The Beach House

I sat in my room and gazed at the photograph, transfixed by it. An extraordinary image, for sure. But it was more than just a dirty picture, for it had somehow captured the raw sensuality of that moment: you could almost smell the sharp aroma of Lucy's cunt and the softer perfume of Sarah; hear the sweetness of their breath as it panted though their soft, open lips and savor the pungent taste the juice scattered on the rug like drops of liquid glass. And it had transcended even that, for it revealed too the emotional bond between the two figures - the lust and a sense of desperation in Sarah's face, and a hint of contempt in the eyes of the other.

For the second time that day I found myself wondering if Sarah enjoyed fisting, too, and if so what her pussy would look like stretched around a lover's hand, and whether she tasted as good as she looked. The image was too powerful to ignore and I released my swollen cock from my pants and stroked it, imagining her beneath me, her breasts pressed against my chest and the fragrance of her skin and her hair as I fucked her. Yesterday she was only my sister and now she was the subject of lust. The spiral of my pleasure rose quickly, fuelled by the images of her pale body under mine, until with a little cry I released my cum in thick creamy ropes over my hand and shirt and pants. And, God help me, I imagined it was in her, my sister: painting her insides as she wriggled and gasped; filling her up as she squealed in wild orgasm underneath me.

And as my cum subsided I understood that it was just a fantasy -- that the chances of fucking her were smaller than a bee's dick; that the taboos were too strong and besides, her sexuality lay in other directions.

But I realised too that I was hooked, and that no matter what the risk I had to watch her again.

*****

'I need to speak to you, Michael.' Sarah's voice was soft and she plucked at my sleeve with nervous fingers.

It was a week since that afternoon and although I'd waited in anticipation she'd said nothing to me. If anything she'd avoided me, although I had to admit that we'd both been busy during the week.

'Sure, Sarah. What, now?'

She nodded and led me outside across the lawn to the little gazebo overlooking the sea. I could see Brinsley's Head in the distance and it reminded me yet again of what had happened. As if I needed reminding - it had filled my head every waking moment and I longed for the next opportunity to watch. The difficulty was finding out when she was going, and then arranging to be there before her. After the last experience she'd be doubly careful to be alone with her friend.

She sat down and patted the seat next to her. I saw that she'd put on a clean dress and a little make up, and her hair was pulled back in a pony tail that shone like spun gold in the sun.

'What can I do for you?'

She was silent for a moment, thinking, and then she turned to me. 'Do you remember the old cottage on Brinsley's?'

I nodded, my heart pounding in my chest. This was it - the confrontation. The accusations of watching her, the anger and the tears to follow, and then the shame.

I dragged my eyes to her face. 'The old wrecked one?' I said, as casually as possible. 'There's not much left from what I remember.'

She nodded. 'I want to repair it.'

I regarded her with astonishment. This wasn't what I expected at all. This wasn't an accusation of voyeurism - it was a plea for help, and what was even more amazing was that she was asking me to collaborate on her secret hide-away -- the place she had found to take her lover where she thought it was safe. That made it a secret no longer, which meant that she'd have to find somewhere else - and the chance of watching her again had suddenly gone.

'What the hell for? It's derelict!' I guess my voice was harsh, reflecting my disappointment.

Sarah blinked at the intensity of my response. 'Well,' she said timidly. 'I just thought it would be nice to fix it up a bit. You know, so we could go over and sleep there -- us, or perhaps our friends. We could share it, you know -- you have your mates and I have mine -'

'But it's wrecked! No water, no electricity, no roof -"

She shook her head. 'I've done a bit of work already. Not much, but it showed me what could be done.' She rested her hand on my arm and I felt the warmth of her touch though my sleeve. 'I need your help though. I'm not talking about making it into a Taj Mahal...it would just be a rough sleep out...you know, with oil lamps and cooking on a fire. There's water in a stream up there -- we could put in a tank and rough plumbing, fix the roof and windows.' Her grey eyes were on my face. 'It would be fun, to sleep over.'

'If you start putting things in the house they'd be stolen.'

She nodded. 'I know. That's why we'd fix the doors and windows. There used to be a fence there too. We could repair that as well to stop people getting close and we could put signs up to keep people away.'

