Ingrid (Act 1 of 2)

Literotica.com submission notes:

(1) This draft contains uses of bold and italic text.

Ingrid (Part 1 of 2)

by burgwad

(1) Note: All characters in this story are at least 18 years old.

(2) Substance Use Warning: This story contains significant amounts of recreational drug use (marijuana, LSD, alcohol). This author only condones recreational drug use when practiced in safety and moderation with trusted friends or family. Readers whose values or beliefs clash with this position have been respectfully warned.

(3) Specific Thanks to a handful of Literotica and r/incest contributors whose writing I have lovingly and non-consensually pilfered for inspiration: Dave_LG, lovecraft68, onehitwanda, Spector_Dugan, and Xarth. Stylistic nods to their works are threaded into this one with deliberate intent to flatter and allude. Readers who enjoy my work are encouraged to seek out and gorge on their vastly superior output.

Chapter One, Part One of Two

Ingrid will be here tomorrow. Will's little sister.

Will stands at the door of the room he's loaning her. He sips hot coffee. The scope of the mess is such that he has to kind of stand and glower at it for a minute.

Ingrid had, in preparation for going to Paris, learned barely a word of French, but had eagerly stopped showering and shaving. Mom had tried to tell her Parisian women shower and shave just as often as American women. But Ingrid insisted on the change regardless. She argued that if even if it turns out Parisian girls shave, then she was content to be the exotic American who doesn't.

The new body hair and smell had been an abrupt change and drawn Will's attention to his younger sister's new age in ways stranger and more graphic than anybody had prepared him for.

Whenever she sat next to him on the couch with her arms hooked behind her head, Ingrid's pits had kind of looked and smelled like his. She had let him feel them once, in fact--well, made him--and he hadn't hated it. Her underarm was cute. It had been coarse like his but softer, slightly blonder, and stinky like his but different, fresher somehow, like the ozone smell of fresh rain. He'd sort of liked the way her BO smelled. But he had told her she stunk, of course. She had thrashed him.

He never wanted to sound creepy. They were just close siblings. They understood each other, and cohabitated well. She could stretch her feet onto his lap and make a small quick face at him that made it okay. She could tuck her toes under his thighs. She could tickle his scruffy chin with her clammy toes if he nodded off. Her dancer's toes were strangely intelligent, capable little digits.

A lone bean-shaped spot of floor is bare, where Will sometimes stands when he composes. He is standing in it now, for some reason, appraising the mess from inside the mess. Everywhere, audio cables lay looped and tangled about foot pedals, synthesizers, recording equipment, everything but speakers. Will's music room's ruckus feeds entirely into a pair of well-loved over-ear cans dangling presently from the doorknob over yonder. Lately, even those have been quiet though. Will just hasn't had it in him.

Pieces of laundry, mostly his, dress the mess haphazardly.

And all over, like an animal has been in here, lay beaten, stepped-on, fucked-on scraps of paper scrawled with half-formed song ideas. Will's eye happens to land on "--love you like a dog loves chocolate," peeking out from beneath a crisp, stinky sock. He winces at it. It makes him feel down on himself when he writes bad lyrics.

Ingrid can't see this mess.

And he still needs to hang up these blackout curtains. She'll need sleep when she gets here from the other side of the world. He glowers at these curtains, too. He sips his coffee.

The monster's dormant brain and skull, Will's computer desk, is more trouble today than furniture. His old desk chair frowns at him beside it, learned helplessness pounded into its seat. Is he really going to clean up today? Does he mean it?

This whole mess makes Will worry about things he can't even really name. The word "metastasis" occurs to him, seems to approximate it. He scans the chaos for his notebook. Either to write in it or to get rid of it.

Anyway. About Ingrid going to France. A few years ago, a dance school in Paris had gone out of its way to invite his goofy little sister to come study in its prestigious halls instead of going back to boring old American college. Will and Ingrid's parents had argued ferociously about it. It was going to cost a fortune. There would be no way to monitor her behavior. There were legitimate reasons to worry about her safety.

But Ingrid was someone who mere normal people, Mom and Dad included, were helpless to oblige, and she adamantly wished to go. Sure enough, the tuition cost triggered a seismic shift in family finances that sent Mom and Dad's hitherto gradually declining marriage into full nosedive. Dad went awful. Mom just kind of lost her get-up and go.

