Mouse Bk. 01 Ch. 01

"Mouse!"

Michael was mortified.

"I'm sorry," he apologized quickly and too awkwardly. "She's just in a rotten mood tonight, and obviously has had too much." He turned to glare at Mouse, then turned back to Nancy.

"Do you have any siblings?" he asked politely, hoping to both explain and deflect things, and to simply pretend that nothing uncomfortable had happened in the process.

"No." Nancy drew the word out, as if using it to cover what she really wanted to say, what she was saying in her mind as the word left her lips. "I'm an only child," she answered tersely, and just a bit more cooly than she'd been speaking before.

Michael glared at Mouse, who smiled sweetly before coasting off again.

* * *

The conversation with Nancy didn't last much longer. Michael didn't know if it was the discomfort that Mouse had created, or his own childish sibling behavior, or the thought that he really did have a hairy back. He certainly did, and so the last thought ate at him.

Michael was himself very tall, with the too-large family nose, only more so, and he was totally bald. Actually he was only partly bald, but he was so far gone that he regularly used a razor on the rest. He had a bit of that over-40 paunch himself, not too badly, but the six-pack was obviously long gone and a bit of exercise clearly wouldn't hurt but wasn't happening. And yes, he did have a lot of body hair, on his chest, stomach, arms, and even a bit – only a bit – on his back. To make matters worse, now some of the hair on his face and chest was turning gray.

Mouse was dancing with some guy now, having cleared a small area simply by willing it. Half the men in the room were watching her, blatantly or covertly. Most of the women realized it and pretended not to notice, though the men would pay the price when they got home.

The thing was, Mouse could really dance. Watching her dance was like having sex. It wasn't that her dancing was like having sex, it was the watching that was like having sex. Even when her partner had no sense of the beat, she had a way of moving in rhythm with both him and the music. She could move her hips and her torso, her ass and even her breasts in wonderful twisting ways, ways that accentuated her figure, ways that drew your eyes to her body while drawing you out of your own. You felt like you were with her, even when you weren't, and your body reacted to it, at least a man's did. Maybe some women, too, Michael thought.

He felt an erection growing. Damn. It was embarrassing. He'd never been able to watch her dance without getting hard. He quickly turned away, both to hide his growing bulge from the crowd, and to try to halt its progress. He moved off to get yet another beer, carefully keeping his back to Mouse's impromptu dance floor, walking a little awkwardly, and not only from too much alcohol.

Melanie was at the bar, too.

"Mona's at it again, isn't she?" his older sister asked without lifting her eyes from the drink she was mixing.

"She's Mouse. What did you expect?"

Melanie let out a soft grunt. That was very... "Melanie". It was amazing how different two sisters could be, although maybe it wasn't that surprising, given the fourteen year age difference. Melanie was so much more motherly, so mature and conservative.

Michael glanced at the top of her bust. The expanse of her large, bare, fleshy breasts disappeared under the sequins of her gown, decorated with a large, jewel studded pendant hanging just within and above the deep, dark canyon between them. He forgave the little old gnome for his interest. He shared it, too.

Her belly was reasonably flat for her age, no doubt aided somewhat by the tight fitting evening gown that also helped to push her chest up and out even more prominently. The spread of her hips wasn't unattractive, either. Certainly she'd gotten a bit wider there, with childbirth and age, but the effect was nice. She offered a very pleasing, full, hourglass shape to a man's eye.

Too bad she was his sister. They would have made a good match, the two of them. Unlike Mouse, Melanie's personality was a better twin to his, and their mutual size fit well, too. Michael would crush most women with his mass when making love, certainly any woman as petite as Mouse. Melanie was something of an amazon herself, tall, sturdy, but still very attractive. They had both played basketball in high school. She could handle him, he was sure. If only she weren't his big sister.

He realized his erection was returning. Nice, real nice, he thought. Now both of his sisters were turning him on. He'd fantasized about Mouse more than enough before today, but rarely Melanie. He'd been alone for too long. He was starting to think he needed help. Or maybe it was just the beer thinking for him.

