The Nature of Faeries

Editor's note: this fictional work contains scenes of fictional incest or fictional incest content.

THE NATURE OF FAERIES

Jack's cousin was smart. Crazy smart.

Incestuous content. All characters are above the age of eighteen

Please read the Standard Disclaimer on Alextasy's biography page

~~ 1 ~~ THE KISS ~~~~

"Lord, a'mighty, Margaret! What have you been feedin' this boy?" Gramma asked Momma. "Little Jack's sproutin' up tall as a tulip poplar."

I just grinned and took Momma's suitcase to the side room. I was easily a foot taller than her, but I was still her 'Little Jack'.

Gramma didn't wait for us to get settled before she lobbed her first shot.

"If you and your sister had a man around the house, maybe he could teach Jack how to shave."

Momma groaned. "Drop it, Ma."

Nobody could nag like Gramma.

"Just sayin' honey. If Little Jack would stop hidin' that handsome face behind them whiskers, you'd have to shoo the women away with a broomstick. I ain't gonna' be around forever and I'm hopin' to see some great-grandchillen afore I go meet St. Peter."

"Stop talkin' like that," Aunt Carol said.

She wasn't upset. Gramma had played the St. Peter card so many times, no one hardly paid attention any more.

"Yeah, Gramma, you're not going anywhere," I chimed in, kissing her bony cheek. "If anything happened to you, the whole world would turn upside down." I grabbed her in a loving bear hug, like always, but this time she yelped in pain.

Aunt Carol screamed at me, "Jack! Stop it!"

Gramma stumbled backward when I let her go. I was stunned. Aunt Carol and Momma ran to her and helped her to a chair. As soon as she sat down, she slapped them away.

"Go on, leave me alone," she said. "I'm fine. The boy just squeezed a little wind out of me."

Momma and Aunt Carol both gave her an irritated look, shaking their heads. If I'd paid a little more attention, I would have been more careful. They were right to be concerned. Gramma looked much older than the last time I saw her. That was three years ago. Our wiry matriarch was thin and frail, like dried leaves in December. Her skin was tinged a filmy gray, and her eyes were deep-set and sallow.

"Where's Clara?" I said. I was looking for any reason to beat a retreat.

"Your cousin's probably down t' the pond," Gramma replied, wheezing. "That's where she stays most days. You run along, now."

She waved me away with the back of her gaunt hand and began fussing at Momma, who'd brought her a glass of water and some pills.

I bounded up the stairs to my old room and tossed my pack on the bed. Then I barreled back down three steps at time, out the screen door and down the steep, rocky path like I was a kid again, surrendering myself to gravity, flailing my arms and covering six feet at a leap. The path leveled out at the bottom of the hill, and I slowed to a jog. The sun was setting up at the house, and it was even darker down here in the hollow.

Sure enough, there was Clara, perched on the end of the old dock. Her thick mass of curly black hair was silhouetted against the fading light.

"Hey there, Easy!" I hollered.

Somewhere around eleven or twelve, some book she read convinced her that she wanted to be a Clara instead of Clarice, but my childhood diminutive for 'Clarice' became a particularly delightful way to annoy her during our adolescent summers together.

She turned halfway around with a finger to her lips. "Shhh..."

I plopped beside her on the rotted planks. Even though it was the 1980s she still wore those same layers of drab, ankle-length cotton dresses that evoked another century, hiding any hint of femininity and giving her a matronly appearance despite her age. I was sure it didn't matter to her that those rectangular black horn-rims were coming back in style, either.

She stared intently across the glassy surface of the pond. I followed her gaze, squinted, but couldn't see anything of importance.

I whispered, "What'cha doin', Easy?"

"Watching for faeries, Jack-off," she whispered, using her classic comeback. She'd caught me many years ago. More than once.

I chuckled. "You don't believe in faeries."

With her most forbearing look and a subdued voice, she said, "It doesn't matter whether I believe in them or not. Either they exist, or they don't. If I believe in them, and they're not real, then I'm just wrong. But if I don't believe in them, and they are out there somewhere, I am ignorant, and I might just miss out on something magical. Just because I haven't seen one yet, doesn't mean I won't someday."

I knew better than to argue with her twisted logic. Clara was smart—crazy smart. Though she was a year younger, she'd completed a community college degree before I ever graduated from high school. Aunt Carol was too poor to send her any further—that's why they still lived with Gramma. She read everything she could lay hands on, whether it was in English, or French, or Swahili, and she retained all of it. I'd even gotten tutoring in senior calculus from her. When we were little, she said she wanted to be a doctor so she could cure everybody. I had no doubt that she could do it.

