“Were you watching my body this morning, Graham?”
“Yes.”
Izzy knelt at my waist, the heat of her cunt bright and sudden on my pelvic bone. I bucked reflexively.
“Be still! Were you thinking about touching me?”
“Yes.”
Izzy’s nails stroked the skin just outside of my nipples on either side. I fought to control my movements.
“Good little boy!”
I stilled my reaction and stored away a little piece of anger to use on her later. I let my face show calm and contentment.
“Sorry!” Her apology was instantaneous. “I gather that’s not a good word combination. I’m sorry, Graham. No insult intended.”
I wondered who had trained her. I wondered if she had a weapon. Without any obvious external movements, I tested my bonds. Solid. Tight. With her astride me, I couldn’t even muster leverage to tug at them. Five minutes too late, I realized how completely Izzy had me.
“Really, Graham, I’m sorry.”
Her lips were tender on my nipple, and her crotch pressed harder on my hip. She stayed that way, kissing softly, as my body gradually relaxed. Belatedly, I realized that she was taking much of her own weight on the outside leg. I wasn’t used to any of this, least of all the experience of a stranger’s gentle consideration while utterly powerless on my own bathroom floor. I wanted to cry again.
“It’s OK, honey.”
She kept saying that. It wasn’t. She was wrong.
“When you wanted to touch me, what part of my body did you want to touch?”
“Ah . . . everything!”
“Honesty, Graham. Remember?”
“Your ass. Your thighs.” I tensed again.
“Thank you.”
Izzy slid a tiny bit lower and more towards the centre of my body. The change was dramatic. Her weight was an unbearable pressure on my bladder and her rear was an unbearable teasing near-friction against the tip of my cock.
I tried to flex my abs to take her weight, and then to twist away.
“Still!”
“Bitch!”
“Yes, Graham. Your cock is very hard, Graham.”
I was silent. The house creaked.
“May I mark you, Graham?”
“Yes.”
I felt her teeth at my neck, at my nipple. I heard her breath, felt her hot cunt shift on me again. I went way inside to a wordless, hungry place and stayed there. I went way outside to fantasies that nobody should have, and stayed there too. Her bites were cruel. Her tongue teased. I needed to piss. I needed to come. The combination was fucking with my brain in delicious, wrong ways. I needed to scream. I whispered, “Please.”
“Please what, Graham Edward Gryn?”
“Please . . . give me more.”
“More questions? Certainly.”
I groaned quietly. She raked her nails along my chest, brushed my balls with her fingertips and left her hand lingering by the underside of my bobbing cock.
“Do you masturbate?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“I have lovers.”
“Where?”
“In America.”
Her hand drifted away.
“Chicago, and just outside Chicago. Three women. They know about each other, but don’t know each other.”
“Thank you.” Her hand was back, stroking my cock with a feather touch. “Have you ever been to a prostitute, Graham?”
“Once.”
Her hand paused.
“A few times. Once that was good.”
She chuckled. It wasn’t an unpleasant chuckle. “What made it good, Graham? In detail.”
She squeezed, once, bending low and grazing my chest with her nipples.
“She was beautiful, and funny, and she got really wet. She . . . spread and let me watch while she played with herself.”
“Nice.” Izzy’s hands were insistent, varied, attentive.
“She, um she had really pretty tits. Like yours. She told me about her fantasies, and listened to mine. She sucked me long and sloppy, with lots of slobbering and no condom.”
“Did you come in her mouth?”
“No.”
“Did you fuck?”
“Yes.”
“Did you come in her pussy?’’
“No.”
“In her ass?”
“No.”
“In her face?”
“No.”
“Did you come on her pretty tits, Graham?”
“No.”
Her hand slowed, teased. “Tell me.”
“We fucked for a long time. We were in the kitchen at a place I was renting, and it was a Saturday morning. I made us a pot of coffee, and we drank it naked while she sat on my cock. She took two sugars and one cream. She kept her glasses on.”
“You like girls with glasses?”
“Yes!”
I felt her turn around, felt her adjust her knees beside my shoulders. Izzy’s hands were both on me now, slow and steady. Her pussy was over my face. I strained up towards her.
“Did you come, Graham?”
“Yyyes. I did. I came in my hand.”
