The Quest

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The room is dark, dark. The darkness is like a wall. If he were supposed to be approaching his sister’s bed at eleven-thirty at night, if this were a normal and fully acceptable thing he was doing, the light would be on. She went to bed ten minutes before; she could be asleep already. A brother is supposed to knock gently, or knock hard if he’s rude, or wait until morning. A lover might just walk in, and that is what he’s doing, one little step at a time, slowly because the darkness pushes back, but steadily because stopping is out of the question. There’s safety behind, round the corner to the lit hallway, and maybe paradise ahead, where she’s lying there breathing softly–he can hear her now–and anything in between is just an obstacle. So many obstacles, each one scary when you’re sneaking.

Step over the ottoman and there is the bed, startle as his leg touches the corner of the comforter, her comforter, and he’s more in than out, oh god this is crazy. But it worked out before. And there’s her arm, hers, pale and alive. It’s just an arm but his mind projects much more into the indistinctness beyond it–her curves, so many delicate curves she has, her vulnerable, naked belly, so many parts of her that he is not supposed to have even imagined but has in fact seen and touched. She is designed for what he is coming to do, he knows this; against all familial conventions he holds this knowledge stoutly. He is driven like a parachute before the expanding heat of his memories–the memories of what they did before. The rightness of it almost snuffs his fear. But… now he is out of careful shuffling steps to make. He’ll have to talk to her. Oh god how to say it? He’s a live wire, he thinks of fleeing. But she’s right there. Got to at least ask.

But she was never quite asleep. She starts turning under the blanket even as he crouches, and with that one mutual motion they are face to face. He didn’t even give his pupils time to expand all the way–her face is a ghostly moon verging into invisible sea of pillow, her eyes mysterious craters. But he sees the flicker of her lashes–she is unmistakably awake. He swallows, pinned on her gaze, yet less terrified now that someone is looking and he has no choice but to act. He croaks, pauses to swallow, tries again. “Hey,” is all that comes out. He poses it like a request, his voice brisk but hushed. In saying only this he communicates, however vaguely, that he is not here to talk about something that can be talked about.

“Hey,” she replies. She’s too bleary to think this through just yet. She just looks at him. This is the hardest moment for him. The lip of the thick blanket is right there, the way in to the secret cave where A Girl lies, and his mind flashes on the image of himself just lifting it and climbing in. He is so keyed up that his muscles twitch at the thought. But he can’t get into the bed uninvited, so he stares back, stymied. How do you start this thing? Somehow, somehow, he never really knew, never thought until now when it’s his chief calamity: She has to want it too. It was so easy the last time. Somehow it’s fine once it starts, a hundred secret things become easy. Maybe–his terror rises–maybe she thinks it’s sick now. It is sick, isn’t it, part of him knows without question that it is–but that part isn’t in charge just now. He wants her so much, but he can’t ask. Not talking about it is part of what makes it possible. His boner is wilting; he fears with a new sort of sickness that he’s going to fail here. What comes next, what do you do at this point? The the delicious fresh smell of her girly shampoo dizzies him. Her body, so close. Suddenly needing to justify his presence to her with purposeful action, he reaches the few inches to her nearer hand and strokes the open wrist with his fingertips. It’s sheepish and romantic and he can’t look at anything but the wrist while doing this because her face hasn’t given permission yet and if it turns out to be the face of a normal sister who thinks this is pure wrongness then maybe he will just die. What do you hear about brother-sister incest from the other kids at school? Nothing, so it must be impossible, and how can you do the impossible without leaving this universe altogether and becoming one of Those People who you cannot be, criminals and murderers and sickos? You look only at the wrist is how, and let your body lead. He strokes her like a lover might, and trembles in terror and hunger. What will she do? What does she think of this? What does any girl think of anything?