For Will, the absence of his sister stung quietly at first, but then louder and louder as weeks went by, until one day it knocked the ear cans right off his head. He had stood in the bean-shaped spot of floor, the piece he'd been working on looping in the phones around his neck, and wept. He had lost the urge to create. Trying after that became what felt like wasted time.

It wasn't that his sister had been his muse, per se, but he was beginning to understand that she had been inspiring to him in some indirect way. If he had a word for it, he'd have a word for it.

For the first few months after she left, Will would dream that she was still at home but hiding, tiptoeing about, sneaking around just out of sight, or letting him glimpse a flicker of hair before slipping away again, and all the while rehearsing gibberish that in his dream had stood in for French. Her voice in the dreams was always so convincing, like she was really there. But he just couldn't ever see her.

And, not to gross anyone out, but she was always nearly naked, taking clothes off, an impossible, dreamlike quantity of clothing, and dropping them breadcrumb-like for Will to find and pick up and sigh at. Please don't get the wrong idea. The laundry was never anything scandalous. But this somehow only made it that much sadder for Will. The real Ingrid had never cared what she left lying around.

Meanwhile the divorce itself was, if anything, kind of a welcome distraction. Will actually got closer with Mom because of it. Watching her struggle was how he learned that she was smart, and tried hard, and kept herself occupied. Even when things got bad, and they surely did, she was still nice to be around. Will starts to hurt in this bittersweet, chest-tightening way when he thinks about Mom.

Mom and Will had had all these conversations about Ingrid in the early days after the separation where they would both just wind up silent, depressed, and missing her to death. But these were still nice. Will had liked these.

When Will graduated, simply moving away proved surprisingly doable. He had half expected to just kind of fall over once he left Mom's orbit. But he had stayed upright. He had gotten all the way to school fully awake and alert and merely very badly depressed.

At college he listed about from classroom to dorm room in a sort of dull merry-go-round, feeling cross and stale and apart.

Girls sometimes found this alluring. They would get on the ride with him, get naked with him, maybe fuck him a little, and then disembark once they realized how lonely he could make them feel. He did not miss them, really, when they left. Maybe in little bursts. But mostly he missed other, better people.

So, he was dying to see Ingrid tomorrow. But he was also worried. What if he made her feel lonely? Ingrid had gone supernova over in Paris while Will had pickled in his own juices in ... wherever he'd been.

And okay, there was the issue of her attractiveness. Let's just get that out of the way. Sometime in high school, people started talking more and more creepily about Ingrid's looks--her shapely cheek bones, her pouty lips, her sprinkling of freckles, her effortless hair, her endless neck, her this, her that, you get the picture--and then after that it had never really stopped.

Did he buy into the hype? Sure, why not. She was only his sister, even kind of looked like him, but he could tell 'pretty' when he saw it.

Did he ever try to sneak a peek at her while she was changing or stepping out of the shower? Of course not. Gross. Maybe once or twice, by accident, but that shouldn't count.

Had he ever stolen a pair of her underwear out of the laundry and snuck them into the bathroom and then sniffed at the gusset lining, even licked the dirty fabric, even stuffed them wholesale into his mouth while he jerked off over the toilet? Oh, come on. He was her brother. He cared about her.

His sister's beauty was not a fetish for him. It was a burden. She was a freak of splendor. Her grace was weird. No one in their family was anything like her, least of all him, even if you could sort of put her next to the bunch and go, "Oh, there is a resemblance."

(He had felt truly gross about the whole panty-stealing thing, and really only done it a handful of times. And to be clear, he never came inside the underwear. He just liked the way they smelled. It helped him cum for some reason. And then he would put them right back in the laundry, no harm no foul.)

Has anyone mentioned yet how cunning Ingrid was? She was a sociopath. She started dating left and right just as soon as she could. Boys and girls alike, as it turned out, in roughly equal proportion. Boys couldn't get enough of her, naturally. Girls, meanwhile, were scared of her. And Ingrid liked scared. Girls or nonbinary people on the fence about their sexuality sometimes found they could use her as a testing ground, so long as they were okay with being toyed with. She broke hearts, got hers broke, ruined some lives, saved others. And all the while she stayed little sister. She would whoop his ass in Smash and make him feed her Oreos at the same time; her armpits soupy smelling, her feet vinegary, her crotch sort of fishy, and still her brother just saw Ingrid. Okay, wait, we were talking about her cunning. Well, anyway, after a certain age, watching Ingrid mature into a woman was like was like watching Clark Kent mature into Superman.

