Sweat and Delirium

Suggest scenarios or stories you'd like to see me write in the comments. No guarantees but they might pique my interest. I plan to continue this story in subsequent chapters.

On another note, it's been ten months since my first story. Oops, lmao. I got busy with my novel, but when I finally got to this story I had a lot of fun writing it one night. Thoughts, feedback and suggestions are super welcome. Also use condoms irl guys and make sure your partners are sober. Xx

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Sweat and Delirium.

It happens at the peak of summer, on one of those days when the asphalt gets too hot to stand on and sweat clings to the back of necks. Sweat. It runs freely in the space between two bodies. It moistens an embrace just enough for limbs to glide over one another without friction. Sex becomes that little bit hotter on those summer days; that little bit more tiring. It's harder to keep quiet—and this, perhaps, is what makes the night so intoxicating for Isobel. Trying to keep quiet. Turning it into a game. But not just yet, not quite. Not till after dark, when she's in her brother's bedroom, when it happens. A taboo firework.

For now Isobel just tries to survive the commute home. She's drunk off the back of some party, stuffed into a city bus with her head against the window, watching the world slug by. It smells of hot concrete and petrol. The hospitality of vodka had kept the evening from being a complete dud, but now the dip and turn of the road punishes her. Her stomach contorts, her head pounds, and her clothes soak into her flesh like water into sand.

Isobel digs at her eyes with her palms. Everyone's off to university next year. She's staying at home, but they're all dispersing around the country, her nameless ensemble of friends. Off to start their lives. She presses the button for the next bus stop. It's funny to feel abandoned by people who don't even know they're abandoning you. Funny, like not wanting to go out but still wanting an invite. She'll never see some of those partygoers again. Isn't adult life silly?

The route home from the bus stop is no more than ten minutes. Isobel does it in five, by which time the sun has set and dark has fallen. When she gets home she lets herself in silently and rests at the start of the hall. The house is asleep. Her parents room is directly to her right, and her brother's to the left. Separated by a metre of hall. The heat persists indoors. It saps her of her strength and pulls her hair and edges her closer to delirium. Delirium, and the firework.

"Fuck," she says.

She peels her shoes and socks away and sets them by the front door, and tries to catch a glimpse of herself in its frosted glass. Her hair's a mess. She tugs it into shape. Her mind has turned to shit. It hurts to think, from heat or self-pity or alcohol. Probably all three.

A voice from behind her. "Izzy?"

It's her brother Tony. He's standing just outside his bedroom door in a dressing gown. Each sibling pauses and eyes the other. Even in the dark they can both tell something's wrong: in his vacant eyes, or in her grubby hair, or in the way that neither of them can quite sustain their usual eye contact.

Tony shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "Are you okay?"

"I'm not sure I have friends anymore," Isobel says. Her own voice is like a noose, but she shrugs it off. "Are you okay?"

"I... broke up with Sarah."

"Oh." Isobel pauses. She unsticks her shirt from her back. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

"Not really." Tony laughs, hardly more than a breath. It's a little hysterical. "Do you?"

"I don't think so."

It's the truth, Isobel thinks. Talking is mature, but it is not immediate. No string of words can relax the mind like alcohol. An immature thought, maybe, but an honest one. There is no euphoria in talking.

"Okay, well..." Tony opens his door. He pauses, stares. "We'll go our lonely ways, I guess."

Isobel's lips hang slightly apart for a moment. "Yeah."

He goes into the room and shuts the door. Tony is two years older than her, and like her, he chose to live at home after leaving school. Isobel waits outside his door for several long beats. The world has righted itself. Tony was in her position. Tony is in her position. That fact—the reality that the boy she's grown up with more than any of her friends will be around in the coming year—it reassures her. It wipes the pity from her mind and leaves her standing there outside his door. Her heart is going.

Isobel doesn't know what makes her act next. The hysterical warmth, the alcohol, the loneliness and the comfort Tony offers—or all three. Or maybe they're just excuses. Because the vodka doesn't grow a voice and usher her along. She chooses to act of her own accord. She opens Tony's door and slips inside. For a moment her eyes struggle to adjust, then his room comes into hazy focus.

"Izzy?" Tony is already in his bed. He props himself onto his elbows. "What's up?"

His bedroom never gets much sunlight in the day, and a fan on his bedside table is circulating air, so the space is delightfully cold. Isobel wipes the sweat from her palms. Tony's duvet is discarded on the floor in favour of a sheet, which he's nestled under.

