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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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Hornes Syndrome
by Marcia R. Hooper (marciarh35@yahoo.com)
***
A 12th grader dreams of having sex with his twin
sister. But how much of what he experiences is dream,
and how much is reality? And who exactly, is doing the
dreaming? (MF-teens, nc, inc, mast, sleepy)
***
As the author, I claim all rights under international
copyright laws. This work is not intended for sale, but
please feel free to post this story to other archives
or newsgroups, keeping the header and text intact.
Revision to the text (such as the basis for another
story) is acceptable as long as the original author is
given credit and the resulting story is distributed
free of charge. Any commercial use of this work is
expressly forbidden without the written permission of
the author.
This is a work of fiction and is not meant to portray
any person living or dead, nor any known situation.
This story contains themes of incest and noncommittal
sex, and is not meant to be read by person’s under the
age of 18, or the legal age in the county/state/country
in which the reader resides.
If you would like a Microsoft Word version of the
story, please contact me at MarciaRH35@yahoo.com
***
HORNES SYNDROME
by Marcia R. Hooper
Tracey's breasts began to develop at the age most girls
begin to develop. Tracey's problem, however, was that
they stopped developing almost at the same time. It was
midway through twelfth grade, in fact, before she
needed anything bigger than a AA-size bra, and then
only after stuffing it with tissues to impress someone.
You can imagine her inferiority complex.
The beginning of change for Trace came over the summer
between the eleventh and twelfth grades. She was
finally diagnosed with a rare genetic disorder called
Hornes Syndrome, where the expression of certain genes,
most notably those responsible for the development of
breast tissue, the slimming of the waist and broadening
of the hips, and the shaping of the thighs so
noticeable in other post-pubescence girls, misfired.
The disorder is caused by a defective gene one of the
two X chromosomes every female is born with, and
although similar in nature to another malady called
Turner's Syndrome, it was different enough, and
uncommon enough, that the doctors took six months to
agree on a therapy. Once administered, however, my
sister suddenly began to look more like a girl, than a
skinny dude.
Perversely, Trace had always preferred tight pullover
shirts, which did nothing, of course, but advertise her
condition after puberty. But suddenly those same tight
shirts displayed a pair of fetching, though still
rather diminutive breasts, instead of the flat chest of
a child. And if she wore no bra underneath, as she
normally did at home in the evenings, her pointy
nipples also revealed themselves. The admiring looks
she now received from boys simply delighted her, and
rightly so, but she seemed totally unaware of the
effect they had on me.
"Oh, hi, Jack," she said carelessly one evening,
meeting me in the upstairs hallway.
I choked, managing to keep my jaw from dropping as,
nonchalantly, she slid past me out of the bathroom, her
nightshirt sliding up her slender arms and over her
head and down over her wiggly body. In that quick
glimpse, I beheld two perfectly-formed, symmetrical
little mounds of flesh tipped with quarter-sized pink
areole and pea-size nipples.
"Tracey," I croaked, "do you really think it
appropriate to be walking around topless?"
"Oh, Jack!" she guffawed, as though I'd just suggested
she do her homework on a Friday night. "It's just you
and me. You've seen me before."
Yeah, I thought, but not as a suddenly authentic girl,
and not sauntering around in just your bikini panties.
Come to think of it, those bikini panties had looked
pretty good on her trim little hips.
I should note right here that Tracey and I are twins.
Paternal twins, which means we share no more genes than
normal brothers and sisters, and thus am not afflicted
(as far as I can tell) by any genetic abnormalities.
Just the opposite, in fact, if the length and breadth
of my cock are any indication. (No, I'm not telling you
how big it is. I'm not that much of a braggart.)
If I was honest with myself, being a twin had always
been something of a drag. Shared birthdays, unisex
clothes when we were growing up (she still could--and
did--wear my clothes throughout middle and high
school), and the burden of a gawky, half-mirror-image
of myself tended to hurt my popularity. But once Trace
and I hit seventeen, the miracle of a twin sister--even
a malfunctioning one--suddenly manifested itself.
We began going to the movies together, to the mall, to
the beach, she began asking to borrow a shirt instead
of just taking it out of my room, and we even helped
each other with our homework. And as odd as it seems,
until that night in the upstairs hallway, my seeing
Trace without a shirt on was no big deal. Having no
breasts, meant having nothing to hide, I guess.
What I'm trying to say, none to ably, is that I had
sexual feelings for my sister even before she began to
sprout breasts. And sprout they did. Almost overnight,
no more than a week after beginning her pill regimen,
boobs popped up on her like a couple of jack-in-the
boxes. It became quite trying for me, because until
then, my desire of her underdeveloped body had seemed
more comical than serious. That had now changed, and I
was in trouble.
