She took several lengthy drinks from her glass, lit a cigarette, and refilled. She left George’s whiskey at the bar and carried her own drink across the room to the bookcase that stood directly facing the front door fifteen feet away. She placed her glass on a shelf beside a pill bottle and, facing the book bindings, she stood with her back to the front door, as relaxed as she could manage, wearing only the tiny blue bikini and earrings from the swimwear layout, pensively inspecting her fingernails, sometimes clenching her fists, and listening to her heartbeat kick at her ribs while a cool scent of rain rode a clean breeze past the curtains from across the room and throughout. She couldn’t find the other ring, her keepsake, but she had combed cocoanut bath oil through her hair.
Conceding the evening’s only consciously contrived gesture, when she heard the door finally open behind her she deliberately paused for one long moment to allow for George’s mind to register the presence of his sister’s scrumptious, blue-bottomed near-nakedness – and all it implied she now knew – before evenly looking over her shoulder and meeting the expression of abject dismay in his eyes. However, in his desolation Maggie saw her brother ill with instinct and desire, sick with a singularly and ferociously depraved and wretched lust for her that abruptly whetted her crotch and very nearly buckled her knees from beneath her.
“Come here, baby” she said gently and turned back towards the bookcase.
George stood numb in the doorway for a short eternity before an astonishingly indecent arousal brought him around and he crossed the floor to her and stood at her bare back, firmly resting his hands on her hips, and she smiled quietly to herself. He drew Maggie’s yummy butt against the fat erection unfurling within his jeans and she in turn gave her ass a friendly little wiggle. She turned inside his embrace to face him and unabashedly grinned up at him. They kissed once, tenderly, before she pulled away and reached back for the pill bottle on the bookshelf behind her. She shook out two 50 mg doses of Viagra and put the pills to George’s lips.
“Take these; your drink’s on the bar. We’ve a long night ahead of us.”
A half-hour later George stood naked before her, very close and still, freshly showered and again in the main room. His balls hung from him like powder kegs. He waited while Maggie fondled him, sizing him up; his cock in her hand pointed well beyond just erect – now an angry and achingly swollen and purplish tool of 10¼ inches, a broad and gnarled menace as big around as her arm and with the single-minded disembodiment of a wrench. He had cut back his pubic hair to bristles. He put his hands to her shoulders and nudged her to move to her knees.
“Not just yet. Have a seat.”
She led him by his appendage over to the giant recliner and straddled his lap, she seated upright and facing him square, the moist crotch of her bikini all that separated her vagina from direct contact with the length and breadth of his shaft. Her tan had paled almost entirely since last summer, but before she could prompt him he was already affectionately smoothing his palms along the faint flesh of her thighs. As well adoring, she took his face in her hands.
“I want us to be lovers,” she began.
“Okay” he agreed grandly, taking a sip of his already second scotch from his right and a draft from a Marlboro from his left. He was feeling much better.
“Listen,” she said, taking the cigarette from his fingers and crushing it out. She leaned forward and kissed his lips. “I’m in love with you; and you’re in love with me. I know this.”
Now serious, he admitted “Yes, I am in love with you, Maggie.” So far, so good.
She studied his eyes, then said “What do you want?” her nipples as hard as glass marbles through her bikini top. From her tote bag beside the recliner, she brought out and showed him the swimwear portrait of herself.
Escaping her scrutiny, he looked long at the fantasy photograph and said, somewhat honestly, “I want you …inside you, to make love to you gently and lovingly forever.”
‘Amen’, she almost laughed at him, but she just smiled, and content with his prose, George renewed his caress of her thighs. He took her left breast in his hand and brushed a thumb across her nipple, a small rock.
“I love you so much, George” she said genuinely, a little sadly.
“I love you too, Maggie” George said, also genuinely, emphatically.
Maggie reached back into the bag and retrieved the first two videocassettes and held them up one after the other, their titles labeled in bold print and unmistakably legible at a glance. The How-To video she dismissively left downstairs.
“Read these to me – aloud, sweetheart” she softly demanded. George swallowed, a gulp.
“’Anal Blondes’” and Maggie offered an unmindful toss of her pretty head, “…and ‘Poop-Chute Cuties’” George said, hoarse, and she felt a twitch of his cock against her glove, her satin astride his steel-incarnate.
“Tell me what you want, Georgie” unsmiling but her eyes shining delightedly.
“Maggie, I do love you …” he said, beseeching, acknowledging the sound he’d heard her make the last time, when they were sixteen, before he quite knew what he was doing or how to do it – but did anyway – and she hadn’t quite not screamed when he did.
Maggie withdrew from the bag the last torment, the tube of lubricant, and held it a little too closely to his face.
“Read the label to me, baby.”
“’Pipe Grease’” he coughed.
“And …?” she persisted.
“’Petroleum-Based Anal Lubricant.’”
“Tell me what you want, baby” the crotch of her bikini slick, sopping, her vagina having graduated to cunt. Unmercifully, smiling knowingly, she answered for him:
“You want to buttfuck me,” she purred to him in a taunting little singsong, “ – you want to sodomize your own sister” she sang quietly, leaning closer to his face and kissing him. George leaned forward as if to return her buss and slid his hands from her thighs to her buttocks, and massaging her tush divided wide, he swiftly slipped his hand under the waistband of her bikini and with his forefinger gave her anus a thick dry gouge, a vengeful little stab at her pucker. Maggie started sharply and slammed the heels of her hands against his chest, banging him back into his seat. He watched her eyes and caught a spark of searing lust and fury within her, a white-hot desire of which he thought only himself capable. She leaned in close again, her breathing ragged and clipped, panting. He could smell her control: smoke and soap, wrath and arousal.
“Don’t rape me before we’re ready” she distinctly threatened, then just as suddenly softened. George carefully, cautiously kissed her and Maggie rejoined with a smile, foxy.
“You do want to hurt me,” she ventured.
“No. The lubricant would make it easier,” reassuring himself.
“You lie. The grease would make it easier, better, for you” she stressed sweetly, “and you bought oil-based, at that” challenging him with what he knew to be her irrefutable insight, “because you want a long, thorough ride, merciless and leaving nothing to our imaginations.” Maggie leaned in very close and put her lips to his ear, still not wanting, after all these years, to meet his eyes when she stated their only one, really, terrible truth; she spoke to him in a whisper so soft as to be just this side of a private thought:
“I think you kinda liked it that I bled some” she breathed, and held her face to the side of her brother’s, waiting until the moment passed when she thought they could both bear to look at each other again.