Oh, well, he thought. They were just harmless fantasies. There certainly was no way anything could ever happen between he and Melanie. She was happily married to Dan, and more than that she showed little interest in sex at all. Her gown tonight was a rare exception. She usually dressed very properly and plainly, with everything nicely covered, and then some. When she sat it was with her knees together, back ramrod straight, hands politely clasped in front of her.

More importantly, he was sure she'd be utterly shocked and disgusted by just the thought of being intimate with her own brother. And, mostly, he would never have the nerve to even hint at something like that, let alone act on it. It just wasn't in him. He'd have to be Mouse to do it.

And there was absolutely no way anything was happening between him and Mouse, not the way they went at each other. The way he saw it, he figured that she would find a way to needle and annoy him at his own funeral, if he didn't snap and kill her first. Then she'd probably still find a way to annoy him at her funeral.

"You're not having much fun, are you?" Melanie asked, startling him out of his thoughts.

He looked up to see her searching his eyes. He hoped she didn't realize where he'd been staring or, God help him, what he'd been thinking. She had a disconcerting way of doing that from time to time.

"No, I don't have much fun anymore," he admitted somberly.

"It's been a year, Michael, and it wasn't any good for you long before that. Lighten up. You're living like you've got one foot in the grave, like all your best years are behind you."

There she was, being his big sister again. They had always been close, so she didn't hesitate to wade right into the depths of his problems. She always looked out for him, always looked to protect him, to nurture him, and she was candid about it. But unlike Mouse, she knew when and where to push, and when to stop. He liked that about her.

"That's easy for you to say," he argued. "You've got three kids. Jennifer's graduating from college soon, followed by the others. You and Dan will be able to travel together. There'll be weddings and holidays. You've got a whole string of futures to look forward to."

"So start over. You're not at the end of the road. You're just at a branch in the only road you get to take."

"Very poetic," Michael answered sourly, looking away. Mouse had found a new dance partner, he noticed. He jerked his eyes back to Melanie.

"Look, I'll be okay. This just isn't a good setting for me, okay? Too much of the old, with nothing new. I need a change."

"Yes, you do," she said decisively. "So do it, find a change, make a change, a big change if need be. Take some chances." She held her tongue for a short pause. "Nancy didn't work out?" she added nonchalantly.

He didn't answer. He could tell that his silence made her uncomfortable. So, he thought to himself, Nancy was brought here for him. Melanie will be pissed at Mouse when she finds out why it imploded before it could even start.

"Will you behave Sunday?" Melanie prompted sweetly, changing the subject. There it was. She knew just when to back off.

"At dinner? At your place? You mean Mouse and I?"

"Yes."

"Look, it's just going to be family, right, just Mom and Dad and us? No one there for you to be embarrassed in front of."

"Dan will be there, obviously. You guys always make him uncomfortable when you fight. And Jenn and Doug are both home for the weekend. It's not something my kids need to endure."

Michael himself felt he always endured her husband Dan, like most in-laws must, he knew, so he didn't really care much about Dan's discomfort.

"They're old enough," he replied about the kids, pointedly bypassing Dan. "Rick is what, seventeen? And they all fight amongst themselves, especially Jenn and Doug."

"Not like you and Mouse."

No, nobody fights like Michael and Mouse, they both thought.

And with that, lifting the stirrer in her drink to her lips like a straw, Melanie turned to glide away into the crowd. He admired her figure and the rhythm of her hips as she moved away from him. She turned sideways to slip between two men in her way. Holding her drink above her head, it was still a tight squeeze, but not too tight. Her heavy breasts brushed against one lucky man's back, while her ass brushed the ass of the other. To him it seemed that both men eased back into her, increasing the contact, and that she enjoyed it, if only as a silent compliment. He felt some jealousy added to his lust.

He moved off into the crowd himself, heading in another direction to find a quiet corner to drink in peace, alone with his own thoughts.

* * *

"Where'd your friend go?" Mouse had appeared abruptly at his side again. She did that a lot, too, to his annoyance.

"You drove her off quite expertly, Mouse. Well done. Thanks again." He made his annoyance palpable for her.

Mouse put on a cute, phony, little pout.

"I didn't do it on purpose. But it's for the best. She didn't look like your type." There was an edge to her voice.

"How would you know what my type is?" he asked with a well-controlled snarl.