***
The following evening, against my better judgments, I
ended up in the upstairs hallway at the exact same
time, expecting the exact same result. It was not to
be, however. Because, along with her new-grown breasts
had come new popularity, and with new popularity,
attitude. This was six weeks after starting the pills,
and my sister was quickly catching up at being a mouth-
off. That afternoon, in fact, her mouth had gotten her
grounded. (Yes, seniors in our household, especially
sassy female ones, still got grounded.)
She made no secret that schoolwork--any kind of work
for that matter--was much less important to her than
talking, texting or doing most anything else with her
friends. Not exactly an endearment to Mom, who was used
to Miss Wallflower obeying every word she uttered.
For my own part, I was having just as much difficulty
concentrating. Images of Trace's tight young ass
grinding away on my throbbing cock as we banged away at
bad guys on my Playstation, her sitting on my lap as we
raced cars up and down city streets in search of
hapless pedestrians to plow under, hunted down aliens
to slaughter mercilessly, me fighting the overwhelming
need to blow a load in my pants as Trace rocked and
rolled on my erection had me frantic. I never saw her
that night, luckily, because chances are I would have
raped her where she stood.
***
It was two o'clock in the morning. I was standing in
the hallway outside Tracey's bedroom door. I could hear
her breathing slowly and deeply inside. Down the hall,
I could also hear Mom and Dad breathing in their own
bedroom. The heat-pump hissed in the background and
downstairs, the refrigerator's compressor kicked on.
Cautiously, I placed my right hand on the doorknob and
twisted it to the right. I hesitated a moment, then
inched the door open and slipped inside, easing it
closed behind me. Trace stirred in her sleep, muttered
softly, but did not awaken.
I waited, hands clutching the doorknob. Finally, when
her breathing had resettled into a deep rhythm, I
tiptoed across the room and stood beside her bed. She
was on her back, sprawled beneath the covers like
someone attempting a sloppy snow-angel. Blonde hair
obscured half her face and every breath through her
slightly parted lips fluttered a strand of hair into
the air.
Her bedclothes were twisted tight about her waist, and
even in the dim light filtering through her bedroom
window, I could see the soft bulge of her growing
breasts beneath the pajama top. It was the yellow set
given her for Christmas by Aunt T: a long sleeve, vee-
neck top and baggy shorts with a rope tie at the waist.
I rubbed my hard-on through the front of my shorts and
thought: Okay. Let's do it.
Reaching down, I took the top of the covers and dragged
them down around her ankles. She stirred again and
moaned in her sleep, made as though to turn over, but
then lay flat on her back again. Trace was as light a
sleeper as you could find -- tiptoe past her room at
two in the morning on the way to the bathroom and she'd
jerk awake and, just as likely, holler at you through
her bedroom door. Tonight, however, she might have been
slipped a Roofie at bedtime.
Putting one hand down the front of my shorts, I clasped
the hem of her pajama top in the other and slowly drew
it up, exposing her new breasts. Bared to the cool
night air, her nipples immediately hardened, making
groan at the change and squirm uncomfortably.
Suddenly a very clear image appeared in my head: one of
her hard nipples in my mouth, what it would feel like
against my tongue, between my lips, and I rubbed
doubly-hard on my erection.
Just a minute, I scolded myself. Just a minute and you
can do anything you want.
First, I wanted to see her pussy.
Cautiously, because my hands shook, I loosened the tie
around her waist, gripped her pajama bottoms with both
hands and pulled them off her hips, down her coltish
thighs, then removed them from her entirely. Dropping
them on the floor, I then slid her panties down as
well, removing them also and letting them drop on the
floor beside her pajama bottoms. Trying to protect
herself, even in sleep, Tracey immediately clamped her
legs together and raised her knees.
I carefully took one knee in each hand and spread her
apart, revealing her lovely treasure. To my surprise
she was smooth-shaven, with a pencil-line of fine
blonde hair above her cleft as an accent. Her puffy
lips, modestly closed, ran down to disappear between
her butt cheeks. She showed nothing of her pink
insides, and suddenly I feared that she might be
menstruating. But I saw no tell-tale string escaping
between her lips, and there had been no panty-liner in
her underwear.
(Menstruation, as a subject, came up more often than
expected in our household. Dad was a Presbyterian
minister, with a minister's rigid disposition, but Mom
was a pediatrician and Trace a more-or-less typical
teenage girl, insofar as her ability to inflict painful
embarrassment. More than once they had driven me out of
the room with discussions of the female workings. So it
was with great relief then, that I didn't have that
particular insult thrown in my face.)
I stood back and enjoyed her youthful nakedness from
all angles. She was not naked, however, and I
diligently worked the top of her pajamas up and over
her head and and tossed them on the floor also. She was
now perfectly nude, and once I'd arranged her arms at
just the right angles, perfectly posed as well.
Impulsively, a leaned down and placed a kiss on the tip
of her right nipple, then one on the tip of her left.
