One in the same part 2

“Do me, Georgie “? she crooned back to him, and so ended the civility of their dialogue for the next several minutes as they spoke to each other, at and over each other, in expletive barks and slurs and fractured declarations of raw want realized – coaxing, cajoling, each building on the other’s last vulgarity, exclaiming the exquisite filth of their desires for one another, their voices ringing off the walls and out the window and all but inaudible from the street four floors below. Whirling shouts of you/me this and give/take that – speech coherent only in the context of lovemaking or warmongering – their flurried verbiage culminated when George felt the warm, warning roar of near-orgasm within his loins, and he told Maggie that he was finally about to come. Maggie’s experience until this moment, an ascension from sacrifice to exertion and then to even this weird, dirty pleasure, had still been far less sure of climax than the tidal certainty of orgasm throbbing within her brother’s groin; but hearing his words – this knowledge that their act, this taboo, a so unspeakably forbidden crime against nature that nature so casually suggested of them, would indeed be done – as if her first piercing weren’t enough – she now knew suddenly that she too would soon come as irrevocably as would her brother behind her and she cried out her discovery to him with an alarming urgency. He grappled her hips and incessantly bored open her rose-hole and she clung tight to the couch back and squatted aft, a rebounding bump back inbound at the end of each thrust for an extra fraction of depth, and George grimaced skyward and called out her name and came hard with a wrenching landslide of sour, seminal momentum: a splashing gush of semen, loathsome and bestial, he spilled tumbling, weighted ropes and curds of sperm up Maggie’s bowels, heating her guts and invisible to all but God. And feeling his hot mess pour into her, Maggie responded in kind – shrieking and flailing and calling to George at the crest of her climax to be more completely, impossibly deeper and harder inside her and she as well came wildly with a writhing, spasmodic cloudburst of her every whorey need sated, her secretions tracing from her pussy shiny lines down the inside of her thighs and her ripe, dense stench suddenly clouding the immediate air. They washed ashore from their orgasms as if survivors of a shipwreck: breathless and clumsily, their stumbling thrusts into/onto each other staggered and halting. “Don’t stop, baby … “? Maggie mewed over her shoulder, sensing her brother might try to spare himself any further guilt by way of a dishonest mercy for her – and lose the renaissance of a new affinity for each other from the ruins of their old selves – but, chemically sustained and still sound inside her, his desires revived by her humid, pheromonal odor, George resumed his angular command of her ass with an easy, gliding precision and they swung along together in unison like this for some time more, blissfully, like sweethearts hand-in-hand down a boulevard in any weather on a day made beautiful by the other’s presence. Relieved of his lust’s frenzy, George could savor his idling ride of Maggie hugged over the corner of the couch back and her similarly assuming the position in which she had appeared in the photograph. From his hold of her pelvis, he could observe, relish, his penetrations of her – her venerably heart-shaped tush – and between her buns feel the more muscular, strangling slick-friction of her wrap of him within as he stirred and churned his semen inside her, her depths soupy, sloppy with sperm and lubricant; his thrusts compounded would amount to a short ton of his meat packed up her ass before they were through, he imagined, ponderously piling his bulk into her pound after pound, one brick at a time: building on their blasphemy, erecting their sacrilege – this deliciously unlovely buggery of his sister’s delightful fanny. She felt her brother still huge and invasive inside her, a plowing, cylindrical enormity crowding her aft-cache replete beyond his actual dimensions, his pubic stubble prickling, and Maggie laid her face again alongside the upholstery between her grips of the sofa back. Glancing at the timer, she saw their hour well over half-elapsed but, at this rate, still hundreds of thrusts from finished; his accumulative strokes would amount to a half-mile ride before they were through, she thought, 10 long inches after another: his hands steering her hips, and herself, their journey – her brother as a bus smoothly bombing up her backcountry. On the far wall, she saw their play-rape artfully framed and reflected in full in the mirror across the room and she watched their bodies move in tandem, his pole alternately laid bare then buried big back up her rump, she leisurely meeting his lengths, his lines leveraging and her curves swaying, their forms beautifully functioning together – a surreal brew she immersed herself in as both voyeur and participant. Aware of a dull, vague ache of her sphincter muscle, she readjusted her stance and tried in earnest to further relax and accept, envelop even, George’s penetrating tonnage and this private little pain – and the math, the imagery – that hurt so good she giggled, and she looked over her shoulder