“Yes?”
“We fucked for a long time, and she let me suck on her titties, and then she fingered her ass while I watched, and she asked me if there was anything else I wanted.”
“And?”
“And . . . I said there was. I asked her to lie on the kitchen table on her back.”
“Yeah?”
I felt fabric brush across my lips. Her pussy smelled like water tastes after a day of dehydration.
“I asked her to play with herself again while I licked her asshole.”
“You what?!”
“I rimmed her while she wanked, and then, when she was ready . . . she peed. She pissed all over my face, and I came in my hand licking her butt hole and drinking her piss. And I liked it.”
“I bet you did! Dirty, dirty, fucker. Nasty perverted man. Thank you for telling me that, Graham.” Her hand held my cock at the base, and I could feel her breath on me. “I bet you wish I’d let you do that, Graham.”
I said nothing.
“I bet you wish you could let go, too, don’t you?”
Her lips were wet and warm and suddenly around the tip of my dick. I nearly passed out. The sensation was gone just as suddenly. Slicked, her hands moved more urgently, pumping my cock.
I groaned again. “Please!”
The house creaked alarmingly. Something, probably her tongue, reached out and joined her hand, twirling big, wet circles around the head . . . then it stopped again.
“Are you a filthy pervert, Graham?”
“Yes.”
I felt the shift of her weight, then I could hear her fingers in her cunt right over my face.
“Are you a sick, depraved fucker, Graham?”
“Yes!”
“Will you do whatever I ask you to?”
I felt the first warm drops on my face before I answered. “Yes! Yes!”
For a while, there was just sound and taste and sensation. Her hand on me kept pumping, slowly, erratically. Izzy’s piss hissed out into the panties through her fingers, on to my face. She made it last: stopping, releasing, grinding against my lips, pausing, then letting it flow again. Her mouth would descend on my cock for a second then she would pull back. As her stream in my face subsided, she leaned forwards again. It took me a while to figure out that the smooth, soft pressure was her sliding my cock between her tits.
“Let it go. Now, Graham. Soak me.”
I heard her hands moving faster and I heard her breathing accelerate again.
“Come on, Graham. Do it.”
I tried. Nothing happened. I relaxed. Nothing happened. I thought about holding her by the hair, kneeling in front of me with her mouth open, and I did it. Izzy shook and was quiet while my piss spurted between her breasts and down between us. Her fingers danced a constant, constantly changing pattern. Relief and pleasure and permission to experience both at once threatened to split my head open. The last few gouts splattered her chest and mine, and I felt her mouth on me again for a brief, tantalizing second.
“Wow. That was good, Graham. So good. Do you want my mouth now?”
“Yes!”
“Do you want me to suck it?”
“Yes, please.”
“Tell me to suck it.”
“Suck it.”
“Say ‘Suck it, slut.’”
“Suck it, slut.”
“Say ‘Suck it, CeeCee.’”
I froze.
“Say it!”
“Suck it!”
“Say it!”
“Suck it already, slut!”
“Say it! Tell me!”
The floor creaked.
“Suck it, CeeCee. Suck the piss out of your brother’s dick. Take it down your throat, little whore, and gag on it. Suck it and don’t stop sucking on it . . . Oh! Cecilie!”
There was a pause while I waited for the world to end.
The house creaked again, loudly. Izzy’s mouth was extraordinary. Her tongue laved the underside of my cock while she took it deep in her throat, and she held that depth for an impossibly long time. She licked and sucked and slobbered and smacked so loudly I was certain she would wake the entire house, and her hand didn’t for a second stop frigging her juicy pussy above my face. Eventually, I felt her do something I’d only heard about people accomplishing with their lips.
“Was that what I think it was?”
“Yeah, some people don’t even notice. Do you mind?”
“Hell no! Does that mean you’re going to sit on it?”
“Beg me.”
“Please, Izzy, put my dick in your beautiful, sweet-smelling pussy? Please?”
“Nicely done, but that’s not what I want to hear after all. Tell me.”
I was so hard in her hand that the band of the condom was biting me.
“Sit on it, girl.”
“Tell me.”
“Sit on it, slut. Fill your pissy slit with my dick. Sit on it, bounce on it, stuff it up your coochie and come on it! Damn it, Izzy!”
