Touch Therapy Ch. 01

Instead, he watched in silence as she held his hand against her face, stroking it along her pale cheek, rubbing his fingers against her plum dark lips, licking and suckling at his flesh with an avidity that made him think of nursing puppies . . . and lampreys.

No, he was no Prince Charming. He was, at best, just another sorcerous apple. Infused with curing balm, perhaps, instead of poison. His mind's eye saw a browning apple core, cast aside on the pine needle floor of a great forest, already spotted with a few first ants . . . and he shuddered.

Rachel stopped suddenly, her eyelids flicking open. "Okay?" she mumbled around his fingers.

He forced a smile at her, and nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just fine."

Rachel's eyelids dropped again, as she pulled his slick fingers from her mouth. "Good," she whispered. "Good."

She drew his hand down then, guiding it with both of her own, and pushed it under the loose elastic waistband of the boxers she had borrowed from him. The pine forest blew from Greg's mind like a mural scoured to dusty wind by an atomic blast.

He felt the waistband of the boxers tight against the back of his forearm, felt the brush of her coarse pubic hair tickling against his palm, and the heat of her, as she used her own fingers to mold his hand, cupping it around herself, with the heel of his hand pressing down firmly against her mons, and his fingers pressing inward, across her clitoris and labia.

"Like that," she murmured against his chest, grinding her crotch against his hand in hard little circles. "Just like that." There was a slight hitch in her breathing as she spoke and, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, tilted her head back. He bent his own head, and pressed his lips to hers, and this time she did not push him away.

Greg noticed with a wry amusement that his erection had lurched back to life with startling swiftness. He was not surprised, though. Reservations and fears were stripped from his mind by the sight of her, her body arched, her face pinched in a grimace of concentration as her hands gripped his forearm with knuckle whitening force, grinding his palm against herself.

Her small breasts pushed out against the thin t-shirt, the dark nipples clearly dimpling the fabric. The heel of her left leg, where she had thrown it over his thigh, was now digging into his hamstring with bruising force, as she used it to lever her hips forward against his palm.

Greg ducked his head, and gently nipped one of her nipples through the shirt.

"Oh fuck!" Rachel gasped quietly, hunching desperately against his palm, "oh fuck, oh fuck. . ."

Greg curled his fingers then, just slightly, so that they slipped past her slick inner labia, and pressed just barely, fractionally, inside her. Rachel's whispery cries jumped an octave, becoming almost unintelligible, and one of her hands slipped down his forearm and covered his hand, driving against his fingers, pushing them further inside her heated box.

She was sopping wet, both tighter and warmer than Greg could have thought possible, and it was clear what she wanted from him. Following her lead, he flexed his wrist and deliberately forced two fingers into her. For just a moment, her hips stopped thrusting against him, and her pinched face looked slightly pained, but then it passed, and her hips started moving against his hand again. Slower now, but with the same ferocious, driving intensity.

Greg kept the heel of his hand firmly planted over her clit, and using the two fingers of his right hand, he pressed in, and up, against the top wall of her vagina. He hooked his fingers back toward himself, watching her face carefully for any sign of discomfort.

When he had been with Jessie, she had loved this. Had shown it to him, patiently explained to him what he should do, what it felt like for her. Now, with Rachel, he was infinitely grateful for that tutelage.

Rachel's hips had stopped moving, and her entire body had gone rigid. Her fingers, clawed with tension, dug into his forearm hard enough to leave nail crescents in his flesh. Jaw locked, head thrown back, she made guttural sounds in her throat as he worked his fingers in and out of her. Increasing the speed and pressure of the strokes gradually, he watched her face carefully.

How much better, he thought, if I could strip these shorts off of her. Peel them down over the pale globes of her ass, lift her mound into my face and grind my upper lip against the fleshy nub of her clit while I pushed my tongue inside her, and tasted her. Furiously frustrated at the thought, his prick surged wildly against the confines of his shorts.

He dipped his head, then, and straining awkwardly, with his fingers buried in her, tugged the bottom of her shirt up with his teeth. He kissed the pale flesh that stretched over her lower ribs, sucking gently at her skin, then strained to reach even lower, feathering his tongue across her stomach with just the lightest, breathiest touch.

Rachel's taut body quivered, shaking like a bow bent to the breaking point. She gritted her teeth and convulsed, her body jerking, her core clamping violently, slickly, around Greg's still thrusting, still driving fingers. Her mouth opened and she cried out, lips forming a perfect 'oh'.

Greg, suddenly worried, covered her mouth with his own to muffle her cries, and she panted her orgasm out into his lungs, her hips squirming desperately under his working fingers, wanting more, wanting to draw away from the intensity, wanting more.

Eventually, she stopped twitching. Her demeanor changed almost instantly, and she tugged Greg's hand from her shorts with impatient force, and drew her leg off of his thigh, clamping her own legs together as if to protect her sensitive core. She lay, trembling, within the crook of his arm, her breath still coming fast and hot, the skin of her throat and face flushed pink. She was, Greg thought, unbearably beautiful.

She opened her eyes, only to find herself staring directly into his gaze, and quickly closed them again, turning her face slightly away. Greg tried to kiss her then, but when she felt his lips on hers, she jerked her face to the side slightly, so that his lips grazed across her cheek. "Don't" she said, tightly, her eyes still closed.

Greg paused, a little disconcerted, but then drew back. He continued to hold her though, his arms wrapped around her torso, cradling her against his chest, while her own arms drew away from him, and folded inward across her breasts. She did not protest further, but lay there quietly for what felt like a long time, eyes closed, head against his chest, arms wrapped around herself as her breathing gradually slowed, her body relaxed, and the flush faded from her cheeks and throat.