to watch his face until he looked up from his work of her and met her eyes, seeing her grinning at him brightly, knowingly. “How dare I enjoy this so “? he smiled back at her, blushing, despite everything, and she laughed. “I know what you mean “? she said, “me too, “? and resting her head again, she watched their incestuous harmony in the mirror for another minute before George, realigning his aim into her, inadvertently knelt on the stereo’s remote that had been lost between the sofa’s seat cushions. The radio pre-set suddenly lit up and the room swelled with low volume lite-rock and Maggie began to hum and then quietly sing to her brother about how she as well could feel the earth – move – under her feet, feeling the sky tum-ba-lin’ down, a-tum-ba-lin’ down. “Mmm, so very good “? George groaned, listening to his sister solicit him: “‘ – I’ve just got to have ya, baay-beh’ “? “‘ – uhuh-uhuh, uhuhh – ‘ “? he reveled, “‘ – uhuh-uhuh, uhuhh, yeah-yeaah’ “? she rallied, and so they randomly, discordantly, parried back and forth, song after bastardized song – a steely, don’tch-ya-need-me-heyhey-oooyeah free-fall bridge, then a bitch/tease goddess-on-her-knees riff – and fucking with renewed vigor until the radio played one of their own songs and they serenely slipped mutually, heartfelt into their own music, singing, serenading in innuendo along with themselves together to one another a lyric, ethereal groove from their earlier days that they had written – each secretly regarding the other – about the peacefulness of familiar love and, conspiratorially, how that might be in the wake of familial sex. A pause in the action, and then the room went silent, their fucky-lovemaking as suddenly void of music as if they’d both gone stone deaf. George had stepped up onto the couch, standing on the sofa cushions and ponyed atop Maggie’s back, and the sight of this reflected in the mirror she thought looked a little silly until she saw her brother’s face stricken with a dangerous ardor and she heard a dreadful resolve in his voice as he told her, repeating several times, that he so dearly loved her, that he was in love with her, and afraid for her brother she answered him as many times that she as well very much loved him, it’s alright Georgie, but he seemed inconsolable, saying only I love you, Maggie, I’m so in love with you. Then, his fingers closing over her wrists, ” – but now I’m going to rape you, love, as I said I would; really, awfully fuck your sweet butt like I’ve always wanted to “? and in their reflection she saw him hide his face in her hair, felt his breath steamy at her throat, and watching George’s hips rise high toward the ceiling, his marbled pillar bridging their bodies, she barely got out “ok – ‘ before he broke back into her ass with 180 lb. drives bigger than all the past hour’s thrusts as one. They both heard the microscopic crack of her sphincter and Maggie screamed weakly once as she briefly hurt virgin-again twice in as many hours, her asshole not-quite accommodating her brother’s bloodlust. The weight and strength of his split of her spread her stance flat, driving her pussy to the upholstery and stifling her voice in mid-sentence – elementary masculine violence, too rough at this late stage, she thought; last winter she’d slipped and sat down on the ice softer than this – and so as he slammed-home hurtled in & out of her, she told him what women know all men want to hear, oh-no, oh-no, your so big and strong, it’s too much, blah-blah. George listened to Maggie recite the porn-queen script, barreling into her what felt like from across the room, and waited for her to really speak to him. The scary buttfuck he’d promised her wouldn’t begin for another ten minutes of these race-engine industrial thrusts – 20 inches per cycle, 50 feet per minute – and not until long-after their scheduled hour had expired; when as the oil began to fail and feeling his cock chaff with the building friction, he heard his sister begin to talk less and say more, her face a crimson mask of increasingly contorted grimaces, her wrists twisting within his grip. “georgie? baby? – it hurts. “? “I love you, Maggie “? drop-hammering granite and titanic into her astride her hips and from almost a foot overhead. what was her still silky if frayed rosebud at the agreed-upon end of tonight’s romp was, now trespassing well into the 2nd hour, fast becoming a tired crater, her anus beaten loosed and unmoored from it’s diamond-tight maidenhood of so many years, her beautiful if common enough behind a home for his dragon in which to behave or breathe flame, in which to delight or damage. Maggie had felt her asshole cooked. Then dry and burning as it got raw as salt. Now afire. And alighting her behind as bright as a match head – and so soon since his especially thorough orgasm – this searing fuck-bludgeoning of her rectum from above could potentially continue for … until when? the nightly news? midnight? 