Then I went and kissed her gently between her legs and
she groaned loudly and arched her back, hands gripping
fistful's of sheet. Another quick kiss and she flexed
her legs wider still, and that was it.
Already barely in control of myself, I yanked down my
shorts and threw off my tee-shirt and stood there at
her bedside, looking down at her, panting and yanking
on my cock. I moaned and shivered uncontrollably as
adrenalin-rush forced me onto my tiptoes. It took
everything I had to let go before the hurricane hit. I
backed away and stood in the corner between her dresser
and the bedroom wall, panting and shaking. It had been
close... it had been very close.
Eventually, after the terrible urgency had drained, I
crept back and knelt beside the bed. I cupped my hand
over her right breast and let it rest there, enjoying
the feel of her soft warm flesh. She murmured in her
sleep and tucked her head against her right shoulder,
as though trying to cuddle with whomever was touching
her. I removed my hand and replaced it with my mouth,
and her murmuring took on an added urgency.
I played my tongue over the tip of the nipple, teasing
it into acute hardness, then nibbled it with my teeth.
Then I transferred my attention to her other breast,
and as I did so, she whimpered and tried pushing me
away. Then her hands were running through my hair and
caressing my face and I let my right hand steal along
the flat of her hard tummy, down to the cleft between
her legs and, as the tip of my middle finger slid
effortlessly inside her, she flexed and rose up to meet
me.
My finger went deep, the tip finding and massaging the
dome of her cervix; she moaned deeply in her throat,
arched her back higher and pressed her legs flat down
on the mattress. Although I thought it impossible, my
embedded finger pushed deeper still inside her, until
it seemed I could tickle her belly-button from the
inside.
With no conscious decision, I glued my mouth to hers,
my tongue whip-lashing hers in an effort to get down
her throat. My lips mashed so hard against hers that
our teeth ground. Then I could take no more and slid
onto the mattress beside her, wanting to mount her and
claim her virginity as my own. She was a virgin and I
knew that she was a virgin. But the instant my cock
touched her a tidal wave of sperm erupted out of me and
I awoke, heart hammering madly and the insides of my
shorts drenched with semen.
Fuck! I thought, slamming back down onto my pillow. It
was just a dream.
Yeah, but what a dream, right?
***
The next morning I got up late. I hadn't slept well
after the dream, tossing and turning until I had
finally kicked off my clean shorts and stroked myself
off onto the mattress. It had been only the barest of
help, however, because half an hour later I did it
again. I was damned if I'd repeat myself a third time,
however, so I forced myself to lay still and counted
heartbeats silently in my head. I had just closed my
eyes, it seemed, when the blasted alarm clock went off.
As dreams do, my mid-night liaison with Trace had faded
away to murky half-images and half-remembered scenes,
like those in a movie with half the frames missing. In
the cold light of day I was unsure even who the girl
had been, though I suspected it was my sister. Rather
than exciting me, the thought caused something close to
revulsion. Had I really jerked off twice afterwards,
visualizing Tracey?
Tracey, it turned out, was already up and dressed.
Headed for the bathroom, shower, I had just reached her
door as it swung inward and out she stumbled, coat
half-on and back-pack half-slung over her right
shoulder. She banged right into me and we both banged
off opposite walls.
"Fucking watch it, will ya!" I growled at her, bending
over to retrieve my tee-shirt.
"Sorry," she mumbled.
Head down, she looked at me quickly from beneath her
brows, then she was rushing down the hallway, shoulders
bunched, steps awkward and clumping, as always, pigeon-
toed, and I thought, What the fuck was that about?
scowling after her. When she reached the top of the
stairs, she dared a backward glance and revealed a face
blotchy and red, eyes shocked-looking, as though she'd
just done something horrible I'd find out about. Then
she was gone down the stairs, and the details of the
dream came thundering back like a locomotive exploding
out of a tunnel. I was glad she was not there to see my
face.
***
That evening, I couldn't decide whether I wanted to see
Trace or not. But since she never come out of her room,
claiming to be sick--Mom took her temperature, peering
in her ears and down her throat for signs of a nasty
bug, until rebelling, Trace had kicked her out of the
room--the decision was not mine to make.
Aggravated, cranky from lack of sleep, I lay down at
ten o'clock to watch TV and fell right asleep.
***
It was two o'clock in the morning again. I knew,
because I was staring at the red numerals on Tracey's
alarm clock. I didn't remember getting out of bed, or
of sneaking out of my room and down the hall, nor of
coming into Tracey's room. I just discovered myself
standing there next to her bed.
Tonight she was on her stomach, arms akimbo and one leg
cocked over the other, discernible even beneath the
covers. She snored lightly, mouth open with a dribble
of saliva wetting the bed sheet. Her hair was twisted
about her head even worse than the night before, and so
were the blankets around her body. I could make out
nothing beneath her hair from the mouth up.
