Hornes Syndrome

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, becauseHALO 3was 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 khow 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, to 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 decidedlyshakinghands), 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 theOdyssey.

Wanting it, and wanting itnow, 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.