Incestual · Erotica by Redbud
- This is the third story in what I’ve written to be a trilogy: Non-Consensual, Beastial and Incestual. If any of you have been following the Paypal controversy, then you know that Paypal has refused to transact erotica containing any three of these themes. I wanted to write three short stories that were more than just titillation, that would be, at some level, meaningful and literary. I leave it to all of you to decide whether I’ve succeeded.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“C’mere, honey,” says the woman on the couch.
The other women, the slenderer of the two, almost puts down the water. She hesitates. She won’t meet the other woman’s eyes. Instead, she pours the water into the paper whites. The morning gleams brightly in the wet stones between the bulbs. Plants stand in a row on the floor of the screen porch, just beyond the French doors of the bedroom.
“What’s goin’ on?” her lover asks. “Ever since we had dinner with your sister-in-law – what’s it been, a week now? – you go around like lost puppy.”
“Don’t mind me.”
“I have to mind you.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” says the younger woman in a sing-song voice, eyebrows raised.
“Look, every time – where are you going?”
“To the kitchen.”
“I’m talking to you.”
“I can hear you.”
“You’re not gonna’ make me get up, are you?”
“Have you had breakfast?” the younger woman asks, swiping her brown hair on the way to the kitchen.
“Just tell me, so I know whether I should be pissy too. What did she do? Did she kick the dog, drown the kitten, slander you? What?” The woman pushes herself upright with a groan.
“You sound like my grandmother.”
“I have bursitis.”
“No you don’t.”
“They’re athletic injuries.”
“The couch isn’t a sport.”
“You should try getting up with boobs like these.”
“I’m making myself poached eggs on toast. Would you like some?”
The older woman is in her late thirties, wears a button down flannel shirt and boxer shorts. She moves behind her lover. The finger of one hand move under the elastic waist band of the panties, the other rises upward, finding the rising knots of her lover’s nipples. “You’re all wet. It’s Sunday morning, baby. Don’t you need me to fuck you?” The younger woman closes her eyes and leans her head back against her lover’s shoulder, but pulls her lover’s hand up and to the flat of her belly. She sighs when she feels her lover bite and lick her ear love. “You feel that wetness on your belly? That’s all on my finger’s tip. It’s giving you goosebumps, that slick wetness on your warm skin. You want to tell me what’s goin’ on?”
The younger woman shrugs her away. “I’m making myself breakfast.”
They sit at the kitchen island, on stools.
“She didn’t do anything like that,” says the younger woman.
The younger woman puts down her fork, her breakfast half-eaten. She stares at her plate, and at nothing. “I’m jealous. Ok? I’m jealous.” Her jaws flex.
They sit in silence.
The older of the two swallows and drinks some orange juice. “Oh,” she says, She takes another gulp, puts down the glass. “Oh,” says again. She nods. She momentarily bites her upper lip. “Oh.” This time she lingers, drawing out the expostulation into a long O of comprehension.
“Ok. This starts to make sense.”
“I’m not proud of myself. I’d rather not talk about it.”
She watches her young lover as she moves from one chore to the next. She watches her broom the screen porch. She watches the swing of her young hips, the silhouette of her beautiful breasts under the tight T-Shirt, her bare legs, and she touches herself. She moves her fingers out from under her boxer shorts. “Baby,” she says.
“C’mon in here.” She opens her legs and pats the couch. “Right here. Sit down.” Her lover smiles and sighs with resignation. She leans the broom in the corner of the screen porch, gracefully walks into the bedroom, turns, two finger on her hips, looks behind her, and, knees together, sits between her open legs. “Lean back.”
The younger of the woman leans back and hums. Her lovers breasts feel warm and full. “What do you have in mind?”
“Open your legs.” The younger woman complies and relaxes as her lover begins to stroke her thighs with finger tips. “Tell me about it.”
The younger woman stiffens.
“No,” says her lover. “Relax. Close your eyes. I swear to God. I swear to Jesus on a crucifix, I’m not gonna’ judge you. In fact, you know I got brothers and sisters too, and I’m gonna’ make a confession. You aren’t the only man or woman on this planet who’s wondered – even maybe when you were just kids and teenagers, you know? – haven’t wondered what it would be like; especially when you’re that young and, Christ, your body’s on fire and every day there’s a bonfire that’s just so full of curiosity, so full of a fever and a fear to touch and be touched, that anybody, anyone who’s nice to you, who’s close to you, makes you dizzy, makes you even fall in love a little.” She feels her lover relax. “That’s it, baby.”