When she stirred again, it was to pull briskly away from him, and swing her long legs off of the futon. She stood away, and turned slightly toward him, pausing, as if at a loss for words. Her hands made little inarticulate gestures in the manner that he had come to recognize as an expression of unconscious frustration, when she could not think what to say.

"You okay?" he asked.

Rachel's face darkened, and Greg realized that the concern in his voice had somehow pissed her off. "Of course," she responded, in clipped tones, "why wouldn't I be?"

She didn't look Ok, Greg thought. She looked angry, and a little frightened, and that freaked him out a little, too, so he continued with some trepidation. "And, uh, was that what we were supposed to do? I mean, did I. . . did I do, you know, Ok? Was there something else I should," he broke off, not quite sure how to continue.

Rachel, though, seemed somewhat calmed by the question. "No," she said, "that was fine, I think." She paused, her tone becoming distant, almost clinical, "I'll have to talk to Dr. Griggs, and see what she thinks, but I think that was pretty much what she was suggesting."

She shrugged, then, and Greg's still hard cock jumped at the sight of her breasts moving under the thin fabric of the shirt. "So," Rachel paused, uncertain, "So, thanks, I guess. Uhm, I'll. . . I'll see you in the morning."

She turned quickly and stooped, scooping the clothing she had worn into the room from the floor, then fled, still wearing his shirt and boxers. Greg was oddly disquieted by her abrupt departure, and he lay back against his pillow.

His disquiet faded, though, as the image of her, straining in orgasm, swam before his eyes. He felt his cock leap insistently at the vision, and with a sigh he dipped his right hand into his shorts, and wrapped his fingers around his pulsing shaft. Eyes closed, he imagined Rachel entirely naked, thighs slung over his shoulders while he cradled her tight ass in his hands and buried his face in her crotch, licking her juices up like froth from a foaming cup.

He came almost immediately.

/break/

Alone in her room, Rachel lay in her bed, curled in the fetal position, eyes wide open, staring into the dark. That hadn't been right, she thought. That hadn't been what she expected. She didn't feel 'better', or 'calmer' or 'safer' at all. She didn't feel more in control. She felt, instead, like her world had cracked. The past few weeks had been good, better than she could possibly have hoped. She had shared her secret with Greg, and he had supported her, promised to help her in any way he could. And she had felt close to him, accepted, more comfortable than she had been in a long time.

And there had been the delightful thrill, too, of anticipation. Of reading about 'touch therapy', and planning what she was going to do. She had suppressed any sort of genuine desire for so long that she had been truly surprised by her reaction to her new step-brother. She had thrilled at the casual contact of their hands brushing together as they walked to the bus. She had thought dark and lascivious thoughts as she watched him swim, or get a soda from the fridge, or stretch at the breakfast table, all lean muscle and unconscious grace.

And it had been Ok, she thought, because it had been cautiously, tentatively sanctioned by her doctor. And she had done the research. On the page, it all seemed so rational, so clinical. Of course it would work. This was, clearly, a way back to health for her. This would fix her, bolster her confidence, polish the sharp corners off of all the jagged little pieces of her soul that still cut her inside if she moved the wrong way, or thought the wrong thing, or remembered. . .

"Oh fuck," Rachel spit out in desperate whisper, "fuck, fuck , fuck." She cradled herself, rocking gently, while she remembered the way he had had struggled so hard to remain silent while he came. She had fought not to laugh, then, feeling powerful, triumphant. But that didn't last long, she thought, bitterly.

Her brother was solid, and warm, and handsome. He was kind. His breath smelled like walnuts and citrus. And she fucking owned him. He had basically said as much when he had promised to do anything she wanted. She had him wrapped around her finger. He was her little puppet, wasn't he? I mean, that's what he had promised. But she felt, now, that this just wasn't true.

This couldn't be right. Not only did she not feel in control now, but she wasn't even sure she wanted control. She bit back on the thought with a savage self-contempt. That way lay sickness. Madness. That way lay the long days of silent screams suffocated under an icy, controlled façade. She couldn't, wouldn't, go back there.

She thought of how warm and comfortable she had felt riding on the bus with him, walking home with him. The way she felt happy when he clowned around, and laughed that self deprecating laugh. She thought of how her chest would ache when his eyes went all soft and distant, and he stared off at nothing, lost in his own thoughts.

In those moments, he looked so young. Almost pretty. She thought of how protective and maternal she felt when she caught him sleeping during movies, face slack and peaceful, or when she saw him struggling with his algebra, his expression screwed up in fierce concentration and frustration.

Rachel shuddered in her bed, and felt tears well up in her eyes. Something had clearly gone horribly wrong. She had felt in control at the beginning, sure, but she felt anything but in control now.

Now she wanted to rush back downstairs and throw herself on top of him. She wanted to strip him naked, rub her hands across his naked chest, and bite his nipples while she ground against the hard bar of him.

She wanted to peel those flimsy boxers off of him. Wanted to dig her nails into his thick quads, to draw his pulsing length into her mouth, and feel the insistent push of him against her working tongue. She wanted to taste the salt of his sweat, and the bitter tang of his precum. She wanted to feel his hands on her breasts, her ass. To feel him work his fingers into her short hair and . . . she wanted him to --fuck- her.

She trembled at the thought that maybe, just maybe, she had bitten off more than she could chew. She needed to see Dr. Griggs. Soon. Very soon.

Rachel hugged herself tightly, trembling, and fought an overpowering urge to go back downstairs.