Her pajamas were also from the night before. The top
was half-way up her back, and half-twisted around her
torso. Except for her sex, I was reminded of Michael J.
Fox in Back to the Future. I reached down, loosened the
blankets and drew them down to the foot of the bed. She
murmured, shifted position jerkily, then resumed her
soft snoring. I couldn't decide if she looked sexy like
this, hilarious or pitiful. I left the decision up to
my cock: It decided it was sexy.
The first thing I wanted was to see her ass. Her rear
end, like everything else about her body, had
transformed pretty dramatically over the last six
weeks. Her waist had slimmed, her hips had filled out,
and her thighs were like those of a fine young philly.
I was willing, after last night, to bet the same was
true of her ass.
I straightened out her legs, then slid the yellow
pajama bottoms off her hips and down her legs. This
time, however, instead of simply dropping them on the
floor, I removed myself from the confines of my boxer
shorts and rubbed the pajama bottom up and down my
cock. Marking my territory, if you will. Then, almost
giddily, I placed them next to her face on the mattress
so that she could breath our combined aromas.
Her panties came next--this time, white with yellow
piping around the legs holes and a yellow waistband
sporting the Victoria's Secret logo. They slid
effortlessly down her hips and revealed a rear end the
sight of which took my breath away.
Perfectly sculpted, I thought, a perfect example of
what an adult's ass should look like. Looking at it, I
accidentally leaked cum onto her bed sheets and knew I
was in danger of -- forget premature -- spontaneous
ejaculation.
I slid her panties the rest of the way off, repeated my
scenting procedure on them and lay them atop her pajama
bottoms. She sensed something, either her lack of
clothing below the waist, or the scent of her molester,
and emitted a troubled groan while shifting position.
She crossed her right calf over her left leg, then
reversed the order, which of course, did nothing but
expose more of her than before. It was when I removed
her pajama top, however, that I got a real surprise:
she had worn a bra to bed.
An added bonus, I thought happily.
Laying her pajama top aside, I oh-so-carefully unhooked
her bra-strap, thinking as I did so, that as many girls
as I had done this to, it had never been with the
trepidation and excitement that I felt undoing the bra
of my own sister.
Okay, I mused. Now get it off without awakening her.
I did somehow, one arm at a time, lifting and cajoling,
tugging and sliding, until finally, triumphantly, I
held the captured bra aloft, a handful of captured
gold. I snatched in back down again, almost as fast,
searching interestedly for an attached tag. I finally
found it at the end of the left strap, and twisted it
to the light. Size 34-B, it read. Imagine, my sister, a
34-B.
Now she was naked. My cock throbbed and my heart
pounded in my chest. The thing to do would be to mount
her where she lay, I told myself, spread her legs and
shove my cock into her before she awoke... and before I
exploded. Instead, I lay down beside her on the bed,
careful not to touch any part of her body with my cock.
Placing the tips of my fingers on the knob of bone
topping her spine -- she shuddered -- I let them course
slowly down its length to the small of her back, where
she moaned again, more deeply this time, and brought
them back up to her neck.
I want to fuck you, I thought, feeling her shudder. I
want to fuck your mouth, your pussy, in the ass doggy-
style. I imagined turning her over and forcing open her
mouth and forcefully inserting my cock. I imagined the
press of her lips against my shaft as she suckled me,
the pressure of her tongue pushing it against the roof
of her mouth, of pressing downward until I entered her
throat, making her gag, and then the gout of hot sperm
rushing down into her stomach.
Instead, I moved my hand to her ass, letting it drift
over the silky flesh, letting it explore the entire,
exquisite roundness of it. Then I just let it rest
there, relishing the fact that, other then the hand of
my father, this was the first hand to ever touch her
there. The first hand (I hoped) to do it caressingly.
And I wondered, not for the first time, if my sister
was truthful with me about her virginity.
"Am I really your first?" I whispered to her.
She murmured, shifting her bottom beneath my hand,
drawing her arms inward so that her hands lay
protectively either side of her head.
The real question was, What to do next?
Having calmed down to an acceptable level, I slipped
out of my underwear and my tee-shirt, sidled up beside
her until my skin contacted her along the entire length
of her body. This closeness she apparently liked,
because she immediately crabbed sideways to cuddled up
to me. When I let my hand drift off her bottom and down
the inside of her left thigh, and then back up again,
she shuddered deeply, raised her bottom and spread her
thighs involuntarily.
I accepted this invitation, sliding my fingers along
the crack of her ass to find, and then penetrate her
waiting lips. As my middle finger entered her moist
cavity, she instinctively raised herself even higher,
and with something of a shock I realized that Trace was
not only wet inside, but absolutely drenched. She
sucked in breath violently as I found, and then
assaulted her cervix, twisted her hips as the attack
intensified and groaned "No!" twice in her sleep,
before thrusting her backside against my hand.
