tagIncest/TabooHow Jack Came To Fuck His Sister

How Jack Came To Fuck His Sister

byIncardineCool©

The noise of engines in the street below brought Jack back to the world. Seven a.m. and every bus in Manchester sounded as if it was using Lever Street to escape the city. Most had to stop at the lights on the junction with Great Ancoats Street and wait for the change that allowed them to turn and continue their journey. On green, the guttural combustion growls escalate in volume and rise through the icy November air and into his third floor room, through the small gap that the fixed double-glazing allows. To Jack's dehydrated half-sleeping mind, it is the sound Soviet armour massing in the suburbs of Berlin.

The previous night he'd opened the window to let out the smoke, and later he'd pressed his face up to the meagre opening to try and sober himself by inhaling the brittle night air. Now, as he lies in the winter morning darkness in this box of a room, the engines outside agitate his nerves. The memories of last night replay and sober him. He can no longer delude himself it has not really happened, as he had done minutes ago in his half-awake state. His stomach is still churning but he keeps it down. He rises, blunders across the room and bangs the window shut. It hardly makes a difference; inside his skull someone is still riding the wall of death.

He turns from the window and looks back at the naked female, foetus-curled, at the far edge of the bed. The sight of her there shames him. Soon he will have to face her and they will talk. What will he say? What can you say to your sister after a night like the last had been? He sits down on the bed beside her and strokes the length of her back. His touch is intended to awaken her, so that he can speak with her, to get it over and done and face this thing they had unleashed. But the closeness of her beauty and stark whiteness of her perfect skin re-kindles his lust for her. He lets his hand slide over her blatant curves and at the place where her flesh is most copious, he applies pressure and lets his fingers sink into her and become enfolded by her heavy flesh. He feels her heat there, along with tackiness that is her night sweat mixed with the drying spillage of their sibling cupidity.

He becomes very still and holds his desire for her in check as he watches the waking flicker of half-dreams beneath her closed lids. When he sees that she is nearly back with him, he whispers, "Carla, please wake up, we have to talk."

******************************************

Jack Collier's road to incest had not been trodden lightly, he had not skipped and whistled his way to it. The first awareness that he had of his sister as a sexual being was when she was in her last year at sixthform. He was twenty-four and visiting the family home for a couple of weeks in summer. The memories of that first lust for her had become chiselled granite that he carried with him.

Carla and her friend Vicki had been sharing a blanket on the lawn as they perused some teenage magazine together. The pair were bare-legged and shoeless in short summer skirts. Each wore vest tops. They chatted and giggled, bitching about the celebs featured in the mag. Squeezed close together on the blanket their sides and thighs touched. Each would pull their legs back, bent at the knees, and up ninety degrees, leaving their feet balanced high. As they fidgeted against each other, their raised calves would sway and sometimes entwine, their perched feet would slide over that of the others with a casual intimacy, like two family cats brushing together to confirm their bond.

Vicki's skirt had ridden up revealing the peachy curves of her tanned buttocks and her fresh white cotton panties, which had become tightly enfolded in the crack of her buttocks. Jack peeked at the two girls from the sun-lounger as he read the newspaper. He tried to think of only Vicki's legs and arse, and tried very hard not to think about Carla's longer exquisitely formed white legs, and how he wished her skirt had gone high like her friend's. He tried to stop himself thinking what it would be like to go over to them and rub his face against the four feet tangled in an orgy of toes, then lick and suck them all.

And then he was unafraid to let his thoughts go where they would. He thought of how he would take off their panties and knead girlish fleshy curves, a hand for each of them. Then he would spread their legs wide and fuck them as they lay face down.

Neither would say anything to him, they would continue to chat and giggle to each other as he ploughed each of them in turn. Their young cunt juices would be thick, copious and oily. Maybe they would kiss each other while he hammered at them. But it was Carla's tight fresh cunt he imagined his hot cum would dribble from when the time came for them to stand up and leave. He really had tried so hard not to think those thoughts that first time.