George was silent, his truths indefensible.
“I know you don’t want to ‘gently, lovingly ease your engorged member through my dainty ideal, my most teasing breech’” she said, now wistfully, famously regaining her composure and mocking his mollifying, ostensibly considerate, courteous depiction of ‘blasting’ her ass. “I watched the tapes, Georgie; I know you want to buttfuck me – painfully and unconscionably, ferociously and forever – and I want you (too or to?, he thought, pouncing on this crucial point; what did she just say?)” George smiled. “I want to ride you, Georgie – like that, even – as long & often as you like” she allowed, “ – tonight we’ll mean it.” It was too late for coy.
“Prescription-strength sodomy” he mused, “ – your idea. Blush for me, Margaret.”
Ignoring him, “We only get one chance at a first time – you’re still too big, even bigger, and I’m as good as brand new since then …we’ll set a timer; an hour should be forever enough, for tonight anyway” she said, disguised as if an afterthought, feigning calm. She took George’s hand between her own, first kissing then wetly sucking his middle finger. She brought his hand around her waist and again down the back of her swimsuit and between her cheeks, encouraging his forefinger to salve her anus with her saliva. Drawing his hand back out, she then placed the tip of that same middle finger between his lips.
“Wound me well, my love” she whispered. “Poke me, Georgie; I’ll help.”
Maggie dismounted George’s lap, and without a word or a glance back she walked over to the L-shaped couch and knelt wide in its corner, setting the lubricant to one side and resting her forearms on the sofa back, her rounded backside lurid and pouting beneath the blue swim panties, her blonde head bowed and, again, absently inspecting her nails, waiting. George came up behind her and held her by the hips, motioning her, feeling his grip. He ran his palms up and down the sides of her waist and ribs, massaging her entire upper and lower back and she parted her knees farther on the sofa seat, relaxing, casually bracing. George pulled Maggie’s shoulders upright to his chest and embraced her, unfastened her swim bra and, slipping the string straps off her shoulders and removing the garment altogether, he kneaded, hefted and caressed her fresh breasts a pound apiece, pointed and pillowy, each half-again more than his hands could hold, and alternately petted her bare midriff. He slipped a finger down the steamy front of her swim panties and touched and toyed with her clitoris, kissing her throat and shoulders and the fragrance of her hair and scalp intoxicating and wafting about his mind and she swallowed, a gulp, and moaned and writhed within his hug. He hooked his thumbs in her waistband and Maggie leaned forward again against the sofa back and scooted her knees together. George reverently disrobed her of the swim panties and laid them aside. She reassumed the position and kneeling behind her, he held her firmly by her hips and felt her body tense, clutch.
He said “I know you’re virgin, Maggie” and threw her over onto her back to a slouching, half-seated position and stepped between her legs, “…and ovulating” and she as suddenly tried to bring her knees together. Unable to guard herself, she put her hand to his abdomen – an uncertain, trembling touch, suggesting she could be scared of him, a new drama to be played out.
“ …no baby, please; not this way – not yet” a soft plea, but he thought she might cry.
George dropped to his knees between her legs and Maggie grabbed him by the shoulders, neither pulling him toward her nor pushing him away, just trying to steady the chaos around her. He kept his hands at her waist and, her panic lessening, she let him draw close enough to kiss her and he whispered in her ear:
“You wanted me to, and you were afraid I would; you lie too, precious” he said, and she bit down on his earlobe hard enough to draw blood. He remained motionless until she had finished injuring him, unclenching her teeth and then sucking his wound, nursing the injury she had inflicted on him. George then held Maggie away from him at arms length and saw her furious with emotion, no less than the storm outside their window.
“I’m gonna fuck you dead” she spat, both a sob and a hiss.
“Shhh …” soothing, conciliatory, and he put his mouth to her left breast, and then her right, sucking her nipples gently, deliberately, not as a hungry child but rather as an animal relishing its prey. Lowering his head, he slung his arms under her legs and kissed and licked her lower belly, where her legs joined her hips, and along her inner thighs; he would not concede her real pleasure just yet and she knew he was stalking her and her warm aroma grew ever more moist. Maggie finally placed her hands at the back of his head and George allowed her his undivided attention, luxurious and excruciating. Stroking his hair and full of his face, when she felt his tongue bathe and then probe her rectum – a deeply wet and grotesque shame she could not discourage – she rocked her pelvis up against his mouth, demanding she be ravaged.
Resurfacing, he uncapped the tube of lubricant and Maggie raised her knees toward her ears. George inserted the plastic nozzle into her anus and emptied ¼ of its contents up her lower intestine and she shivered. He set aside the dispenser and smeared the jelly over her surface and rim and inserted one finger to the first knuckle, snug and stubborn, then two and three fingers, somewhat more so, and sliding up to the last knuckles he turned and twisted his fingers around inside her, coating her orifice and ensuring she was agape and gooey and seeping with preparation. They watched each other’s eyes while they both readied her and said nothing, only listening to the rainfall outside and the moist noises of her being delicately reamed.
He withdrew his fingers from her and stood, and she lowered her legs and sat up. George placed a hand behind his sister’s head at the base of her skull; a bitter, saline dollop of pre-semen had gathered and now hung from the end of his erection and then Maggie took her brother into her mouth, sucking and sipping, softly tasting his flesh and fluid. They did this without thought, an unconscious obedience to their base instincts as a man and a woman, consensually alone and naked in the other’s presence, a harbinger to their impending communion, however vile.
George withdrew from Maggie’s mouth and handed her the tube of lubricant, disallowing her any illusion of passivity. She squeezed another ¼ of the jelly into her palm and slathered his cock with a slippery, gelatinous finish. She wiped the excess from her hands on his buttocks and along the length of his thighs and looked up into his eyes.
“Get on your knees & elbows” he said, “ …bend over, Maggie – and beg for it.” An ugly, lame assertion, and so she instead stood nude before him.
