Remarkable People Ch. 02

Deborah

It was some two hours after his first, inconclusive attempt to bejewel his sister that Martin was ready to try again. In the intervening time, parents and dinner had come and gone. Mum and Dad were out on the town till late, leaving Martin and Deborah alone in the house once more.

Martin spent a tense time in his room, tapping out words into a manipulative whole on his phone, rethinking and revising, until the script reached an acceptable form.

He taped the jewel to the lens of a small flashlight with a rheostat, so that he could brighten and dim the light as required. This, he thought, should allow him to adjust the depth of the trance. Taking pains to avoid being caught by the jewel himself, he tested this arrangement, looking away, switching on the flashlight, then slowly turning his gaze toward it until he could just catch the light streaming through the jewel onto the wall. He adjusted the brightness, then nodded, satisfied.

Having assured himself that all necessary preparations were complete, he drew a deep breath, departed his room, padded along the upstairs passage and tapped on Deborah's bedroom door.

No response.

Martin waited impatiently, then knocked again, more loudly this time.

"Just a minute," his sister called, her tone detectably testy.

Martin switched on the flashlight and took a step back. The door swung open. Deborah was revealed, her face displaying nothing more sisterly than annoyance. She was wearing a shapeless pyjama top and matching pants, both full length. He took no note of any colour or pattern they might have possessed. Soft music was streaming out through the doorway. He took no note of that, either.

For a split second, Martin simply stared at his sibling's face... then lifted the flashlight and directed its beam into her eyes.

As before, the result was immediate. Her face and body relaxed deeply. The innocence and vulnerability this brought to her expression fanned Martin's excitement tremendously.

"Can you hear me?" Martin tested.

There was a long pause. Then...

"... yes..."

A clear response! Now, a compliance test.

"Your nose is itchy, Deb."

Deborah's hand drifted up and scratched the commanded itch.

Martin was elated. He squared his shoulders. It was time. Time to find out how hard and fast the accepted limits of hypnotic influence really were.

Taking care to keep the light directed toward her eyes, Martin lifted his nasty little script, cleared his throat, and began to read to his entranced, entrancing sister.

***

Only minutes later, he was back in his room, sitting tensely on the edge of his bed, awaiting a result.

Time dripped past like the final dregs of oil from an emptied sump.

At last, there came a soft knocking at his door, causing him a start and a lurch of the heart.

"Yeah," he responded, trying to keep his voice casual.

Silence for a moment, then...

"Hey, Martin."

"Yeah?"

"It's me, Deborah."

"I know that. Who else would it be?"

Martin was surprised at his own answer. He had intended to open the door for her immediately.

He shrugged.

Now that he seemed to have attained a measure of influence over her, he realised that he was inclined to extract a little cold vengeance for previous slights.

Deborah didn't respond.

"So... what do you want?" he asked at last.

Silence.

"Can I come in?"

"What for? It's not like you ever want to spend time with me or anything."

Silence again. Then, "I'm sorry for being unfriendly all the time."

"Okay, you're sorry. What do you want?"

"Please let me in. I... I want to make it up to you. You... you won't be sorry. I... I promise."

Martin decided that he had tormented her enough.

"The door's not locked," he said shortly.

Nothing.

Then, the handle turned, and the door swung slowly inward. There stood Deborah, looking as shy as he had ever seen her. The long pyjamas had been replaced by a short-sleeved, cream terry bathrobe that hung to mid-thigh. No other item of clothing was visible. She was barefoot. Despite her request to enter, she hovered at the threshold.

"Come in, if you want," he prompted.

Deborah hesitated, then stepped into the room. Turning her back on Martin, she closed the door. A moment longer she hesitated, then Martin heard a distinct click. His heart gave a sudden lurch as he realised that she had locked the door.

For a long moment, she stood still, with her back turned. At last, she turned, eyes downcast.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, trying to sound innocent.

Deborah's eyes flicked toward him, then away, roaming nervously around the room.

"I... I..." she stammered. " Ah... you have a nice room... I don't think I've been in here for years... I..."

Her hands were moving restlessly, fiddling with her hair, adjusting her robe.

Her eyes kept flicking towards him, then away. Was her face flushed? Was she breathing faster than normal? Martin wasn't sure.

The idea that she might be about to follow his instructions made him feverish with lust. Was she going to do it... or not?