For the rest of that summer he had to be vigilant and not let her see him staring at her. She'd come to obsess him and he would watch her whenever he had opportunity. Once he had passed her bedroom and the door was open. It was morning and she was only part dressed, her breasts were bare. He could not help himself and he stopped and stared. Her back was to him but he could see her breasts reflected in the large dressing mirror at the far end of her room.

The perfection of her tits left him unable to move; they were large silky and white, delicately upturned at the ends in the way that youth permits for only such a short time. She became aware of him and turned fully to face him. She was not abashed and returned his stare. There was no outrage in her eyes, she had not spat "perve!" as she would have two years ago. No, she had absent-mindedly wished him good morning, then turned away and continued to dress herself. She had not closed her door.

The following year had been the wedding of their older sister Catherine. Carla had been a bridesmaid. That summer day he had been stunned to see how even more beautiful she had become. He had not seen her since the previous summer. He watched silently in awe of her as she guilelessly stole from the bride much of the attention. Her personality had matured, she was eager and warm, socially adept, her love of people obvious.

It was Carla in shoulderless-bridesmaid-white that guests' eyes were drawn to as the wedding party stood for photographs. Later as she circulated at the reception with her warm smile and easy manner, it was Carla they all wanted to spend time with. In the evening the uncles vied with each other to be with her on the dance floor. Because he was leaving the country later in the week he had made her promise to keep the last dance for him.

After, when he was away in the States, he had often thought about that final dance, her body pressed against him, her head on his chest. His left hand had rested on her bare shoulder, his other at the curve of her spine. The touch of her exposed skin excited him, it felt softer than any he'd touched before. He pulled her closer and when he felt her against him he allowed his lower hand to slide down to where on her hips the flesh becomes denser. He'd had to use all his will to not let it glide lower.

The heat of her body after a night of dancing caused her fragrance to rise from her and envelop him. He could almost taste the essence of her in the air, it was her fully ripe sexuality that he inhaled. He'd held many women before, but his sister's body - so familiar by sight - was strange and long forbidden. She was pliant in his arms and her closeness was exciting him like he had never before experienced. He knew she was not available to him, and the people around only emphasised this fact. But he wanted to push at this taboo, to see how far he could take it without breaking it.

She was quite drunk by now and held herself against him immodestly. His cock became hard, his mouth dry, his head humming. He allowed himself to press against her hips and then drew back from her. She followed and continued to make contact. Had she felt his arousal against her? He hoped the long dress she wore would protect her from his screaming erection. He tried to push awareness of the other dancers away and imagine they were alone. He savoured the intimate burden of her growing heavy in his arms. He became aware of the depth of his need for her and knew that if acted on it now he would be a ruined man.

When the music finally stopped he'd not released his grip on her, and she'd had to call his name to break his trance. It had taken real effort to disengage from him, and she had asked if he was okay. He could only stare at her blankly. When he regained his composure, her reaction convinced him she had seen through him, and he felt guilt. It was a look of wide-eyed incredulous knowing that for a second hijacked her beauty. In that instant of that look, he became sure she would have allowed him anything.

She smiled, leaned into him and gave his lips the curtest of kisses, and afterwards said; "Jack, please take care of yourself when you're away. I will miss you more now." As she walked away, she turned and looked back at him from over her shoulder. He thought he saw a new cruelty alive in her eyes. He had not moved an inch.

He did not see her again after the reception, she and the rest of the family had travelled home that night. He had pre-booked himself a room in the hotel, as he had travelled from London to attend the wedding. Unable to sleep, the thoughts of Carla harrowed him, finally it had come too much and he used his iphone to look up an escort agency. When the receptionist had asked what kind of girl he would like he had now qualms of specifying the look he required; young, red-haired, long legged and very pale white skinned. Just like Carla.

Two days later he flew out to California to begin his new job. The thought of his sister travelled with him.