And while all of this was happening? Her lonely brother simply coped. Little sisters could turn into this? Nobody had warned him. His silly, sloppy kid sister had somehow, at some point while he wasn't paying close attention, morphed into a living, breathing, unshaven piece of art.

Will considers writing this down, too, for some reason, but then replays it in his head and thinks better of it. Where is that fucking notebook anyway?

Ingrid had come home once for winter vacation while Will was away. He had been stuck at college, beholden to a part-time job at a restaurant that needed him in town over the break, and so he had not been home to see her, nor been physically present to help cushion the blow of their newly separated parents' radioactive dysfunction.

She had phoned Will in the middle of the night, crying, and then called him again every night after that. This had gone on for three weeks straight. A miniature era.

That era had been the first time Will felt happy and awake at the same time. He remembers staying up in his shitty dorm room bed all the way until the sun came up on her end. He remembers being sleepy most days for work. Had had suffered indifferently, simply excited to get home, nap a bit, and wake up whenever the phone rang again. He had been really productive somehow, too. Written good music.

Ingrid had initially called on the pretense of needing to unpack the day's melodrama, but it got to where this charade only occupied a minute or two of their time, and then after they just kind of hung out.

Then Ingrid had gone back to France.

Will's girlfriend from earlier this year, Mai-Lee the cocktail artist (who resented even that term), was the first person to accuse him of being in love with his sister.

She had already seen photos of Ingrid and joked that it would be okay if Will invited her to have a threesome with them. She liked to mention how closely they resembled one another, but how much better Ingrid wore the look. She had kind of pushed Will's buttons, to be honest.

Then several months into their relationship, this was around February, Mai-Lee had dropped in by surprise while Will was in the shower. She had happened to find Will's laptop open to porn, which she politely closed--and but found this hidden photo album of pictures and videos all of her boyfriend of several months' younger sister wearing skimpy dancewear, string bikinis, skintight cocktail dresses, the like, and Mai-Lee realized that Will's fondness for his sibling was in fact a grave matter.

Will had tried to shrug it off. His kid sister was pretty, he could admit that. He could see her good looks the same way he could see certain men's good looks. But he wasn't some kind of creep! The photo album? Sentimental! The porn? Circumstantial!

Mai-Lee had asked him why he had hidden the folder.

Will had answered poorly.

Mai-Lee had cried and said the whole thing made her skin crawl.

Will still has a recurring nightmare in which this scene replays, and Mai-Lee's face really does squiggle and relocate as she scolds him. He has stood there wrapped in his nightmare towel and lied to her, told the truth to her, simply done nothing (his specialty) and yet the damnable dream has only ever always circled back. Sometimes a bunch of times in one night.

About Ingrid coming to stay with him tomorrow, he feels: complexly.

At the drop-off area outside the Air France terminal, amid a crowd of locals surreptitiously ogling his sister's ass in its gray leggings, brother and sister had said their first last goodbyes--neither of them had ever had to do something like this before. It hurt like hell. But Will didn't know how to act hurt and not upset anybody, so he didn't act hurt.

Ingrid had, when her brother had tried to hug her, wriggled free and broken into a jig, a whole new fuck-you-I'm-off-to-France number just for him. For both of them, it had been sad. Then she had grabbed him by the cheeks, squeezed them together so he was making a fishy face, and kissed him on his out-squished lips--that is, on the wet pink insides of his lips. Mom had cried like a child.

The kiss had had a melony flavor. Later he remembered this flavor and he wept by himself in the bathroom on the toilet holding a t-shirt she'd borrowed from him that still smelled like her. Since when was he such a crybaby? He'd always struggled to cry, even on purpose, before Ingrid left for France.

What will Ingrid be like tomorrow? Better at dancing? What does "better" mean when it comes to Ingrid, who was already such a natural talent? Smarter? Frencher? ... Sexier?