She swung an idle arm around my waist, and I hung mine comfortably across her shoulders. We both resumed our search for the elusive faeries.

Soon a full moon was peeking over Cowan's Mountain. The midsummer night air was heavy and still, and from every direction a symphony of bullfrogs and cicadas serenaded us. I'd forgotten how peaceful this place could be. As children, we swam naked in these waters, then dried ourselves in the afternoon sun. Of course, that had all changed when we became aware of the changes in our bodies.

In hushed tones, Clara said, "You doing good in school?"

"Okay," I said. "Made dean's list last semester. I've gotta' take philosophy next year, though, and I don't get that stuff. I'm afraid it's going to screw up my average."

She turned and looked up at me again. "Don't ever be afraid, Jack."

Clara tilted her head to the side, studying me with a faint smile. I sensed her eyes scanning my face from behind those glasses, especially my scruffy two-week beard. The corners of her mouth curled upwards.

With the two fingers remaining on her left hand, she stroked my fuzzy cheek. "I like this," she said.

Then my cousin craned her neck and kissed me.

Her kiss was not chaste, not like a cousin's should be. Her lush lips lingered—delicate, more than a tease but less than a taste. Then they parted, ever so slightly, and my heart raced. Exhilaration spread from her kiss, down my throat, expanding through my chest straight to my groin. When I responded, opening my lips and pressing my tongue forward, Clara pulled away with a contented look. I gaped at her, dazed, confused, hardly able to breathe. She simply shifted closer, tightening her embrace around my waist, and laid her head on my shoulder.

"Clara?" I was hoping for some explanation.

I should have known better than to expect a straight answer. My cousin often spoke in a circuitous rhetoric, but her meaning was always crystal clear.

"You should learn to speak other languages, Jack. Each language changes the way we think," she said, without lifting her head. "The German tongue has over thirty different words for a kiss. One of them is Nachkussen. It refers to a kiss that makes up for kisses that never happened."

~~ 2 ~~ OUR FIRST NIGHT ~~~~

That night, she came to my room.

I was lying on the sheets, sweltering in the dense Carolina heat of an early August. The old fan on the sash of the single window hummed and vibrated like it was trying to shake itself apart. My hand was stuffed down inside my underwear. My eyes were closed to enjoy a recurring fantasy of my cousin when I heard the door open. I jerked my hand back and turned on the desk lamp.

It was Clara. Like an apparition, she was draped in an ankle-length white linen nightshirt. Her thick hair was pulled back. Silently, she pushed the door to, then she turned the key. I don't think I'll ever hear anything so erotic as the click of that key. The rickety hardwood floor gave only a faint squeak under her bare feet. In one smooth motion, she hiked her nightshirt over her head and laid it aside.

In all our years together, I had never imagined such a woman lived under those stodgy clothes. At the side of my bed, she set her glasses on the desk, and the metamorphosis was complete. My cousin was no longer recognizable. In her place was a pale goddess, a Rubenesque Venus.

She switched off the lamp and stretched out beside me, her naked breasts touching my bare chest. A whiff of vanilla and cinnamon made my mouth water. She laid her leg over my thigh and pressed her belly against the hardness hidden in my shorts.

I had been gaping like a mouth-breathing imbecile. "Clara," I croaked, suddenly recognizing how dry my throat was, "You're...beautiful." The word didn't come close to capturing my awe. "What...? Why...?" I stammered.

She pressed her lips to mine, hushing me. Then, tugging on my waistband, she whispered, "Take these off."

I was naked in an instant. She kissed me again, fleeting and flirtatious like she did at the pond, while she used her long, slender fingers to trace gossamer webs of delight up and down my penis. When her tongue flicked playfully, I answered in kind. I held her elegant young breasts, explored their curves, and felt her breath quicken when I played with her dark teats. My explorations wandered downward, across the smooth swell of her belly to comb through her thick tangle. She pushed herself against my hand, and I delved lower, sliding into her heat. She gasped, then shuddered. Our teasing kisses turned hungry.

Rolling onto her back, Clara pulled me on top. The moonlight on her round face gave it an unearthly glow. Her smile was beatific. Our bodies were slick—beads of sweat glistened on her forehead. She spread her legs wide. grabbed my butt with both hands, then twisted and squirmed until I was nestled in her folds.

