tagIncest/TabooThe Lust of the Second Sire

The Lust of the Second Sire

byRob_mDear©

Angela looked down her straight, pale nose at her brother's stiff form. He wasn't asleep, but was unable to move, held in place by her power. She never in her wildest dreams imagined that her twentieth birthday would end like this.

The change was dramatic and exhilarating. Just days ago she'd been a shy young woman, barely able to allow a man to molest her firm, tender breasts, let alone actively seduce him. Now, seduction and sensuality coursed naturally through her bloodless veins. She radiated sexuality and lust. No man could resist her. No man ever would again.

Her sire had ordered her to use her power to live out her heart's most wicked desire, and at the same time he revealed it to her, her shameful secret, the desire she thought no one knew, a desire she'd never truly admitted to herself.

She wore a loose, white shift, as sheer as a thin, night fog. The night wind, blowing in the open window, ruffled it smoothly over her slim, supple, feminine form. Her unearthly white skin, the smooth, pale knobs of her slight breasts, the white shift, the white sheets beneath her and her lover to be, all seemed to glow in the moonlight.

Angela let her hands slide forward, up her brother's legs, delighting in the tickle of his masculine leg hairs running over her fingers. Her dainty hands crept up and up, up his broad inner thighs, up the sensitive area of his groin, to stop on either side of his sinfully inviting cock.

It grew for her. She looked at it, and him. He trembled beneath her, frozen, as she projected lust into his mind. Her sire had taught her that. He'd commanded her to come here to demonstrate her new found powers.

She was a monster, now, he'd told her. He'd made her into a monster with one long, agonizingly euphoric bite on her neck. It wasn't only a bite, she thought, smiling. She supposed the bite was what mattered, but in the same moment he'd filled her wondrously with his hard, stingingly cold prick. He filled her and spread her, the first man she'd ever had, as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through her even as her life seeped away, to be replaced with an almost dreamlike non-life.

Angela lowered her open mouth to her brother's now stiff cock, as he stared at her in rigid fear, and trembled. When his living cock touched her cold, dead lips, it burned them like fire. She pulled back to see a wonderfully wicked blood red lipstick stain, an imprint of a sister's lips on her loving brother's cock head, a sinful brand marking him as hers, and a sign of only the start of what was to come.

She was a monster now. Her sire had told her what she had become, what she would do, and what he demanded of her. She would service him at his pleasure. She would feed on the living. In time, she would learn to kill, and to enjoy the exquisite pleasure that killing and feeding brought. And, when she wished, she could take other lovers, at will, whomever she chose.

That was a vampire's one greatest power. A vampire could instill an overpowering lust, a lust so strong, that the victim, no matter what his fears and intellect and inhibitions, would willingly succumb. They might know they were going to die. They might know the act they were about to commit was a heinous evil. But they would willingly, ardently submit, and enjoy it none the less.

Angela slipped forward across her brother's reclined form. Her hands slipped up his strong, hairy chest. Her thighs brushed his, and then the sides of his hips, as she shuffled forward to straddle him and settle into position.

Her sire commanded this one seduction. He said she was a monster. She had to prove it.

She had to feel her brother's cock inside her cold, dead cunt, and draw his living, burning, sinfully incestuous seed into her.

Angela lowered herself onto her brother's stiff shaft. The Sire hadn't really needed to order her to do this. She'd longed for it, shamefully, and secretly, for so very long.

"That's it, Mark. Stay perfectly still while little sister makes you feel so good," she purred.

His cock burned her cunt as it impaled her. The heat of it was inhuman. She giggled at the thought. It was she that was inhuman, and in her deathly state, it was the warmth of a living man that so burned her tender, nearly virginal insides.

Her living, breathing brother's cock burned her tight, wicked cunt.

The thought sent a chill up her spine. Her body tingled with pleasure as she lowered herself further onto him, feeling inch after inch of his awesome cock filling her, dragging across and spreading her narrow cunt lips. She watched his eyes intently the whole time. He somehow found the strength and courage to speak.

"No, Angie, no. Don't do this."

"Yes, Mark. Little Angie wants her brother's cock. Don't you want your little sister to be happy?"

She smiled down at him.

She lowered herself all the way onto him as she spoke, taking all of him, and ending with a glorious, pleasured wail. He trembled, then, as his eyes rolled up into his head and he tried to stifle his own involuntary, victorious moan.

"I know you like it. I like it, too, Big Brother. I like it a lot," she said, as she rode him, up and down, moving her brother's shaft in and out of her forbidden, incestuous, tight little cunt.