1 a.m.? She began to beg George to stop, spilling tears – please georgie, stop – then bribe him, offering to suck him off clean, unwashed shit-filthy fresh out of her ass, and swallow every drop of his sperm. She tried somewhat to fight him, squealed “rape’ twice, then bit him, sinking her teeth into his forearm, and thought suddenly she might vomit – throwing-up or pissing herself would certainly stop him, she was as suddenly sure; but she then felt one thin hot trickle that she knew to be neither semen nor lubricant slip down the back of her leg, and she instead just laid her head to one side and began to openly bawl, mournfully giving up. George didn’t go any easier on her, but he sobbed into the back of her neck at the scent of blood, and she wept a little easier. And in the closing moments of their tear they together wrung from themselves the last of the evening’s lusts with a Herculean dribble and a tumultuous trickle, George ejaculating again into his sister, and Maggie, in spite of herself, as well cumming with him while the timer to their right blindly blinked zeros at them with mute, digital impassiveness, it’s exact signal for them to quit having another hour ago imperceptibly passed unacknowledged. George managed only another dozen or so chops with his diminishing erection until he could finally remain only still to the hilt inside Maggie, deflating, and she felt her brother at last softening and then doughy inside her before he reluctantly, sloppily, uncorked from her butt and stepped down. Maggie turned around, gingerly, and seated herself upright with her leg tucked under her. “I need a towel “? she whispered, as if to not be overheard by even herself, and he stood and instead gathered his cock into his sister’s mouth for her to briefly suck anyway, then gathered her into his arms slightly higher than to her feet to hold her off the floor in his embrace until she conceded to wrap her legs around him and let herself leak. George carried Maggie to his bedroom and dropped her into bed among his giant pillows and sweat-soured sheets and pillowcases, not letting her hide from him. He asked her to not escape him, to not wash off their iniquity, and she told him there was a wedge of cheese in the fridge. He returned from the kitchen after a minute with eats and drinks and smokes, and they talked for a long time: friendly, facetiously chiding – there was a small swollen split at the corner of his lip, lavender fingerprints polka-dotted her buttocks, and they’d both walk funny for a day or two – and when they did sleep, finally and for the first time their bodies enfolded naked in the other’s, George especially slept restfully and for more consecutive hours than he had in years. In the main room, their smells remained awake and all over; the camera could record only the still for the next hour, then ran out of tape. ?é?º?é?º?é?º Maggie sat straddling her brother, wearing only one of his dress shirts and twirling her bikini panties around her index finger, watching him wake up. It was the following afternoon and she was hungry. Stirring from sleep, trying to roll onto his side between her thighs, George opened his eyes and confusedly wondered if this all hadn’t already happened before exchanging morning breath with his sister when she kissed him. “Meet me at my place, love; we’re going out “? she said, and got off of him to leave for her own apartment. George showed up forty-five minutes later, freshly showered and groomed, and Maggie wide-open answered the door two raps into the first knocks, her hair still half-damp since her shower, and of course conspicuously too-late closing her robe, the game still afoot. Smiling, she watched his eyes while he held her gaze for the ten seconds he could effect before his sight irresistibly swept her exposure and, having won another point, she casually covered up. “Grab a beer, have a seat (yours, my maggie-luv, he thought) “? she said, “I’m almost ready (for you again, georgie-sweets; we’re just gettin’ started) “? and she left him in the doorway to go finish dressing, closing her bedroom door behind her. Maggie bought fussy beers that could not be just twisted open and in lieu of a bottle-opener he cleanly clipped off the cap of his beer from a protruding brick from the fireplace (sharp; hot; her). She re-emerged obsolete-chic, dressed in a fitted black turtleneck sweater, a short plaid skirt, and knee-high boots; George was dressed to not kill, conservative-blah this side of invisible. Maggie left a kiss print on his throat as they departed, her mark, corvette red, that he’d wear loud and pristine for the rest of the day. They had rented a limousine and rode miles out of town to one of the city’s surrounding hamlets, the whole way keeping the partition between them closed and having tipped the driver well up-front to mind his own damn business. They held hands while idly strolling the narrow streets and window-shopping, their waning folk-rock recognition for once welcome, and talked of movies, music, the weather, the store-front displays, lively speaking of anything except last night, thinking only of it. She knew with a smile every time he stole a glance at her backside and he thought all the while, with great satisfaction, of the scar of last night’s sex, the evidence of his presence, curtained under her skirt and tucked neatly between her cheeks. Without discussion they’d decided on the same bistro, the same heavy food, and as they ate she was pleased that rather than having cooked the meal she had at least figured considerably into his improved appetite. During a pause in their chat, she caught and held his eyes between bites and made a