Mouse Bk. 05 Ch. 04

But when he'd seduced her, when they became lovers, that all changed. Mouse was the special one. Mouse was closer to him, by far. Melanie was always there, hovering, threatening, but Mouse had him. Even if Melanie didn't actually want him as a lover, it didn't matter, because Mouse did, and she had him, and she became closer. She had won.

Her whole life she'd been jealous of Melanie. And it had taken her until now to realize that Melanie had never been a threat. She had to see Melanie in ruin before she realized that she had nothing to fear from her.

Melanie was actually too close to Michael to ever have what he and Mouse had. Mel's entire life itself was its own twisted maze. She could never be a threat to Mouse. Melanie and Michael would never have what she had with him. Melanie would never even try.

In a sordid way, she had tried, and the result was that she'd driven Michael away. She didn't get him, and she'd lost what they had.

That needed mending. Michael still needed Melanie. He couldn't afford to lose Melanie as a sister, a real sister. Mouse owed that to him.

And Melanie needed Michael, and her own sanity. Mouse owed that to her. After years of feeling jealous and bullied and overshadowed, Mouse had finally come to realize that Melanie needed her, too, and Michael, and Mouse owed her something. Mouse had a responsibility to her big sister.

Melanie wasn't a threat. Mouse kept telling herself that. Melanie was not a threat.

She took a deep breath, and did what she liked to do, what came naturally to her. She took an unnatural risk.

* * *

"Okay, Michael, this is going to sound weird."

"As opposed to everything else?"

"Yes. Even weirder."

"What is it?"

"You have to make love to Melanie."

"I am not fucking my big sister, Mouse. Not again."

"Not fuck, make love. And yes you are."

"Mouse, no way. No. I. Am. Not."

"Shut up, dork, and listen. You guys are going to have these memories for the rest of your lives, painful, twisted, memories of something you never wanted to happen. But it did, and you have to live with it."

"That's right. We have to grow up and live with it."

"No you don't, not entirely. Trust me, I know what it's like to live with something like this your whole life, always eating at you. It affects every decision you make. You can't get it out of your head."

"Mouse..."

"Shut up. I lived for years with the guilt and remorse that I felt for what I wanted, but I couldn't have. I wanted something that everyone said was horribly wrong and evil. I couldn't tell anyone, not even you, especially not you. I kept it bottled up, and it made it a million times worse. I wanted you so badly, and it ate away at my life. It poisoned every relationship I ever had, especially my relationship with you."

"This is different."

"Yes and no."

"Mouse, you never actually did anything back then. You wanted to, but didn't. Things got better when you did. I didn't want to, but did, and now things are fucked up."

"Liar."

"Mouse!"

"Well, you're a liar. You did want to. Maybe you wouldn't have, but you wanted to. And the fact is that you did, and now you both have to live with it, and its going to make things very awkward for a long, long time. No matter what you say to each other, no matter how you act, it's always going to be in your mind, it's always going to hurt both of you. It's going to fuck you both up."

"So how does fucking Melanie again make that any better."

"Not fucking, making love."

"How?"

"By doing it right, how and when you both want to. Go into it with your eyes open, both of you. Say yes, it would be wrong to do, it would have been wrong to do, but because of this, because of what you did do, then this one time, it's right. Make yourselves do it right. Make it beautiful."

"And then? After we've done it? What, we all live happily ever after?"

"No. Then you make sure you don't mess it up again. You prove to yourselves, and to me, that it was just something that happened, by never doing it again."

"I can't believe you're telling me to do this."

"You know I'm right."

"I know you're crazy."

"You know you love me."

"Yes, I love you."

"And I'm right."

"And I love you."

"And I'm right."

"I'll think about it. I don't even know when we could. Doug is around. I don't know when Dan will be away again. We probably can't even work it out."

"I think your doorbell is going to ring right about now."

"Oh, shit, no, Mouse."

"Yes. Goodbye. Dork."

"Mouse..."

Mouse snapped the phone closed. She very purposely didn't run to her dresser, where she didn't frantically look for a clean leotard. Not nearly as quickly as she could have, she changed, to go to the studio to dance not too frenetically. It was the only thing that was going to keep her mind from entirely focusing on what would be happening hundreds of miles away.

Mouse had to dance.