I stared at her, suddenly aware of what she was doing. Sarah wasn't really offering to share the cottage with me -- she was asking my help to make it secure. Safer for her and her friend to play, without fear of interruption. I realised too that it would put me in an ideal position because I'd have a key and I'd know where the peepholes were...hell, I could even build some in, if I wanted. Not only that, but I'd know when she was going to be there because we'd run a booking system. The prospect of spying on my sexy little sister suddenly seemed a lot closer.

'What about the folks? What did they say?'

Sarah shrugged. 'You know what they're like. Mum just said 'that's nice dear' and Dad agreed provided it didn't involve any work for him.' She laughed. 'I did get him to give me some money though.'

'Really? How much?'

'Two thousand. And I reckon he's good for more if he thinks we're doing a good job.'

I thought about it. Winter was coming up which was always quiet, and the thought of being close to Sarah for a few weeks to work together on the project was very attractive. And at the end of it I'd have the chance to watch her again - as many times as I wanted. The vision of her crouching on the floor of the cottage suddenly appeared in my mind: the warm plasticity of her body, lean and hard, and how her breasts had looked with their erect pink nipples. Those same breasts were peeping from her dress now, and I felt my cock twitch in my pants at the thought of seeing them naked.

'So do you have a plan?' I asked.

She nodded, her eyes bright. Her hand was still on my arm and I felt her fingers moving slightly. 'We need to take a bunch of stuff over -- timber and cement and tiles for the roof. You could get your mates -'

'No.'

She regarded me with surprise. 'Why not? We'd need help.'

'This is just you and me, Sarah. We do the work, we use the cottage. No one else. Nobody else will know.'

'Why, Michael?'

I shrugged. 'Because that's my terms. I don't want others to do this...it's a fantastic project and you and I can do it, and the less people who know the safer it will be when we're done.'

She nodded slowly. 'Would we be able do all the work though?'

I smiled. 'We'll head over there tomorrow and have a look, and I'll tell you then.'

*

It was strange going back, climbing up the path where I'd been only a week ago. That time I'd crept there like a thief but now I followed Sarah, watching the roll of her tight little buttocks in her stretch pants and listening as she talked.

We stopped in front of the structure and she pointed out what she'd done. I could see the rough patching she'd made on the windows and the door, and how she'd nailed an old tarp to the roofing timbers on the northern end. She took me inside and showed me the single room she'd cleared. The rug was nowhere to be seen.

'So what do you think?' she asked, when I'd seen it all.

'Technically, its not difficult. We take the old roof off and replace the trusses. The old anchor points to the walls are probably still OK and we'll use colorbond steel for the roof covering itself. I reckon a month for the roof once we've got the materials here...which is the hard part.'

'What about the rest?'

'New frames for all the windows and the door. We can fit stock windows once they're in which will save some time. Another month.'

'And then what? How long?'

'As long as you want, Sarah, depending on what you do. Plumbing, electrics, painting, fixing, cleaning. Perhaps even a new floor.' I laughed. 'Another month or another year. Just depends how flash you want it.'

She laughed with me, infected by my enthusiasm. 'So what's the hard part?'

'Getting the materials here. There's hundreds of kilos of stuff -- timber, metal, cement - '

'So how do we get them here?'

'Same way as we did, and we lug them up the hill by hand.'

'Christ!' Sarah looked doubtful for the first time. 'Can we do that?'

'Sure -- in small loads. But it will be hard work. Are you sure you want to do this? Once we start I won't let you quit.'

She turned and looked out over the bay, her face thoughtful. 'This is a special place,' she said at length. 'I realised that when I tried to fix it, but I couldn't do it myself. I needed help.' Her grey eyes moved to mine. 'I want it, Michael, more than anything. I won't quit.'

'And what's the deal when it's done?'

She regarded me. 'What do you mean?'

'Suppose we both want to use it at the same time?'

'We'll have a booking system. First come, first served. If there's a conflict then we'll work it out.'

'So you won't ever want to share it -- both here together?'

'Maybe -- but there'll be times when I want it for me and my friends too.' She smiled to rob her words of any offense. 'And we'll have plenty of time together in the next few months.'

I nodded. The prospect of watching her with her friends and also being with her was very appealing.