slow show of adjusting her seat, shifting her weight from one womanly-broad bun to the other. “Ouch “? she grinned, ” – nice work, stud “? but he didn’t blanch. He instead reached into his jacket and brought out the tarnished, low-gold band he’d given to her when they were kids but had secreted from her some time ago. Checkmate. Gin. Game, Set, Match. He took her left hand and placed the ring over her third finger, incanting softly “With this ring, I do thee wed … “? It had been re-sized, fit perfectly, and was still junk. Maggie got teary. George said they’d shop for one worth a small mortgage tomorrow, and she told him to shut up, I want this one. They both felt far more comfortable for now not really mentioning last night but for eye contact between them and its promise of the sex they knew they would someway do with each other, brother and sister, tonight and in subsequent nights, their perversity for now still clandestine even in the light of day and among normal people: regular guys and gals and other decent folk, and, paradoxically in spite of the sex-shop two blocks down the street in the other direction that they didn’t know was there – striping, raw-hide leather whips, drop cloths, locking fur-lined steel handcuffs, and rubber masks and gags Since 1981- they assumed themselves for as long as they were anywhere but home to be the whole goddamn world’s sole freak show. And relishing their deceit of all humanity, they paid their bill and stole away from the restaurant and into the limo that they had unnecessarily had parked hidden in back, slowly climbing over-around-and-again-over each other sealed within the confines of the backseat, the car doors closed about them and the gravel parking lot crunching under the tires as the limousine lumbered onto the asphalt road, wrestling gently, their quiet play novel given that they both knew, fully clothed and this time well in advance of the act, that sex between them tonight would happen as legitimate lovers would anticipate, this moment unbeknownst to either of them as an unnerving celebration of the twenty hour anniversary of when George was first infinitely inside Maggie and she was trying to catch her breath so she could then spend the ensuing forty seconds piteously suppressing a cry to him to stop, it still doesn’t fit. Facing him, Maggie sat saddled in George’s lap and they smooched while the Cadillac rode them home through the rain. “I owe you a blow when we get back “? she told him, “and later we’ll make love properly; but don’t gag me, I’ll swallow “? and she then happily belched a hot fume of wine & garlic in his face. “While you’re so generously ingesting my seed – fruitlessly spent up your butt or down your throat – when do you mean to get pregnant? “? George said and Maggie looked at him for a long moment, silently, now her truths indefensible. She curled up beside him, laying her head in his lap, and George petted her, massages segueing into molestations – rubbing her shoulder so as to squeeze her breast, stroking her hip so as to pat her fanny – caressing and copping feels, the two of them quietly listening to the wet road-noise humming up through the floorboards. “When did you know? “? she asked after a time, thumping his knee with her fist. “You were too good last night – so much, so suddenly. I’d have done anything for you anyway – and will; indebting me to you with what I’ve always wanted from you was ambrosia. Banging your ass is a bribe I’ll be glad to exact from you regularly and frequently from now on. “? “I’ll be healed in a few days; feel free. “? “Not always, but another time you’ll have to genuinely fight me; we’ll be arguing and mad at each other, and when we’re most loud and insulting and pissed-off, you’ll at that moment have to guess as to whether we’ll reason out our differences – or I force you over something and we listen to the crack of a paddle on your bare ass for a half-hour and I ass-rape you between your stung buns for an hour after that – and afterwards agree to disagree with you. Between feedings, of course, or even before you’re too pregnant. “? “I’ll bear that in mind tonight while you’re cumming in my mouth “? and she gently closed her teeth over his thumb. They arrived in front of their building and the driver assisted Maggie out of the car as if she were a queen. George tipped him half-again more and he gave George his card and an assurance that he could be available again as ordered . Hand in hand, at Maggie’s door George started to continue upstairs to his apartment, pulling her along. “I’ve got drink and smokes “? she said, pulling him back. “As for the other, I’m still sore, and you’ve still other work to do. C`mere. “? Her apartment smelled clean and fresh, and given the discrepancy he could only conclude that his place stunk. George imagined making Maggie cry out in his own bed, her face in his unwashed sheets, before this time next week and he hardened. She told him to make himself comfortable as she left him in the main room, so he stripped naked and went to the refrigerator for a beer. He this time looked for a bottle opener and after a swig of brew he snooped for something slick and yet reasonably fit for oral consumption. He decided against vegetable oil in favor of either maple syrup or Cool Whip; Maggie had been stark naked