"Why did you change out of your pyjamas?" he tested.

Hesitation. Then, "I... I... I wanted to show you my outfit... I..."

"You wanted to show me your bathrobe?"

"I... no, I... I wanted..."

She fell silent, still fidgeting.

"Well, then, what?" Martin prompted. "What did you want to show me?"

Without looking at him, Deborah's hands went to the sash that held her bathrobe closed about the midriff. For a moment, they hesitated there. Then, she slowly unknotted it. Her eyes were still directed toward the floor.

Taking a deep breath, she looked directly at him, then shrugged off the bathrobe with a single motion. The garment pooled on the floor behind her, and what lay beneath was revealed: a dark green garment of the variety known as 'babydoll.'

Martin gaped like a carp.

Shaking, Deborah attempted a smile... and failed.

"Do... do you like it?" she managed.

Martin closed his mouth. Trying to behave like a man of the world, he shrugged non-committally.

"Yeah, sure, I guess."

The quavering of his voice should have given him away... but Deborah didn't seem to notice.

Martin took a long moment to calm himself, then looked her in the eye.

"I could decide better if you showed me a few poses."

"P-p-p-poses?" Deborah stammered.

"Yeah," he confirmed. "You know, sexy ones."

"S-s-s-sexy poses?"

"Yeah."

"I... I don't think I know any."

"I do. I can direct you. It'll be like a photo shoot. I'll play the photographer, you play the model."

"Oh... uh... okay."

Recalling the earlier sequence of poses his imagination had conjured, and inventing many more, Martin put his sister through her paces, trying not to seem too eager.

Face flaming, Deborah did as he bid her. After a couple of minutes, she seemed to relax slightly.

Is she getting into it? he wondered. The possibility that she might be caused significant changes to the deployment of Martin's hormones, made him more adventurous.

"Blow me a kiss," he bid her suddenly.

Deborah's head jerked up to regard him. Her face showed a strange combination of disbelief and excitement.

"Pretend I'm your boyfriend," Martin said, trying to ease the abruptness of his instruction.

Deborah's lips formed a trembling smile. Her right hand lifted slowly and drifted toward her mouth. Just before the contact, her lips pouted. Slowly, she kissed her fingertips... lifted her fingers an inch from her lips... raised her chin a little... and released a puff of air that passed over her fingertips toward him.

Deborah's arm relaxed to hang by her side.

There was a long silence, during which Martin stared at his sister. His arousal was close to becoming unbearable.

She stared back at him.

"Hey, Deb," he croaked, almost unable to speak.

"... yes...?"

"I bet you feel like dancing for me... don't you?"

Silence. Then,

"... yes..." she sighed.

"Show me," Martin husked.

"... whuh... what kind of dance do you want me to do...?"

He looked her directly in the eye.

"You tell me," he said. "You had something specific in mind... didn't you?"

"... yes..." she admitted.

"Well?"

Silence.

"... luh... luh... luh..." she stammered.

"Lap dance," he said. "That's what you want to do for me, isn't it?"

"I... yes... no... I... yes... I..."

Having brought his sister this far, Martin felt so close to achieving his goal that Deborah's apparent ambivalence about proceeding frustrated him enormously.

Suddenly, he lost all patience.

To hell with it! He wanted to... to touch her so badly, it was like a physical pain, and... and to hell with it!

Martin then experienced the exceedingly odd sensation that he had been relegated to the role of passenger in his own body, that some other motivating force had taken over. Under its influence, he rose from the bed and stepped decisively toward his sister.

At the movement, Deborah's feverish indecision subsided. Her eyes settled on his. Her body became still. She seemed to be waiting for... something.

Belatedly, Martin's thoughts fell into step with the motions of his body. Driving out all other considerations, thoughts arose: I want her! I fucking want her! I mean, I want to fuck her!

There it was, at last. After years of ill-defined lusting, a clearly stated goal. Was it courage that allowed him to cut to the chase after beating around the bush for so long? Or, was it cowardice: the craven refusal to face life in full? The inability to cope with the fact that his sister was far more than what he perceived? Not a mannequin, not a sex toy, but a fully realised, complex human being?

