Chapter 4022 - 1

It was late, and the minutes passed slowly. Midnight had been long ago, it seemed, and yet the night remained in that timeless hollow that are the wee morning hours. The lamp beside me was burning low and I flipped the page of my textbook, shifting ever so slightly. Against my chest, Monica stirred, and for a moment the words became gibberish and all I felt was her soft breast rolling against my skin, all I smelled was the vague fragrance of her shampoo.

I watched her face as she blinked awake, her hand sliding over my waist and gripping my ass. She sniffled, and looked up at me. "Don't be mad," she said.

"I'm not mad," I said. We were whispering to each other.

Monica's eyes slid away from mine and her fingers traced circles up my chest. She kissed me just below my nipple.

"Not now," I said.

"You're mad."

I put the book down in the sheets and reached for her, but she squirmed away and swung a leg over me. She drew the covers up over her head and crawled over me, watching my eyes like some shy predator. Then she bent down, and sighed, and slid her lips against my mouth, softly tracing more circles. Her little tongue flickered out, and then it was gliding over mine. "I missed you," she whispered into my mouth.

"I missed you too," I said.

"I missed this," she said, reaching down between us and grasping my turgid cock.

I reached up and cupped her ass. Gripped it. Squeezed it. She moaned a little. "I know."

Her eyes opened, but something in my gaze made her stop. Her fingers reluctantly left my cock and she frowned. "Stop thinking so much."

"I can't help it," I said. It would have been useless to argue with her. Monica knew me well enough to know the truth.

The truth was, summer was long gone, and we hadn't seen each other for months. I'd been so busy in December I hadn't come home for Christmas, and by the time I was able to visit I was already seeing someone else. It wasn't serious, but I was guilty all the same.

"Listen," said Monica, easing against my side and laying her hand on my chest, "this is just us saying hello."

I laughed. I couldn't help it. "This is not how siblings say hello."

Monica grinned and took my jaw in her hands. She kissed me. "We do."

I rolled my eyes and grabbed my book. I used it to swat her butt as she tried to stifle a giggle, grabbing her wrist to keep her from squirming away. We ended up tangled together and I dropped the book on the floor and gathered her up in my arms. "I just don't want you acting like this was all my fault," she said as she buried her nose in my chest.

"It mostly is," I said.

She scoffed and tried to slap my arm, but she was bound up too tight to get her hands free. Instead she fought me the best way she knew how, by rubbing her naked sex against me. That always worked.

"Mm," I grunted, letting her slide away - but only so far. She turned a little, I think to try to get on top, but I twisted her, fighting her struggles and pinning her down on her stomach. "Mmph!" she grunted back as my pelvis dug into her ass. My cock, now rock hard, wedged into the crack of her ass, and I held onto her arms as she struggled harder to break free. The struggling only pushed my cock deeper into her ass, and she let out another grunt as I arched my back.

"Get off of me, big brother!" she whispered shrilly.

"No, you wanted to sleep in my bed. You're going to have to pay the price." I slid my cock up against her moist slit and pushed.

"Nn! N-no!" she moaned as loudly as she dared. She struggled even harder, and then I was in her, thrusting against each of her mock attempts to break free. "Ah! Big brother! You're inside me!" she gasped.

"Shut up," I grunted into her ear. She loved that. I cupped my palm over her mouth as she began to moan louder. She bit the skin of my fingers as I roughly grabbed her breast.

The two of us were wedged into the farthest corner of the bed, her body pinned under me, her legs open and her feet kicking against the mattress as I entered her, again and again, in fierce, wet thrusts. She shut her eyes tight and arched her neck up as I fucked her, screaming into my hand.

I'd never fucked anyone like I fucked Moni. The thought made me hard, even as it troubled me. But all that troubling, all that guilt, just added to the intensity. Monica felt it; Monica knew; and that's why Monica twisted her hips; that's why she screamed harder into my hand. She loved my cock and she loved that I loved her, and she loved playing this twisted little game.

I pulled out of her. She whirled around, and I managed to trap her flat on her back. Our positions had reversed from just a few minutes earlier. Now she lay under me and I was the predator on top.

I stared down at Monica's body, glistening and pink in the dim lamplight. Her eyes were fierce, her skin flushed red under her breasts and chin. Her nipples that I loved so much were sharp and tight, and I pinched one, making her wince. Her knees knocked helplessly against my ribs as my cock swung over her shaved pussy, dripping with our mutual juices. Her hands had been splayed against her head, and now she raised them, tentatively, to my shoulders. I watched her pillowy breasts shudder with her every breath. "J-Johnny, please...don't do this..."

I bent over her and bit her on her neck. She stifled her own cry as I sucked at her, my fingers skating over her thigh and taking a handful of flesh. "Aah!" Moni cried as my cock bumped against her clitoris. She pushed me up and looked deep into my eyes. "You can't do this," she whispered. "I'm your sister.

