Meek as a...byRob_mDear©
Mouse languished, dreamlike, under her brother's ceaseless, invasive, overpowering kisses. He kissed her like no man ever had, and he never stopped. She reveled in it, feeling like the most loved, sensual and desirable woman who had ever lived. It amazed her when she found out how much he liked to kiss, how very well he kissed, despite her incessant teasing to the contrary. It amazed her even more to learn that his ex-wife had never liked to kiss, and had starved him of that pleasure for so many years.
She lay atop him — she had impaled herself on him — with her body bent double, legs up with calves resting on his chest and shoulders, feet and ankles tucked up behind his ears, tickling and teasing them, while her own breasts pressed hard, blazing and sparking with electric pleasure and excitement, against his expansive, unnaturally hairy chest.
Sprawled this way, she was completely opened to his penetrations, and totally powerless, completely, willingly, blissfully at his mercy. His cock filled her and moved within her at his will. She was given wholly, trustingly, and completely to her brother. He took her easily and voraciously with his own rapacious, illicit lust.
Her hands clung to his bald scalp, struggling to find purchase on the smooth skin where there were no locks of hair to grab, instead digging vengefully into hard plate of his skull. If he'd had hair, she would have had him in agony, tearing it out by the roots in her scrabbling throes of pleasure. He suffered a painful alternative as she dug her fingers in, or raced them over his bare skull in searching, roaming, teasing exploration.
"I love you, Michael. I love you. I love you. I love you so much."
The words tumbled out, over and over, but she had to fight to make them coherent under the ceaseless restraint of his kisses, and despite the mind numbing feelings of pleasure he gave to her.
His cock filled her like no other. She'd always loved him, admired him, and desired him, even as she needled and tortured him. For as long as she could remember, her own brother had evoked a shameful, sexual response in her body. She'd spent years looking at him with longing, teasing and tormenting him in inadequate substitute for the act of sinfully surrendering her body to him, and being whatever sort of lover he wanted — a shy, demure girl, an educated woman, or a dirty whore, anything, everything — as long as she could be a woman as well as a sister to him.
"Tell me you love me, Michael. Tell your baby sister that you love her."
So many men had fucked her. She'd found so many lovers, of so many sorts, trying to overcome and quell, or at least substitute for, the one man she truly wished to feel inside of her. But none of them could match him. She'd known all along that none of them could match even the idea of being with him, the horrible, shame-ridden pleasure of giving herself to her own brother. She knew they could never come close to that bizarrely fulfilling fantasy.
And yet the reality of being his was so much more. It was more than just the thrill of incest. It was more than just the heady inebriation of doing what would make society, and their family, their mother, their father and older sister, all recoil in disgust.
"Tell me, Michael. Tell your little sister that you love her. Fuck me, and tell me you love me."
His mouth was wet and hot and surprisingly soft, both consuming and invasive all at once. His mouth possessed hers, as his cock filled and fucked and thrilled and possessed her, and was possessed by her. He drove into her with all of the strength one would expect from his massive frame, but enhanced by a passion that was as brutal as it was undeniable. He forced himself into her with a ruthless abandon, almost heedless of what he could be doing to her, and yet because of the mindless hunger that she knew she herself had inspired in him, it gave her pleasure beyond all imagining.
She moaned her excited contentment into his mouth. Through it all, despite the sheer, violent turmoil of their coupling, he kissed her. He possessed her, pleasured her and wrestled her with his mouth. Her loving brother kissed her wantonly with his lips, while fucking her wildly with his tongue, and he forced her to return his affections, which she did eagerly, tenfold.
"Tell me. Tell me you love me with your cock moving deep inside me."
Half of the words were muffled by his mouth on hers. She clung to him with every grip or clench that she could manage. Her feet hooked behind the back of his skull. Her arms looped around his neck, with small hands clutching his ears. The muscles of her pussy clenched his cock as tightly as she could, grasping for every inch of him. She had waited so very long for these stolen, forbidden moments, that during them she felt that she could never, ever let him go, or let them end.
"I love you, Mouse."
