Overcoming Writer's Block

This story contains descriptions of close family members engaged in entirely inappropriate activities that some may find either disturbing or hot. If you find family members fantasizing about or taking liberties with each other or otherwise behaving in naughty ways, then you probably should stop reading right about... now.

All characters in this story are fictional and are eighteen years or older. Any resemblance to any real person, living, dead, or under the age of eighteen, is in your own dirty little mind. Sadly, most of the events portrayed in this story are not based on true events. I wish.

If you are still reading and are not offended by MILF or SILF or BILF and believe siblings behaving in very naughty ways is hot, I hope you enjoy this story.

When the pandemic hit, it didn't bother me too much. In fact, it turned pretty well for me--much better than for thousands of others, which is the one thing I feel guilty about.

I'm a writer, and I have a regular job working regular hours, and before Covid hit, the only time I had to write was at night and on weekends. Suddenly, I was working from home, now without a 45-minute commute each way. Not only that, work slowed to a crawl, so between Zoom meetings and the rare occasion anyone sent an e-mail or called, I could write.

I'm 45, divorced, my kids have moved away, so I had peace, quiet and lots and lots of time. Made good use of it. I write horror stories, and the world pretty much was a dystopian horror story, so I had all sorts of inspiration just by turning on the news.

I come from a family of writers; Dad worked for a newspaper, and Mom wrote pulp romances, so it came naturally. They would have killed for all the free time of the pandemic, but they were both gone. My sister Dawn writes, too. Much like me, her daughter married at 19 a year before and moved halfway across the country, so while she was working from home, she also wrote. She inherited Mom's talent for writing romances, only Dawn's are aimed at teens.

Unlike me, Dawn is still married, although her husband's job working on oil rigs keeps him away from home, so we were both pumping out stories like crazy. Bobby, her husband, was out on a rig in the Gulf when this hit, so he was safe and the only way he could be more socially isolated is if he was on the International Space Station. So that was great.

Dawn and I mostly stayed in our homes, meeting regularly to critique each other's work and brainstorm to work out kinks in our stories. Our sessions began as once every two weeks, but as things went on and we were our only source of socialization, became once a week, then twice. The last time we spent this much time together was before I graduated high school.

Writing was keeping us sane, as did our evenings together, when we'd order food delivery and drink cheap wine and talk about our writing and the chaos swirling around us and everything. We felt terrible so many people were dying, but made the best out of terrible situation.

Well, that's what I thought until one night when we ordered dinner and hung out on her porch. Something was off with Dawn that night; she was moody and quiet and I assumed the horrible news stories going on around then were getting to her. I asked, "Are you having a hard time dealing with all this tragedy?"

"Yeah, that's part of it." She took a sip of wine as we waited for Uber to bring our food. "How is your writing going?"

"Great. Only had a few e-mails the last few days and the phone didn't even ring yesterday. How's yours?"

"Do you ever get writer's block?"

"All the time."

"What do you do about it?"

"Most of the time I will write about something else, hoping it triggers something. Are you stuck?"

"Yes," she answered. "A classic case of writer's block."

"Oh, that sucks. What seems to be the problem? Anything I can do to help?"

"No. I had this great idea, but just hit a wall."

"Bounce it off me. Maybe I will say something that will trigger your imagination."

"No. Maybe I will try writing something else for a while."

That was frickin' weird. She always discussed her story ideas with me, as I did with her. Heck, she helped me work out the relationship of my characters in a book about a demon-possessed manic who was chasing a young couple, and her ideas worked so well, my publisher had already set the release date for the next month.

The Uber driver showed up with our food right then, so we let it drop. It was warm enough by then to eat on her deck, which was great, since we'd been inside so much. During dinner, she was back to normal, but when we finished, the gloom settled over her again.

"Cheer up! You never have writer's block for long; by tomorrow, you will be writing 3000 words a day again."

"You're right."

"Why don't you read me a bit--I'd love to hear some of what you have written so far."

"It isn't something you'd... I'm not comfortable sharing it with you. Not yet."

I was going to let it go, but her evasiveness made me curious, so I kept at it, hoping to help in some way. We were drinking, and drinking can make me more obnoxious, so figured I could wear her down.