“You’ll earn me this time, boy” and she smacked him hard across the mouth. He grabbed her by the wrists and yanked her close, looking far into her eyes with a frightening, lightening-sky strike of violent carnality – and George so desperately loved her all over again for so far having so wonderfully played along, since this would be, they both knew, from now on all too real. He wiped his tongue once, wet and thick, up the front of her face.
“I’m going to make an awful lot of room back there, sweet-seat” he told her, brushing his lips against hers, “ – powerfully, prodigiously …”
“ – ‘ease me your meat’? ‘People my peep-hole – impolitely’? Say it, coward” she told him, struggling, feral and forcing him to further force her. “Tell me what you want.”
“I’m going to so buttfuck you, Maggie” he said low and tonelessly, and she hung on his promise no less than she hung from his arms, her breathing harried, fitful huffs, and as well licking his face while he assured her of his love as combat. “I’m going to so cornhole you, my love; fuck you anally far up your pretty ass like I’ve always wanted to. I’m gonna cram my cock hard up your butt and screw you long after you’ve cried ‘no’ and until ‘yes’ means I’ve cum inside you and popped your beauteous ass for only the first time for the rest of our lives. Yes, I want to buttfuck you, Maggie; you – my own sister, my brave, brash girl” and he swung her over onto her hands and knees inside the corner of the couch back and with a stinging swat of her haunch. George knelt behind Maggie and locked his knees to the inside of hers, spreading her legs apart and her backside wide, exposing her pristine pink squint. He started the timer and it began counting down the minutes in electronic silence from sixty. He wedged the head of his cock between her cheeks and, pressed blunt against the fragile aperture of her anus, he held her hips inescapably in place.
Until this moment, sexplay with her brother felt as if she had awakened underwater to discover that she could still breathe, or that she were asleep and yet aware she was dreaming. However, their fun now no more just abstract speculation and her bare ass sacrificially held fixed in his grip, his scored, calloused palms parting her seat cheeks, Maggie knew with terrifying clarity that what she had meticulously incited her brother to do she would indeed next endure and that with George formidably and irreparably set sledgehammer at and in appallingly voluminous contrast to her access – her hopelessly, vainly unyielding elasticity – there were finally no tricks or curses or bullying that would stop him – her once reliably expert, scheming femininity, any attempt to exploit her brother’s love for her no longer of any consequence. She felt him push and she knew ruefully he would next be supremely inside her and make her yell and that she desired it, that she wanted his intimate hurt of her, and this atrocity would then be now.
Until this moment, sexplay with his sister was a playful if volatile exchange of control, each alternately seducing the other, their mutual manipulation of one another swinging back and forth as a feather floats to earth until their instincts alighted onto their purest ground. However, his wettest dreams now made real – Maggie’s creamy, bare rump ceremoniously held firm in his hands, her buns vulnerably separated soft, dividing her crack and redoubtably, inexorably set rock-cock hot against her elasticity – her sweetly, vainly unyielding access – George could see that he was really, criminally, too broad for her this way and that, worse, this savagery of her by his size would not stop him. He began to push and knew ruefully he would next be supremely inside her and make her yell and that he would enjoy it, that he craved his intimate hurt of her, and this atrocity would then be now.
When she felt him begin to pull her onto him, pry and pack himself into her, feeling the endlessly exponential stretch then helpless give of her sphincter – this secret, indelible branding of Maggie by his distension of her forever marking her as his (though in truth she knew she now owned him) – she triumphantly and in defiance of her own well-being sat back hard onto his post. In that instant the whole of George’s mass solidly disappeared up Maggie’s behind: a thick squish of lubricant and a crashing slap of flesh, they withdrew just shy of his entire length and, repeating the ferocity of their first thrust, there was again another clap as his lap slapped her seat.
An obscene strain, bright and profound – her agony hard and as clean as a new dime, steely and exact, and an impulsive attempt to twist free, arrested at her hips – and yet Maggie sounded only a husky grunt in acknowledgement of his colossal inhabitancy of her among those first furious fifty strokes – their lunging, colliding strides through her insubordination, George’s every crisp, flat spank of Maggie’s beautiful bottom a further punishing penetration deep up her delicious ass until her arms folded and she dropped her shoulders onto the sofa back, her will to even contribute to, let alone resist, her brother’s sodomy of her at last defeated.
“Ooow-uhaaah!” Maggie finally wailed, a sonorous, suffering, surrendering howl of protest and release and from the floor of her lungs. And with this collapse of her resolve and her mind and muscles slack with whole submissiveness, George halved the rate and redoubled the power of his pace up her backside from a gallop to a march, gloriously parading them both through their intercourse while the rainfall outside applauded their sin.
Maggie held on as George pumped at her, plied and lay waste her bum’s prim obstinacy, and she laid her head between her grip of the couch back and squeaked and whimpered in time to her brother’s relentless abuse of her bottom. Shoe-horned into her and invulnerable to reason, he compulsively fucked her butt with both a heartless indifference to and an impassioned prejudice of her outrage: his girlfriend, best groupie, and lover, the co-author of his success and now his mate, she was all of these and as well his sister, and if she were to know him she would be made to endure all of him. Twenty minutes and 900 thrusts later, her trauma polished smooth of its splintered anomalies and her discomfort largely abated, George had gradually eased back his assault of his sister’s plump duff from those first brutal, initiating plunges to a routine of seamlessly pistoning penetrations, settling into a full-length loping rhythm of level, measured strokes up Maggie’s ass. With the hurricane of their sex circling about them in ominous calm, Maggie could now hear over her shoulder the elements of this storm of theirs’ indoors – hearing, absorbing the juicy, metronomic pump and squelch of George’s efforts behind her, the fleshy bell toll of his repeated impact with the fat compact of her loaves, and then the throaty mummers of his own dissolution:
“ …umh, ahh; oh, Maggie – my lovely, naughty Maggie” he groaned as he sawed at her, grinding away at both of them of what little remained of their modesties and sensibilities and enkindling some primal desire of hers to enjoy her brother’s own enjoyment of his so unlawful use of her.
“Do me, Georgie” she crooned back to him, and so ended the civility of their dialogue for the next several minutes as they spoke to each other, at and over each other, in expletive barks and slurs and fractured declarations of raw want realized – coaxing, cajoling, each building on the other’s last vulgarity, exclaiming the exquisite filth of their desires for one another, their voices ringing off the walls and out the window and all but inaudible from the street four floors below.