from the bathroom some thirty seconds before and had been watching George smear his erection with the whipped cream, swirling the tip of his cock in the plastic tub, and giggling she indicated he follow her into her bedroom. She turned on the stereo, and following her into her room George turned it back off. A bell in the back of her mind rang with the feeble, imprecise alarm of a wind-up clock, and listening to it weakly un-spring, she reminded herself that given their origins, better her brother tonight – whatever he had in mind – than those hill-country pigs when she was twelve – their uncles, after their father of course, if they hadn’t together run – and she stood hundreds of miles and a million dollars away at the head of her high, giant bed, facing George in the failing light. “I’d have done you unadorned, ba – ” she started to say before he suddenly kissed her with a passionate strength that surprised and dazed her enough for her to only somewhat register that he’d said that he was in love with her and that this wasn’t going to be what she had expected. He turned her facing from him as gracefully as if they were dancers and, lowering himself the length of his erection, he slipped the tip of his cock between her buttocks for the second time in as many days and stood up through her newly compliant back-pocket – forgiving, subordinate yield born of last night’s carnage – as easily as if it had always belonged there, embracing Maggie from behind and lifting her to just off her toes by the base of his meat at her anus. Maggie gasped and kicked and when the crown of her head crashed back against his cheekbone, George tasted a drop of his sister’s tear splash into his mouth. “Georgie…we have other business “? she sniffled, still tender. He lowered her so she stood flat-footed again but still held her close. She’d stopped clawing at him. “I want you to suck me off, Maggie, like in the videos you know I’m so fond of; right after it’s been deep up your ass “? he whispered to her, and pumped her twice long and slowly for emphasis. “This isn’t the scary buttfuck you promised me? “? stalling, delaying the fellatio; maybe he’ll finish this way and I’ll make him wash, she thought. George thrust twice more, lifting Maggie off her heels. He let her back to her feet and stood behind her, motionless inside her, for a full minute, soaking himself in her implicit filth, she knew. When he spoke he thrilled and defeated her in one fell swoop. “My cock’s up your ass, Maggie, and then it’s going to be in your mouth and you’re going to suck it and taste yourself and then I’m going to cum in your mouth and then you’ll taste me, my sperm, your own brother’s semen, and then swallow it – all of it. Ready? “? “Yes, baby, I will – but, really Georgie, I’m serious; you force me…you choke me, I chew. Careful? “? George unhooked from his sister’s ass and when he sat at the edge of her bed she spun around and strode toward the bathroom. Maggie was in possession of a blued, snub-nose, five-shot .357 magnum – and a box of hollow-point rounds – that he knew she knew how to, and had before, fired, egregiously so, one time years ago when they were kids in defense of themselves, after money for which they’d performed, for food and a room, had been denied them and their mere survival was in question. She fisted her medicine cabinet and scattered everything but what she walked away with, and circling back she curtsied in her closet for some other items and flung the lot of her gatherings at his face as she walked back through the bedroom into the kitchen: the crass tube of lube, an equally vulgar butt-plug – a D-cell, 9 volt quaker, unchristened – and a wooden ping-pong paddle and two pairs of novelty handcuffs variously bounced and clanged off George’s forehead into his lap. Maggie dragged a narrow, straight-back chair into the bedroom and propped it firmly to the foot of her bed. She straddled it backwards and folded her arms over the chair back, resting her chin, not shooting him. “Tonight won’t be so easy for either of us, huh Georgie? – especially me, I gather “? she told him while locking each of her own wrists around the chair back to the iron rungs of the footboard, either cuffs’ trigger within a fingertip’s touch of the other, and gripping the bars as if jailed. “‘Gimme, gimme, gim-meh the honky-tonk blues- awlright’ “? she sang to him and let him unclip then clap the free ends of the handcuff clasps each one rung farther apart and out of her reach. He put a pillow between her head and the chair back and tied Maggie’s ankles to the chair’s forelegs with neckties she’d stolen from him, dumb ones she knew he’d just as soon not wear anyway. Maggie laid her face to the side of the pillow and so luxuriated in her restraints that he had to re-secure her ankles, and he watched her muscles again tense, smooth tensility running from her calves up her thighs and over her buttocks through her back and shoulders. He kissed the nape of her neck and liberally re-greased her anus, doping the blued, still-oily wreckage of her rectum’s crushed virginity and her hole twitched at the touch. George fell to his knees behind Maggie and kissed both of her buns – cool, soft and smooth, as tenderly as if each were an infant’s forehead, especially smooching the teeth-prints he’d left in