"Wait!" I whispered frantically. "I don't have a rubber!"

"It's okay," she assured me. Her voice was soothing.

Clara welcomed me into herself. She whimpered like a puppy as I wiggled and pressed deeper and deeper. When our loins brushed together, she hissed, "Yesss..." Our kiss was a lover's kiss, conjuring strange, deep-rooted emotions, so unlike the awkward hollowness I'd endured with both of my previous experiences.

We began moving together. The tattletale bed frame squeaked and whined. We froze. I shifted again, heard a tiny screak, and we both broke into giggles.

"Slow," Clara whispered, nudging my hips, easing us into a slow, synchronized motion.

The crotchety old wood complained softly, jealous of our passion. She held my ass with both hands, pulling and pushing, steadily guiding the head of my prick into the well of her body, an excruciating, sweet torture.

I never felt it coming. My breath caught and every muscle in my body tensed. The only warning I could offer was, "Oh-god-oh-god-ohh..."

"Do it, Jack! Yes!" my cousin whispered fervently, coaxing the deluge from my balls, her back arching in her own blissful moment.

I collapsed on top of her, a breathless, sweaty, gelatinous mass. She held me, planting small kisses on the top of my head as her fingernails lightly stroked my back.

My senses slowly returned, and along with them, a healthy serving of guilt. What had we done? When I rolled to the side, she turned to face me with a satisfied smile, and caressed my nascent beard.

"Clara..." I began, but she had already worked it out.

"Preacher Allen spends all his time reading the Good Book," she said. "He knows everything about it. He can recite every word, forward and backward, chapter and verse. When Gramma asked him about Adam and Eve, he told her that they were alone in the world when they were cast out from the Garden. Gramma wanted to know where their children and their grandchildren came from. Preacher Allen said that Eve's children were the harvest of her wickedness, and the children of their children were a perverse abomination."

She paused. Her index finger pensively traced the window frame's moonlit shadow on my chest.

She said, "Of course, Preacher Allen also says that the earth and the moon and the stars were created only six thousand years ago, and that all the little babies in China who never even heard of Jesus are going straight to Hell. Gramma and me, we think that Preacher Allen should try reading some different books."

~~ 3 ~~ DAWN ~~~~

The eastern horizon had just begun to glow when I awoke. One of my arms dangled lazily over my cousin's sleeping breasts. We were lying sideways, my belly against Clara's warm back, and my face wallowed in the vanilla scent of her hair. My anxious dick twitched in the cleft of her pillowy cheeks, begging for more. I couldn't resist nudging his tender underside against her soft flesh while trying not to waken her. I was not successful.

She turned over in my arms, smiling contentedly. Her perennially rosy cheeks seemed radiant. With her tousled hair, her drowsy eyes, and the memory of what we had done, she seemed even more lovely than the vision she had shown me the night before.

"Good morning, Easy," I cooed, without thinking.

Her smile vanished. "Is that what you think?" she demanded.

My erection withered under her hard glare.

"No! I'm sorry, Clara, it just slipped out. I didn't mean..."

"I guess I was wrong about you," she snapped. "Maybe I should have just let you—let you jack off. Jack."

She held her angry expression for almost two seconds before her face cracked. I began tickling her mercilessly. She stopped me with a kiss that quickly grew torrid, our bodies squirming, clutched tightly together.

Clara's disfigured hand encircled my rejuvenated hardness. "Is this for me?" she asked.

Not waiting for an answer, she moved down the bed while the focus of her eyes remained on mine. Even when she took me into her succulent mouth, she kept watching my face. My dick disappeared between her dark lips that always appeared to be freshly stained by black cherries. She didn't suck as other girls had done. She bathed my cock in her warm mouth, her tongue caressing, her fleshy lips drawing the foreskin to and fro. I felt the firm caress of her tongue as she moved. It was undoubtedly the best blowjob I'd ever had.

"Is that what you were doing?" she asked at a pause. She flicked the tip of her tongue at the underside.

"Huh? What?" I asked, trying to recall my consciousness from wherever it had gone on vacation.

"Jacking off. Is that what you were doing last night?" She swallowed me again.

I felt my face turn red. "Uh, yeah."

Continuing to stroke me with the surviving first two fingers and thumb, she asked, "Who were you thinking about? Tell me the truth, Jack."

"You, Clara," I confessed, and felt my heart expand even as I said it. "It was you. I was imagining what it would be like to fuck my cousin."