This girl is thinking of how to get rid of him, actually. He hasn’t said what he’s here for but of course Saturday night is the first thing on her mind when she sees him crouching by her bed in the dark like he never would have done, would have had no reason to do before Saturday came and they watched that movie together on the couch and it happened, the thing that was supposed to be over and done with. Seeing him like that makes her feel tired, because it means she’ll have to talk him off, and she wasn’t supposed to ever have to. What they did before was only made okay afterward by the mutual assumption konyaaltı escort that they would never do it again, and there is no way forward but to maintain faith in that assumption. Even if going forward means doing it again (but it can’t, she knows it can’t). She was almost asleep and is too comfortable in this nice warm bed to want to move her arm away from him, and that isn’t fair. What pleasure is left for her if she must give up the nice bed to convince him not to touch her and do the other exciting wrong things he did before? Stupid boy. This is like a nightmare for her, and it drags out in the timelessness of near-sleep. Long moments pass while she drifts in a sleepy pool of injustice; some of them are those critical moments when she could just tell him firmly to go to bed and he would bolt. But she’s busy with her indignity, not even totally aware of him.

“You have to go,” she finally murmurs in his general direction, certain that he can and will be made to go.

He’s only halfway terrified now. She talked and wasn’t outraged and he can look at her face now. She’s so little and elegant and pretty, so right, such a prize if he can only get past this. He remembers that he can talk as well. “Come on,” he says, gentle, dumb urgency in his tone. He is supposed to be almost an adult but he sounds like a child. He strokes his fingertips over her pinky, and she wishes he would stop. The looming pressure of his unspoken request weighs on her; she is so tired and she turns her face into the pillow, putting off the need to acknowledge any of this. It’s still unspoken and she can still hide from it.

“Noo,” she tells him, muffled by the pillow, unknowingly coquettish. A hint of scorn from her would burst his confidence and send him running. But she is letting him see that this affects her; her refusal is one that invites appeal. And that is enough to keep him crouching at her side, shorts obscenely tented. She hasn’t even moved her hand away from him; she cannot take part in this even to the extent of putting an end to it.

“Please,” he tells her. In his mind the syllable is a compromise–he is refusing to jump on her as his body knows he should do; he is working to do this reasonably, to make it fair. It’s okay to be crouching here, fondling his sister’s hot wrist, if he can only continue to ask her respectfully. In his mind this is really almost something good he is doing.

Now she is becoming afraid. She’s refused him twice; what more can she do? The fear is not of violence, but that it will somehow happen again, the thing that cannot. She wishes she hadn’t recently started taking the pill. In her mind, it seems that it would be easy to reject him then. The danger of pregnancy is simple and obvious. Far more frightening is the other thing, the thing that brings pleasure. Such a bad thing is not supposed to feel good! How can that be fair? She pulls away, bringing her outstretched hand almost back under her torso, only a few inches from where it had been. His fingers do not follow. She huddles her face in the pillow, trying hard to seem like she’s fallen asleep. In her mind this is good progress, an exhaustive effort. As long as it’s possible that he’ll just leave, she can and must assume that he will.

Time passes. Gradually, immeasurably, the murky intensity of this small ordeal blurs and diffuses into a deeper, more neutral darkness. She would be relieved at her escape if she could be conscious of it, but it is a departure from consciousness. The night is passing away into sleep, like thousands of normal nights before it. Good nights.

In her dream, the mattress is flexing on its own; something is climbing onto it, a threatening monster… and as she is dragged back into consciousness she remembers with a feeling of betrayal that only a minute or so has passed, and that this is her brother coming under her blanket, spilling her toward him in the dent he makes on the mattress. He bumps and pokes her with his knobby elbows and shins and shoulder; he’s pulling the blanket straight, covering them both. He’s partway atop her already, and he’ll start touching her in a moment, oh it is too late, she is defeated. She knows it’s going to happen now, doesn’t know that her knowing makes it true; these are just two kids, for all that they are old enough to vote (and to legally consent to sex, for that matter), and they will act first, and justify shortly thereafter, and properly, fully understand only years later, if ever. Now she remembers again that she’s on the pill, and this time the knowledge relieves her. Because he’s panting hotly into her flannel-clad shoulder and soon he will be taking her, and as long as her thinking mind clings to the idea that she has wisely guarded her womb against such as this, it won’t interfere with the rest of her, the majority, the parts that flush and tingle and sweat under the press of a hot, desiring male body, the dreaming parts for which Saturday night never ended. He aligns with her, covers her, his body a challenge, a demand–she spreads her legs, opening a valley for him to slide his hips into. It’s easier kültür escort than not doing it. Butterflies dance in her slim belly; she’s panting a little bit too.