"I'm your little sister, silly, I know you better than anyone. Trust me, not your type. You'd regret the whole thing within a week. Come on, get me another drink," she finished, looping her arm through his to tug him toward the bar.

Michael stood his ground, jerking her back unexpectedly as she tried to pull him.

"I just got one," he said solidly. "And you've had enough, I can tell. I don't need you getting sick back at my place."

"Party pooper," she skulked, then sighed loudly. "This thing's winding down anyway. And there were no decent men here to start with," she said, cruising the room with her eyes. "Present company excluded, of course."

She looked up right into his face, into his eyes, with a laughing sparkle in hers. She carefully kept any hint of sincerity out of her voice. It was all playful and teasing, with a touch of scorn, as usual.

" 'Of course,' " Michael intoned, carefully avoiding her gaze. "Come on, let's go home."

<8 Sleep

The ride home was even less pleasant than the party. Mouse wouldn't stop talking. She also couldn't seem to finish a sentence without getting a dig in on him somehow. He never seemed to be able to fight back, either. He just didn't have the quick, witty comebacks he wanted, or the energy.

Mouse was the kind of pretty, vibrant woman that Michael would never have. She radiated the happy, aggressive personality he could never adopt himself. She teased him about his divorce, and the fact that he never dated. She called him a sad recluse and a loser.

They parked and entered his house, where the onslaught continued. Her comments got bolder, harsher. He supposed it was her way of helping him. She was trying to goad him into action, to make him do something about his life. That was her style.

Unlike Melanie, she had no limits, no sense of boundaries. And of course it was ineffective. It just hurt, and it hurt all the more coming from her, someone who was young and happy, with all of the men and nightlife she could want, and with a great chance at a happy marriage ahead of her.

Of course she took it too far in the end, after it had already gone on for too long.

"Look, was the sex ever good? Because if it wasn't good, the whole marriage was a waste of time," she advised smugly, looking out into the darkness through the big bay window in his expansive family room. She stood utterly still, looking too beautiful, and sexy, in the dim lights. He felt something stirring again.

"I don't want to talk about that."

"I'm serious, sex is important. You guys never had good sex, I could tell. There was no chemistry."

"Don't. Want. To. Talk." He figured extra punctuation made the words weightier. Mouse missed the extra periods, though, or chose to ignore them.

"Was it her fault, or yours? How did she kiss? Did she like the way you kiss?"

"Mouse, stop it!" he barked. "I'm tired of your shit tonight, alright? Just lay off."

This made her own blood boil, he could tell. She didn't like being told to shut up, she never had, and it set her off, every time, even if he had every right to say it now.

"So it was your fault," she accused. "You probably kiss like a fish." That was said hurtfully, with an audible sneer.

"Mouse, stop it."

"Cock like a fish, too, no doubt, all floppy and soft and small."

He didn't answer her this time. He just stood there seething. She stood, too, glaring back at him, all smug and nasty and defiant, in her too tight, too short, too everything outfit.

Something in Michael snapped. He didn't think it out, he didn't decide to do it, he just did it. He walked up to her, chest to chest, bumping her, towering over her. She stood her ground. He grabbed her shoulders in his overlarge hands, pulled her up and toward him, and kissed her hard on the lips. Mouse's eyes stayed open in shock the whole time, her arms flat at her sides, her body rigid. His lips searched and pushed and probed at hers, moving ceaselessly and angrily over her own in a very unbrotherly kiss.

When he had pulled his lips away, she stayed as she was, perfectly still, staring at him, finally silent, barely breathing.

"Well? Was that like a fish?" he exhaled in a snarl.

She didn't answer, but she didn't pull away, either. She didn't move. She just stared back, unblinking.

He pulled her closer. He pushed his face into hers, their noses touching. "Well? Answer! Fish or not?" he demanded, still barbarically angry.

She shook her head "no" very quickly, almost imperceptibly, while staring back, timorously, as if any movement would be agonizingly painful. He kissed her again, holding her to him tightly. She still didn't move a muscle. She simply hung there, limp, in his strong grip.

He pulled his lips away again. Hers seemed to follow his a bit, to linger a moment extra.

"Do you like the way I kiss?" he demanded, still angry, but regaining control by small increments. He squeezed her shoulders tightly with his powerful hands.