"Maybe I can help. What seems to be the problem?"

What do you know? It worked. I wore her down. "Okay, here's the deal--my problem is I write about things I know. Divorce, abandonment, first love, disappointment. Girls who aren't perfectly beautiful or raised in a perfect family."

"And?"

"Well, I started this story. It's a great idea, but it sort of took off in a direction I hadn't planned. The problem is, it's nothing like what I have experienced. So, I'm stuck. I suppose that doesn't happen to you."

He chuckled. "Well, the story I am currently writing is about spores that infect people and turn them into homicidal maniacs, so..."

"Yeah, I guess it is different for horror writers."

"Don't get me wrong--I've just never needed spores to set off a murder spree in real life. What is your story about?"

"Nothing. Nevermind."

"Okay, be all mysterious."

She rolled her eyes, a warning that she was getting frustrated. To be honest, so was I. All this mystery about her story was driving me nuts! The less she told me, the more curious I became.

"Remember when you wrote that book Snow Bunny? You went out west for half the winter while Bobby was out on a rig. Learned how to ski, shushed down every ski run in 3 states, if I remember right. How many awards did you end up with for that book?"

"Yeah, that strategy might not work with this one."

"What does your character do, steal a car? Murder someone? Worse?"

"Some probably consider it worse than murder."

"Ooh, sounds better all the time--tell me about it!"

"That's the thing--I can't. You'll think bad of me."

"I wrote a book about a family who ran a barbecue stand. Their top seller was smoked hitchhiker. I don't judge what others write."

"You won a couple of awards for that one, didn't you?"

"Almost as many as your Snow Bunny."

"Okay, what the hell. No judging."

"No judging."

"It's about a girl away at college and she falls in love with a great guy. But she has a dark secret. It's a love triangle."

"What's so bad about that?"

"Her secret is so dark she knows her boyfriend will never understand. And she feels like she's cheating on the other guy she loves when she's with him and will betray him by revealing her secret to his rival."

"Okay, so far, so good. What's the problem?"

"My problem is putting myself in her shoes. The important thing in YA romance is the internal conflict, the growth the characters go through, and the emotions they feel in the process. And I just can't realistically explain what she's going through inside because I realized too late I don't quite understand what she is feeling."

"Oh, because you've never cheated on a guy?"

"Well, there's that. And the other guy--the one she left at home, it's her brother."

"Oh, I see."

"It's not an abusive incestuous relationship. It's totally consensual, and she really is in love with him, and he loves her. And I just can't wrap my head around how that must feel." She gulped down about half a glass of Chardonnay. "See my problem?"

To be honest, I didn't. My characters had murdered their parents, their kids. The barbecue family smoked one of their sisters and ate her for New Year's dinner, and we laughed together when I told her about it. I've never actually thought of sucking the blood from my grandparents in my life, but one of my characters did.

So, I told her what I do. "Just tell it like any he's other guy. Because, if you think about it, that's what he is--a boy she fell for."

"But the whole point is to explain what she experiences. Is it like any other relationship? How does it make her feel? Because feelings are what my books are all about. My readers expect real, complex emotions, not just the same thing she'd feel if she was cheating on the high school basketball star back home."

"It's consensual?"

"Oh, totally. They are into each other, although she suspects brother is simply using her for his own pleasure. And that's how it started off for her, but then she started having feelings. And now that she's with the other guy, she starts doubting his motives."

"Sure, I suspect she would. They both would. Develop feelings, I mean."

"Do you think so? A brother wouldn't use her like that?"

"Sure. Why not? I guess it depends on the guy."

"He's a real sweetheart. He acts tough for school and sports, but Sis is the one who knows him best and knows differently."

"So, what is your problem? You don't understand him, or you don't understand her?"

"I guess either one. I want to really know how she feels and how her brother feels."

"Well, you do have a brother."

"What do you mean?"

"What do you mean?" I laughed and explained. "If you want to talk it through--heck, we can role-play it, I'll be happy to do work through it with you. But I have the feeling you need something more than to brainstorm with me. Right?"

"Roleplaying might help..."

"But you doubt it will help you understand your characters' emotions, right?"