Whirling shouts of you/me this and give/take that – speech coherent only in the context of lovemaking or warmongering – their flurried verbiage culminated when George felt the warm, warning roar of near-orgasm within his loins, and he told Maggie that he was finally about to come. Maggie’s experience until this moment, an ascension from sacrifice to exertion and then to even this weird, dirty pleasure, had still been far less sure of climax than the tidal certainty of orgasm throbbing within her brother’s groin; but hearing his words – this knowledge that their act, this taboo, a so unspeakably forbidden crime against nature that nature so casually suggested of them, would indeed be done – as if her first piercing weren’t enough – she now knew suddenly that she too would soon come as irrevocably as would her brother behind her and she cried out her discovery to him with an alarming urgency. He grappled her hips and incessantly bored open her rose-hole and she clung tight to the couch back and squatted aft, a rebounding bump back inbound at the end of each thrust for an extra fraction of depth, and George grimaced skyward and called out her name and came hard with a wrenching landslide of sour, seminal momentum: a splashing gush of semen, loathsome and bestial, he spilled tumbling, weighted ropes and curds of sperm up Maggie’s bowels, heating her guts and invisible to all but God. And feeling his hot mess pour into her, Maggie responded in kind – shrieking and flailing and calling to George at the crest of her climax to be more completely, impossibly deeper and harder inside her and she as well came wildly with a writhing, spasmodic cloudburst of her every whorey need sated, her secretions tracing from her pussy shiny lines down the inside of her thighs and her ripe, dense stench suddenly clouding the immediate air.
They washed ashore from their orgasms as if survivors of a shipwreck: breathless and clumsily, their stumbling thrusts into/onto each other staggered and halting. “Don’t stop, baby …” Maggie mewed over her shoulder, sensing her brother might try to spare himself any further guilt by way of a dishonest mercy for her – and lose the renaissance of a new affinity for each other from the ruins of their old selves – but, chemically sustained and still sound inside her, his desires revived by her humid, pheromonal odor, George resumed his angular command of her ass with an easy, gliding precision and they swung along together in unison like this for some time more, blissfully, like sweethearts hand-in-hand down a boulevard in any weather on a day made beautiful by the other’s presence. Relieved of his lust’s frenzy, George could savor his idling ride of Maggie hugged over the corner of the couch back and her similarly assuming the position in which she had appeared in the photograph. From his hold of her pelvis, he could observe, relish, his penetrations of her – her venerably heart-shaped tush – and between her buns feel the more muscular, strangling slick-friction of her wrap of him within as he stirred and churned his semen inside her, her depths soupy, sloppy with sperm and lubricant; his thrusts compounded would amount to a short ton of his meat packed up her ass before they were through, he imagined, ponderously piling his bulk into her pound after pound, one brick at a time: building on their blasphemy, erecting their sacrilege – this deliciously unlovely buggery of his sister’s delightful fanny.
She felt her brother still huge and invasive inside her, a plowing, cylindrical enormity crowding her aft-cache replete beyond his actual dimensions, his pubic stubble prickling, and Maggie laid her face again alongside the upholstery between her grips of the sofa back. Glancing at the timer, she saw their hour well over half-elapsed but, at this rate, still hundreds of thrusts from finished; his accumulative strokes would amount to a half-mile ride before they were through, she thought, 10 long inches after another: his hands steering her hips, and herself, their journey – her brother as a bus smoothly bombing up her backcountry. On the far wall, she saw their play-rape artfully framed and reflected in full in the mirror across the room and she watched their bodies move in tandem, his pole alternately laid bare then buried big back up her rump, she leisurely meeting his lengths, his lines leveraging and her curves swaying, their forms beautifully functioning together – a surreal brew she immersed herself in as both voyeur and participant. Aware of a dull, vague ache of her sphincter muscle, she readjusted her stance and tried in earnest to further relax and accept, envelop even, George’s penetrating tonnage and this private little pain – and the math, the imagery – that hurt so good she giggled, and she looked over her shoulder to watch his face until he looked up from his work of her and met her eyes, seeing her grinning at him brightly, knowingly.
“How dare I enjoy this so” he smiled back at her, blushing, despite everything, and she laughed.
“I know what you mean” she said, “me too,” and resting her head again, she watched their incestuous harmony in the mirror for another minute before George, realigning his aim into her, inadvertently knelt on the stereo’s remote that had been lost between the sofa’s seat cushions. The radio pre-set suddenly lit up and the room swelled with low volume lite-rock and Maggie began to hum and then quietly sing to her brother about how she as well could feel the earth – move – under her feet, feeling the sky tum-ba-lin’ down, a-tum-ba-lin’ down.
“Mmm, so very good” George groaned, listening to his sister solicit him:
“’ – I’ve just got to have ya, baay-beh’”
“’ – uhuh-uhuh, uhuhh – ’” he reveled,
“’ – uhuh-uhuh, uhuhh, yeah-yeaah’” she rallied,
and so they randomly, discordantly, parried back and forth, song after bastardized song – a steely, don’tch-ya-need-me-heyhey-oooyeah free-fall bridge, then a bitch/tease goddess-on-her-knees riff – and fucking with renewed vigor until the radio played one of their own songs and they serenely slipped mutually, heartfelt into their own music, singing, serenading in innuendo along with themselves together to one another a lyric, ethereal groove from their earlier days that they had written – each secretly regarding the other – about the peacefulness of familiar love and, conspiratorially, how that might be in the wake of familial sex.
A pause in the action, and then the room went silent, their fucky-lovemaking as suddenly void of music as if they’d both gone stone deaf. George had stepped up onto the couch, standing on the sofa cushions and ponyed atop Maggie’s back, and the sight of this reflected in the mirror she thought looked a little silly until she saw her brother’s face stricken with a dangerous ardor and she heard a dreadful resolve in his voice as he told her, repeating several times, that he so dearly loved her, that he was in love with her, and afraid for her brother she answered him as many times that she as well very much loved him, it’s alright Georgie, but he seemed inconsolable, saying only I love you, Maggie, I’m so in love with you.
And then in their reflection she saw him hide his face in her hair, felt his breath steamy at her throat, and watching George’s hips rise high toward the ceiling, his marbled pillar bridging their bodies, she barely got out ‘yes – ’ before he broke back into her ass with 180 lb. drives bigger than all the past hour’s thrusts as one.