In the fever of his lust, Martin considered no such abstract concepts. Having made his resolution, he realised that he was going to go ahead with it, come what may. Damn the consequences! Even a stretch in prison would be preferable to more years of intolerable wanting. He had already lived through too much of that. Still, he found it impossible to control the trembling of his hands as they clumsily attempted the task of removing his sister's flimsy garment.

Deborah's only visible reaction to this intrusion into her personal space was to follow his hands with her eyes, as if she had never before witnessed such a curious phenomenon. And of course, she hadn't. The only hands she normally saw removing her clothing were, naturally, her own.

Martin's hands were shaking so hard that they inadvertently pressed into the firm flesh filling out the material of Deborah's negligee. This contact with her breasts only inflamed Martin's desire. He heard himself growl with impatience, then, grasping the neckline of her garment with both hands, wrenched at it convulsively. The thin fabric, torn asunder, now hung ragged, revealing more of her lush body than he had ever seen before. Martin drank the sight of it. Magnificent! he thought. Fucking magnificent!

At this act of violence from her brother, Deborah's eyes widened almost to two round O's. Her mouth trembled.

"... you... I..." she stuttered. "... whuh... what are you doing...?"

"I'm taking you, Deborah," Martin heard himself say.

Deborah's small hands clenched into small fists. Her brow furrowed. But, she took no action toward either fight or flight. Her eyes searched his face endlessly, roaming here and there, as if seeking some explanation for this outrageous, incomprehensible behaviour.

"... I... you..." she babbled. She seemed unable to marshal her thoughts.

"I've been crazy for you for years," Martin interrupted, "and I can't stand it any longer. I won't hurt you, but I won't take no for an answer either. So, you can resist, or you can enjoy. I suggest the latter, because either way, it's going to happen."

Martin's words astonished even himself. Where had they come from? Who the hell was talking through his mouth?

He took a step back from her to observe his handiwork.

The picture Deborah made burned into his memory like a brand on cow-hide. She, standing, utterly nonplussed, her tantalisingly parted garment hanging loose. Revealed to his sight for the first time: the inner curves of her breasts; her firm, deliciously curved belly with its crowning navel. It was all unbearably erotic.

Martin stepped forward, reached up and, inexplicably gentle for a moment, lifted the torn negligee away from her shoulders and let it drop. The garment slid down her arms and whispered to the floor.

Her arms bent slightly, as if she intended to shield her naked breasts, then dropped back to her sides.

Now Deborah's upper body was fully exposed... and Martin found her dazzling, intoxicating.

Deborah was breathing hard, but still seemed at a loss as to what action she should take, if any. Martin didn't wait for her to decide.

Martin tore off his shirt feverishly. His arms encircled her. His embrace mashed her breasts between them. He gasped at the contact.

Her feet were together. Releasing his hold on her, he hooked his right hand behind her left knee, then pulled it forward and up, finishing by planting her left foot a sufficient distance from her right to give him access to her vulva, now protected only by the briefest of panties. Still she made no move to escape or fend him off.

Martin fumbled at his fly, and with some difficulty, freed his stiffened penis. He thrust it into the space between her legs and gasped as he felt it nestle against the thin fabric of her panties, now the only barrier between him and the object of so many fruitless fantasies. He took her upper body and arms in a bold, strong embrace, then began thrusting back and forth along her thinly-defended vulva.

Even without penetration or direct contact, the sensations were unbelievably intoxicating. He bit her neck, causing a single, plaintive syllable to escape her lips: "Oh!"

For some obscure reason, this tiny reaction inflamed him beyond endurance. Stepping back momentarily, he reached down, hooked both hands into the filmy pouch of her panties, and pulled strongly, easily tearing asunder the thin cloth.

"Oh!" Deborah repeated softly.

Martin took hold of her again, resumed ploughing her furrow, this time with no barrier of fabric between her flesh and his. For a moment, he felt only dryness and rough hair. Then, there came a sudden parting, and his penis was gliding back and forth along a clasping canal of warmth and wetness.

Deborah's vagina, he realised, was liberally juiced. He couldn't read her mind, didn't know whether she was acquiescing, or paralysed. Perhaps this moistening was her body's involuntary response to his initial grinding against her. Perhaps it was the influence of the jewel. He didn't know.

The difference in sensation was astounding. Filled with elation, he pumped slowly back and forth, liberally coating the upper surface of his penis with the slippery exudation of his sister's vagina.