That was it for me. Desperate, knowing that I had only
seconds left, I climbed atop her, grabbed her wrists in
my hands, forced her thighs apart with my knees, jabbed
her between the cheeks as she raised high to take me
in, and moment I touched I--
"No, godammit!" I cried. "Not again!"
I was on my stomach on my bed, dry-humping the
mattress, cum gushing unstoppably from my cock. I felt
sickened, defeated, overwhelmed with loss, and
frustrated beyond imagination. All this wonderful sperm
going to waste, I thought, while fifteen feet away my
sister lay asleep in her bed, unaware of anything. I
flung myself angrily out of bed and thrust my middle
finger at the door.
"Fuck you and everyone that rides you!" I cried
hoarsely. Then I went to the bathroom to clean up.
***
Friday morning I was up and out of the house before
Trace even awoke. In the evening I yearned to catch a
hockey game with my friends Josh and Frank, and even
though the Capitals would probably loose, it would be a
wonderful experience being away from the house and away
from my sister. However, Mom had a medical conference
to attend the next day, in Philadelphia, and Dad was
going with her.
Their plan was to drive up that evening, after work,
and stay at the Sheraton where the conference was being
held. Driving home Saturday night was debated over
dinner, but because the party afterward would run until
eleven o'clock, more likely midnight, and maybe until
2:00 A.M, when the previous year's party had finally
been shut down by the hotel management, and drinking
and driving for Mom and Dad was a no-no, they decided
that they would stay Saturday also.
Afterward I had grouched to Mom: "You could at least
have Tracey spend the weekend with a friend. Then I
could see my hockey game, and have Josh and Frank over
for the weekend." Which elicited a shake of the head
and knowing grin from my mother.
"And this is a better idea than you babysitting your
little sister?" she asked.
"My 'little sister' is six minutes younger than me," I
reminded her needlessly. "She doesn't need a baby-
sitter." Which was maybe not the truth, given her
compulsion lately to make up for lost time, both
sexually and mischief-wise. "And if you're worried
about a party," I added drying, "you should know that
'Little sister' can drink just as much as I can any day
day of the week."
She poked a finger in my chest. "But I'm not worried
about partying in my house when I'm away. Am I, John?"
she said.
What you should be worried about, I wanted to say, is
something else entirely. But I agreed that, No, no
partying would occur over the weekend.
"We'll be good little kids," I promised.
"Good," she said, and walked away.
Good little kids, I thought, like Hansel and Gretel. Or
maybe Bonnie and Clyde.
***
Friday night, the shit hit the fan, but not in the way
I expected.
It was just after seven o'clock, and I had crept
upstairs while Trace was in the shower. But my iPod was
not in my back-pack as I had expected, and a ten-minute
search of my room turned up nothing more than a history
assignment I'd not turned in that week, the moldy
remains of a microwave pizza beneath my bed, and the
Hustler magazine I'd evidently lied to Josh about
returning.
It was at that point that I remembered my iPod was in
the pocket of my coat downstairs, but I couldn't very
well leave the magazine without perusing some of the
spread legs and offered behinds. It was therefore not
fate that put me in the hallway just as the bathroom
door opened and ejected Trace amidst a cloud of steam,
but my own stupidity.
"Oh, hi," she mumbled. Her hair was in a towel, and she
wore the yellow terry clothe robe that I had given her
for Christmas. It was disturbing, knowing that Trace
was probably nude beneath the robe, except for maybe a
pair of panties. She clutched herself in the robe as
though I meant to rip it off her.
"What's the matter with you?" I growled, suddenly angry
at her demeanor.
"Nothing," she mumbled back, shoulders bunched and
knees locked together tightly, more facing the wall
than facing me.
"Dad wail on you again?" I taunted, as I always did
when I wanted a reaction. This time, however, instead
of the red-face and huffily-replied, "Fuck you, John!"
my sister only shrugged.
"He did?" I said, blinking in surprise. She hadn't been
spanked in years, but that hadn't stopped Dad from
threatening it. More than once over the past six weeks
she'd been threatened to get it bare-handed, and bare-
bottomed. Only Mom's intervention had averted that
little disaster. But she only shook her head, sullenly.
"Mom?" I ventured doubtfully, to which she again shook
her head. "Then what?" I demanded peevishly.
She shook her head again, then, peeking up from beneath
her eyebrows and, after a further moment of courage-
gathering, asked: "Did you come into my bedroom last
night?"
I flinched involuntarily, then exclaimed "No!" hoping
to gloss over my shock. "Why?" I demanded.
"The night before?" she persisted.
"No!" I said again, shaking my head emphatically,
praying that the dimness of the hall hid my rising
color. Then, stiffly I said: "I did not come into your
room last night, or the night before. Why do you ask?"