George didn’t go any easier on her, but he sobbed into the back of her neck at the scent of blood, and she wept a little easier. And in the closing moments of their tear they together wrung from themselves the last of the evening’s lusts with a Herculean dribble and a tumultuous trickle, George ejaculating again into his sister, and Maggie, in spite of herself, as well cumming with him while the timer to their right blindly blinked zeros at them with mute, digital impassiveness, it’s exact signal for them to quit having another hour ago imperceptibly passed unacknowledged.
George managed only another dozen or so chops with his diminishing erection until he could finally remain only still to the hilt inside Maggie, deflating, and she felt her brother at last softening and then doughy inside her before he reluctantly, sloppily, uncorked from her butt and stepped down. Maggie turned around, gingerly, and seated herself upright with her leg tucked under her.
“I need a towel” she whispered, as if to not be overheard by even herself, and he stood and instead gathered his cock into his sister’s mouth for her to briefly suck anyway, then gathered her into his arms slightly higher than to her feet to hold her off the floor in his embrace until she conceded to wrap her legs around him and let herself leak. George carried Maggie to his bedroom and dropped her into bed among his giant pillows and sweat-soured sheets and pillowcases, not letting her hide from him. He asked her to not escape him, to not wash off their iniquity, and she told him there was a wedge of cheese in the fridge. He returned from the kitchen after a minute with eats and drinks and smokes, and they talked for a long time: friendly, facetiously chiding – there was a small swollen split at the corner of his lip, lavender fingerprints polka-dotted her buttocks, and they’d both walk funny for a day or two – and when they did sleep, finally and for the first time their bodies enfolded naked in the other’s, George especially slept restfully and for more consecutive hours than he had in years.
In the main room, their smells remained awake and all over; the camera could record only the still for the next hour, then ran out of tape.
Maggie sat straddling her brother, wearing only one of his dress shirts and twirling her bikini panties around her index finger, watching him wake up. It was the following afternoon and she was hungry. Stirring from sleep, trying to roll onto his side between her thighs, George opened his eyes and confusedly wondered if this all hadn’t already happened before exchanging morning breath with his sister when she kissed him.
“Meet me at my place, love; we’re going out” she said, and got off of him to leave for her own apartment.
George showed up forty-five minutes later, freshly showered and groomed, and Maggie wide-open answered the door two raps into the first knocks, her hair still half-damp since her shower, and of course conspicuously too-late closing her robe, the game still afoot. Smiling, she watched his eyes while he held her gaze for the ten seconds he could effect before his sight irresistibly swept her exposure and, having won another point, she casually covered up.
“Grab a beer, have a seat (yours, my maggie-luv, he thought)” she said, “I’m almost ready (for you again, georgie-sweets; we’re just gettin’ started)” and she left him in the doorway to go finish dressing, closing her bedroom door behind her. Maggie bought fussy beers that could not be just twisted open and in lieu of a bottle-opener he cleanly clipped off the cap of his beer from a protruding brick from the fireplace (sharp; hot; her).
She re-emerged obsolete-chic, dressed in a fitted black turtleneck sweater, a short plaid skirt, and knee-high boots; George was dressed to not kill, conservative-blah this side of invisible. Maggie left a kiss print on his throat as they departed, her mark, corvette red, that he’d wear loud and pristine for the rest of the day. They had rented a limousine and rode miles out of town to one of the city’s surrounding hamlets, the whole way keeping the partition between them closed and having tipped the driver well up-front to mind his own damn business. They held hands while idly strolling the narrow streets and window-shopping, their waning folk-rock recognition for once welcome, and talked of movies, music, the weather, the store-front displays, lively speaking of anything except last night, thinking only of it. She knew with a smile every time he stole a glance at her backside and he thought all the while, with great satisfaction, of the scar of last night’s sex, the evidence of his presence, curtained under her skirt and tucked neatly between her cheeks. Without discussion they’d decided on the same bistro, the same heavy food, and as they ate she was pleased that rather than having cooked the meal she had at least figured considerably into his improved appetite. During a pause in their chat, she caught and held his eyes between bites and made a slow show of adjusting her seat, shifting her weight from one womanly-broad bun to the other.
“Ouch” she grinned, “ – nice work, stud” but he didn’t blanch. He instead reached into his jacket and brought out the tarnished, low-gold band he’d given to her when they were kids but had secreted from her some time ago. Checkmate. Gin. Game, Set, Match. He took her left hand and placed the ring over her third finger, incanting softly “With this ring, I do thee wed …” It had been re-sized, fit perfectly, and was still junk. Maggie got teary. George said they’d shop for one worth a small mortgage tomorrow, and she told him to shut up, I want this one.
They both felt far more comfortable for now not really mentioning last night but for eye contact between them and its promise of the sex they knew they would someway do with each other, brother and sister, tonight and in subsequent nights, their perversity for now still clandestine even in the light of day and among normal people: regular guys and gals and other decent folk, and, paradoxically in spite of the sex-shop two blocks down the street in the other direction that they didn’t know was there – striping, raw-hide leather whips, drop cloths, locking fur-lined steel handcuffs, and rubber masks & gags Since 1981– they assumed themselves for as long as they were anywhere but home to be the whole goddamn world’s sole freak show. And relishing their deceit of all humanity, they paid their bill and stole away from the restaurant and into the limo that they had unnecessarily had parked hidden in back, slowly climbing over-around-and-again-over each other sealed within the confines of the backseat, the car doors closed about them and the gravel parking lot crunching under the tires as the limousine lumbered onto the asphalt road, wrestling gently, their quiet play novel given that they both knew, fully clothed and this time well in advance of the act, that sex between them tonight would happen as legitimate lovers would anticipate, this moment unbeknownst to either of them as an unnerving celebration of the twenty-hour anniversary of when George was first infinitely inside Maggie and she was trying to catch her breath so she could then spend the ensuing forty seconds piteously suppressing a cry to him to stop, it still doesn’t fit.
Facing him, Maggie sat saddled in George’s lap and they smooched while the Cadillac rode them home through the rain. “I owe you a blow when we get back” she told him, “and later we’ll make love properly; but don’t gag me, I’ll swallow” and she then happily belched a hot fume of wine & garlic in his face.