“Yeah. I mean, now, I never ever actually did anything but I sure enough imagined it; and, oh, I’d be so ashamed and embarrassed because, you know, I’d have an orgasm sometimes, imagining it; and I was convinced it was the devil himself giving me that orgasm – that that’s what evil felt like – pure, unadulterated joy!” She feels her lover’s soft laugh and her legs open.
The older woman moves her hand under the waist band of her young lover’s panties, and slides her finger into her wet groove. “That’s it, sugar, just let your gal take care of you. I’m gonna’ make you come like you’ve never come before. I’m gonna’ share a secret with you; and that’s that God gave us a mighty powerful gift that’s got nothing to do with the Devil. There never was and never will be any harm in fantasy.” She slide the length of her index finger over her lover’s hard clit and feels the young woman arch and press back against her. “That’s it, baby, You’re like a guitar, you gotta’ be played before one of those strings gets too tight.” The young woman’s hands move to either side, to her lover’s knees, gripping them. “I want you to tell me: Are we lovers?”
“Yes,” she moans.
“Do we keep secrets?”
“You trust me?”
“Then tell me everything.” She feels her young lover stiffen.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I want you to tell me: Did you ever do anything with your brother?”
The young woman doesn’t answer at first. “Sort of,” she finally answers. “But no.”
“Lift up your t-shirt. I want to see your nipples.”
The young woman lifts the hem of her t-shirt until it rests on the top of her breasts. She moves slowly and uncertainly. “I don’t if I can –”
“I’m going to help you.” The older woman reaches under the couch pillow and rests a dildo against her lover’s thigh. It’s shaped like a cock with a large, soft, rubbery helmet and veins molded into the sides. A dolphin extends from the bottom. “You’re shaking sweety.”
“I don’t know—”
“So what happened. Just talk to me. I’m going to be right here loving you.”
“I don’t know—”
“Baby, you know, in some people’s heads two women living with each other and fucking is on the same plane of hell as doing a brother or your sister. You think they’re right?”
“Then don’t you worry about a fantasy. Don’t you let anybody tell you what you can and can’t fantasize. We all want things, and oftentimes it’s not even what we think it is. Just talk to me. Tell me what you mean by ‘sort of’.” She softly pinched the young woman’s nipple and caressed her clit.
“We used to – I mean – we were just there for each other.”
“Tell me more.”
“It wasn’t like Dad or Mom ever hurt us, but they weren’t there for us, or me. We just looked out for each other.” The young woman moans.
“What does that mean?”
“I loved him.”
“And that got all confused with everything else, right?”
“Did he feel the same way?”
“Yeah. We…” She moans as her lover presses a finger inside her. “…We would masturbate sometimes when we knew the other was watching. It wasn’t in the same room, but the bathroom or bedroom door would be cracked. We knew but we never said anything to each other. We just – we just did it because we didn’t want it to stop. We had that connection too, and it felt so good. We would – we would exaggerate for each other.”
“What would you do?”
“I would – “
“Go ahead, sweety.”
“I would spread my legs extra wide. I would arch, crazy-like, like I was being filmed and, oh fuck, but it made me come so much harder. I would – I would find his come sometimes. I would look for it later – and it just made me feel good, like I was doing something for him.”
“Because it made me so ashamed of myself!”
“That’s all in the past, baby. And maybe what happened was good. Maybe you both needed that connection cause, god knows, you weren’t getting love anywhere else. Right? You were both just human beings, lonely and filling a hole that the two most important people in your lives weren’t filling. What’s wrong with wanting to be loved?”
“I imagined more.”
“Of course you did, baby. Tell me.”
“I used to –“
“Go ahead, love.”
“I used to imagine him coming in.”
“When I was masturbating.”
“When he was watching you?”
“What would he do?”
“He would come in. He wouldn’t say anything. I wouldn’t either. At first, I would imagine how shy I’d be. How I’d close my legs and just stare at him. But he’d be looking at me with such love. He’d be stroking his –”
“Say it, sweety, go ahead.”
“ – his cock. He’s be stroking it. He’d be looking at me as I was laying in bed, on my back, naked and my hand would still be between my thighs, but my knees would be tight together and I couldn’t move my hand. The sheets and the whole room would smell like me. But I could tell he enjoyed looking at me so much, that he loved me so much. And after a while, we wouldn’t have to say anything, we would just be looking into each other’s eyes and I would slowly open my legs and keep touching myself.”
“He’d take my hand and pull me upright, so I was sitting on the edge of the bed.”