Now his weight is all on her, and neither one is thinking much. He’s grasping at her, pushing his hips down, searching for ever more leverage with which to squeeze his rigid penis tightly between their layers of clothing. She isn’t really pushing back but she isn’t relaxed either. When his forearms quest beneath her, she raises her own arms to make it easier for him to hug her, to crush her little body tightly against him and make her gasp. He wants to take hold of her tits, they’re so soft and forbidden on his chest; he wants everything at once. With eyes dulled, he nuzzles around her hot, flushed cheek, over her pretty face. For a moment they lock gazes, and he cannot move. He knows again that she never gave him permission. There is no longer any room for fear, now when most of her body is melded to his in a lover’s embrace. But her eyes are still the eyes of his just barely older sibling and they can still stop him, for a time. So sister and brother lie, panting over one another’s lips, groins held tightly together.

She doesn’t know why she kisses him. But one little mouthing peck is all it takes; then they’re together, making out ferociously. Her arms tighten around his shoulders, where they fell when he was mounting her. His hips grind down hard upon her privates, and now she pushes back. A narrow roll of her flannel nightshirt has crumpled into a sensitive little place over her pussy, and she pushes all the harder, seeking and briefly finding that terrible tingle. It makes the air rush out her nose. One of his hands finds its way under her butt, and kneads her there, a rough act of ownership that excites them both. She can feel his breath quickening as he pauses, stops his whole body, in order to achieve the momentary focus he needs to overcome his brotherly inhibitions and hook his fumbling fingers in the band of her panties. Their dry-humping ebbs in vigor as this new effort draws their attention; she must straighten her naked legs, while he raises himself and stupidly struggles to see what is happening down there, where the blanket blocks all light. But she shimmies as he pushes, her left knee flashes upward, and just like that she’s free. And as the flimsy garment falls from her toe, some of her heat transmutes to panic. She’s just thrown away her shield, she’s got to get away from him, but there’s no time for anything. He’s on top of her, her own brother, she can’t remember how to talk, she could never fight him off. It’s going to happen again, the unthinkable thing. “Please,” she says, clutching at his back feebly. She thinks of their agreement and feels betrayed anew. She wishes he would just kiss her again so she could escape into it. Her bare leg shivers in the air; the blanket has fallen away on that side.

He thinks he’s doing great. Her panties are off; he can do anything now. The momentary glimpse of her fascinating thigh has given him all kinds of thoughts to compound the astonishing, electrifying fact that he is atop his beautiful sister, with her permission. Through the hormonal heat that makes actual vision secondary, he sees flashes of fantasy: his hands, his mouth on her pretty leg, exploring every part of it, worshiping her sexy, familiar body. The thought is dazzling. It doesn’t even occur to him that he could enact it–he hears her say please; he doesn’t know what she wants so he eagerly, confusedly lies down upon her once more, and kisses the nearest thing, her ear. She makes a little noise, half word and half moan; instantly encouraged, he kisses some more. He has accepted the quest of pleasing her. Her soft, hot cheek presses urgently to his; his face is becoming squashed against the pillow where he is trying to lick and nibble on her ear, but finally he realizes that she wants to kiss him, and he pulls back to let her. She seizes his lips frantically, trying to forget what she is doing. Their legs tangle; his shaking hand finds her pussy. “No,” she breathes unintelligibly, even as she thrusts her tongue into his mouth to be sucked on. But then his index finger starts to slide in and the icy wrongness spreads from it through her insides. She CANNOT let this happen again. Her body freezes in place, though he continues to molest her. She wishes he would stop… and she suddenly knows that she can stop him. Somehow, in this sequence, she has made a step toward empowerment, and some small part of her knows this, too. But as she marvels, dizzy with this sudden attainment, his finger slips deeper, stretching the arc of skin between finger and thumb right up along her clit, and she mews in frustration, because in order to stop him (as she can now do) she must back away from this desire, and it’s too unfair, when desire and pleasure are right there, all around, ready to be fallen further into. She’ll stop him (she MUST) but not yet. Let him wiggle his finger, let him try the differing textures of the walls of her vaginal canal, the first he has ever touched in this way; this is for him, markantalya escort she thinks, dimly cognizant of her self-betrayal, as her body slides ever further down the path that’s easiest for both. His other hand slides up her shirt and under her bra, and she sighs soundlessly into his mouth.