"Tony?" Isobel looks at him, and speaks almost as though surprised to find him there. Maybe it's because she still doesn't want to talk, but she came to see him all the same. The hook of excitement in her stomach is hard to place. She wipes her hands again. "Hi. Sorry."

"Did you want some company?"

Isobel feels very exposed standing there before him. She unsticks her shirt again. "I thought you didn't feel like talking."

"No, but..." Tony shrugs. He shuffles under his sheet. "Silent company is still nice."

Isobel crosses the room, draws back his sheet, and lies down beside him. For a long while there is nothing but the spin of the fan beside the bed, and the rise and fall of their chests. Her side is pressed against his so they fit under the sheet. Flesh on flesh, silent company like good tea. Isobel finds she could cry. There have been days or weeks in which they scarcely hung out, as is often the case with siblings absorbed in the thrill of fresh adulthood—but there is something in their love that is purer than romance or friendship. Friends and lovers go, but Tony never has and never will. Isobel finds his hand and gives one of his knuckles a gentle squeeze. They will always be resolutely present for the other.

"Izzy," Tony says. He lies his head sideways on the pillow to meet her gaze. "Are you okay?"

Isobel lies her head on its side too. Their eyes are inches apart.

"I just mean..." Tony shrugs and squeezes her hand back. "Will you be okay?"

"I think so. Will you?"

"Yeah.." Tony raises her hand out from under the sheet. He presses it softly to his lips. "We can hang out. Two lonely bastards, huh?"

"Two lonely bastards." Isobel echoes him. She smiles. "Can I have my hand back now?"

Tony kisses her knuckle again.

Isobel doesn't consciously think. She rolls onto her front and straddles her brother's midriff under the sheet. Bang. Firework. She can try to justify it emotionally, or platonically; to say that what she's doing is some desperate attempt to channel the affection and gratitude she feels for her brother. She can run through a thousand justifications like shots of vodka, and wring out excuses like a sweat from a shirt. But sometimes it's just desire. Plain bloody desire. The truth is she considers none of the rationale. Logic be damned, she just wants him, and it's fucking simple. He is the one person here for her company, who will always be here for her company, and she wants as close to him as she can get.

Tony reacts at once. He slides his hands to Isobel's lower back and pulls her tighter. Her denim shorts drag over his skin until she sits on his stomach with her knees either side of him, hands planted on his bare chest to keep herself upright. The sheet slides off her raised back. He is in only his underwear.

"What's all this, then? I'm your brother," Tony tells her, as though she's forgotten. "I'm meant to be a role model."

"And I'm your sister." Isobel's hands slide slightly on his chest, sweat on her palms and on his body. She gives a mock frown. "Your itty bitty sister, you don't want to hurt my feelings."

"No? Come closer, then."

Isobel leans in until their foreheads almost touch. She knows his features from a thousand family dinners, a hundred family outings. She's seen him laugh and cry and be sick and be cruel, and now she sees something new and intense. Her body is very awake. A tingling, coursing current has run through her right to her feet, purged alcohol and nausea, and tightened every muscle to breaking point. She is straddling her brother. His breath smells of toothpaste.

"You've been drinking," Tony says. He brushes a kiss on her nose. "Izzy, are you sure—"

"I'm sober now." Isobel moves her hands to the pillow either side of his head. "You sobered me."

"You promise?"

"I promise." Isobel touches her nose to his. His eyes are exactly like hers. She smiles. "But I know you're a gentleman. If you're uncomfortable then say so."

"Mm." Tony considers her. "There's only one thing making me uncomfortable."

"What's that?"

He breathes back his reply. "Those shorts of yours. They're cutting into me."

Isobel laughs and leans in to kiss him properly. Their breaths become one as she parts his lips and their tongues meet. She hits a second high, stronger than the alcohol ever was and stronger than she thought possible. His hands slip under her shirt to glide over her back. She savours his taste. Here they are, siblings locked in an embrace, in a state of intimacy you're meant to save for your lovers. Sharing saliva. Roaming hands. Fiery arousal like sweat running into every crevice of her skin and joints, from the back of her throat to the pit of her stomach and beyond.