"Thought so, you pervert" she grinned. She climbed up, straddled my thighs, and aimed me toward her entrance. "Was your dream something like this?" she asked impishly as she sat, gobbling my erection in one bite.

"Fuck!" I exhaled. "Not nearly as good as this."

Clara leaned forward on her hands, her breasts dangling. I captured her nipples between my fingers as she began moving on me.

The bed caterwauled, and she stopped, slumping her shoulders with a heavy sigh. Then her impish grin returned. Careful to avoid too much movement, she climbed off me and got out of bed.

"Clara?"

She moved the fan to the desk. Bending forward at the waist to rest her hands on the windowsill, she looked back over her shoulder with a clear invitation.

"Is that for me?" I quipped, already swinging my legs off the bed.

Grasping her hips, I plunged deep inside with one thrust, slamming my pelvis against her sweet butt.

Clara heaved, "Oof! Fuck, Jack!"

"If that's what you want, dear cousin." I began pounding her behind, our bodies slapping together.

The old floor squeaked softly, but this part of the room was over the porch, so I didn't worry. It was still a little early for anyone to be up and about, even for farm folk.

Breathlessly, Clara said, "You—you feel so good. Just like I—like I dreamed you would."

"Huh?" I screeched to a halt.

"You think only guys jack off?"

"Fuck..."

She lowered a shoulder, and my cock felt the tip of a finger moving between her legs.

"Fuck me, Jack," she begged. "Please..."

A cool morning breeze blew in through the window, and the colors of the Carolina sky blended in a kinetic palette of pastel blues and reds to a golden peach. None of those colors matched the beauty of my gorgeous cousin's rose-pink skin as she diddled herself and rocked back against me while I held her around the waist and ravished her. She dropped her head and her body began shaking, whimpering, "Fuck, fuck, fuck..." as the sun glinted over the peak of Cowan's Mt., and when her inner muscles clenched and her back arched, I drove myself deep one more time, surrendering to the glorious exaltation.

~~ 4 ~~ MORNING CHORES ~~~~

I fell back on the bed, but Clara had her early chores. Before she left, she gave me a long, sweet kiss, then giggled.

"It tickles," she said, raising her nightshirt to show me the semen dripping down her thigh. She swiped it with a finger and tasted it, wiggling her brows. Then she opened the door and ran on tiptoes down the hall to get dressed.

With my arms folded behind my head, I lay in bed contemplating just how lucky I might get over the next few days. After a short snooze, I bounded down the steps just in time to be startled by Momma coming in off the porch.

"Hi, Mom," I said as innocent as I could. "Whatcha' doing?"

"Couldn't sleep. Been sitting on the porch listening to the world wake up."

Shit. She had to have heard us. The window was open, and we were certainly louder than the birds. If nothing else, that damn floor made enough noise to pique her curiosity, and Momma was never shy about posing incriminating questions. Neither her face nor her inflection suggested any suspicion of what we'd just been doing right above her, however.

Casually sidestepping the subject, I mentioned, "Clara should be doing her chores, now. I think I should go help her."

"Good idea," Momma answered. She added, "This farm is too much for one person. I hope you'll"—she cleared her throat—"that you'll take care of everything Clara needs from you."

Huh? Was she saying? I detected nothing more than a tiny twitch of her brow.

"Run along, now," Momma said with a casual air. She turned around and refilled her coffee.

I scooted away before anything else could be said and joined Clara as she was shooing the two heifers into the field. She fed the chickens and milked the two goats while I loaded the old mare's feed basket with oats and slopped the hogs with the remains of last night's supper. She was finishing with Delilah when I came back, and I got a stream of fresh milk in the face from across the stall.

Clara laughed and aimed again, but I sidestepped and stuffed a handful of hay down the back of her dress. She screamed as she spun around, poised low to tackle me, a vengeful fire in her eyes. Just then, Aunt Carol called us in for breakfast. That signaled an immediate truce, so I sat and refreshed myself on how to pull the goat's milk from Jezebel while my cousin shook the hay out of her dress the best she could. I carried the pail as we walked across the yard, our arms around each other.

When we got in the house, Aunt Carol looked at us. I had wet splashes all over the front of me and hay still clung to Clara's dress. She just shook her head and turned back to the sink. We went upstairs and cleaned up as best we could. At breakfast, Clara and I sat across from each other, as we always had, except in addition to the usual funny faces and snickering, we played footsie under the table and tossed winks and kisses back and forth whenever we were sure nobody was looking.