He, meanwhile, is gamely working to give her pleasure. He touches her insides, her boobs, her tongue; he is doing what porn says, hitting all the scoring zones. Her pussy hair crinkles around his knuckles as he massages her amazing, slippery tunnel. Somehow he feels that he owes her whatever he is trying to do. He has no clue what it is. But they’re both kids and neither notices or cares how clumsy and conflicted the other is. He is stupidly searching for a grip on her nipple so he can rub it like you’re supposed to; she is fantasizing about how she will push him away in just a moment, not because she actually will, but simply in order to distract her mind so that her body can feel this. They will find each other soon enough, and genetics will have its way, but for the blessed pill. Indeed, the part of him that understands mathematics and video games is detachedly noticing the repetitiveness of what they are doing–must he keep rubbing her? And if so, for how long? As soon as the question is asked, he finds that he has stopped. This feels surreal, now–his finger is up his sister’s pussy, and her mouth is nibbling his–how could any of this be happening, and what on earth will he do next? If he thinks this way for very long, his boner will begin to sag again. But now her hips are shifting beneath his hand, trying to fuck it some more, and when that doesn’t work (he’s already partly slipped out of her) her legs wrap his hips and pull him toward her, and in that delicious cage he cannot help but heat up again, for his beautiful sister-lover is inviting the one really easy move, the thing so basic that even a virgin (which he isn’t, because of her) would know to do it. His hormones surge. He begins tearing off his shorts, bumping away those inviting thighs that were so fascinating before. His penis emerges, and she wraps him again before he can finish escaping his clothes, but fine, it’ll have to be fine, he can fuck with his legs bound together. He falls upon her, and breathlessly adjusts himself atop her so he can begin to feast on her again–and in the midst of this hurry he suddenly arrests all action in order to stroke a few strands of her hair back from her face. It’s only so he can kiss her without interference, but in the pause he has forced she looks him in the eye, and knows that this is her chance to say no.

She doesn’t have to go fast. Her hand glides smoothly, deliberately down from his shoulder, and gently catches his chin just before he would move on her again. No, she tells him with a sad shake of her head. Her legs, absurdly, are still wrapped around him. She still enjoys that contact, even as she regretfully acts to end this. She’s about to speak. But his eyes fall, and he smiles in dazed wonder. He doesn’t get it yet–he is taking her hand from his face, not to resist her, but to kiss her fingers. She had no thought but that he would try to fuck her next, and now he is kissing her wrist like a gentleman. Her face flushes; her eyes even tear up a little. And she lets him do what he will, because this is romantic just when she needs romance, it’s a breath of relief from the world in which pleasure and rightness are enemies. Romance can make anything right. She closes her eyes and lets him lead her further into the darkness of incestuous desire. He is only kissing her, kisses are safe compared to what they were about to do, and so her mind is free to drift over the tragic, dark dimensions of this desire she feels. This whole sexy thing is still disgusting and wrong. The knowledge that she will stop it has not gone away, but only remains on hold. Yet the angst and romance of her teenaged mind has opened a door for him.

But all he knows is that she is pure beauty, and that the right thing to do now is anything that will give him more of her. The hand he kisses has rerouted him temporarily (and wonderfully); but the time of confusion is past. His penis is resting along her hip, and the faint sensation of soft, female skin at its tip is as good as any plan made in words. He licks his suddenly dry lips and gently pushes her hand aside, pinning it to her bed as he shifts his weight. Their naked bellies kiss, below shirts ridden up. His motion awakens the tingling excitement in her loins, and automatically her thighs close him into hot bondage, trapping his unguarded penis up under her bellybutton. Urgent, profound pleasure thrills through him. I love you, he thinks, without considering further. Just do it, she wants to beg him, surprised to be wanting it. Neither speaks. He must press down, he must thrust for more of that delicious feeling, though he isn’t inside her yet; they both sigh at the sensation of their sex organs touching at last, pushing together, so close. They kiss one another slowly, moving in graceful tandem for once. Her hands explore his back; he grasps her thigh. They kiss, and everything is good. It’s almost as an afterthought that he arches his spine, and she curls hers, so that his rounded glans drops onto the yielding, wet lips of her vagina, to slide and wedge there like a cherry on a cupcake.

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