“He’d just run the tip of his cock over my body, just touching my skin, my shapes, like he was worshiping me with it, like every part of me was giving him pleasure.”
The older woman takes up the dildo and lightly traces the tip of it over her lover’s breasts, her throat, and lips. “Like this?”
“Yes,” she answers, shaking.
“And would his cock move closer and closer to your lips.”
“Yes,” she answered, almost a whisper, “like he was afraid to ask?”
“And would it finally touch your lips?” She moved the dildo to her lips while, with her other hand, she continued stroking her lover’s clit. The young woman licks the tip of the dildo. Then licks it again, then, using her lips, pulls the dildo into her mouth, sucking it, her slender neck moving back and forth. “And you sucked it? You took him into your mouth. You wanted to show him how good he made you feel, didn’t you?” The young woman moans, eyes closed, and begins to stiffen, but now with the taut winding of pleasure. “You want to show him that there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for him, that you would even swallow him, that you would take him inside you the way he was already inside your heart.” The young woman groans and sucks harder. “Does he come in in your mouth sometimes?”
The woman nods.
“He’s coming. Do you taste his spurts? His sister’s mouth feels so good to him.”
The young woman’s eyes briefly open and roll as she comes. Her legs widen with each spasm. Then she takes the dildo out of her lover’s mouth. “Is that all? Did you imagine anything else?”
“Yes,” she answers quietly.
The older woman lowers the dildo and just presses the tip into her lover. She exhales and tries to move more of it inside her, but her older lover removes the dildo, dripping with strands of arousal, and moves it to her breasts. “Does he come on your breasts sometimes?”
The young woman nods.
The older woman traces the dildo’s wetness over her lover’s nipples. “Can you feel his wet come on them? How about your neck?” She moves the side of the slick dildo up her neck, then to her lips and cheek. “Do you feel your brother’s come smearing your lips and cheek? You’ve made him feel so good.” She continues to rub her young lover’s clit with her other hand as her abdomen already begins to intermittently spasm toward another orgasm. “But he’s still hard. Is there anything else you imagine?”
The young woman nods quickly, eyes half closed.
The older woman moves the dildo down, the tip over her lover’s belly button, and further down. “Open your legs. Show him you understand what he wants. He’s a man. Show him it’s ok. You understand. Show him that it’s ok.”
When the young lover’s legs are as wide as she can open them, her brother’s cock presses, parts, and enters her. She exhales loudly, presses her head back against her lover’s shoulder, and moves her hips to take more. Now the older woman holds the base of the dildo in the fingers of one hand and strokes her lover’s clit with the quick, feathery flicks of her other hand. “He’s big, isn’t he?”
The young woman nods.
“Just once. All those times he watched you; all those times you turned him on and he imagined the pleasure of you. You feel better than he ever imagined, but it hurts. His hardness hurts him the way it hurts you. Help him. Show him it’s ok. Just once. Do you feel him pressing, pushing, wanting?” She pushes, with the tip of her fingers, at the base of the cock, just a little, just enough to feel the repetitive thrusting deeply, but not painfully.
“He’s coming. Do you feel it? Go ahead. Show him how much pleasure he brings you, just once. Let him do it. Is this how you imagine it? Inside you?”
The young woman quickly nods, eyes wide, brows knitted. She bites her lower lip.
“He’s coming, but he has to be quiet. So do you. Open your legs. That’s it. Show him it’s ok, that you want him there. Just once.”
Then the young woman’s mouth opens, knees lifted, and as her back arches she drives the butt end of the dildo into the couch cushion — more deeply into herself. Her orgasm is quiet and deep. Her narrow belly and waist spasm and spasm again, clamping the upright cock up and inside.
“That’s it. Do you feel your brother filling you? He’s gushing. He’s soaking you inside.” The young woman grunts once more, eyes abruptly closed, head raised, and taut. “Good. But what does he do now? Does he leave? Does he kiss you, just once, softly, tenderly, tbefore he leaves.” One final hard spasm wracks the young woman and she collapses back against her lover, kissing her. The older woman starts to speak again but this time the young woman puts her finger to the older woman’s lips and quiets her with an exhausted smile.
They are quiet and both look out the bedroom’s french doors, at the bright morning just beyond. The younger woman holds her lover’s arm, draped over her breasts. “Now,” says the older woman quietly, “you don’t have to be jealous any more.”
The younger woman shakes her head and sighs.
Her lover says: “You’ve got me.”
William Crimson • March 27 2012