The words came out, frantically delivered between one kiss and the next, with fury and audacity. He barked them at her, like they were commands, as if she were still a little girl that he was ordering about, or scolding and correcting for some childish misbehavior.
His massive hands gripped her shoulders. The strength of them, their awesome, commanding, sensual strength, all by itself sent shivers running throughout her body. He abruptly rose from the bed, lifting her into the air with easy power, still kissing her as he did so. His massive frame soon held aloft her own petite, if agile, form, balanced in the air with her ankles still behind his ears, her hands frantically clinging to his skull, her lips locked hard against his, with his massive hands splayed under her ass and back, strongly supporting her precarious position, while his cock, his wicked, forbidden cock, stabbed marvelously up, deeply inside her, pinning her to him like a beautiful, sensual portrait of a nude hanging on a nail on a wall.
With his new found leverage and the strength of his hands and chest and legs, he drove his cock repeatedly into her — his own beautiful, sexy baby sister — with a reckless passionate and mindless ambition to completely and impossibly rip into and fill her body with ever more of his thick, long, hungry prick.
She screamed senselessly now into his kisses, heedless that any might hear them in their shameful coupling, as one of her own hands slipped down, around and behind his back, to wander ceaselessly, pleasing her with the constant raft of hair she found there.
Her girlfriends, from high school to college, had thought it gross. He was the hairiest man she'd ever seen, even more than their father. Most women she knew found it repulsive, or at least that was what they said. She didn't believe them, because to her it was the most exciting feature a man could have, besides powerful hands.
"I love you so much, Mouse. So fucking much."
It came out as more of a bestial growl than human speech.
He drove into her again, and again, and again. Her hands continued running across his back, through the soft, long, dark hairs. She travelled downward as far as she could reach. The hair diminished, and then reappeared on his taut ass. Her fingernails dug into the muscular flesh there, pulling his hips harder against hers, silently but blatantly urging her brother to fuck her harder and deeper.
"Love me forever, Michael. I love you. I love your cock. I'm a horrible, evil, awful, dirty little slut for you, and that's what I want to be. I want my wonderful brother to protect me and hold me and fuck me forever."
It sent him over the edge, as she'd intended, and she went right over with him. Their frantic coupling turned from passionate tumult to insane, frantic, all out warfare. They clawed and scratched at each other in a pinnacle of sinful, unrivaled pleasure.
The storm of it lasted until it felt to Mouse as if her mind had snapped. She was lost in an endless tumult of thoughtless, mindless, unconscious passion.
And then it was over. The fever passed. The fog lifted. Her mind returned, to find her floating in the air, still held there by her wonderful brother, with their bodies pressed tightly together, and no sound other than their rapid, rhythmic breaths as they each fought to recover.
No one could ever say this was wrong, Mouse thought, as they both subsided and the ability to think any coherent thoughts slowly, if incompletely, returned. His massive bulk pressed against her. She could feel his hairs tickling her skin. His own form was solid but still, except for that rapid, unending panting as he fought to catch his breath. She felt the film of sweat along his back and his ass. She felt it building between them from the hot friction of their exertions, his and hers together, mingling and mixing just as his cum now mingled with hers, inside of her.
Her own big brother's cum filled her womb. She glowed at the very thought of it. His swollen cock was still inside of her, stirring their cum, mixing it thoroughly and completely and inextricably. Once again, Mouse had made her brother fill her with his unacceptable seed. Once again, Michael had brought his sister to the heights of pleasure. Once again, they were joined in a way that she knew was right. No one could ever take his cum from her now. He was inside of her. No matter what happened from here on out, she would always have that. She would always, always have her brother's loving cum inside of her body.
It wasn't wrong. She would ferociously battle anyone who said it was wrong.
It was the most perfect, wonderful and not-wrong thing in the universe. She held him tightly, refusing to ever let him go.
His soft kisses peppered her neck and cheeks and lips. She so loved that he loved kissing her.
* * *
"How does it feel to be pleasured by an old fart?"
Nestled under his arm, pressed against his wonderful, tickling pillow of chest hair over the radiating warmth of his familiar skin, she felt as much as heard the deep vibrations of his words.
"You're not an old fart."
"Over forty is absolutely old fart territory. I'm not young anymore."