“While you’re so generously ingesting my seed – fruitlessly spent – when do you mean to get pregnant?” George said and Maggie looked at him for a long moment, silently, now her truths indefensible. She curled up beside him, laying her head in his lap, and George petted her, massages segueing into molestations – rubbing her shoulder so as to squeeze her breast, stroking her hip so as to pat her fanny – caressing and copping feels, the two of them quietly listening to the wet road-noise humming up through the floorboards.
“When did you know?” she asked after a time, thumping his knee with her fist.
“You were too good last night – so much, so suddenly. I’d have done anything for you anyway – and will; indebting me to you with what I’ve always wanted from you was ambrosia. Banging your ass is a bribe I’ll be glad to exact from you regularly and frequently from now on.”
“I’ll be healed in a few days; feel free. And I’ll bear this in mind tonight while you’re cumming in my mouth” and she gently closed her teeth over his thumb.
They arrived in front of their building and the driver assisted Maggie out of the car as if she were a queen. George tipped him half-again more and he gave George his card and an assurance that he could be available again as ordered.
Hand in hand, at Maggie’s door George started to continue upstairs to his apartment, pulling her along. “I’ve got drink and smokes” she said, pulling him back. “As for the other, I’m still sore, and you’ve still other work to do. C`mere.”
Maggie had held the gun that they’d brought down with them, and George had carried the guitar, a twelve-string – their valuables in lieu of provisions. They lay wrapped together in army surplus overcoats, hidden from yesterday and tomorrow both for that one first night without a roof over them, bordering somewhere that wasn’t home, breathing no louder than cooing to one another required; thirteen, and a small cannon resting armed, un-hammered, between them.
They survived well, though: $300 dollars a night, cash money, for three hours Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights – no questions asked, and the occasional complementary case of cheap beer that back-when would last them a month – performing at roadhouses where roughnecks cashed their checks and college kids went slumming with their allowances.
Maggie couldn’t really beat-up her brother anymore after they were fifteen but she didn’t stop trying until one night when they were sixteen. They’d all their lives slept together under a common blanket, and still for years after George had stolen them away from off the mountains a long time ago – a Saturday night or two before any of their uncles, and maybe even their own father, might have her – and as children had clung to each other in the same bed in any lonely motor inn that would admit them.
They’d begin sleep every night appropriately enough, lying away from the center of the bed, but awake the next morning generally together in the middle – sprawled at odds and tangled in each other’s limbs and hair, dried drool adhering their lips, their noses touching – and in the interim, for the hours of their most still, unconscious dream state, fit close and flush as spoons but for the ten minutes, 2 or 3 times a week, somewhere in the early, quietest part of the dark, when Maggie would dimly awaken and become drowsily aware of George bumping at her backside. His wet dreams hadn’t involved her until they were fourteen and he was waking up hard against his sister’s newly nubile booty with what felt like a croquet mallet down the front of his underwear, and tugging his bulge out stiff through his briefs, he’d rub and nudge his wand bare against the soft weave stretched taut across Maggie’s beautifully broadening girly butt. For the first months she’d just wait him out, pretending to sleep through it until his loamy wet-heat happened and they could both sleep again, her inseams gluey and his drying stain starching her panty’s seat and padded cotton crotch (he wet the bed, she’d chide, for the three days each month she was bitchy and off-limits to any more than ‘goodnight ’ and a handshake). But used to it and hidden from him alongside his front, she’d begun to participate: snaking her forefinger through the lower leghole of her panties and discreetly twiddling herself off with her brother, cumming her tidy orgasms – cute, as she thought of them, pretty chirps of pleasure unlike the racking, tacky messes her brother’s dick sicked-up and left coagulating between them – that were no more than squeezing her thighs and arching as if stretching in her sleep while George polluted her.
She’d have missed it if it had stopped; hell, they had always been rubbing uglies and discovering new touchy-feely handfuls of each other while growing up – hair-pulling and more hair-pulling begat breast-grabbing begat ball-squeezing then break! until the next time either needed an advantage over the other (and one morning just last week she’d awakened with her nose in his fly, rolling off without his knowing) – but this use and indulgence, somnambulate or not, they both knew, crossed some line beyond what either could fake as anything but adult: unclean and as good as only being blessedly bad can feel, particularly the night they knew he wanted to wear her and their pretending ended; when he reached under her head and held her across the chest at her bosom, and clamped his left hand atop her hipbone – strapped into him, for driving power – and rocking her back and forth onto him, he began jabbing at her some harder with rude, rutting prods perpendicular to her crescent and crevice both: haphazardly, vainly, knocking at her cracks upper and lower behind her sheathed in a film of undergarment that blocked the direct access into Maggie that he suddenly had to have – in turns squashing her breast and buns and riding her with jarring gouges at her backside that were now no mere masturbatory amusement and sought to rip past her underpants and barge into her body. She reached back for his hand and squeezed as he was finishing on her, then unbelted from him and got out of bed as though an unrelated thought had just occurred to her: is the door locked? were the blinds drawn?
“What’s this?” she said, nervously, not asking, standing in the dark and brushing at her seat bottom over the wet spot, as if she’d been out-cold all those times before.
“Come back to bed, Maggie” not answering, he said, mortified, re-packaging himself, “ – I’m sorry (i got caught and it’s back to beating-off by myself over lingerie ads; but i do so dearly love you).”
“(i’m not ready) Be nice” she said, cowed, and climbed close again under the covers with him, and the next day turned the room’s air unit down to sixty on her way out the door to buy them each a pair of heavy flannel pajamas and a family-size quart bottle of cocoanut oil. George was in a pawnshop across the street buying her a promise ring.