Speaking in a hoarse whisper, looking away from me, she
said: "Because both nights I woke up with my clothes
off and in the middle of having sex."
"What?" I choked.
She shuddered, then began to slowly twist back and
forth, her arms clutched so tightly over her chest and
her knees locked together so hard that I thought she'd
pop a joint.
"Tracey," I said shakily. "What are you talking about?
Why are you telling me this?"
"Because it was you," she said hoarsely, "that I was
doing it with."
***
After this bomb-shell, Trace had stumbled off to her
bedroom and I went downstairs to meditate the
intricacies of the human condition. In other words, to
panic.
Mumbling impossible theories to myself, I paced stiff-
legged up and down the family room for fifteen minutes.
Then I forced myself to sit down and grabbed a game-
controller off the table and, because HALO 3 was in the
Playstation, that's what I played for the next hour and
fifteen minutes, loosing points and lives like a
newbie. At just before nine o'clock, I looked up and
discovered Trace standing in the doorway.
"What are you doing?" I asked stupidly.
She wore an exceeding ugly outfit of a long-sleeved,
purple and mauve striped top and mauve-colored stretch
pants. Her hair was uncombed and tucked sloppily behind
her ears; she stood hunched over, knees locked together
and arms clutching her chest as she had upstairs.
Perversely, despite the seriousness of the moment,
despite her disheveled appearance and outlandish
outfit, she looked as fetching to me as a fairy tale
princess.
"Nothing," she muttered with a shrug. "You winning?"
"Sure," I lied, taking a hit that almost knocked me out
of the game. "You want to talk?"
Tears sprang to her eyes and her face pinched in
preparation of a sob. She controlled it, however, and
after wiping her eyes on the cuff of her shirt-sleeve,
and sniffing loudly, she cried: "I want to know what's
going on, John!"
I dropped the game-controller and stood up awkwardly, I
didn't know whether to go to her or not. Chickening
out, I said weakly: "It was only a dream. I have dreams
like that all the time."
"Dreams where your brother takes your clothes off and
tries to rape you?" she fired back hotly. "Dreams where
you wake up and find yourself in the most ludicrous
positions?" She shook momentarily with anger, then
steadied herself and added, "Sorry," knowing that her
words had stung.
"It's okay," I said, shakily. "Dreams can be pretty
confusing sometimes. The last couple of nights--" I
started, before reconsidering what I was about to say.
"It's... it's probably just a side-effect," I went on
lamely. "From the--"
"Pills?" she interjected.
"The pills, right," I said numbly. Then, after an
embarrassingly extended silence, I ventured: "Dreaming
stuff about your brother would be pretty unnerving, I
imagine. Has it happened before? Before the pills, I
mean?"
She shook her head.
"Well, then, there you go," I said, unconvincingly.
"Nothing to worry about."
She nodded, more a shrug than in agreement. Eyes red
and haunted-looking, she said to me: "I'm scared about
these dreams, John. What if I cry out in my sleep...
make noises like--?" She faltered, eyes panicky now.
"What if Mom or Dad came in while I was in the middle
of one of these and there I am, naked and --and--?"
She burst into tears and I went to her then, putting an
arm around her shoulders and leading her over to the
couch and sitting her down. I kept my arm around her
shoulders and tried to console her with things like:
"Look, it's all right." "Things happen." "It's nothing
to worry about, sis." "You can lock your bedroom door,"
each sounding more inane than the one before, until I
finally just shut up. Stupid or not, however, they had
desired effect on her.
"I just don't know what to do," she sobbed quietly,
wiping tears on her already soaked shirt-cuff. "Last
night I woke up with my clothes piled up next to my
face on the bed. I was..." she faltered again,
wringing her hands and staring at the floor.
"Was what?" I asked, trying not to sound cajoling. If I
wasn't hearing this with my own two ears, I'd say I was
crazy. Maybe I was crazy.
She took a deep breath, then finished her sentence. "I
was on my stomach with my butt up in the air, letting
you fuck me, Jack. And you just disappeared."
"Disappeared?" I said, numbly.
"Yes!" she wailed. "You were there and I was ready and
you got on top of me, and, and--"
"Tracey!" I blurted. "Stop! I believe you! You don't
have to say any more."
She laughed, wiping her eyes and showing a brave little
smile. "If you think it's embarrassing hearing it,
John, try--"
"Okay!" I agreed. "I get your point."
She sighed, sniffed loudly, and said: "The point is, if
these dreams keep happening, I could be in real
trouble. I can lock my bedroom door, but Mom'd just
take that as just another sign of rebellion."
"Hey," I protested. "You're a teenage girl. You're
supposed to keep your door locked at night. We all know
you girls go to bed with your lipstick vibrators."
She laughed, as did I, both embarrassed by my words,
before saying, "I suppose you're right, but Mom would
still take it the wrong way."
