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One In The Same
by Brian Francis Ferguson (bfrncs63@aol.com)

***

Maggie would do anything for her brother, and her 
Georgie wanted it all. (MF, reluc, inc, 1st, oral, 
anal)

***

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 blue jeans. 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:

Pipe Grease™
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 10Ό 
inches, a broad and gnarled menace as big around as her 
wrist 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 butt-fuck 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 Ό 
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 Ό 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 butt'fuck 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, sex-play 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.

Then, his fingers closing over her wrists, " – but now 
I'm going to rape you, love, as I said I would; really, 
awfully fuck your sweet butt like I've always wanted 
to" and 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 'ok – ' before he broke back into her ass with 
180 lb. drives bigger than all the past hour's thrusts 
as one.

They both heard the microscopic crack of her sphincter 
and Maggie screamed weakly once as she briefly hurt 
virgin-again twice in as many hours, her asshole not-
quite accommodating her brother's bloodlust. The weight 
and strength of his split of her spread her stance 
flat, driving her pussy to the upholstery and stifling 
her voice in mid-sentence – elementary masculine 
violence, too rough at this late stage, she thought; 
last winter she'd slipped and sat down on the ice 
softer than this – and so as he slammed-home hurtled in 
& out of her, she told him what women know all men want 
to hear, oh-no, oh-no, your so big and strong, it's too 
much, blah-blah.

George listened to Maggie recite the porn-queen script, 
barreling into her what felt like from across the room, 
and waited for her to really speak to him. The scary 
butt-fuck he'd promised her wouldn't begin for another 
ten minutes of these race-engine industrial thrusts – 
20 inches per cycle, 50 feet per minute – and not until 
long-after their scheduled hour had expired; when as 
the oil began to fail and feeling his cock chaff with 
the building friction, he heard his sister begin to 
talk less and say more, her face a crimson mask of 
increasingly contorted grimaces, her wrists twisting 
within his grip –

"Georgie? baby? – it hurts."

"I love you, Maggie," drop-hammering granite and 
titanic into her astride her hips and from almost a 
foot overhead.

And what was her still silky if frayed rosebud at the 
agreed-upon end of tonight's romp was, now trespassing 
well into the 2nd hour, fast becoming a tired crater, 
her anus beaten loosed and unmoored from it's diamond-
tight maidenhood of so many years, her beautiful if 
common enough behind a home for his dragon in which to 
behave or breathe flame, in which to delight or damage.

Maggie had felt her asshole cooked. Then dry and 
burning as it got raw as salt. Now afire. And alighting 
her behind as bright as a match head – and so soon 
since his especially thorough orgasm – this searing 
fuck-bludgeoning of her rectum from above could 
potentially continue for... until when? the nightly 
news? midnight? 1 a.m.?
 
She began to beg George to stop, spilling tears – 
please georgie, stop – then bribe him, offering to suck 
him off clean, unwashed shit-filthy fresh out of her 
ass, and swallow every drop of his sperm. She tried 
somewhat to fight him, squealed 'rape' twice, then bit 
him, sinking her teeth into his forearm, and thought 
suddenly she might vomit – throwing-up or pissing 
herself would certainly stop him, she was as suddenly 
sure; but she then felt one thin hot trickle that she 
knew to be neither semen nor lubricant slip down the 
back of her leg, and she instead just laid her head to 
one side and began to openly bawl, mournfully giving 
up.

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 and 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 up your butt or down your throat – 
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."

"Not always, but another time you'll have to genuinely 
fight me; we'll be arguing and mad at each other, and 
when we're most loud and insulting and pissed-off, 
you'll at that moment have to guess as to whether we'll 
reason out our differences – or I force you over 
something and we listen to the crack of a paddle on 
your bare ass for a half-hour and I ass-rape you 
between your stung buns for an hour after that – and 
afterwards agree only to disagree with you. Between 
feedings, of course, or even before you're too 
pregnant."

"I'll bear that 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."

Her apartment smelled clean and fresh, and given the 
discrepancy he could only conclude that his place 
stunk. George imagined making Maggie cry out in his own 
bed, her face in his unwashed sheets, before this time 
next week and he hardened. She told him to make himself 
comfortable as she left him in the main room, so he 
stripped naked and went to the refrigerator for a beer. 
He this time looked for a bottle opener and after a 
swig of brew he snooped for something slick and yet 
reasonably fit for oral consumption. 

He decided against vegetable oil in favor of either 
maple syrup or Cool Whip; Maggie had been stark naked 
from the bathroom some thirty seconds before and had 
been watching George smear his erection with the 
whipped cream, swirling the tip of his cock in the 
plastic tub, and giggling she indicated he follow her 
into her bedroom. 