From then on for the next year, every third or fourth night, she’d emerge from the bathroom cupping a pool of the bath oil in her hands and clap over his lap while he was in bed watching monster movies, and they’d as well do battle. Wearing the small cheap diamond these nights – on her right hand and still not letting him lay her – Maggie always won in the beginning: sitting on his chest with her ass in his face and farting up his nose when she could manage, pinning him beneath her and watching t.v. while oily jacking-off her brother and trying not to be fascinated with his penis any more than what it took to relieve them both of his middle-night emissions (“Leak now, Georgie, or forever hold your piece!”). He stayed happily trapped under her while her bejeweled right fist pumped him and as he outgrew her hand, but his discharge still just a pubescent sploog, a dribble she’d smear back down his dick and then go wash her hands of before she’d crawl under the covers with him so they could both sleep. By the time they were fifteen, he knew to just lay there quietly those nights, shirtless, while she jacked him off through his pajama fly and he’d lazily squeeze her buns through her pajama bottoms, and she subsequently found herself not trying to pass gas in her dumb brother’s face, now disinterested in the joke. Maggie had begun wearing a designated tee shirt as George’s drips grew to become ever-greater geysers, leaping out at and all over her front, and in their sixteenth year, globs of her brother’s spunk were getting caught in her hair; when one night his whole load was dripping off her face and from the end of her nose, she from then on lay at his side to masturbate him. After months of this – handling him, and for the past year having watched and felt him get longer and stronger, all over and in every sense – as thick as her wrist, and wiry hair even, in places where he was once as smooth as she – and aware he had been, for more time than she was willing to admit knowing, letting her win – Maggie was frustrated with him for reasons neither of them were old enough to know anything about.
And fisting her palm oily over her twin brother’s cock, teasing him for being so disproportionate (when her tits didn’t really fit on her own frame, let alone pressed under the old shirt she wore) George swirled his tongue inside Maggie’s ear, and instead of playing away from him – in the throes of ovulation, herself especially horney – she spent the first nicest five minutes of her brother’s love life bruising his lower throat with a hickey. When she wouldn’t let him sex her neck in return, for appearance’s sake, he strong-armed her around and over the bed’s edge, hooked down her pajama bottoms, and bit her caboose, her cool, sixteen-year-old’s buttermilk booty; she yelled at him, laughing, without really trying to stop him, not even when she felt his penis recklessly poking around behind her, and she let him pull her shirt up her back and over her head and off. Maggie threw the crusty shirt aside off the foot of the bed and rolled over to slap George’s face for letting him make her naked; but they instead just looked at each other for a long time after what a laugh was worth while the 10 p.m. news droned on in the background. George began kissing Maggie, a salivating series of honest passions and their first that wasn’t just a smoochy excuse to belch in the other’s face – cupping one of her bare breasts in his hand and for the first time in his life putting his tongue in her mouth as a gesture of affection rather than to bother her – and Maggie as sloppily kissed him back, their first as lovers and their eyes wide open throughout, he searching hers for permission and she, his, for signs of intent. She then quietly rolled back over with her face in the bedsheets, topless and with her pajama bottoms still bunched around her knees. George tripped out of his own pajama pants and mindlessly, too-quickly jammed his bone forward slick between Maggie’s buns and through her butt’s clenched-fist virginity. He stood from his knees to his heels, anchored inside his sister and hearing her plead with him in hushed shouts that he was in the wrong hole, it’s too big, georgie, you’re in the wrong hole, and he’d never heard her – guttural – so need him to summarily do – or stop doing – anything before with such choked urgency.
Maggie clawed at the bed mattress for the first several seconds, even throwing herself deeper onto him to buck him off, before she reached back with both hands to push him out of her body. He grabbed her wrists and brought them around toward her head, only to have her cooperatively pull their hands together beneath her between her breasts as if they were in tandem prayer to ensure as well he stayed inside. He squatted flat-footed over her hips and, pile-driving his weight from his feet 45 degrees down into her, George began inexpertly cannonballing up his twin sister’s ass twice as fast as time is generally measured and Maggie barked hoarse-voice cries of shock – yelps, ‘ah-ah-ah’ – at each of his 180 or so punches up her can in only the minute and a half they fucked before he abruptly stopped deep, blew her full wet-cement molten inside her, and fell out. Maggie bolted to her feet from him, clutching at her back crack and hurrying toward the bathroom. He heard her lock the door behind her and turn the bathtub spigots on full. She didn’t reappear until after the late-movie had begun, tied into a heavy bathrobe, shielded within two pair of panties, and wearing a tampon two weeks in advance of her period, tucked-up inside her in the wrong hole.
“I bleed often enough without any help from you” she said with weepy, forced cheer, climbing back into bed with her brother as he lay huddled, bewilderedly apologizing to her, and rolling over into her embrace, he nosed open the front of her robe and suckled from her tit and she let him. Eight years would pass before either of them would again take a serious run at the other; she kept the ring on her person, but didn’t wear it anymore.
She knelt close into his lap, sitting on her heels, her mouth hesitating at his tip, and he cradled her head in his hands, careful to not pull. She brushed his point across her lips, painting her mouth with a trace of seminal gloss and the discolored goo she knew to be the tainted white George had used to facilitate this unorthodox seasoning of her next feed, and she thought again that far better this – preferable, even righteous – than her uncles or her father had the boy and girl not stolen away one night forever, and reaching around his waist, holding on to his buttocks, Maggie then took the bulbous head and first four inches of her brother’s cock into her mouth and began sucking hard as if she intended to pull his semen directly from his testicles well in advance of his ejaculation: like trying to drink a particularly thick milkshake through a huge but peculiarly narrow straw, failing to forget that this moment’s mouthful had just moments before been parked up her shitter.
George felt his sister suck his fat cock, pulling, as if she meant to uproot him – as much vacuum as motion, using the entire inside surface of her mouth and her lips and tongue to draw strong and hard, jawing and swallowing on him with slow, untiring sucks – looking on his sister’s pretty blonde head bobbing dutifully deeper between his thighs as she became better acquainted with her brother’s big dick touching the back of her throat: servicing him, a slurping, slobbering oral wash of his penis clean of her own bowel’s residual cream-sweetened mucus, her breath steamy, sweating his stem, and her palate soft and her tongue lolling and circling, her lips pursing over him in an ever-varying embouchure – her mouth was animated around his cock with motions all its own from the bounce of her face between his legs and he looked on while she blew him and dusk devolved day into dark; seeing, feeling Maggie blow him, his sister, his twin sister, tasting his beef thick-twitching and feverish in her mouth, and inhaling through her nostrils the musk his loins generated in a fume right under her nose so pungent he was sure she was tasting that also.