There was nothing to say to that, so we just sat there
in silence for a time, me enjoying her closeness, her
my supposed moral support. Knowing what she had endured
over the last two nights made me feel both giddy and
ashamed. I was the worst kind of molester: one she
loved and trusted.
Finally, I suggested the only thing that I could think
of.
"Go to sleep tonight, and see what happens. It's just
you and me in the house, remember? If I show up again,
kick me the hell out and tell me to use my hand."
She said softly, "What if I don't want you to get out?
What if I want you to finish this time?"
I stared at her, mouth open, too shocked to speak.
Grinning, she punched me on the shoulder, said "Punch-
buggy red," signifying that I had just been tagged.
Then she got up, smiled down at me, and said, "Thanks,
big brother, for listening to me," kissing me on the
forehead afterwards.
"You're not stupid," I said inanely.
As she headed for the door, wanting the conversation to
end on a lighted note, I called out after her: "Just so
I know what to expect tonight, what are you wearing to
bed?'
She grinned at me, almost evilly, and said, "The same
thing I wore the last two nights. My yellow pajamas."
"Must be getting a little funky by now," I said,
flexing my nostrils.
"I can stand it if you can," she said, grinning at me
over her shoulder as she disappeared into the darkness
of the downstairs hallway.
I sat back on the couch, both enjoying and feeling
irritation at my thickening cock, wondering, rather
distractedly, just whose dream I was in.
There was only one way to find out.
***
Rolling over, I looked at the bedside clock and saw
that it was two o'clock. The witching hour, I thought,
then corrected myself. The witching hour was three
o'clock, at least according to some movie I'd seen
lately. I lay staring at the clock for a time,
wondering what movie that had been. Then it came to me:
The Exorcism of Emily Rose. I hoped that wasn't somehow
a premonition.
Getting up, I tiptoed across the room and put my ear to
the door. I heard nothing, not even the breathing of my
sister. After a moment, a low hiss of air coming out of
the vents told me that the heat-pump had kicked on. I
noticed the air had a hint of a chill in it, which it
should, considering that it was maybe ten degrees
outside.
I crept down the hall to Trace's bedroom door and
placed my ear against the laminate surface. I could
hear her breathing now, the same gentle snoring of the
night before, which told me she was probably on her
stomach. I wondered what condition the covers and her
night-clothes were in tonight. Judging from the
thickening of my cock, I couldn't wait to find out.
Holding my breath, I turned the knob and pushed the
door open a crack. One of the hinges squealed sharply,
making Trace stir grumpily in her sleep, but it
remained quiet as I opened the door far enough to peer
inside.
Trace lay face down on the bed, as expected, facing
away from me. She wore the same yellow pajama set, the
back of which was wrenched halfway up to her shoulder
blades. It was twisted so badly that it looked on the
verge of ripping. I slipped inside, closed the door
softly behind me, and crept over to the bed.
"Hello, little sister," I whispered down at her. Again,
tangled hair hid the upper part of her face.
She lay sprawled beneath the covers, arms and legs
thrust in every direction, a Raggedy Ann doll tossed
out of a skyscraper. Her mouth was open, and as I bent
down to look for saliva, she began to snore softly.
I stood erect, and not for the first time, I longed for
a camera to capture the magic of the moment. Even more,
the magic moment of her nakedness once I'd unclothed
her. But a picture would need a flash, and a flash was
definitely out of the question. So no, no camera.
I lifted the back of her pajama top and peered beneath.
I could just make out the bottom edge of her bra strap.
Good, I thought. They were was so much fun to take off.
Gently moving her arms into position above her head, I
worked the pajama top over her head, and off her arms.
I dropped it on the floor without thinking, then
retrieved and rubbed it up and down my bare cock.
Freshly marked, I lay it on the bed beside her face.
Then, for some reason I am want to explain, I picked it
up again and folded it neatly and returned it to the
bed. I stood there, looking down at her, conflicting
thoughts warring in my head.
What was I doing here?
Why don't you undo her bra strap? came an answer.
This girl is my sister: Do I really want to violate
her? I wondered.
Look at that fine young ass, the answer was. Don't you
want to have it?
Hadn't she told me something tonight? I wondered.
Something that had distressed her?
Think how warm and wet and inviting her pussy is, the
voice came back.
The voice won out, and I reached down to grab the bed
covers, to expose the yellow pajama bottoms which I
would then remove. But she jerked suddenly in her
sleep, twisting her shoulder blades as though she had
an itch.
Okay, I thought. Your bra first then.
Unhooking the loops, I lay the bra-straps out either
side of her on the mattress. I then gently scratched
the red indents in her skin, where the straps had been,
eliciting a grateful moan, and a flexing of her back
muscles beneath my fingertips. Encouraged, I began to
scratch either side of the strap marks, which she
appreciated even more.