For weeks he beat himself blue over his thoughts that night. He read her emails looking for signs that she had felt his lust for her. But all they contained was family news. When she started university he heard from her less. But on his birthday he received a package. Inside was a gift-wrapped book, with a card printed by Amazon letting him know it was from Carla. The large folio was a study of pre-Raphaelite art. He had no interest in art and wondered why she had chosen it for him. He put the book aside and did not look at it again for twelve months. Gradually he was able to put the memory of his lust for her aside, and denied himself the reality of it.

Months later, when he was packing his things and getting ready for his return home, he came across the book again in one of the bedroom draws. He took the volume and sat on the edge of the bed and leafed through it. He flicked past one of the full-page colour plates and something caught his eye that caused him to back-pedal. What he saw there opened the box in his head that he though he had closed tight and bolted.

It was a reproduction, a painting by Burne-Jones, entitled, The Beguiling Of Merlin. In the painting were two figures, a male and female. The female had a book in her hands and was looking over her shoulder at the male who was helpless under some spell. But the thing that rattled him was that there in the picture stood Carla; the female figure had the same lithe long boned physique, the elegant well defined neck and visage and identical clean lined features. She had hair of a reddish hue. He sat and gaped at the picture. He wondered if after their dance at the wedding, when she turned back to look at him, whether his own eyes had become dark and his features wan like those of Merlin.

He read the caption on the facing page.

This painting is all about love, infatuation, power, entrapment and betrayal. Nimue was a Lady of the Lake who had been introduced to Camelot by King Pellinore. She enchanted an infatuated Merlin into a deep sleep. He is shown trapped in the tangles of a hawthorn bush, helpless to act. Nimue, now in the position of power, reads from his book of spells.

He did not have a good feeling about this. He thought about the stupor that had come over him as he had held Carla. And hadn't the name of the hotel where the reception was held been The Hawthorn? He tried to imagine why she had sent him this book. Was she aware of her likeness to Nimue in the painting? She had always loved art; did it have a deeper meaning or was she was trying to educate him? Was he seeing too much into an innocent gift?

The next day, thirty-two-thousand feet over the Atlantic, Jack decided that as soon as he could he would go and visit Carla in Manchester, where she was now studying.

Lights were coming on in the city centre as Jack stood waiting for his sister to arrive. They'd arranged to meet by The Queen Victoria Memorial in Piccadilly Gardens. She was late, and so to pass the time he watched the students coming and going and gave his mind free rein.

Manchester had the largest student population in Europe and in term time the city centre was awash with youth. They dressed to let the world know who they were, or thought they were, or wanted to be. He looked in part envy and wondered about all their young lives. Each one of them thought they would make a difference, perhaps change things; and maybe some would. So many faces passed him by, then merging with all the others. But more would appear to take their place, and he wondered from where they materialised. Was there an endless source hidden away, a place where they were generated and sent out onto the streets? They could not be real people surely, all with lives, loves, and dreams of their own.

He started to think of them as NPCs in a video game, there just to fill and authenticate his week in this strange city. He wondered if he approached some fresh-faced-young-thing and said the right words, whether they would offer him clues to use during his stay?

He was brought out of his reverie by her voice calling his name. He looked around and saw the unmistakable shock of her red hair. It was the thing about her people always saw first, what they noticed, what they would remark on. He watched Carla approach and her conspicuous beauty hit him again, but differently than at Catherine's wedding. Now it was Nimue, the enchantress depicted in the painting that was walking towards him

Yesterday, on his drive from London to Manchester, he'd taken a detour and visited the Lever Art Gallery at Port Sunlight on Merseyside. The painting that had come to obsess him was housed in their collection. Although the reproduction in the book was excellent, and he had looked at it incessantly over the last week, when he had stood before the actual canvas, he had been disconcerted. Unprepared for the physical size, and the power emanating from the real thing, the murdering green hues close up disorientated him. As he looked at the figure of Nimue in the painting, he knew he himself was now enchanted and that he would not be free of her spell until she'd had him completely. She was there, life size in oils before him, her look told him this.

She waved to him and he returned her gesture and she smiled a great wide smile just for him. They exchanged kisses, embraced, and held each other for a moment.