"I guess we can try. Roleplay, I mean."

"Right. I wasn't suggesting anything more than roleplaying."

"Oh, of course not." Nervous giggling.

"Do you want to give it a try now?"

"Sure, why not? A bottle of wine in us, we should be good to pretend we are having incest."

"How do we start?"

"You think I know?" She stood up and motioned for me to do the same. "Why don't we hug, hold each other, see how it feels? Take it from there."

"Good idea."

I leaned toward her, then froze. "This isn't some April Fool's joke or something, is it?"

"Would I play an April Fool's joke on you like that?"

"That is exactly the sort of prank you would pull on me."

"It's not April Fool's. I promise."

Still suspecting something, I was tense as she leaned tentatively against me. I stiffly placed my hands safely in the center of her back, self-consciously, as if we had not greeted each other with a warm, full-body welcome hug an hour or so before.

I guess I should tell you a bit about Dawn. She's 42, with long hair that is still dark, no race of gray yet, and pale blue eyes. She was always skinny, but put on a few pounds after she had her daughter. A couple of years ago, she lost all that weight, and probably weighed the same as when she was in college.

Dawn is pretty--always has been--but not in the sexy, hot MILF way. More intellectual looking, she had that hotness one of those expert commentators they have on the news to discuss some serious discussion of Mideast conflict or a doctor battling Covid and you realize you have no idea what she said because you sat there the whole time wondering why she is so sexy, because ordinarily, you might not think she is. That's Dawn.

It's the way her eyebrows jump up and down when she talks, the sexy little smile she gets, how animated her face is and how her pale eyes move a little too slowly, like they can tear right through you to your innermost thoughts. Another thing that hinders her from being too sexy is she has tiny tits. Really tiny. Not flat as a guy, but noticeably small. I doubt she's worn a bra since she stopped nursing my niece, and when they puffed up back then, they were fun to watch. Soon as she weaned her, they shrank back to the size they'd been since puberty.

Her ass more than makes up for it, but you don't see her ass when she's sitting there chatting, you know?

Anyway, there I am hugging her and she's hugging me, and it felt as uncomfortable as when one of your hot coworkers hugs you at the Christmas party while your boss is standing there observing.

"Is this weird?"

"A little," she answered. "Act natural."

"As a brother? Or as a guy hugging a girl he has the hots for?"

"How do I know? You feel like a guy in a flood who's grabbed hold of a tree and is clinging tight to keep from being swept away."

That made both of us laugh, and her tiny titties rubbed against my chest a little, and I didn't have to imagine pretending to enjoy that because--hey, tits are tits, right? Tiny tits, sister tits; they are still tits! Laughing relaxed us, and she snuggled her cheek against me, her breath warm on my neck. Her hair smelled fantastic.

I started rubbing her back, and she rubbed mine and I could feel her tension relax as I was. "Don't freak out," she said. "Maybe we should kiss. Not making out..."

"Oh, of course."

"But not that tight lip, wedding-reception-line kiss when Aunt Margie comes along." Aunt Margie kissed all of her nieces and nephews full on the lips far back as I can remember. It was a family joke.

We must have stared at each other for 5 minutes preparing. I'm sure she could read my thoughts as well as I could read hers. Were we really going to do this?

Someone had to act, so I pulled her to me, and she willingly came. Her lips were soft as you'd expect a woman with lips as full as hers to be, and surprisingly delightful. I latched onto her upper lip and she sucked slightly on my lower lip. It was a good kiss, the kind that leads to a great kiss. But we held it so long it seemed to have a life of its own.

Why the hell not? I tried to slip my tongue in. Denied! She closed her lips just enough to send a message that whatever this kiss was, it wasn't French.

Somehow, that stirred me, and I felt movement in my pants. This is pretty cool, I thought. I actually expected her to pull away after a couple of seconds, then again when I tried to slip her some tongue, but if anything, she sucked my lip harder. She must feel my cock springing to life against her, yet it didn't seem to bother her.

Her lips opened, and she tilted her head to the side a bit before sucking my lip again, the same as before. Sensing she was warming up, I let my hand slide down. This might be my only chance to feel my sister's ass, and I wasn't going to let that opportunity pass by. Much like tits are tits no matter what, so is a woman's ass, except Dawn has a particularly nice one. So nice, in fact, I wasn't sure when was the last time I felt one as nice. Heck, even saw one as fine.