<8 Reparations

Melanie was a mess. The woman that was always, always clean and neat and presentable and beautiful, was a mess.

Her mascara was streaked and smeared around her eyes from wet tears, black smudges on pale skin. He'd never realized how much eyeliner she wore, until now. Without it, her eyes looked smaller, but more natural, less sexy, but more real.

Some locks of hair were out of place, though she couldn't be said to be entirely disheveled. She'd never let herself go that far. Her eyes were not quite puffy and red, but Michael could see that she'd been crying, hard. Her expression was blank and stern and tired and frightened, all at once.

Her clothes were still neat and proper. She had a high collar which she had, strangely, buttoned all the way up to the neck, to the very last button, on a very hot day. Michael considerately avoided looking to see if there were any perspiration stains. It somehow seemed like an intrusion, a violation of her privacy when she was vulnerable, like sneaking a peek when she was getting dressed or undressed, which he had certainly tried to do when they were younger.

"Hi."

He tried to sound at ease, and comforting, but it came out flat. It wasn't that he felt that way, entirely. Or maybe he did. He didn't really know how he felt. He certainly wasn't trying to make her feel even worse.

It was just all so awkward.

She smiled at him, a small, tired, grimace of a smile, the kind of smile that says "I had that coming, it's no more than I deserve."

Michael silently stepped aside. He started belatedly to ask her in, but she was already past him, moving slowly but determinedly, almost trance like, towards his den and his leather sofa.

She stopped once she got there, to stare at it as if it were a torture device, an iron maiden or a rack in some fateful dungeon.

Michael placed his hand on her back, expecting her to cringe. She didn't react. He lovingly caressed her back, briefly, then applied a gentle pressure, urging her forward onto the couch. Once he started her moving, she stepped quickly to it and then to the farthest end, sitting on very edge, knees together, hands clasped together, eyes facing forward and down.

Michael sat close beside her, trying to signal a comfort with her that neither of them felt.

"Michael, please. Just... please."

He clumsily sideslipped away from her, more than willing himself to give her more space. He made himself move his left hand to the back of her neck, though, trying to create some contact with her, to show her it wasn't all that awkward for him, or at least that it didn't need to be. It was something akin to very carefully peeling back the edge of a band aid, afraid to pull to hard or too suddenly, but knowing that it needed to be done.

Once there, he played shyly with the hair at the back of her head, occasionally, randomly caressing the nape of her neck with the most meager touch of a single knuckle.

Melanie breathed deeply, seeming to relax, at last, under his touch. Her eyes closed as she appeared to gather herself.

* * *

"I'm not fucking you, Michael."

Without even glancing over at him, with her eyes locked straight ahead on the far wall, she could still tell that Michael looked shocked. She didn't mean to be so course, or to come at him so hard, but she was cold and numb herself.

His knuckle froze in place against the back of her neck. She froze with him, willing him to continue with his gentle, loving touch. As harsh as she was, as much as she wanted to order him to stop, she needed him to continue.

As if he read her mind, the pause was only momentary. The soothing feel of his touch calmed her, and warmed her.

"I'm not," she continued. "I don't care what Mouse says. And I know you don't want to, either. I agreed, but I was being stupid. I wasn't thinking straight. It would be a big mistake."

"Good. I'm glad we agree."

A part of Melanie sank as he said it. She could feel herself deflating. She was afraid that he noticed.

At that moment, she felt ready to break down again. She turned to him, burying her head in his shoulder. A barely stifled, unwanted sob escaped her.

His large, strong hands were instantly on her shoulders, drawing her in, while shielding her, too. She collapsed into him, tunneled into him, hiding from the world, and from herself, and mostly from him, in his house and his chest and his arms.

She stayed there for too long, crying into him, trying to let all of it out. She'd thought she'd done that before. She'd thought she was finished before she even came over, before she left her own room.

She was wrong.

* * *

Michael's own spirit was torn and tattered by the time she stopped crying. He was beginning to feel cruel. He realized now how much damage he had done by ignoring her for so long, even after Mouse had told him to talk to her, even after she'd told him how much Melanie was hurting.

But he had to be spoiled and selfish. He had to be the rotten little brother again. Let Melanie be the big sister. Let her shoulder the load. Let her be the mother, and pamper and coddle him and his emotions.