George kept his hands on Maggie’s head in some form or another the entire time – stroking her scalp or cupping her face in his palms, hanging her hair behind her ears so as to better see his fuck of her sweet face – and in the last moments, when he felt his reservoirs roiling on the verge of another unique sexual reckoning with his own sister, she felt him firmly ease her head and mouthful of him back to no more than two inches – but no less; her face immobilized by him at the base of her skull and with a hard half-pound of penis throbbing in her mouth, she resisted the urge to clutch at his wrists and instead dug her nails into his ass-flesh. She rolled her eyes up to meet his and they looked into each other’s souls as his fingers tightened behind her neck and his every muscle tensed.
“Start swallowing, Maggie” panting, George gasped as his orgasm charged up his piss-stalk toward his sister’s face, and Maggie felt her brother’s cock in her mouth pulse three times in one-second intervals before – ‘uuuaahh’ she heard him heave – on the fourth it disgorged a fibrous, liquid wad of sperm – syrupy brine and pooling over her tongue, then lumpy cream-of-vinegar and filling her mouth – and she momentarily held, then swallowed, each hot glut sequentially as she was fed them – five loads in all, and a sixth shuddering squirt – struggling to taste then eat her brother’s acrid ejaculations as they threatened to either drown her or overflow from around her lips.
She milked his softening erection afterward for another while longer – hungrily, not unlike how he’d nursed from her breasts after their disastrous first fuck years ago – taking larger and larger mouthfuls of his penis as it went flaccid until she could roll it around whole in one fat mouthful.
Maggie then leapt into George’s lap, and holding him by the base of his skull, locking her mouth against his, she jammed her tongue between his lips into his mouth and forced him to taste with her his sperm and the latent dirt of her lower intestine.
“I want to watch you… I want to see you do yourself” he confessed, their meld still fresh on his breath.
Maggie danced off his lap and into bed, plopping spread-eagled onto pillows and bedsprings, and awaited her audience of one as he was seated, away, at a distance by the footboard.
“Oooo, baby” she began, stoking her pussy and wetting her lips, showing-off, “ – ooo-yeah, Georgie, I love you spunking your cum hot & salty in my mouth, sticky and – “.
“Shhh” George smiled, “Just touch yourself, and watch me watch you” he said,
the stimuli arcing as electric ticks and twitches disbursed from her pussy to her face and between her silky jumping inner thighs, half bicycling her legs parted akimbo as if to run to or escape her own hand, in full view of her brother looking in on this party with herself that no one should be privy to – when we cause ourselves revealing noises and motions no one should hear or witness, involuntary bodily occurrences and their accompanying sounds and smells, however necessary, let alone happily, pleasurably indulgent – and sinking into self-consciousness as her fingers sank through her vulva, shy at what was happening to her while she was doing herself, she looked away, closing her thighs tight over her fingers, unable to continue watching George watch her while his cock just there lay there, sated and sleepy.
She looked up again at him when he put his hand to her knee, sitting at her feet, and she rested her hand on his shoulder – he holding her open while she held on, leaning into him, steadied but squirming, inclined to double-over or thrash-about – hide or perform – but not to be just…observed… and her leg parted aside he kissed her mouth, her lips slack, she kissing back as if an afterthought, moving her lips as some read to themselves, while she busied with this new humility, this vulnerable excess.
Her body was a live collage, her nipples candied stones atop cinnamon wafers; her pubic hair trimmed short and sculpted, a mousy off-blond doormat welcoming his face for a visit; drumming at her clitoris, her eyes inky, dilating black, and her smile lost as her concentration narrowed.
George laid her back against the headboard and she drew her heels up to near her butt, her brother’s face descending between her legs, and she wished wrong could never be so tortuously right.
George licked Maggie, legato, match-strike spikes and surges of almost-fire desire at her clitoris. Her bun smarted and her anus complained still of last night’s pummeling, but her pussy got the apology and she let him atone; nothing’d be exacted of her for the rest of the evening, she knew, but to lay back and enjoy for as long as his mouth worked or she fell asleep, one. Her brother’s lips and kisses swam her surface every few minutes round-trip from her crotch across her abdomen undulating to her breasts, tip-nipple pebbled areolae, detouring to lift her arms in turn and suck her armpits, drinking in all her smells this evening; licking her neck, ears, and kissing her mouth, his cock dragging heavily between her legs and over her belly like a wet mop, then the return round-trip direct to her vulva and the knob of her clitoris.
She watched her brother’s blond scalp nod and turn within the peace-V her thighs made, finding that she wanted to as selfishly pump him full of her as he’d been lately filling her body, and she laced her fingers behind his head, rough-riding him as marvelously hard as he’d been on her ass the other night.
“oooo, your spunk’s so good, baby – hot down my throat, and up….iiinnn me, georgie…eat my pussy, baby…fuck me with your mouth, luv”, etc, etc, …porn-queen script, and yet the purest of heats, as old as humanity.
When it was time, she pulled hard his nose and mouth inside her and tightened her thighs around his head – her brother smothered in cunt, hers – and she felt her groin go off – rack-rack, shudder – like a pillow-fight burst of down.
But morning for them didn’t really arrive until an hour before sunrise, as they wordlessly moved on each other in the dark. He had been listening to her breathing, uneven, betray her wakefulness (as it had when they were kids), and rolling her onto her back she opened her legs. He saddled between her thighs, her limbs easing around him, and posting his arms to either side of her ribs, he slowly bore into her body with the persistent momentum of a braking locomotive, feeling her hymen give way like wet kleenex, though she flinched at the four-inch mark on his way to the bottom. She had hooked her heels under his buttocks, but couldn’t place her hands, wandering the stringy, bunching muscles of his chest and upper back and arms for a hold of him – an eager apprentice unsure of how to assist – then straight-arm planted her palms to his shoulders, pinning herself under him and her breasts floating, flopping atop the lazy waves of their ride while he repeatedly nailed her pelvis to the mattress, drilling her with the unaltered up-down rigidity of an oil rig, reliably mining her well, bringing a single drop of blood to the surface.
It didn’t last long and the Earth remained on its axis, her orgasm just a quietly gratifying whoosh of comfort, as subtle as a furnace suddenly alive with warmth, and he as well came inside her as peacefully as a sigh, impregnating his sister, she conceiving.
At noon they were at High Mass at St. Peter’s. They’d made bad confessions and were sure the other parishioners knew. Lovers recognize other lovers, and their body language gave them away; but only God remembered them.
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