"Do. You. Like. The. Way. I. Kiss." The extra periods worked this time.

She nodded her head "yes", again with only quick, tiny flicks, so he was barely sure she'd done it. She looked scared, shy and eager all at once, seemingly afraid that if she moved too much he might do something dangerous, or perhaps that something would break, this would break, whatever it was, whatever was happening. She held his stare for a long time, a very long time.

He held it too, while slowly calming down, realizing what he had done. He was drunk. He was angry, dangerously angry. Now he was afraid to let go and face the consequences, afraid to admit he'd wildly lost control and apologize for it.

Not knowing what else to do, seeing no way out, he kissed her again. He did so less angrily this time, more gently, more tenderly, but still with passion, still trying to prove to her that yes, a woman could want him. It was insane, but he did it.

When he finished, she still hovered in his arms, trembling a bit, he thought, and still, still staring maddeningly into his eyes.

Michael looked down at her. He looked her over, like a john sizing up a hooker. He looked at the flesh and curve of her shoulders, her breasts, her neck. He studied her face, realizing how similar they looked, brother and sister, how her eyes were shaped and positioned just like his, how they shared the family nose, and only now realizing that even their lips and chins were the same, though his clearly had a more masculine tone. He noticed how her cheeks were a bit higher and softer, but they were his, with the same basic cut and shape.

He leaned forward to kiss her again, not really knowing why he did, why he was doing any of this. It was a very "Mouse" thing to do, doing something just because you wanted to, without thinking of right or wrong or consequences. And she was being very "un-Mouse" like, too timid, too insecure, instead of simply slapping him hard and shoving him away.

He kissed her firmly this time, finally playing his tongue against her lips, feeling them part just a bit for him. He forced his tongue through that opening into her mouth. He tasted the beer in his own mouth, mixing with vodka and something fruity from hers.

She leaned away from him slightly. It wasn't nearly enough to get away from him, not even enough to signal that she wanted to get away. She obviously didn't. She never once pushed back, as she passively let his tongue explore her mouth. He found her own tongue, flicking and twirling around it with his. When he stopped again, she was still staring into his eyes. Her arms were still limp. She was leaning far back with only his grip restraining her. Without his support she would topple over.

Michael realized with a shock that his cock was now hard, pressing firmly against her. She had to feel it, too. He hadn't felt it himself, he had been so lost in the kiss and his emotions, and an alcoholic fog. But she wasn't pulling away. In fact, he realized too, now, that when she had leaned back it was to push against him harder below the waist, against his hips and crotch as he kissed her.

He couldn't believe he was doing this, but he did. He let his hands slide down her back to her waist, tracing her spine with his fingertips. He went further, lower, brushing along the sweet little ass he had admired for so long. Once his hands had cupped it, he pulled her hips hard against his, driving his bulge against her. Mouse bit her lower lip as she felt it. Still she didn't move, and didn't drop her gaze. Her eyes were locked on his as tightly as he held their waists and bodies together.

He pulled her against him now with a slow, gentle rhythm, all the while kissing her forehead, nose and cheeks. And she still stared at him, but now she was thrusting back, only gently, but she was obviously a part of it now, no longer a bystander, no longer a spectator, no longer just an unresisting participant, but now an active one.

"And is it tiny?" he breathed softly. "Floppy?"

Again, she shook her head "no", very quickly and very shyly, visibly frightened. He jerked her once, very hard, against him, enjoying the soft squeal that escaped her throat.

Michael slid his large hands up her sides, barely brushing his knuckles across her breasts, up her neck and jaw to her face. He held it steady while kissing her gently again, then slid his thick fingers back down the soft skin of her shoulders and arms until they grasped her delicate hands.

He didn't even think about stopping this any more. He'd somehow stumbled this far. There were no more limits.

He pulled both of their hands in between them. He brashly held hers against the bulge in his pants. Her eyes grew wide as she realized what he was doing, what she was doing, that she was touching her brother's cock, touching his erection.

She didn't pull back. She moved her index finger, only that, ever so gently, up and down, tracing the ridge of his prick through his pants. He held her gently now, barely touching her, so that the motion of her hands against him was clearly hers alone. Then he took her wrists in his finger tips to guide her hands up to his belt buckle.