"God, Carla, look at you... I don't know you any more. Where's the farmer's daughter I remember and love?"

"She's back at the home. This girl is setting this city alight with her beauty, style and wit." She laughed and kissed his cheek again, happy for him to be there.

"I bet they don't know what's hit them."

"I make sure they do."

She laughed again and then was saying to him:

"L.A. has been good to you Jack, you look more seasoned and alive. You've lost weight too!"

"They're health and exercise crazed over there. Some of its rubbed off."

They walked together, arm in arm, looking to find a bar. But for all her beauty he thought he'd seen weariness in her eyes that was new to him. Something about her face had changed, like a flower that has just turned from bloom and will now begin to wilt. Only someone intimate with her would have noticed.

Over drinks they caught up with each other's news, and while the wine flowed Jack watched her. The alcohol animated her and as they talked and drank the changes in her began to slip through cracks in the little sister persona that she had put on for him. She spoke of friends, holidays, and parties, but was disinclined to talk about her course and studies. She was cynical and worldly now. At the wedding, she had been eager and fresh, a delightful young girl emerging into womanhood.

"I know you're here to check up on me, Jack," she said without warning.

"Check up...what do you mean?"

"You've come to see that I'm handing in my homework on time; that I'm mixing with the nice children and that I still go to church on Sundays. Will you be seeing the headmaster on Monday too?"

"Christ, Carla, you know me better than that. I thought it would be good for us to get together. We've not been alone without the others since you were a kid. Remember how you always wanted to hike with me, and that last time we did. Three Monks Hill, wasn't it?"

"That's one of my favourite times Jack. I did really look up to you back then - I still do - you were everything I wanted to be; intelligent, confident, good with everyone. A beautiful person."

"You're all those things now, Carla, no one could be any more than you have become. Don't throw it away."

"See, I knew you were here to sort me out!"

"No, I want get to know the person you've become, not the little girl I remember. I want to be your friend."

"You might not want to be the friend of this person I am now."

He paused and wondered if he should tell her more about his own past and the things he had experienced since leaving home ten years ago.

"I was no saint at you age. I did stuff...stuff I'm not proud of. I still do."

"Ooh! I bet that time you went to Amsterdam you smoked soooo much dope that you were so out of it man! I bet you paid to get you cherry popped in a whore's window while your mates watched and cheered you."

Her spleen was complete and it cut him.

"Sorry Jack." She reached over and touched his arm; "It's just that I'm sick of it. This summer, while I was home for a few weeks, I had them on at me all the time. I'm grown now, but you all still think of me as a sixteen-year-old."

She drained her glass, then continued:

"Listen Jack, I could devote my life to looking after sick children or donkeys, or whatever. Or I can go to work in a burlesque bar, or fuck my way around Europe. It would be my choice... Understand? My choice, no one else's."

Her anger surprised him and he had second thoughts of opening to her, for now at least. It might not be a good time to tell her of his nine months lost to cocaine and anything else intoxicating that happened to be at hand. And all the days, nights and weekends wasted fucking any female he could talk into his bed.

He stood and picked up their empty glasses. "Okay, let's start again. I want you to show me your life and who you have become. You ready for another?"

"Bring the whole bottle this time," she laughed.

Waiting to be served, he watched her. Sitting alone, she cast her gaze over the other drinkers sitting nearby or standing in small groups. He soon realised that anyone who noticed her passing glances would be drawn in to her orbit and steal looks at her. Not in the sense that they would stop and stare, rather he could tell that her look had lodged itself somewhere in their mind and discomforted them. And although they would continue to speak with their companions, friends or lovers, their eyes would continually be returning to her, hoping for something from her, perhaps a sign or the favour of a smile. While she was present they would be distracted by her, unable to give themselves fully to their companions. It wasn't only men who were drawn by her, girls and mature women too would fall under her subtle incomprehensible glance.

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byIncardineCool© 6 comments/ 177265 views/ 38 favorites

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