That night my dreams were full of Sarah, kneeling on the cold stone floor of the Beach House.

I enter the room on silent feet and stand behind her, and I see both her hands in the body of the woman lying before her, the fingers and wrists held tight together to slide into the tight greasy flesh of her vagina. Ah, Sarah, my dirty little sister! What are you doing?

The woman's eyes following me, watching as my cock rears cobra-headed from my thighs until it stands like a baseball bat, red and oozing. I can see my lust mirrored in the dark windows of her eyes as she understands what is to be done.

'Fuck her, Michael,' the woman whispers. 'Fuck your little sister,' and I see the ripple of her muscles and the sudden grip of her vulva on Sarah's forearms, clamping down like a steel vice to trap her, forcing her elbows to the floor. I hear my sister cry out like a trapped animal as she is held there.

With trembling hands I seize her hips and she whimpers at my touch, a little sound of fear and helplessness as she feels the bulbous shape of my knob pressing into her like a ripe Satsuma plum. The woman laughs, a low sound of malice and glee, and her voice is as jagged as a broken bottle.

'Fuck the little slut,' she whispers, and she holds the slender wrists in a grip of iron.

My shaft plunges into the depths of my sister's body though the narrow portal of her cunt, pressing aside the tight wet flesh to bury itself deep in her innards like a Samurai's sword. I hold apart her buttocks to watch, to see the ring of her vulva stretched as tight as piano wire around me, and I marvel at the heat and plasticity of her body.

'Fuck her,' the woman whispers, and she laughs a low, throaty sound as I began to pump.

Sunlight streams in through gaps in the roof to cast a dappled spectrum of light and dark over my sister's slender body. She rests her face in the woman's pudenda and her hair falls like a golden curtain across the sun-browned thighs and belly. I imagine her tongue flicking, flicking like a lizard into the steaming wet recess of Lucy's cunt, lapping at the ring of flesh gripping her, scooping the beads of silver and pearl juice into her hungry mouth: and all the time I fuck her -- long, glorious strokes into the tight harbour of her cunt, a rim of white at its lips and my shaft stiffer and longer than ever before.

'Fuck her,' the woman moans. 'Fill her hungry cunt with her brother's seed.'

And I bear my weight down on her, pumping down into the hungry maw through the narrow pelvic girdle, feeling the head of my cock battering her cervix and hearing her moans though the onslaught. So far inside her, so far inside. Ah! Ah! My dirty sister. My little cunt-eating slut. This is what you want, isn't it? Take what I have, Sarah! Enjoy what your brother can give you.

The tempest of my cum expanding in my brain, seizing control of every sense until there is nothing except the three of us. The woman's face on mine, smiling as she sees the rising storm, laughter on her lips and malice in her heart.

'Fill her,' she shrieks. 'Fill your little sister's belly!

My sperm bursting into you, Sarah, and your eyes are on mine, grey and wide and filled with fear as you feel my seed spurting in your belly. A geyser of steaming hot sperm spraying, spraying, filling you up -- dribbling from the lips of your cunt as I pump, drooling and splattering over the dusty stone floor to lie in shining puddles in the sunlight.

So much sperm for my little sister, so much sperm for a dirty little slut.

*

The next day I started planning, drawing up the lists and ordering the timber and the steel and the cement and figuring out how we'd get it there. Sarah had a final assignment to finish and so I didn't see much of her during the day but at night she'd ask how I was going and I'd show her the drawings and we'd talk briefly before she'd go upstairs. We didn't say much -- she seemed shy and reserved and my brain was filled with the images I'd seen. And after she'd gone I'd turn on the computer and stare at the pictures I'd taken, and I would stroke my rising cock and dare to dream. It was fantasy, of course, but it seemed to me that she was a lost soul and that I was in control-- and that somehow, if I played my cards right, anything was possible.

I guess my perception of Sarah had changed. She was beautiful and bright, to be sure, but now I knew that beneath the perfect smile and the impeccable manners she was a slut - after all, I'd seen it, hadn't I? Nice girls didn't put their arms in someone else's cunt and so she couldn't be a nice girl at all. She was a slut, plain and simple, and that made it just fine for me to think of as I liked. I looked forward to when the work was finished and I could sneak up to the cottage to watch her. Perhaps I'd get more photographs, too. Perhaps one day...