She turned on the stereo, and following her into her 
room George turned it back off. A bell in the back of 
her mind rang with the feeble, imprecise alarm of a 
wind-up clock, and listening to it weakly un-spring, 
she reminded herself that given their origins, better 
her brother tonight – whatever he had in mind – than 
those hill-country pigs when she was twelve – their 
uncles, after their father of course, if they hadn't 
together run – and she stood hundreds of miles and a 
million dollars away at the head of her high, giant 
bed, facing George in the failing light.

"I'd have done you unadorned, ba–" she started to say 
before he suddenly kissed her with a passionate 
strength that surprised and dazed her enough for her to 
only somewhat register that he'd said that he was in 
love with her and that this wasn't going to be what she 
had expected. 

He turned her facing from him as gracefully as if they 
were dancers and, lowering himself the length of his 
erection, he slipped the tip of his cock between her 
buttocks for the second time in as many days and stood 
up through her newly compliant back-pocket – forgiving, 
subordinate yield born of last night's carnage – as 
easily as if it had always belonged there, embracing 
Maggie from behind and lifting her to just off her toes 
by the base of his meat at her anus.

Maggie gasped and kicked and when the crown of her head 
crashed back against his cheekbone, George tasted a 
drop of his sister's tear splash into his mouth.

"Georgie...we have other business," she sniffled, still 
tender.

He lowered her so she stood flat-footed again but still 
held her close. She'd stopped clawing at him.

"I want you to suck me off, Maggie, like in the videos 
you know I'm so fond of; right after it's been deep up 
your ass," he whispered to her, and pumped her twice 
long and slowly for emphasis. 

"This isn't the scary butt-fuck you promised me?" 
stalling, delaying the fellatio; maybe he'll finish 
this way and I'll make him wash, she thought.

George thrust twice more, lifting Maggie off her heels. 
He let her back to her feet and stood behind her, 
motionless inside her, for a full minute, soaking 
himself in her implicit filth, she knew.

When he spoke he thrilled and defeated her in one fell 
swoop. "My cock's up your ass, Maggie, and then it's 
going to be in your mouth and you're going to suck it 
and taste yourself and then I'm going to cum in your 
mouth and then you'll taste me, my sperm, your own 
brother's semen, and then swallow it – all of it. 
Ready?"

"Yes, baby, I will – but, really Georgie, I'm serious; 
you force me... you choke me, I chew. Careful?"

George unhooked from his sister's ass and when he sat 
at the edge of her bed she spun around and strode 
toward the bathroom. Maggie was in possession of a 
blued, snub-nose, five-shot .357 magnum – and a box of 
hollow-point rounds – that he knew she knew how to, and 
had before, fired, egregiously so, one time years ago 
when they were kids in defense of themselves, after 
money for which they'd performed, for food and a room, 
had been denied them and their mere survival was in 
question. 

She fisted her medicine cabinet and scattered 
everything but what she walked away with, and circling 
back she curtsied in her closet for some other items 
and flung the lot of her gatherings at his face as she 
walked back through the bedroom into the kitchen: the 
crass tube of lube, an equally vulgar butt-plug – a D-
cell, 9 volt quaker, unchristened – and a wooden ping-
pong paddle and two pairs of novelty handcuffs 
variously bounced and clanged off George's forehead 
into his lap. Maggie dragged a narrow, straight-back 
chair into the bedroom and propped it firmly to the 
foot of her bed. She straddled it backwards and folded 
her arms over the chair back, resting her chin, not 
shooting him.
 
"Tonight won't be so easy for either of us, huh 
Georgie?" she told him while locking each of her own 
wrists around the chair back to the iron rungs of the 
footboard, either cuffs' trigger within a fingertip's 
touch of the other, and gripping the bars as if jailed. 
"'Gimme, gimme, gim-meh the honky-tonk blues– 
awlright,'" she sang to him and let him unclip then 
clap the free ends of the handcuff clasps each one rung 
farther apart and out of her reach. He put a pillow 
between her head and the chair back and tied Maggie's 
ankles to the chair's forelegs with neckties she'd 
stolen from him, dumb ones she knew he'd just as soon 
not wear anyway.

 Maggie laid her face to the side of the pillow and so 
luxuriated in her restraints that he had to re-secure 
her ankles, and he watched her muscles again tense, 
smooth tensility running from her calves up her thighs 
and over her buttocks through her back and shoulders. 
He kissed the nape of her neck and liberally re-greased 
her anus, doping the blued, still-oily wreckage of her 
rectum's crushed virginity and her hole twitched at the 
touch. 

George fell to his knees behind Maggie and kissed both 
of her buns – cool, soft and smooth, as tenderly as if 
each were an infant's forehead, especially smooching 
the teeth-prints he'd left in her a dozen years ago 
when they were each last innocent of the other's body 
and first, if obliviously, wild for the other's sex – 
and licked her anus in and around like lapping the 
icing off a donut, tonguing her asshole, her eye-wide-
open then emitting a methane puff of exhaust in his 
face (he heard her above him smile to herself) and he 
burrowed further, inhaling from her furrow, tasting 
crude and breathing-in her rich, rural soil. 

