The Quest

"Oh fuck," he breathes inaudibly, just before he begins to push. Her lips spread around him, and she tilts her head back in surrender, gazing at the spot where the wall behind her joins the ceiling as he molds her sensitive flesh around his slowly entering tool. She holds to the last, as a token of passage into this realm of pleasure, her knowledge that she won't let him do what he is already doing. Centimeter by centimeter his broad glans burrows into a tunnel where nothing thicker than the rare finger has ever gone, except once. He is overwhelmed, unable to do anything but keep pushing further. He licks his pleasure into her exposed neck. The suspense is an agony, and her legs tighten around him, guiding him the final distance. Once he is finally buried, his skin lightly kisses her clit.

"Oooh," she coos, struggling to impale herself further. Oh god this was the terrible rightness that she had thought they could defeat. It owns her now, owns them both. His hips automatically begin to rock, but she barely lets him move out of her; she doesn't know it, but in her search for her own pleasure she is reducing the intensity of his, thereby extending it for them both. Just like before. He is maddened with lust; everything he wants is in his arms, but there is no peace in this embrace. Every motion brings a new shower of sensation from the insatiable net of nerves just beneath his cockhead; every taste of that exquisite itch carries a vast hunger for MORE. His thrusting becomes violent, as if he is trying to shake her off, but she will not release him. Her whimpers become ragged cries. She wraps her free arm around him. This, some part of him observes, is truly fucking. And... it's great. Oh god why do they teach that sisters are not for this. Part of him knows and fears that the reason why may find him when this is over. But in his lust there remains enough innocence that he can truly enjoy what he is doing. Again and again he thrusts his sister's hips down into the bed. His hands are on her, his mouth too, taking everything he can. She's moaning freely, beautifully, and the sound helps to fuel him. He has never heard such vulnerability in his sister's voice, and he loves that she is showing him this. For both of them, he works himself into her as deeply as their bodies will allow, and in the working he finds that his constant itch has caught fire, and he knows he is about to cum inside her.

She doesn't know this at all. She has never seen a man's orgasm; the one he delivered into her Saturday night is as much a mystery as her own potential for climax, though she has fantasized sometimes about what she would do with certain boys at school, now that she was on the pill, if they were to push her to go further than kissing as boys have sometimes done in the past, and if she had the right feeling about how things were going. She can't admit it but this is that feeling. Her vagina is as wet as it has ever been; the little fluttery spasms of pleasure she feels every few seconds are the highest sexual gratification she has achieved in her life. Her legs clench tight; the rest of her trembles. She is too new at this to know whether she is going to climax, or why there should be any climax. She has heard stories of first times, and suspects but doesn't really understand that she's lucky to be basically enjoying it at all.

There is a moment, just before his orgasm, when he's in as far as he can go, and there's no avoiding the fall over the threshold, and the world is just pleasure. Then he is busy again, spurting into her and thrusting hard between spurts. She can feel the change in his motion and the sudden increase in heat, deep inside herself, and it gives her a dark, animal satisfaction. She goes on fucking him, lightly twisting her hips in reflexive match with his much stronger rhythm. It feels the same to her as before, though he is grunting and cumming. Her sensitive folds grind against the base of him, and the feeling makes her lightheaded. Between throbs, she even experiences a wicked, too familiar pleasure at her own refusal to think of the consequences of this, at her own betrayal. The tingling waves come regularly, and each one escapes her mouth. She can go on like this for many minutes.

But he is running out of seed for her, and he slows, and finally lies upon her, panting. Her sexy, mostly naked body still feels right to him, but all the urgency is gone. He hears her moans cease, and does not know whether he was good enough for her. He doesn't want to move away from her ever again. She continues rocking her hips for a bit, but slows and stops as well. They are both afraid. Together, separately, they hold one another without force, waiting for this problem to go away.

After a time she strokes his hair, and his breath catches. He doesn't know what to say to her now, so he hugs her. Her body is warm and nice but his former passion is gone. It feels like no big deal that their genitals are still interlocked. He nestles his face ino the bed aside hers, liking the closeness. But he is pierced by a sickly worry that she will make him leave, and that this will end. He can't think of anything good about it ending.

For her, things are easier. Strangely, now that it's over she can mostly accept it, though her acceptance rests in part on that ever-hopeful, ever-untrustworthy belief that this time, when they talk about it, she will be able to make him promise never to try this again, and really mean it. She knows, too, that this act makes her different, sicker somehow, than other girls, and that she will have to live with that. Her post-coital glow is deeply tinged with sadness. But it is a glow nonetheless.

---

"You have to go back to bed," she reminds him, several solemn, dreamy minutes later. They are both tired; she's let the plan of talking to him about this slide into the next day.

He loves lying on her. He delays his response for as long as seems allowable, and then shifts slowly up onto his elbows. "Can I kiss you one more time?" he asks her softly.

"Okay," she breathes, after a surprised pause. She closes her eyes as he lowers his face to hers, and they kiss. He tastes her lips again and again. Neither of them has a clear idea of what constitutes one kiss. His mouth moves down her cheek to her neck, which she opens to him. "You have to go," she says again.

But his penis is hardening within her. She brushes her hair aside, breathing heavily. He shifts automatically to let his lengthening cock find room for itself; it's a motion he has recreated in a thousand variations while looking at girls' round butts during class, while thinking about blowjobs, while thinking about anything. But this time the room that is available is the semen-slick tunnel leading toward his sister's womb, and in finding it he slips his most sensitive skin across her clinging inner surface; he is fucking her again. He gasps in pleasure. He was really meaning to leave, but this cuts his thoughts short.

When he can think again he sees her face beneath him, her parted lips, her lidded eyes. When he moves down to kiss her, she comes to meet him. Soon the bed begins to creak as brother and sister reenact Saturday night for the second time.

---

It's four AM when he drifts back through her doorway, on his way to his own bed. He may have slept, off and on, during the intervening time--he doesn't recall--but mostly, he has embraced and petted and made out with his sister in every way he might have dreamed of. They've mated urgently like animals, and slowly, tenderly, like lovers. With each intimate gesture, each clutch of hand on ribs or gasp of breath across cheek, another detail of the structures of daytime thought has faded into erasure, to be replaced by the simple knowledge of lovers: that they belong to one another. She who was once only his sister has tonight been his woman. He has taken her from on top, from below, from behind; for increasingly long periods he has exhaustedly kissed and stroked her pretty thighs, her shallow breasts, all her wondrous curves, while she lazed mostly unconscious beneath him. And at the end of each long session, he has ecstatically injected into her sweet, accepting loins whatever dregs of fluid his overworked prostate could muster. He wonders distantly whether she might become pregnant, whether she ever came. But no, he's heard her tell her friend about the pills. And as for the latter--he knows she liked what they did. Mostly he thinks of nothing distinct, as he walks dazedly back to his room. And as he chills back into something approaching an ordinary mental state, he realizes, with dawning surprise, that even though he has shared a sin so wrong as to have seemed basically impossible, he basically feels fine. Different, but fine. Nothing so intimate and good could really be wrong. It doesn't occur to him that she might feel differently when she wakes up. He knows, at least, that he won't feel differently. The thought is a little bit scary. The momentousness of what they have done hangs above him. But as he slips into the relieving coolness of his bed, his primary thought is one of deep, solemn satisfaction: for he has achieved the dream of almost every teenage boy, and made love with a beautiful girl.