"Mmmm," she murmured in her sleep. "Thas good, John."
Surprised and giddy, I leaned over and whispered in her
ear, "I'm glad you enjoy it, sis. Want your entire back
scratched?"
She shuddered lightly, closed her mouth and worked her
lips, as though thinking about it, then said softly,
"Sure, John. That would be great."
My grin widened: Sleep-talking with my sister.
I rubbed, scratched and kneaded her from neck to the
small of her back. She groaned continually, a happy
groan, nodding occasionally and breathing, "Uh-huh"
when I found an especially good spot with my
fingernails, or worked an especially needy muscle.
While I did this my cock ached with a need of its own,
a need I feared would erupt in a torrent of flame at
her very first touch.
Five minutes of effort left Trace's back a tracery of
fingernail scrapes, knead-marks and flushed healthily
with blood. Her breathing was easily as labored as my
own, going loudly in and out of her open mouth. Her
hands clenched and released the bedclothes
spasmodically and her legs twitched, opened, closed,
and then opened again. It was time to get her out of
her clothes and onto her knees.
Stripping back the bedclothes, I grabbed her pajama
bottoms by the legs and yanked them down to mid-thigh,
her panties trailing along half the distance. I pulled
them the rest of the way down, then ran my hands over
her buttocks (my decidedly shaking hands), enjoying
their suppleness and their warmth.
On sudden impulse I spread her cheeks, exposing the
brown spot of her little anus, which drew an immediate
intake of breath from me, and a grunt of protest from
Trace. She clenched her cheeks and crossed her legs
protectively.
Testosterone had my blood-pressure cranked higher than
a soaring eagle. The thought of that cute little brown
spot clamped tightly around my trusting cock was just
too much to bear, and I thought, Okay. Back away from
this, or you won't get past her pajama bottoms.
Scrambling off the bed, I took a couple of much-needed
laps around the bedroom. Rather than think of Trace, I
concentrated on the carpet disappearing beneath my
feet. Her bare white bottom, flagged by the half-
removed panties and pajama bottoms, beckoned me like a
siren from the Odyssey.
Wanting it, and wanting it now, I rushed back to the
bed and tore off her panties and pajama bottoms and
threw them on the floor. I wanted her bra off as well,
but had neither the patience, nor the wherewithal to
attempt it. I got on my hands and knees, preparing to
mount her, when suddenly she rotated beneath me, arms
slithering around my neck, drawing me down, hungrily
finding my mouth.
"Tonight," she informed me, between desperate windings
of our tongues, "you are not leaving me, John."
I lasted long enough to thrust my way inside her and
then, like a volcano spewing molten lava, hot juices
cascaded from me, filling her, claiming the right of
first passage into her womb, where miraculously, no egg
awaited us for fertilization.
Her orgasm, I believe, was even greater than mine.
Epilogue:
It's years later now, and Trace and I are both married.
Her husband is an FBI agent out of the Washington, DC
field office. His name is Robert, and although he's a
nice enough guy, and we get along as well as brothers-
in-law can, I suppose, it's still a little unnerving
having my sister married to a cop. She talks in her
sleep, if you remember.
Janice was one of Trace's closest girlfriend growing
up. They lost contact after high school, however, Trace
attending Penn State, my dad's Alma-Mater, with Jan
ending up at, of all places, the University of Utah.
No, she's not a Mormon.
Unfortunately, my marriage to Jan took the same path as
so many do these days: to court. Jan and I separated
four months ago; I moved into an apartment, and kept
the cat, while she got the kids. Trace also, has two
kids.
In the early morning hours after our first successful
dream-coupling, I woke Trace up and confessed
everything: How I had entered her bedroom in the
dreams, disrobed her and attempted to force sex upon
her, how I awoke in my own bed to complete the wet-
dream in frustration. She confessed something as well:
For her, the dreams had begun the same week as her pill
regimen. They became progressively more explicit and
frightening to her, until the night she had brushed
past me in the upstairs hallway, topless.
"I acted like it was nothing," she admitted that
morning. "But the instant I got into my bedroom I threw
myself onto the bed, knowing that I had just shown my
boobies to my brother. I was so embarrassed. And then
that night..." She shrugged, red-faced at the
memory.
I then recounted my own anxiety and frustration over
the incident. "Truthfully," I told her. "I had wanted
you for a long, long time, but nothing like after that
night."
What happened between us after that?
Before retiring to our respective bedrooms at eight
o'clock in the morning for whatever sleep could be
salvaged, we promised to discuss things again that
night. And we had discussed them... in Tracey's bed, in
the nude, and at great length. Thank God Mom and Dad
hadn't come home until Sunday afternoon.
And what about now? you say. Do we still dream
together?
You bet we do, only now we do it in my bed.
THE END
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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 52