It was fantastic... but he wanted more.

Martin hooked fingers into Deborah's panties, slid them off her hips, past her knees, and so to the floor.

He pulled at them, trying to free them from her feet. Deborah lifted one foot, then the other. Whether she did so automatically, or in conscious cooperation with his intent, was unclear.

Naked! he thought. Naked!

Martin grasped her shoulders, turned her gently so that her back was toward the bed, then pushed. Taken off guard, Deborah stumbled backward, reflexively trying to keep her balance. Her calves encountered the bed and she tumbled onto it.

Lying there, her eyes found his again. Again she searched his face as if for some clue as to what was going on.

Perhaps it was the combination of gentleness and roughness that confused her.

Deborah's torso was on the bed, her feet still on the floor. Martin wanted her all the way on the bed.

Lifting her feet, he pushed hard, intending her body to slide upward on the bed. In this he did not succeed, but the shove caused her knees to bend deeply, as well as to separate, so that her position now matched many fantasies Martin had previously entertained.

Martin divested himself of his lower garments, leaving him completely naked.

Impatiently, Martin manhandled her onto the bed, then followed, crawling between his sister's legs until he was atop her fully, his elbows braced to either side of her torso. His chest brushed against her breasts. His face hovered above hers. He did not attempt to kiss her.

Martin thrust clumsily, trying to bring his penis to its goal. The head butted up against something, yet it lacked the warmth and wetness he was searching for. He had expected a portal primed for penetration.

He realised that the head of his cock was pressing against her anus.

Supporting himself on his left elbow and on his sister's body, Martin reached down with his right hand and took hold of his stiff cock. He made a couple of inaccurate stabs, then guided it forward, up, down, to the left and to the right until at last he felt something envelope the head of his penis. He groaned. There was heat, and there was wetness, and it was fucking unbelievable!

He was inside her. Only a little. Maybe a single inch. But, he was inside her! Now for home fucking base!

Martin braced himself, then pushed forward. In a single, slow thrust, he sheathed his cock fully in his sister's hot, slippery cunt.

Deborah repeated her soft ejaculation.

"Oh!"

The joy and exultation and triumph Martin felt were indescribably intense. He truly felt he had stormed the gates of heaven. He withdrew, then thrust home again.

"Oh!"

Each time his full length was sheathed within her, Deborah uttered the same, soft syllable. He couldn't tell whether it was a token of surprise, or confusion, or fear, or horror, or disgust... or even excitement. Right now, he was too far gone to care. He thrust home again... and again... and again.

"Oh!"

"Oh!"

"Oh!"

And on, and on.

Then, he felt it. He was going to come. He was going to come inside his sister. He was going to come inside his sister's hot, wet cunt.

His orgasm broke upon him, and he cried out, and sprayed into her wildly. Torrid ecstasy flooded body and mind alike.

At that point, something unexpected happened. He felt a sudden ripple pass through his sister's previously passive body. The muscular flesh of Deborah's vagina clenched hard around his penis, like some weird, overheated, cylindrical mollusk.

The feeling, he decided instantly, was fucking awesome!

At the same time, Deborah startled Martin by uttering a loud, weird, strangled cry.

Suddenly, she was no longer passive. She writhed and convulsed. Her hands were all over him, though he didn't know whether their motions were of welcome or defence.

Still engaged in the act of emptying his balls into his delicious sister, Martin felt Deborah's vagina relax, then clench again, hard. The contraction was accompanied by another strangled cry.

Deborah's body repeated this combination of clench and cry many times in the minutes that followed. Long after his own orgasm was done, and his panting body lay heavy atop his sister's, she was still bucking and writhing and clenching and crying out, and continued to do so far longer than he might have expected.

Yet, at last, her convulsions ceased.

Martin's panting gradually subsided. Deborah's was still clearly audible.

It was during these moments that Martin, his years-long yearning for his sister at last fulfilled, had time to think.

It struck him with a sense of oddness that Deborah, given the ambiguous emotional state she had displayed up to that point, had suddenly shown such passion.

Before that moment, she had shown no clear sign of being aroused by his actions... apart from the juicing of her pussy, which might have been a purely physical response. Was it possible that she was having an orgasm that was also purely physical, without emotional involvement? He had heard that some women experienced that during rape.