She loses track of time. Their tongues are knotted. Her brother has her turned on to boiling point, and the dial just keeps turning up until her whole body is taut. At some point the denim shorts do come off. As they kiss she rocks her body forward and back, her moist thighs and panties sliding up and down his torso. She is dimly aware that the fabric is soaked through. That fact only spurs her on. There's a side to family that you aren't meant to see, and she finds it in her brother's ragged breaths. They've broken the familial glass ceiling which says love can only be platonic. Isobel basks in the glass as though sunbathing. She revels in the visceral breaking of the taboo. They kiss until she can't feel her knees.

When Isobel finally breaks away she says, "Do you want to see my tits?"

"Quieter." Tony puts his hands to her mouth, caressing her lips. "Mum and Dad are home."

This is true. They are in their room just across the hall, but Isobel can't compute to her usual standard. She has thoughts only for the stimulation of their embrace, so encompassing of her body and mind that all else wilts.

She leans in and kisses at his neck. "Do you want to quietly see my tits, then?"

Tony laughs. He pulls her shirt over her head and throws it aside. Isobel kneads at his neck with her teeth while he fiddles with the clasp of her bra. Her body glistens, now exposed but for underclothing. They cannot tell whose sweat is whose, or who is leading which movements; for their bodies are slick and tangled as one, and together steeped in lust. After several fumbled attempts Isobel's bra comes away.

"How am I gonna hide this?" Tony pulls her away from his neck, where a mark shines crimson. He cups her chin and kisses her. "God, Izzy. You've branded me."

"I'll give you another where no one will see," Isobel says. She straightens up and cups her breasts with her hands. "What do you think?"

"You're perfect." He reaches out to hold her at her sweaty midriff, sliding his hands on her skin, over her stomach and ribs to her breasts. "Can I hold them?"

"Have you thought about me before?" Isobel guides his hands to her until he cups her nipples. She can feel her sex running down her thighs. "You know, like this?"

"Maybe. Once or twice." Tony rolls her nipples between his fingers. "Teenagers think lots of silly things when they're horny."

Isobel rocks herself to the rhythm of his fondling. "Like what?"

"Like how I want to fuck you."

"Like—yeah?" Isobel is taken aback. She feels herself tighten in her thighs. Beneath her panties she is starting to ache. "You want to fuck me?"

"Is that okay?"

"That's okay. Fucking perv." Isobel pokes out her tongue. They are both in only their underwear now, with no excuse to draw on should someone enter. But she doesn't care; she slides her hips farther down his stomach until her thighs touch the fabric of his boxers. They kiss again, her breasts falling to his chest. She breathes in his mouth. "You want to fuck your own sister."

"Maybe while Mum and Dad are sleeping we'll do it right outside their door," Tony says. He splays his fingers and slides his hands over her ass. "Would you be able to stay quiet?"

"That's up to you, really." Isobel kisses all around his face, then sits back up. "I thought about you before. Uh-huh, sometimes when I was touching myself."

The temptation to touch herself now is almost overwhelming. She still isn't quite computing: it is not logical, or possible, that this moist embrace with her brother can be real. Her wet panties against him, her saliva in his mouth. Their dirty talk cannot be a slice from the same cake as family breakfasts or household chores. She cannot reconcile reality with fantasy, or fathom that it's all reality. How far will real life stretch for her desire?

Isobel shuffles back on her knees until she's sitting on his legs. She glides a hand down his sweaty torso and over his crotch, watching his muscles tauten. His underwear are strained by his erection, their waistband hovering a centimetre above his skin as his arousal tries to free itself. She closes her hand on the fabric constricting his cock, and with the other she gently massages over her own panties. An involuntary gasp. It's almost too much, holding back from touching herself properly. Her panties and thighs are doused. She meets her brother's eye.

"All hard for me," Isobel says. She gives his member a squeeze through the fabric. "Is your sister holding your dick?"

"Fuck, Izzy." His legs convulse underneath her. "This is insane."

Isobel gently rocks herself forward so her panties glide up the length of his boxers. All that separates her pussy from him is two thin bits of fabric. She lets out a moan, and another. Tony reaches out and clasps both of her hands with his, while she rocks her hips back and forth. His cock is stiff through the fabric, pressing against her as she grinds its length.

Fireworks. A plateau of pleasure that takes her breath away. Though she has scarcely been touched, she is so sensitive that every pump draws out a gasp. Her brother's face pops ahead of her, contorted into an expression of pleasure siblings aren't meant to share. She's swimming in the shards of the glass ceiling, struggling to draw air.

"Fuck. Tony—"

"Isobel."

"God..."