"I'm gonna mark you again, Maggie," and so she rolled 
the meat of her buttocks off the chair's seat and into 
his mouth, and George slowly sank his teeth into the 
most outward fleshy aspect of Maggie's left ass-cheek, 
leaving a neat set of bite marks opposite the perfect 
scars he'd left on her right that had years ago healed 
into faint indentations that only a doctor could get 
close enough to question and only a lover would 
recognize. "Bite me, Georgie," she whispered to him 
without the least hint of humor or venom, "Mark me 
again," while her rump quivered in his jaws. 

He un-punctured his teeth from her, having forever 
precluded her modeling of a thong bikini, or otherwise 
have to explain those perfect bite marks to all who 
already silently suspected almost worse than their own 
sick thoughts regarding themselves to the extent that 
no one ever said anything (unthinkable; as clouds 
passing behind the sun, as wanton a suggestion that the 
Olsen Twins are queer for each other) of her own 
brother's taste for her that she knew she'd never 
really deny if asked, nor even deny she loved and 
courted. He kissed away his boo-boo of her with the 
greedy covetousness of an animal. 

***

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 TV 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 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.

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 cannon-balling 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.

***

The cartoon grease had numbed her anus and Maggie 
didn't know it wasn't George's cock again inside her 
until the base of the conical butt-plug popped past her 
rectum and her ring snapped closed over it. She 
couldn't reach it and she couldn't excrete it, her 
wrists comfy-cuff shackled to the footboard of her own 
bed one-too-many rungs apart, the easy-releases just 
beyond her fingertips. She gripped the wrought-iron 
bars, listening to her brother move around behind her. 
George then flicked-on the switch.

The toy rattled loud, louder, even snuffled up Maggie's 
ass, than either of them thought discreet, and they 
both startled, laughing at the racket. George kissed 
the back of her neck, patted her right butt cheek, and 
left the room, leaving her to the device.

For the first few minutes, Maggie bumped and ground her 
pelvis in some rhythm of her own in lieu of music in 
time to the toy's buzz in her butt; by the fourth 
minute she was trying to pry the footboard's bars free 
of their welds and her pussy had hopelessly stained the 
chair's upholstery. After the fifth minute Maggie had 
already cum once and was calling over her shoulder to 
George to fuck her ass, "We'll get me pregnant 
tomorrow, just butt-fuck me now, Georgie, fuck me, 
please fuck my ass Georgie," she begged her brother 
while he waited in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette and 
drinking a beer. She heard him rummage through a drawer 
and run the ice machine and thought she had no whiskey.

George listened to Maggie groan, wail, then outright 
beg him for two minutes more before he returned to her 
with a small bowl of shaved ice and stood behind her 
over the sweaty, panting neediness that used to be his 
sister's willfulness. He crossed his left arm over her 
chest, holding her steady to him, her right breast in 
his cold palm, and he made clear to her what he wanted. 
She didn't try to see the small oar he held in his 
right hand.

"You'll suck my cock, Maggie," of course you will, 
love. 

"No; make me," yes, of coarse I will Georgie, egging, 
begging him on. 

Spank; as he'd wanted and she'd expected. George had 
brought the paddle's sandpaper surface down flat on 
Maggie's right bun; it got her attention, stinging more 
so than she had thought it would, but she kissed his 
forearm instead of chewing off a bite.

The toy still hummed Maggie's anus, less so however, as 
the batteries began to run down.

Spank, again. A pink sunburn partially eclipsing her 
right white moon, and the long ago love-bite grinned 
back at him from its center in a kind of smiley-face 
from their adolescence that stood out against the blush 
solar backdrop.

"I'll get you pregnant, Maggie," George said, "and 
you'll have our babies; but first you'll suck my cock 
when I bring it to your mouth, fresh out of your ass, 
and you'll swallow my cum when I spunk."

Spank, "Say you'll suck my cock clean, Maggie," and 
another spank, "...and drink my sperm."

Three more spanks in quick succession (sharp; hot; him) 
and Maggie agreed to her brother's demands, verbatim. 
George pressed a handful of the crushed ice to her moon 
glow, handling, cooling her cheek, melting the ice-
shavings over her fevered buttock, and then plucked the 
plug from her anus and spread her buttocks; he stepped 
up inside her as easily as boarding an elevator, re-
inserting his cock completely back up her ass and 
thrusting three times hard, holding the third stroke 
stuck far up inside her for a full minute – marinating, 
she knew – then another several, slower, thorough 
pumps, and he backed out. He unshackled her wrists and 
unknotted the ties at her ankles, eased Maggie off of 
the chair standing, and took the seat facing her.

She started to re-secure herself around him to the bed 
rungs, but he drew her by her waist to him and kissed 
her womb, then tugged at her hips for her to kneel 
before him, freed and of her own volition, while his 
cock was still ripe with her lower bowels. 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, "Oooo-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 – hot down my throat, and 
up my butt, 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 arrived 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.

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 56