One In The Same

"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 buttfuck 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.

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 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 buttfuck 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? – especially me, I gather" 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.