He shuddered for her. She giggled and smiled, relishing the power she had over him. He couldn't move. He was frozen, beneath her, as if he were dead himself, his cock stiff, not with rigor mortis but with his own excitement at being with his own beautiful sister, stabbing into her cunt, pleasuring her as much or more than any girl he'd ever had. Up and down she moved, letting her cunt slip over it, sliding easily, coating it with her plentiful juices. Her sinfully eager cunt clenched and grabbed, massaging her brother's prick mercilessly.

"Ooh, Big Brother, you fuck so good. Do you fuck your wife this good, Mark? Are you fucking me like you fuck your wife?"

Her brother growled in response. His hips bucked now, overcome with the lust that she poured into him. He bucked, and fucked her, of his own volition, lifting her up in the moonlight, while she squealed and begged and pleaded for more.

"Yes, Mark, yes, let me ride you like a slut. I want to be my brother's little slut."

He bucked, and growled, and his cock stiffened and jerked. She felt his cum, like no other man's. It was hot and thick, filling and coating her womb. The feel of it, a living man's warm cum in a dead girl's cold cunt, heated and burned and seared her pleasurably, in a way she'd never imagined.

Her own body shuddered as first one orgasm took her, then another, and another. She grabbed her nubile breasts, squeezing them together, pinching her nipples pleasurably as her body was wracked with incomparable jolts of pleasure.

"Yes, Big Brother, fuck me good. Fill me with cum and fuck me good. Oh, Mark. Oh, Mark. Oh, Mark..."

She felt a hunger growing as her body exploded with rapture. She no longer cared about his gratification. She didn't care if he felt pain. She hungered. She lusted, and she hungered. As her body was sated, as the waves of pleasure roamed through her, burst through her, her need for something more, something new, grew.

She hungered.

She sensed his heart beating. She could smell her brother's blood coursing through his veins. His neck throbbed, pulsing visibly where the artery neared the skin, where a single bite would pleasure him beyond his own imagining as she fed on his hot, tangy, steaming, blood.

Her body convulsed again with an orgasm intensified by the mere thought of that new pleasure.

"No."

The deep command exploded in her mind.

"No. Do not feed. Do not hurt him. Calm yourself, child. Calm your body and your lust and your hunger. Let him be."

* * *

Without him nearby to stop her, she would have killed him. That was inevitable. That was, in part, why he was here, watching over her. Artûr, over five hundred years old, looked on with relish as the lovers subsided.

His unending revenge on his brother was once again repeated.

Five hundred years ago his own brother had raped their sister. Five hundred year ago he had killed the dirty scoundrel, but he kept his sister's shameful secret to himself, so the town's people ignorantly hanged Artûr himself for his own crime. He reawakened as the monster he was now, and had been for all these long centuries.

His people believed someone that was truly immoral in life was resurrected as a vampire. He became a vampire because of the cruel, unforgivable nature of his crime of fratricide. He himself believed it was not a punishment, but an act of justice, a chance at unending revenge on his brother and his brother's family and his brother's descendants.

His brother's family threw Artûr's own wounded family onto the street for the crime against them. His own wife and children died there, alone, in the cold, without him to care for them. His brother's family appropriated his own wealth, and they prospered, living in luxury through the centuries at his expense.

But every few decades a daughter was born to his brother's line, one that intrigued him. Every so often the daughter had a brother who was of a type that reminded him of his own brother. The brother and sister loved each other. He cared for her. She trusted him, but lusted after him. He lusted after her. They wouldn't act on it, not as nice, God fearing, church going people. They were good. They were civilized. They would never commit an act so vile as incest.

But they could. Their ancestor had. It was in them.

They weren't so good as they seemed. It took so little, really, to nudge them into action. They weren't ever so good and kind and virtuous as they pretended. It was a gift, really, from him to them, the ability to exist as they truly were, as monsters, without hiding their true nature or feelings or desires. It was his gift to them.

Every half century or so he enacted his revenge once more, as he guided them into an act of familial betrayal. He enjoyed the scene as it played out, time and again, as the brother brutally took the sister, or the sister sinfully took the brother, and the brother, the monster that he truly was, shamefully but willingly enjoyed it.

And now Angela would be his. He would pleasure her flesh, and use it to pleasure himself. He'd send her back to her brother from time to time, until he tired of the game and ended the wretch's life by making her be the one to take it. She'd learn then what a monster she was, as the lust and the hunger overwhelmed her, and she fed on her brother's blood.

The brother would watch in horror as his sister took his life, even as she fucked him, and he'd enjoy both acts, the sex and his own murder, as his spirit slipped away into nothing. Then she would live on, always tortured with the memory of what she'd done to her own brother, and what she'd become.

Then Artûr would wait another hundred years, or so, for another pair to arrive to replay his own immortal passion, his unquenchable, immortal lust for revenge.

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