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On Paper, It Was Incest (ch. 1)

Incest
2003-06-30

When that wasn’t enough, when I couldn’t get my hands on that one copy of the well-read Playboy, I’d turn to drawing women in various stages of undress, shamelessly using lingerie catalogs as my inspiration. This was before the dawn of the internet, of course, with its plethora of freely available porn, so I had to make do. I’d try to imagine what the women would look like naked, and draw them as I imagined them, though at the time it never occurred to me that a bra-clad breast has a shape totally unlike a naked one. And don’t even get me started on my conceptions of the pubic region – without concise knowledge of what a vulva even was in the first place, I can assure you, I couldn’t draw one for shit. But hey, it turned me on, and that was good enough for a while, though the masturbatory fantasies of pencil-drawn women only served to heighten my overall frustrations. Ultimately, it was through writing, not drawing, that I became truly satisfied – in more ways than one, as will become apparent. The art I drew was nothing compared to the moving pictures of the soft-core I would occasionally be privy to, so one day I took up a pen, and lacking the complete knowledge of sex I would actually need, I wrote my first soft-core sex story. I don’t remember what exactly it was about per se, but I do know that the more I wrote about a man and a woman meeting and engaging in what I thought at the time were wild sex acts, the hard my cock would grow in my pants, and I’d run for release. It wasn’t so much the pictures as it was the deeds, all lovingly detailed in my horrible handwriting, that really set me off. It took me a long time to finish my first one, what with all the stoppages for rampant masturbation, but I finished it, loved it, and went on to write more and more stories. Combined with the hand-drawn pictures and magazine clippings, I eventually filled a small desk drawer with painstakingly crafted porn (if low quality), sprung from the mind of a horribly horny teen mind. Despite the mass of papers in the drawer, however, one day when coming home from a friend’s house, I noticed one of the stories missing. Fear ran through my mind – did my parents raid my room? Did I leave the story lying out on the coffee table? Oh shit, what if my sister found it! I remember the cold sweat, the chills I had very clearly – the possibility that my fourteen-year old sister, two years younger than me, had somehow discovered my secret, and perhaps shameful, hobby. I was home alone at the time, and I had to fight the fear of discovering the horrible truth. Slowly, I crept down the hallway, as if I had made a noise, the jig would have been up. My sister had a desk in here room identical to mine, and once I finally reached it, heart pounding in my chest, I looked inside only to find that my worst fears were realized.

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   My story, the missing one, lay there amidst other papers and pens and typical desk drawer items. The lump in my throat grew to be unbearable, and I distinctly recall the inability to breathe. What could I possibly say to her if she confronted me with the evidence of my horrible, perverted mind? Would she tell my parents? Would she even understand it? Even if I had the answers to these questions, I still didn’t know how she found the story in the first place. She couldn’t have actually taken it from my desk, I thought, despite the fact that I was essentially doing the same thing by peeking into her desk. I knew I had to leave my story where it was, pretend I never noticed it missing, and hope it all blew over. To do anything else would have completely blown any cover I had. Reaching back for the drawer, I was set to close it when I noticed some purple colored paper in the drawer, written on in my sister’s distinct handwriting. I saw the word ‘cock’ spelled out distinctly, peeking out from beneath my own story. Reaching inside the drawer, I discovered that my sister had apparently been inspired by my story to write one of her own. My own cock sprang instantly to life at the mere thought of it – here my own sister was reading the masturbatory fantasies of my own juvenile mind, and coming up with her own in kind. My thoughts progressed to the next logical step – if I masturbated while writing these, then surely, my sister did as well, and the contemplation of that fact drove me wild. Why I thought I was the only person in the house that pleasured him or herself was beyond me, and of course I had no hard proof that was even the case, but if there was even a chance that her fingers had at some point in time pushed down beneath her panties and…The thought was too much to bear. I quickly returned everything in her drawer to where I found them and ran back to my room, horny as all hell, unable to get the thought of my sister touching herself out of my mind. I must have came three times that afternoon before anyone got home, harder than I ever had before, visions of fingers moving beneath cotton panties dancing in my head. Sometimes they were her fingers.