"You are to me."
"Why do you say that? Because this year you'll be turning thirty? And be an old lady?"
She hit him. He yelped in appropriate pain, while pulling her closer.
"Sorry. I didn't think you'd be sensitive about it, considering how little time I have left in comparison."
She eased up to get enough leverage to punch him hard. Twice.
"Don't even pretend. You're not leaving me, ever."
She settled against him again.
"How do you like making love to such a young girl? I'm much too young for you, you know. It's very inappropriate."
He grunted, as she chirped out something that was a cross between a sinister giggle and an embarrassed chuckle. His hand ran through her hair, down her shoulder, then found one breast, lingering there with one finger tracing teasing, arousing circles over and about her quickly re-hardening nipple. It was as if she'd forced him to emphasize the licentious sexuality of their more than sibling relationship.
He ignored her question and asked one of his own.
"Why do you think Mom and Dad had you after such a long time? Were Melanie and I disappointments, do you think?"
The bait was too obvious to take. She easily passed it by with barely a consideration.
"If so, then I'm pretty sure that I convinced them they should have been happy with what they already had."
He pulled her close again, pressing a warm, smothering kiss against her forehead.
"I'm happier with you."
Mouse tipped her head up to look at him and smiled. He'd said a lot of things to her in their lives, and many new things since they'd become a couple, but he'd never, ever said anything that felt as good as that.
She wished he could have said something like that when she was much younger. It might have made all of the difference in the world in the direction her life had taken.
* * *
Michael sneered at the burning sand, the baking sun, the lack of a breeze, and especially at the heaving mass of noisy, sweating, swim suited humanity around him. This wasn't the sort of place for a thirty-something professional. It was the last place he wanted to be.
He tried to ignore the bite of the heavy cooler handle pinching his palm, while painfully tugging him down along with the two beach umbrellas, five chairs, a satchel around his back full of lotion and books and who knew what else, and every other trivial, useless thing the girls had felt the need to pile onto him.
They giggled and screeched like children, running about, kicking sand, with Mouse as their lead instigator, while he hauled the stuff around for them like a bellhop. He'd driven them here as if he were their private chauffeur. He carried their stuff. He'd thought he could at least eventually just go off and enjoy some time alone, but the damned place was so crowded he'd be lucky if he could find a spot out of earshot, let alone completely out of sight.
"Not here, Mikey! I want to sit closer to the water, and farther down the beach."
"Mikey?" one of the giggling girls taunted.
"No one's called me Mikey since you were five, Mouse."
"Come on, Mikey. Keep going!"
Damn it. He wasn't even supposed to be within two hundred miles of here. The deal was he'd drive the hundreds of miles to her dorm to help her load the car, drive home, unload, and then get back to his own life as quickly as he could, to his own job, and his own hobbies, and his own dilemma of a painful lack of female companionship. They should be on the road by now. How he'd been roped into staying overnight, while playing mule train for "one last trip to the beach" for a group of silly, over the top nineteen year old girls was just beyond him.
It was typical, selfish Mouse behavior. He should have known it would go badly for him when she used that sweet, innocent, piping voice of hers.
"Hey, Mona! Why's your brother so monstrously hairy? He looks like Bigfoot!"
Was he this insensitive and simple when he was nineteen, Michael wondered?
Mouse didn't answer her friend. She just stared at him, grinning widely in amusement, enjoying his obvious, predictable discomfort. In spite of the aura he tried to project, there were a few things that made Michael feel insecure, especially physically. The two biggest were the facts that he'd lost every bit of hair on his head before reaching thirty, and at the same time was covered head to foot with a generous mat of too long, too dark, too obvious body hair. The contrast was like some cruel, cosmic joke.
"I think it's sexy."
That was Sandy. She was a none-too-shy high school friend of Mouse's who'd followed her to the same university. She had always been finding reasons to sit next to Michael, or trying to help him, for as long as he could remember. The crush was obvious. When she'd been a high school student he took it as a compliment, but it was easier to shrug off back then. Now she was more of a woman making it harder, but his sister's friends, freshman college girls, any girls eleven years younger than him, were certainly not his thing.
"Come on, let's go swimming."