Ingrid has, if the selfies she has sent him and Mom recently are anything to go by, certainly adopted the French dance student aesthetic: disheveled, cultured, horny. But this doesn't worry him. What worries him is something else.

Chapter One, Part Two of Two

The bed in his music room is just a mattress, a sheet, and a blanket, never cleaned, laid directly on the hardwood floor. It is very much a part of the mess. Will does not remember sitting down on it, but here he is. He has his notebook, but no pen. He has now also misplaced his coffee.

When Will has had dates over, it has been this ghastly room, not his own, in which the very hottest things have happened. In his actual bedroom--a spartan, sexless space--dates have tended rather to fizzle out. Will can hardly even masturbate in there, much less please somebody else.

Yet here, amid coils of wire and crumpled up lyrics, women have fucked him. Aimee had fucked his face to tooth-loosening Valhalla. Emily had fucked his cock until he came inside her, and then sucked his softie clean. Katyana had forced him to fuck her in the ass, after which she had fucked him right back. With his vocoder mic. Will sighs, presently.

Just sitting on the bed in here, feeling the familiar cushion of the shabby, stinking mattress underneath him, Will gets an urge to whip his dick out. A hot, primordial urge to do exactly that, right this moment, one last time before his sister claims the space tomorrow and all Will's music stuff, his mojo, his ability to masturbate at all, gets packed away into the closet.

He should not masturbate, of course. At least not to orgasm. It would be perverse to jerk off in a room he is about to lend to his little sister.

Will fishes his dick out of his underwear. He tosses his notebook to whence it came, brushes aside some papers on the bed, and makes room for himself to get comfy. He nestles in, becomes one with the mess, and slowly pumps his stiffening erection to life. He sifts through his memories for something suitable. He finds an old classic, pulls it out, and sets it to play in his mental theater.

Petite salon artiste Aimee had stood barefoot in the bean-shaped spot on the floor in nothing but a pair of powder blue panties, and in a steadily rising tone had told her ex-husband--not present--that if he fed her kids macaroni and hotdogs one more time then she was going to figure out a way to kill him and make it look like suicide. Will had gazed at Aimee's girlish body and wondered how twins had come out of there. He had been selfishly glad she hadn't breastfed, that she had such great big well-preserved mommy nipples atop such adorable tits.

Little Aimee had quieted, sighed at Will, and set her imaginary argument aside. She had come and pushed Will over onto his back. And she had said, smirking, in a kind of child's voice, "Can I ask you a favor?" as she had tip-toed into position over his face.

She had looked down at him from between her breasts, from over the softly fuzzy dip of her navel, and from this strange angle had locked eyes with him. Light brown. And Will had answered somehow, he forgets, and Aimee had sat down. She grabbed him by the sides of his head. She kept her panties still very much on. And she humped his face to Valhalla.

Will pulls down his underwear so he can wank properly. He pumps his cock and reaches back into his sense memory for the weight of the petite artiste and mother of two on his head, the surprise abandon of her assault, and of all the visceral smells she had ground into his face: first of piss, a sharp tangy odor he had not realized he found arousing until Aimee had proved the point, and but also of sweat and ass and pussy, that holy cunnilingual trifecta.

Will hurriedly kicks off his underwear, wads them up, and shoves them in his mouth.

Aimee's panties had grown soaked, and when he had sucked on her gusset fabric it had made a soft juicy noise and released hot fresh-out-of-the-oven flavors that, as he savored them amid the pummeling, had struck him as impeccably seasoned: savory, lemony, unique. Maybe it didn't smell the greatest, but it tasted fantastic, and she was an expert at making you not give a fuck. The pain, too, had been that added pinch of spice that really brought the recipe home. Sometimes the tiny mom had bucked so hard she made his nose crackle. One of his lower front teeth still bore a very slight jiggliness to it he is pretty sure was not there until that morning.

He sort of missed Aimee, he could admit.

And the scratching, the scratching. Aimee had scratched at Will's scalp as she rode his head, torn at it with mind-blowing scritchy-scratches like only an expert salon artist could. Her scalp treatment had tranquilized him. While cumming amidst all of this, because of course he had, he realized that he hadn't felt its equal since he was a kid, when his mom had scritch-scratched pictures on his back and made him guess what they were.