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   Sometimes, the visions were of my fingers. She had to come home at some point in time, of course, and I still prayed that she wouldn’t say anything, even though a dark, secret part of me suddenly wished she would. I couldn’t believe that I even entertained that thought – this just needed to go away, and I needed to stop thinking such things about my sister. She said nothing to me that night of consequence, thank god, and in short order, the story I had written had found its way back into my drawer, as if nothing had happened. She must have snuck it back in when I was out of the house – in any case, nothing else had gone missing, and I never checked back in her drawer to see if she was writing anything of her own, nor did she ever say anything to me about it, thank god. I stopped writing that week, and with it, stopped masturbating so frequently. Every time I did, I thought of her, and the disturbing yet arousing concept was just too much for my mind to bear. Apparently, however, I was the only one who stopped their erotic literature habits, as one night a week later, I opened my desk drawer to find that same purple colored paper atop my neglected pile of fiction, my sister’s handwriting scrawled all over it. It was a new story, not the same one I had originally found, and apparently had been hand-delivered to my desk drawer, the paper smelling faintly of perfume. It was a crude story, by my lofty sixteen-year old standards, reminiscent of a Sweet Valley High novel with sex thrown in for good measure, but it was clear that she had written it for me, and meant for me to read it. If you guessed that my cock nearly jumped out of my pants and my thoughts once more turned to images of my hands running over her young body, you would be correct. When I managed to finish reading her erotic missive, and was basking in the afterglow of a particularly wonderful orgasm, I quickly began writing her a story in kind. After all, she deserved something for this brazen act, and a return piece of sexual fiction was the least I could do (especially since all the thoughts in my head were definitely things I could not do). The story, written so hastily, was crude but effective enough at re-arousing me, and finished before bedtime. I had assumed that she was downstairs watching television when I went to deliver it, but to my surprise, the door to her bedroom door was closed, her light shining on beneath it.

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  My heart once more leaping into my throat, I considered the horrible breach of protocol before me. Would I dare slip this note under the door? Up to this point, these stories just magically appeared and disappeared – to brazenly slide a note under the door would be tantamount to actually admitting what was going on, and that may have been a taboo (not that anything else going on wasn’t). Deciding that fortune favors the bold, I slipped the note under the door, and bolted back to my room as quickly and as quietly as possible, lest she open the door and see my embarrassed face. Safely back in my room, I closed my door and caught my breath, practically gasping for air amidst all the naughty excitement in my body, cock ramrod hard in my pants. Her room and mine had an adjoining wall, and desperately wanting to know if she was reading my stored, I sat on the floor of my room and leaned my ear against the wall, hoping beyond hope that I could hear the pages of paper being flipped as she read. I must have listened really good that night, or have been blessed with supernatural hearing, for not only did I hear the telltale sound of paper being turned, but I could hear the soft sounds of a cooing girl’s voice, whimpers clearly belonging to my sister. My eyes grew wide as my brain put two and two together, and previous imagined images of her hands tucking fingers below the waistband of her panties sprang straight into my mind. I could hear her read, and I could hear her make plaintive moans, sounding to me as if she were gritting her teeth to keep from making any noise that would be loud enough to hear through her door (but clearly not through the wall). My heart pounded, and despite my raging hard on, I couldn’t move, lest I make too much noise and not hear my naughty neighbor, my sister, apparently pleasuring herself. Her end came quickly, as far as I could tell, a soft yelp, almost a cry that I swore I could hear down the hallway as well as through the wall, though I may have been imagining that. With no more sweet sounds coming through the wall, I quickly turned to taking care of my own business, burying my face in my pillow lest she overhear me as well as I stroked my dick to an outrageous and messy climax. The stories went back and forth faster after that, never more than a day or two before once of us would secretly gift the other with a piece of work. It was all as impersonal as it possibly could be, like a newspaper delivery service – nothing personal in the stories, and we certainly never spoke about it aloud. In fact, nothing even seemed horribly out of place, as we’d sit across each other at the dinner table. There were no lecherous looks, no sly winks, not a single obvious sign that anything odd was occurring, save for the occasional eavesdropped sounds of pleasure I overheard through the wall.

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  After a month of this madcap, taboo-laden erotica exchange, I was late in my schedule delivery. I had, for lack of a better word, Writer’s Block. Actually, that is not entirely true per se, just that every time I started to write a new story, somehow the protagonists would always end up being brother and sister. I couldn’t help myself, of course.
    Knowing full well that my sister masturbated most nights to stories I had written drove me insane. That was my own hand (in the figurative, handwritten sense) pleasing her, and hers in return wildly pleasing me. Oftentimes in my mind, the figurative hand became the literal one, and wild fantasies of my sister touching me, gripping my cock, filled me at all hours. With thoughts like these on my mind, it was no wonder that I couldn’t think of anything else to write. But to actually deliver a story that was incestuous in nature? No, that would have been too much, an invisible line that would have been crossed. A similar line was crossed one night during this writer’s block, when she appeared at my doorway, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, arms crossed in front of her chest. Though only fourteen years of age at the time, she had already started to develop quite nicely, I should point out. No real great curve of the hips or waist to speak as of yet, but her chest had apparently decided to go ahead and grow up all by itself. I’m not talking melons here, mind you, but the swells of her breasts that pushed against the inside of her sweatshirt rivaled girls my age, almost to the point of making her appear top-heavy in comparison to her smallish frame. Such is puberty, I suppose. Her skin was pale and smooth, her hair down to the middle of her back and straight, and grey green eyes peered out from wire-rimmed glasses.