her a dozen years ago when they were each last innocent of the other’s body and first, if obliviously, wild for the other’s sex – and licked her anus in and around like lapping the icing off a donut, tonguing her asshole, her eye-wide-open then emitting a methane puff of exhaust in his face (he heard her above him smile to herself) and he burrowed further, inhaling from her furrow, tasting crude and breathing-in her rich, rural soil. “I’m gonna mark you again, Maggie “? and so she rolled the meat of her buttocks off the chair’s seat and into his mouth, and George slowly sank his teeth into the most outward fleshy aspect of Maggie’s left ass-cheek, leaving a neat set of bite marks opposite the perfect scars he’d left on her right that had years ago healed into faint indentations that only a doctor could get close enough to question and only a lover would recognize. “Bite me, Georgie “? she whispered to him without the least hint of humor or venom, ” – mark me again “? while her rump quivered in his jaws. He un-punctured his teeth from her, having forever precluded her modeling of a thong bikini, or otherwise have to explain those perfect bite marks to all who already silently suspected almost worse than their own sick thoughts regarding themselves to the extent that no one ever said anything (unthinkable; as clouds passing behind the sun, as wanton a suggestion that the Olsen Twins are queer for each other) of her own brother’s taste for her that she knew she’d never really deny if asked, nor even deny she loved and courted. He kissed away his boo-boo of her with the greedy covetousness of an animal. ?é?º?é?º?é?º Maggie had held the gun that they’d brought down with them, and George had carried the guitar, a twelve-string – their valuables in lieu of provisions. They lay wrapped together in army surplus overcoats, hidden from yesterday and tomorrow both for that one first night without a roof over them, bordering somewhere that wasn’t home, breathing no louder than cooing to one another required; thirteen, and a small cannon resting armed, un-hammered, between them. They survived well, though: $300 dollars a night, cash money, for three hours Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights – no questions asked, and the occasional complementary case of cheap beer that back-when would last them a month – performing at roadhouses where roughnecks cashed their checks and college kids went slumming with their allowances. Maggie couldn’t really beat-up her brother anymore after they were fifteen but she didn’t stop trying until one night when they were sixteen. They’d all their lives slept together under a common blanket, and still for years after George had stolen them away from off the mountains a long time ago – a Saturday night or two before any of their uncles, and maybe even their own father, might have her – and as children had clung to each other in the same bed in any lonely motor inn that would admit them. They’d begin sleep every night appropriately enough, lying away from the center of the bed, but awake the next morning generally together in the middle – sprawled at odds and tangled in each other’s limbs and hair, dried drool adhering their lips, their noses touching – and in the interim, for the hours of their most still, unconscious dream state, fit close and flush as spoons but for the ten minutes, 2 or 3 times a week, somewhere in the early, quietest part of the dark, when Maggie would dimly awaken and become drowsily aware of George bumping at her backside. His wet dreams hadn’t involved her until they were fourteen and he was waking up hard against his sister’s newly nubile booty with what felt like a croquet mallet down the front of his underwear, and tugging his bulge out stiff through his briefs, he’d rub and nudge his wand bare against the soft weave stretched taut across Maggie’s beautifully broadening girly butt. For the first months she’d just wait him out, pretending to sleep through it until his loamy wet-heat happened and they could both sleep again, her inseams gluey and his drying stain starching her panty’s seat and padded cotton crotch (he wet the bed, she’d chide, for the three days each month she was bitchy and off-limits to any more than “goodnight ‘ and a handshake). But used to it and hidden from him alongside his front, she’d begun to participate: snaking her forefinger through the lower leghole of her panties and discreetly twiddling herself off with her brother, cumming her tidy orgasms – cute, as she thought of them, pretty chirps of pleasure unlike the racking, tacky messes her brother’s dick sicked-up and left coagulating between them – that were no more than squeezing her thighs and arching as if stretching in her sleep while George polluted her. She’d have missed it if it had stopped; hell, they had always been rubbing uglies and discovering new touchy-feely handfuls of each other while growing up – hair-pulling and more hair-pulling begat breast-grabbing begat ball-squeezing then break! until the next time either needed an advantage over the other (and one morning just last week she’d awakened with her nose in his fly, rolling off without his knowing) – but this use and indulgence, somnambulate or not, they both knew, crossed some line beyond what either could fake as anything but ad