“Tell me!”
“Fuck! No.”
Izzy laughed. “If you won’t give it, I’ll just take it. You’ve just forfeit the use of your mouth, Graham.”
The panties were rank and wet. I tried to bite her when she stuffed them in my mouth. Her first slap felt as if it loosened some of my teeth.
On the second slap, I opened my aching jaw and my mouth was full of warm, salty, sodden panties.
She was already sliding down on my cock by the time she took off the blindfold. I was almost disappointed to see her there. The locked door had not opened. There literally wasn’t room to open it. The woman sitting on my cock was not my sister. I had now in spirit broken every trust with CeeCee, but she was safely asleep in her bed, and this tramp, this impostor had not won . . .
“You’re a good brother, Graham. Shoot it. Come for me. Come for me and pretend you’re not thinking about fucking your little baby sister. Come in my wet, wet cunt and pretend you don’t wish it were CeeCee squeezing the jizz out of you. Shoot it, big brother! Shoot it, Graham, come in me. Come in your sister. Come for your sister . . .”
I came. I came. Oh Lord, I came.
We looked at each other. She pulled a penknife from the robe and sliced silk from my ankles and wrists. Tenderly, she rubbed circulation back into my extremities, pulled the panties-that-weren’t-CeeCee’s from my mouth. I hadn’t expected her long, sweet kiss. I hadn’t expected her incredible, wordless gentleness as she sponge-bathed me, held my cock again as I pissed more of the beer, pulled the long underwear on my exhausted body and walked me to the library. At the door, she put my father’s bathrobe over my shoulders. I watched her step back, naked, down the single flight of stairs. I watched her, confident and quiet, her hands full of shredded underwear, avoid the creaking board on the landing and slip into my sister’s room. Crying felt almost as good as coming had, and I slept through sunrise for the first time in weeks.
The actual service was ridiculously huge, bolstered by a silent phalanx of burly business associates, two teams of lawyers from competing firms and another last-minute influx of relatives and faux-relatives. Dad was not the most social person on the planet on the best of days, and there was no way his quiet printing business should have merited the attention of so many bigwigs. I kept wanting to check if the self-important strangers from the city were at the right funeral, but Abercrombie doesn’t tend to have more than one a month.
Something had changed in the years I was away, and Dad’s new associates had an odd similarity about them, as if they were all part of the same strange club. I was genuinely flummoxed. A clump of my suddenly paunchy, greying school friends had paid their awkward respects, determinedly overcoming our decade’s absence to stride up and shake our hands; murmur their best wishes for us. Their dignity and genuineness was a gift, and for the first time I was glad to be back.
Cecilie squeezed my hand. We were standing on raised earth by the grave, with our hometown’s mist starting to obscure the departing guests. She was characteristically inappropriate in an impossibly form-fitting black ball gown, the plunge of its neckline accentuated by a spill of lace veil. In the context of that presentation, her push-up bra was the kind of overkill that challenged all of anyone’s best instincts. This was not the time for another sibling battle. I was speaking sternly to myself, repressing both the instinct to stare and the annoyance I always felt when my little sister’s appetite for attention outdid her good sense. Atop these familiar responses was a new terror about what her lover might have said, what she might have heard. Cecilie looked at me with big, trusting brown eyes and squeezed my hand again.
From the greyness behind us, an ursine bruiser whose nose had more than once been reshaped by non-surgical means approached us. An oversized umbrella danced in his nervous paws, twirling like a silken mushroom as he spoke to my sister.
“You, ah, intimate with the deceased?”
His accent was hard to place, but my first guess was Russian with a Glaswegian overlay. His meaning was harder to parse.
“I beg your pardon?” Cecilie was as confused as I.
“You were his girl?
Eë kurtizánka
? Accept please my condolences. Of me the name is Jimmy. You will be need someone to look after you of now. It appears you are like a nice girl.”
He held out his arm in a way that suggested she should take hold. The gesture came perfectly naturally to him, however insanely presumptuous it might have seemed to us. He
so
did not look like a Jimmy, and the accent overlay was sounding more like Israeli. It still took us both a while to pull meaning from the elegant oddness of his sentences, but Cecilie recovered first.