He felt like a shit.

Unexpectedly, a muffled laugh stuttered into his chest, just before Melanie draw back.

"I think I got mascara all over your shirt," she said, sniffling and dabbing uselessly at the black marks now smeared on his chest.

He eyed them for a moment, then glanced at her. She wouldn't look him in the eye. Her gaze stayed focused on his chest. After crying, she looked even worse than before. Now her eyes were very red and puffy. He looked around for tissues, knowing there were none.

He spied her oversized handbag on the table, reached, grabbed it and handed it to her. She gratefully took it, hunting immediately through it for what she needed, finding a tissue easily and quickly. The opened handbag was then tossed, unceremoniously, onto the table with a thud.

Michael looked into her face, waiting for her to look back. She finally did. She looked straight into his eyes. She'd recovered some, now. She looked empty. There was little emotion in her face. It had all drained away, into his chest. There was nothing left in her eyes but questions.

He smiled softly at her. With his thumb, he worked to smear the odd patches of mascara from her face, succeeding only in making things worse. As he did so, her expression clouded with an odd concern.

* * *

He was so handsome. Melanie tried not to think it, partly because she knew it wasn't true. He wasn't at all handsome, and really never had been. His nose was too large, with a pronounced bump. His eyebrows were on the bushy side. He was bald. He had a nice, firm, square jaw, but his lips were too small and thin. His eyes were so warm, so dark and warm and giving, but they were maybe too close together.

He was still handsome, to her.

He was still her darling baby brother. He needed her, he'd always needed her, yet here she was, needing him, and here he was, for her.

Which was a silly, stupid line of thought. She needed him because she'd abused him. She needed him because she'd raped him, embarrassing them both.

She owed him.

Melanie leaned up and forward to kiss him politely on the cheek.

* * *

As her lips approached him, he froze again. He was so terrified of doing the wrong thing, of hurting her worse. He didn't want her to feel unwanted. Hell, he did want her, no matter how many times he told himself otherwise.

He had Mouse's permission. Hell, he had her direct orders.

Melanie wanted him. She'd shown it. She'd said it to Mouse. She denied it now, of course. She had to deny it. She'd always have to deny it, even after they separated again. That was part of the game. That was part of how she'd manage her own guilt.

He didn't know how he was going to manage his guilt. He didn't think that far. He just turned his lips to hers, to return her kiss.

* * *

Melanie's eyes opened in shock. She'd only intended to give him a loving peck. She had thoroughly intended to stay as far from his lips as she could. But, after she'd closed her eyes, there they were, in the way, pressing against hers.

She mentally raped herself, inside, feeling guilty, even as she thought about how warm and soft his lips were. She fell quickly into enjoying how tenderly he kissed. His kiss was just a gentle, subtle touch, with slight, shy movements of his lips, calmly probing and massaging, not too eager, not too harsh, not harsh at all.

Melanie startled herself as she realized that he kissed like Mouse. The thought should have made her pull back, but instead she fell into him more. She kissed him back, harder, like she would with Mouse. She took control, like she so often did, with everyone, but especially with him, with her baby brother.

She helped him along.

She moved her lips over his, planting soft, lingering kisses, letting him know that it was okay, that she liked it. Her kisses became more eager, openly showing him her own growing excitement. Her kisses covered more and more of his warm, inviting lips.

She placed her lips fully against his. She opened her mouth to him, at first inviting his tongue in, then reaching out with her own to find his when he hesitated.

His hands moved into her hair. She feared she'd pushed too far, too fast, when she'd never intended to push anywhere at all. She feared that he was now panicking, ready to push her away. Instead he held her head firmly in place, keeping her lips locked on his as his tongue came out to dance electrically with hers.

* * *

Mouse spun and twisted and jumped. No amount of energy was too much. No movement was too fast, or inappropriate, or ill timed. She moved. She moved and moved and moved.

As fast as she could, her body spun and twisted and jumped and moved, trying to keep her mind too busy to think about Michael and Melanie together.

* * *

Melanie's hands were warm and soft, resting delicately on his chest as they kissed. Her finger nails moved randomly as her fingers flexed, as if energized by the feel of his lips on hers.

She kissed just like he would have expected, Michael thought wryly to himself. She had to be in control.