Thank heaven for Mouse. She tormented him like no other little sister ever could, but at least she seemed to sense his discomfort with Sandy, and help him out when she started to swoop in for the kill. Whenever Sandy's overtures got a little too heated, Mouse always found a way to extract Michael, or Sandy, or to at least change the course of the conversation, saving him from his predicament.
"This is good enough, Mikey. You're off the hook. Come on, let's leave Sasquatch here to set up camp. Last one in has to kiss my hairy brother!"
And away she went, leading the charge. Along the way she thankfully wrestled Sandy along with her, pushing her ahead and into the water first, thus making sure that Mouse herself was the one who lost the race so that none of her friends would have to actually kiss him. Of course, she'd claim exemption, too, being his sister.
He wouldn't have minded kissing one of them at all, actually, as long as it was anyone but Sandy, or Mouse, obviously. Actually, he wouldn't have minded kissing her, either. He felt a flush of embarrassment and disgrace at the thought, followed by self-recriminations at his foolish reaction, his whole line of thinking, everything. He'd had thoughts like that before, even entertained the fantasy in some detail, but he always reacted with the same set of strong, conflicted emotions.
Because of their age difference, he was both less and more than a big brother to her. He was like an uncle, and a father sometimes, too. He looked out for her, and put up with her, and catered to her, and she took advantage of him and teased him, but in the end she needed him, too. She was maybe the one woman in the world who needed him. It made him feel good, and it made any surrender to thoughts of sexual attraction to her seem very, very wrong.
He looked back in the water, watching his sister's too appealing form athletically jumping through the waves. It almost hurt. She was exactly the sort of achingly vibrant, desirable woman he knew he could never have. But at least there was a reason that he couldn't have her. He didn't need to feel like a failure in missing out on her affections.
She'd no doubt later make a great, comical scene out of having to distastefully kiss her brother on the cheek. That was too bad, but at least she'd saved him from Sandy.
Thank heaven for Mouse. He couldn't believe he'd even thought the words. With a silent but not entirely real grumble, he set about depositing the chairs and paraphernalia for the girls, doing the best he could to make Mouse happy, and hoping that maybe the rest of the trip would turn out better.
After all, needling, bratty, outlandish teasing aside, it was good to be around her again.
* * *
That had been ten years ago. Now that same, amazing girl, grown into a wonderfully sensual woman — his wonderfully sensual woman -- lay nestled under his arm, with one small but spectacularly firm and formed breast pressing insistently against his ribs. Each time he breathed, he could feel it more completely, with its still hard nipple trying relentlessly to stab him in the heart.
He'd fought his attraction for as long as he could, until the night had come when he snapped, only to find that her attraction to him had dwarfed his tenfold. They each gave in to their most secret and warped of desired, and tried not to look back. They did, of course, or at least he did. When they talked about it, she acted as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
He was never so certain. He couldn't stand the thought of losing her, yet barely a day didn't go by when he didn't consider telling her they had to end it, if only for her sake. He never came close to doing it, but he thought about it.
Now he held her close, wrapped in his arms, sheltered from the world, as he enjoyed the memory of their passionate love making, while wrestling with those same old doubts.
He alternated between the emotional drive to gnaw his own arm off and run in shame, or to hold her there forever, never letting her go, or letting anyone ever come between them.
* * *
The warmth of his chest gently rocked her head as he breathed, while the gentle thumping of his heart, having calmed considerably from his fabulous exertions for her, drummed a lullaby into her ear. Her eyes were open, gazing at an expanse of black hairs on his chest, tinted with occasional strands of gray. He really was becoming an old fart, she thought.
Her hand wandered ceaselessly, lovingly over his chest, up, around, over, anywhere, stopping now and then to twist a generous lock of chest hair into a painful knot.
He said it calmly, with no hint of actual pain. Mouse twisted more, and pulled harder. He didn't even grunt. She loved this moment. She wanted to savor it forever, being with him, so soon after he'd been inside her, so soon after they'd given each other pleasures beyond anything any other lovers had ever achieved, she was sure. Calm, restful, content, together, and gathering strength for another unnatural, impossible, marvelous union.