Tony puts a knuckle in her mouth. "Mum and Dad will hear."

Isobel lets more and more weight down. Tony's underwear is soaked through with her wetness, his body quivering to her motion. She spares no thoughts for the parents' bedroom across the hall, no thoughts for any of it except the hot body under her and the pleasure spoiling her pussy through its meagre fabric. Her labia part slightly with each thrust.

"I can't—" She moans into his finger and slows her rocking to a halt. The stimulation is such that it almost hurts. "Fuck, Tony. Your little sister."

He pulls her back down into a kiss. For a moment Isobel is content to let herself recover and just hold him in her arms. Quite apart from the sexual ardour which purges her body of rational thought, it comforts her a great deal to know that Tony, at least, is going nowhere in the next year. They kiss in the breeze of the fan, the slick sweat and fluid drying on their bodies into sticky patches. If Isobel turns her mind from his lips to the future, the future stares back like a siren. They are still siblings, under the same roof with the same set of parents; so what happens next?

After some time, Tony says, "You have me all sticky." He squeezes her chin with two fingers.

"Fine." Isobel kneels up. She eyes his soaked boxers. "Take them off, then. It looks about time."

"You first."

Isobel glares at him. She gives her breasts a squeeze and starts snaking her hands down her body, over her stomach to her waist and under the hem of her panties. The spot between their bodies is hot. It still must be calenture: it can't be real, her teasing undressing in front of her brother.

"No, no." Tony pulls her hands back from her panties. "Let me."

Isobel pauses. Her heart rate is building again. Fortissimo. Tony hooks his hands around her legs and pulls her up to his chest, then almost to his chin. She glides like ice. He gently tilts her back so her pussy angles up, and massages her inner thighs with his thumbs. Isobel's knuckles are white at his shoulders. Her breaths come ragged.

"Don't wake the parents," Tony says. He runs a single thumb over her panties, making her squirm. "I never knew you were such a moaner."

"Stop fucking talking, Tony."

He laughs, but keeps his massaging of her thighs slow. "Make me. Sit on me."

She shudders. The words are honey from her brother's mouth—or heroin. Real life just keeps on stretching. So Isobel kneels taller to allow him to fold his fingertips under her panties and pull them away. Her pussy finds fresh air, and the softest hint of Tony's exhalation. A string of clear fluid runs from her mound down to his neck like cobweb. He hooks it with a finger and puts it in his mouth.

He meets her gaze. "You taste so good."

"Mm. I'm fucking wet."

Tony runs his fingers over her thighs and around to her ass, and guides her up above his face. His mouth disappears from sight under her body, and he maintains eye contact for a moment. The room stands still. Isobel is sick to the stomach with arousal. Poised with her pussy an inch from her brother's face. Fucking delirium, she thinks. It cannot be real.

Then Tony steers her onto his face. A second's suspense and she lands on his mouth. His lips are warm, still moist from her saliva, and now they explore her pussy, provoking such a bout of stimulation that Isobel convulses. Her opening and thighs contract, and she's given no time to rest: Tony draws a line up between her parted labia with his tongue, picking up any of her excess liquid until he reaches the crest of her mound, just below the clitoris; and he separates her lips to sink his tongue, utterly frictionless, deeper in its exploration of her sex.

Isobel could cry out. She very nearly does, but catches herself and turns it into a muffled sort of moan. She bites at her hands as Tony goes on, working his tongue around her crevice and into her opening. Her brother is eating her out. Isobel moans to the rhythm of his mouth. She can't tell which of her euphoria is physical and which is mental, but she knows the depravity of incest is at very least sharpening each jolt of gratification, dipping each shot of dopamine in sugar. It is her brother's face she sits on. The companion she's bickered and played and lived with since birth, her blood and descent.

"Fuck." She moans and lets more weight down on him. Her breaths come fast and frequent. "Tony."

She is vacantly aware of how wet she is. Tony drinks straight from the spring. He eats every inch of her pussy, at every depth he can find. Even as she gasps for air and holds back her moans Isobel can hear the progress of his tongue, lapping her flesh and sex. Her body shakes. Her voice breaks. Though she lets her weight down on him, and though he delves so deep into her that his nose squishes hard against the patch of pubic hair above her mound, Tony still cannot catch all of her fluid. Her wetness and his saliva run down her thighs onto the bed sheet. The wetness makes his cheeks shine, and runs sticky into his eyes and hair.