Maybe ever.

It feels as good as it looks: firm and round and smooth through her soft cotton pants. A couple of seconds in, she moaned. That was damn hot, and I was fully hard by then, pressed against my sister, grabbing her ass and enjoying the hell out of it.

Dawn moaned again.

It must have panicked her. Her hormones were flowing, and she realized what we were doing, and those feelings must have shocked her, because she pulled away and began patting my chest until I let go of her ass and let my other arm fall from her waist.

"Okay. Wow," she said. "I think that's good."

"Did you get what you needed?" It was all I could think of saying, realizing that agreeing it was good might not help her calm down.

"Maybe we should call it a night."

"Yeah, it's getting late," I said. It was like 8:00. Normally, we both wrote until midnight or so. Curing Covid, everyone became night-owls.

We didn't see each other for a couple of days. Missed our usual date, and I suspect she was feeling as uncomfortable about it as I was. Why did I grope her ass and ruin the whole thing? The interesting thing is, I was jerking off more frequently, which was pretty cool. And I found myself thinking of her while I greased my pole, more than usual.

But I couldn't help wondering how long we would have kissed, or how. Or what might have come later had I not groped her.

Eventually, she came over for dinner, and we ignored the elephant in the room until after we ate. Then she said, "We need to talk."

"Yeah, look, I'm sorry I grabbed your butt..."

"Oh, don't worry about that. I mean, that's what people do, and that's what we were supposed to be doing."

"Good." Then what did we need to talk about?

"Well, I sort of pulled the plug right in the middle and left you hanging."

"Hey, that's okay. It wasn't about us. We were supposed to be role-playing, and I got carried away."

"For the last few days, I have written 10,000 words in my novel. Had to delete half of what I had already written because I realized I had it all wrong. So, just so you know, it worked."

"Good; I'm glad." Being someone's muse gave me a sense of pride.

"The thing is, I pulled the plug on myself, too. A lot makes sense, but I don't even know how it feels for you to really kiss me, or the emotions a sister experiences really kissing... I have a much better idea now, but I was wondering: would it be too much to ask you to make out with me?"

"For research?"

"Call it research and--I guess I should have asked you: was it fun for you?"

"Oh, sure. Kissing you was much more fun than I expected."

Her look said it all--how long had I been wondering how kissing her would feel? Did she really think I never wondered before that first kiss? Maybe she hadn't, but I doubt it.

"Did you enjoy it?"

"More than I expected, too." Well, damn! If you wondered, why look at me like I'm a freak for wondering the same thing?

"Why don't we just make out for whatever reason we want? Chalk it up as for research purposes, but if we enjoy it, what's the harm in that?"

"Whew! I was so worried you were going to be upset." The relief was visible on her face.

"About what?"

"Calling it off so suddenly. Using you for research. I've got an entire list."

"Wrote it into your story?"

"How did you know?"

"Will you have a panic attack if I touch your bum again?"

"We need to make out. Don't go crazy or anything, but I need you to kiss me and touch me. Long as we don't take our clothes off, we will be fine."

She was on the couch and I was halfway across the room in my favorite chair, but I could not think of any reason to continue discussing this. I've been married and have kids--I know what making out and touching a woman's body are, and so does she. I made it to the couch in about 2 steps, and she looked terrified until I sat down.

That's when the corners of her mouth curled up in that super provocative way of hers.

Our mouths were open when our lips met. Softer this time, and wide open, inviting me, but she did not wait for me to accept her invitation. Her tongue lashed out, finding mine, and I thought my heart was going to burst from my chest from shock.

Two seconds into it, she pulled away, laughing and patting her upper chest. "Wait, wait--oh crap!"

"What's the matter?"

"I feel like I'm in middle school."

"But you aren't; you are an adult woman. Now kiss me like one!"

I'll be damned, but she did. The instant our tongues met again, she went straight to 11. It felt like she just got released from prison after serving a 20-year sentence, the most desperate kiss I have ever felt. I'm sure mine matched, at least in that regard.