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       She’d have looked bookish, if it weren’t for the fact that everywhere she went, she led with her chest, or at least that is how my hormone-addled brain saw things. “Where’s my story?” she asked with an air of authority that totally belied her age, younger than me, and took me by complete and utter surprise. Such a breach of implied contract, directly speaking to me about matters of taboo nature, her pouty lips indicating to me that she really did want the next story in the line and was sick of waiting. Of course, the soft noises I heard through the walls told me already that she enjoyed my handiwork, but here she was, all but admitting it to me, face to face. I was caught, trapped, since she came in as I was working on a draft of one of the aforementioned incestuous works, its taboo-laden papers strewn about my desk. Silence hung in the air as I dared not look at the writing for fear she’d see, dared not stand up for surely she’d see my suddenly stiff cock rising to attention in my pants, dared not speak for I would inevitable say something stupid. Hell, I could barely even look at her, else my eyes would wander to her chest, trail down to the waist of her jeans, trying to imagine what she was wearing underneath. I stuttered out my next words, trying to say anything and everything so carefully. “I. . I. . Well, it’s been tougher writing this one than the last ones. I. .

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       think I’m out of ideas. Or something,” I said, lying through my teeth. I must have cast a sidelong glance down at the pile of papers on my desk, and her head clearly turned to look at the stack. “Is that for me?” she asked, innocently, completely unaware of the subject matter of my latest work. I turned then to the papers on my desk, my pen in hand, blushing a little bit as she caught me red-handed. I couldn’t lie to her, not after having shared such a wonderful secret with her, and certainly not after keeping the secrets of my eavesdropping from her. “Yes,” I said weakly, trying to hide my embarrassment. “But it’s not finished yet, and-“She cut me off quickly by taking a step forward and snatching the pile from my desk, a more daring move than I expected, and yet another cross over yet another line. “well it will have to do,” she said, and then stood there, feet away from me, eyes scanning the first sentences of what I thought surely would be my doom, or at the very least, the last story of mine that she’d ever read. I was trapped – no place to go, no way to turn back, frozen in fear not for the first time over this whole erotic exchange, watching my sister read my work. I saw her breasts rise and fall with every breath, saw the way she shifted her weight as she read, and when the blush hit her face, I knew she had gotten to the first mention of the fact that this story’s subject was nothing other than incest. I think she gasped a little as the redness grew in her cheeks, and I tried desperately to read the real reaction on her face even as I scanned the rest of her body, wishing she was wearing a white t-shirt instead of a sweatshirt so that I could perhaps see her nipples, wondering if a patch of wetness we growing between her legs, hoping beyond hope that she wouldn’t slap me and end this whole thing, disgusted. “Oh my,” was all she said, and turned to walk away, the sound of her door closing echoing down the hallway. It was over then, I knew. I had gone too far, and it was over, overcome by incestuous, misunderstood lust.

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       It was over, unless I could somehow dig my way out of it, fix the problems my hormones had caused, undo the damage done. Despite (or perhaps because of) the fact that this was so wrong and I knew it, I needed it to continue, of for nothing other than purely selfish reasons, entirely related to the best orgasms of my life, had while reading her work and wondering what she did with mine. I needed to fix it, to apologize, somehow needed to make her not mad at me anymore. Once I gathered my thoughts, I stood up, resolving to cross my own line now, to walk down the hall and knock on her door, apologize profusely, beg and plead for forgiveness, explain that what I wrote and what she read ad nothing to do with us, and somehow make it all right again. The trip down the hall seemed to go in slow motion, the closed door at the end seeming to be so far away, and my heart echoed loud, drowning out what I was sure would be the sound of sobbing inside her room. A different, familiar sound awaited me instead through her closed door – the soft, muffled whimpering, louder than I had heard before through the wall, of my sister’s coming climax mixed with the unmistakable sounds of flipped pages. .

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