We started the work a week later. We took a metal shed to the island and assembled it in the back garden, hidden beneath the trees, and that saved us carting the tools and the generator back and forth. In the first week we pulled down the remains of the roof, stacking the slate and the old timber on the side and cleaning up the stonework to accept the anchor points for the roofing trusses. It was cold in the early morning but by lunch-time the sun reached us and we worked in jeans and tee shirts. This part of the work required both of us and so we were close, balanced on ladders together or on the rough stone walls, lifting and clearing and chipping. To begin with Sarah couldn't keep up and I could see she was suffering each morning, but after a couple of weeks the pain and stiffness past and her arms were burnished brown by the sun. She looked fit too: her waist even trimmer and her arms smoothly muscled under the satin gloss of her skin.

I watched her -- God, how I watched her! In the boat as she sat in the bow, her face alight with excitement and her enthusiasm for the day bubbling like a cauldron; and as she worked, her lithe body moving around me, lifting and carrying, bringing me things that I needed with a ready smile and a laugh. Her shyness seemed to diminish and she began to talk, and I watched her as she sat beside me during the breaks we took, listening to her talking and the way she moved her hands with her long slim fingers and her slender wrists, and the tilt of her head as she laughed at something I'd said; and then at night I'd steal up to my bedroom to look at the pictures of her, and I'd touch her naked image with my fingertips and try to relate the experiences of the day to the raw sexuality exposed in the grainy images that flickered on the computer's screen.

And as time went by I found it harder and harder to relate the two. She was bright and funny and smart, and a hard worker. She never complained nor gave up if she couldn't do a task I'd given her: and I found she was clever too. I taught her about building: the purlins and rafters and ridge caps and spans, and she learned quickly and thought on her feet so that she could soon do many things as well as me, and sometimes better. But more than that she had a generous spirit, not just with me but with everyone she spoke about, and it's hard not to like someone like that.

One morning we were sitting on the edge of the wall, eating our sandwiches and looking out over the bay. One leg was curled under the other and I let my eyes roam over her whilst she was looking away. Her breasts were perky under the singlet and I could see a few stray hairs peeping out from the leg of her cut-off shorts.

'You know,' she said, turning back to me suddenly. 'I never really thanked you for doing this.'

I hastily looked elsewhere, but not before she'd caught me looking. 'No you didn't,' I replied, 'but I'm sure I'll think of a way you can.'

She glanced down to see what I'd been looking at and a faint flush of embarrassment stained her cheeks. She moved her leg and adjusted herself without speaking, and the silence stretched empty for a minute or two.

'I'm sorry,' she said at length. 'I should have worn something...longer.'

I shook my head. 'No, you shouldn't. I - like what you have on. I like looking at you.'

'Really?' She laughed self-consciously and her hands moved briefly to her hair to touch and smooth it, as women do. 'I must look like a wreck.'

'No. You look lovely. I love the way you look.'

'Well -- thank you, Michael.' Her grey eyes were on my face.

'You're welcome.'

'I never really knew you, you know,' she said shyly. 'Do you feel the same?' She laughed nervously. 'I mean, you're my brother, but I didn't really know you. Somehow I feel that's changing now.'

'It's the same for me, Sarah.' It was, too. Over the past few weeks she'd gradually opened up, talking of things that we had never shared before -- what she thought of her friends and our parents, the struggles she'd had at school and even a bit about me. She had a quirky sense of humour and I found myself looking forward each day keen to being with her -- to see her slow smile and watch her trim young body working, her grey eyes serious as she did some task I'd given her. I'd grown to love her little idiosyncrasies too -- the way she brushed her forehead with the back of one hand to keep the hair from her eyes, and how her little pink tongue peeped from between her lips when she was concentrating.

'No matter where our lives take us I'll always think of these days,' I told her. 'I think they will be hard to beat.'

She glanced at me with soft eyes and put her hand in mine. She didn't say anything but for the first time I knew she felt the same...I could feel it in the warmth of her touch in this first intimacy between us. We sat in silence for a while, gazing out over the bay, watching the fishing boats heading out from Torbess and the smoke from the chimneys of cottages scattered along the foreshore.