Mouse Bk. 06 Ch. 03

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Mouse lay, stroking the back of his neck and skull, waiting for him to recover, and then to move and ease her discomfort. The odd angle at which he lay, his panting bulk, the seat and center console, the lever for the emergency brake, none of it was designed for comfort, yet she felt she could lay beneath him all night.

She wanted him to get up mostly so that she could clamp her legs together, to hold his seed inside her and make sure none of it leaked out. She wanted her brother's cum inside of her, now and always.

She wanted that, and more.

She glowed beneath his bulk as she realized that no matter what, she wanted it all.

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Michael kept his eyes clenched shut as his mind slowly recovered from the euphoric high of his orgasm. He hadn't found this particular fantasy all that appealing, when the evening had begun. He thought the entire thing rather childish and absurd. But the ending, with Mouse's pleas, had pushed him into places he'd never been or even imagined going.

At the time, in their rapturous, entwined, melding act of lust, it set off a fire and drive in him that overwhelmed him.

But now, as his body calmed, as his cock shriveled, withdrawing from her body like a burning scrap of paper carelessly tossed into a raging fire, now the rapture was replaced by panic. The hot, hard, bestial lust was overlaid with cold, hard, conscious thought.

It wasn't possible.

Of all of her fantasies, no matter how far gone or out of reach they seemed, they were fun, and there was a chance, either that they might have happened, or they still might happen. But this one was both frightening and depressing, because it could never, ever happen.

There was no way that he and Mouse could ever have a baby. There was no way that he could father her children.

She could play. She could say it. They could babysit, or talk, or imagine all that they wanted, but there was no way to fake this.

If he moved to Chicago, he could be with her. People didn't know them. They could be a couple. They could pretend to be engaged. They could pretend to be married. They could kiss and embrace in public, they could make love in private, and they could do it for year after long, pleasant year, while they both grew old, and slow, and comfortable.

He could see himself living out his days with her, all of his days, alone, just the two of them.

But he could never give her children. He could never give her a baby to hold. She could never give him a son like Andy. They could never be complete, that way.

Michael felt a bead of sweat drip down his leg under his suit pants. He was insufferably hot in his suit. His arm pits were damp. He was still panting. He realized with his growing awareness that he was awkwardly half kneeling on the side floor of the car, cramping up, half lying on Mouse, and more than half crushing her, he was sure.

He came to his senses enough to push himself up on his arms. He kissed Mouse on the forehead.

"You okay, sweetheart?"

"Yes," she said, smiling dreamily at him. "Very okay. Very, very, very okay."

She giggled. Michael often worried that she must fake it at least some of the time. She had to. There was no way he excited her that much, and made her come, every time. But this time he had no doubt that he'd pleased her. Or that she'd pleased herself, in a lot of ways, he thought.

Still, that knowledge, the idea that he'd thrilled and pleasured her like no other man could ever have, fell flat. Michael felt a blackness closing in on him, like the blackness that enveloped the car in the night, or like the black, foreboding barn that, beaten down by time, was collapsing in on itself.

She wanted something he could never, ever give her. They both wanted something that was going to force them to make a hard choice. They couldn't ignore it forever, or even for long.

Michael buried his forehead between his sister's sweet, pert little breasts, unable to banish the thought that it all had to end.

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