He liked the way she kissed. He realized now that she hadn't kissed him at all that night. The whole night they'd been together, with all of the things she'd done to, no, with him, with all of the things they'd done, during that whole night she had never kissed him, or even tried.

He took one long moment, enjoying the soft, eager, controlling, probing, guiding press of her lips. He took one long moment to thoroughly relax under her control, enjoying it, before breaking her spell.

As if to thwart her own self image, he let one large, strong hand grip her shoulder, using it to pull her body firmly against his, to pull her soft, wonderfully large breasts against his own chest, as he widened his mouth, driving his own thick tongue into her, pushing her tongue aside.

He could feel her melting into him. Big sister was going to learn that little brother was a man, now.

* * *

Melanie could feel herself losing control, like a small bird fluttering in the strong gusts of an oncoming storm. Her breasts tingled and threatened to explode, mashed hard as they were against Michael's wooden chest, forced there by his unbreakable, masculine, iron grip. Melanie could feel her mind spinning as her pussy grew first warm, then hot, and wet, and hungry.

His mouth was warm and inviting and loving and exciting, wet and tender and wild, all at once.

Fighting to keep her composure, she shifted her own mouth to the side, exploring his neck with hers.

"I don't want to do this, Michael. I don't," she lied breathlessly.

"Neither do I."

"I'm only doing it because Mouse told us, too."

"Yes..."

"We'd never hurt Mouse."

Michael stiffened in her arms at the mentions of Mouse.

"You never will, Michael, don't be afraid. I know we shouldn't do this. I know it's crazy. It's not the way to solve my problems."

She stopped talking to kiss his neck again, to explore his neck and the underside of his chin and his cheek and his lips and his nose and his cheek, all with her lips and the tip of her tongue, all teasing and tasting and touching.

While she did so she took his hand firmly with hers. She reached up to her shoulder with her own hand, to find his, to pry it away. She pried it off of her shoulder to guide it down, to place it, gently, against her breast, and then to hold it there as she leaned into him, pressing her tortured, tingling, full breast into his large, strong hand.

Melanie moaned loudly as he did just the right thing, squeezing it hard, not too hard, but massaging it with just enough strength, just the right mix of eagerness and tenderness, to send her over the edge. She moaned loudly as her breast exploded with a thousand different sensations, all pleasurable, set off by her baby brother's wide, strong hand.

"I need you, Michael. I need you. I need to be a woman, for you."

For her magnificent baby brother.

Then her mouth was on his again, not letting him agree or protest, not letting him complicate things with further words.

* * *

The sweat streamed down Mouse's temples, tickling evidence that she'd been exerting herself even more strenuously than normal. She paused for a moment, considering the thought. Then her mind flitted back to Michael, with Melanie. The image zoomed into her mind's eye, filling her vision like a movie screen.

She immediately resumed her dance, with redoubled vigor, trying to quiet her overactive mind.

* * *

Her breast was so full in his hands. It had been years, if ever, since he'd been with a woman whose breast fit so well in his grasp. She enjoyed his touch so much, too. He didn't need to be gentle. She didn't want him to be gentle. He could tell by her gasps and moans that the more brusquely he fondled her, the more she enjoyed it.

The rush of having her press herself into him, trying to force more contact, pushed his own excitement forward, and his inhibitions back.

Michael frantically fumbled at the buttons of her blouse. Her own hand found his, softly urging it back to her breast, after which she quickly worked on the blouse herself, eager to give her flesh to him.

As soon as her blouse was open enough, she impatiently moved his hand to the opening, then back underneath the cloth. He let his own fingers push beneath the tight, stiff fabric of the bra. The curve of her soft breast yielded easily, giving way, giving his fingers room.

Abruptly, she had snapped free the front clasp of the bra. It fell away, exposing her completely to his hungry hand. He felt the heat and hard excitement of her wide nipple just brush against his palm in the short moment before he cupped her entire tit and squeezed, drawing a loud, sharp gasp from her throat.

It only took Michael a moment to push her back, to get his second hand on her left breast, then to push her further, straining to reach her tits with his mouth. As she realized what he was doing, she relaxed. Her hands moved to the back of his skull, where her fingers danced an excited, random pattern all over his bald scalp, then suddenly tightened, pulling him toward the very spot they both wanted his mouth to be.