I cupped one beautiful breast and squeezed. Monica bit her lip and shuddered. "I'll...I'll jerk you off, if that's what you want," she said, doing her best to sound pitiful. Slowly her hand reached up. I grabbed it and put it on me. "Oh! It's so...it's so big, Johnny..." My hand still over her own, I made her stroke me, and I watched the flush in her skin crawl up her face. "Oh...Oh, Johnny... Don't. I...I shouldn't..."

"Put it in your mouth," I said.

"No," said Monica, her eyes wide. "No, Johnny. I couldn't do that!"

"Sure you can," I said, digging my fingers into her dirty blonde hair. I drew her toward me as I crawled over her body.

"Oh! Oh, Johnny! W-wait. If...if I do that, will you promise not to put it in me?"

"I promise," I said to her.

She eased herself down the mattress as I lowered my cock to her mouth. "I can't believe you're making me do this," she said. She made the cutest face as I put my penis between her lips, as if it was medicine she hated to swallow.

"That's it, little sister," I said. "Take the whole thing." I slid it down, down along her tongue, as Monica reached up to dig her nails into my back. I softly pulled it back, our eyes never breaking contact. "That's a good girl," I murmured, sliding it back in. "Don't wake mom and dad."

"Mm," said Monica around my cock. "Mm!" she groaned as I pushed it deeper.

"Deeper," I ordered her as I gripped the back of her head.

"Mm!" she protested as I entered her throat. "Mmm!"

"Ah!" I grunted, pulling out and letting her breathe. Long trails of saliva left her tongue and hung from my cockhead. It slithered back onto her mouth.

"Johnny, that's gross!" she said. "I can't do this. I won't!"

"Well then you know what you have to do," I said, sliding down and pushing myself against her wet pussy.

"Oh no!" she stammered. "Johnny, please! I can't!"

I shoved it in. Monica bit my shoulder to keep from screaming. "D-don't do this, big brother," she moaned into my skin. "Please! You're too big."

Her vagina was pulsing against me as I thrust, deeper and faster, deeper and faster, as she gripped me with her whole body. "You can take it," I grunted into her hair. That smell. Her smell. Her shampoo and sweat. The natural smell of her. My sister. My lover.

"I-I can take it," she whispered into my ear.

"You can take the whole thing, Monica. Good girl."

"I am," she gasped against me. "Is it good? Do you love that pussy?"

"I love this fucking pussy," I told her.

"I love you," she whispered, so low I almost didn't hear. "I love your cock in me," she gasped. "I love it so much. I need it. I need it. I need it!" She continued that mantra, faster and faster, the words rolling into a wild, unending blur as I fucked her harder and harder until the bed quaked and her whole body was shaking beyond her control. "Cum in me, big brother," she demanded. "Cum in your good little whore!"

I flowed inside of her. We'd fucked furiously hours before and yet I still came like a torrent. I filled my dirty little sister with all my cum, and Monica's breath was so deep it was as if I'd squirted life itself into her body. I suppose, in a way, I had.

I thrust for a long time after I came, even as the nerves went crazy in my cock and I'd shrunk to a flaccid shadow of my former glory. Monica moaned at me when I tried to pull out, so I stayed in her, the two of us lying there together in the sweaty mess we'd made of the bed.

"We should make a pact," she said. Her lips were pressed against my ear. My eyes were shut, my body's energy fading fast. Even now, though, the jiggle of her tits made by every heartbeat made me want her all over again.

"Pacts are for conspirators," I murmured into her hair.

"You'll like this one," she said.

"I don't think I will."

"I know you will," she said, wiggling her hips. My soft cock still clung to her labia. She pushed her mouth deeper into my ear canal, and lowered her voice. "How about this is just the way it is for us? We can see whoever we want...but you and me...this is just how we love each other."

"That can't-" I started.

She shushed me. "You don't have to fuck me if you don't want to. Just...if you need to..."

"When does that end?" I said. "When we're married? When we're living across the country from each other?"

"Never," she whispered into my ear. "It'll be our secret. And it won't be cheating. Is it cheating when you hug me?"

"No," I said.

"When you kiss me?"

"Where?"

"This is just how we are," she said.

"I don't think that's how it normally goes," I said, halfway to sleep.

"Will your wife ever fuck you like I do?"

She might have had a point. A terrible, incestuous point... Monica eased me out of her, and took my face, and drew me up to look her in the eye. She licked her lips. "You want this too," she said. "I'm just saying what you won't."

It would have been the height of condescension to tell her this was just a phase and she'd find someone else - someone not related to her by blood - and someday this would all be a weird memory...

I had come home that afternoon with my bag slung over my shoulder, with stories and weariness to share with my father about grad school. He, my mother and my sister had gathered around the table and eaten dinner together for the first time in ages, and there was no awkwardness anywhere. I told them about Pam, the girl I was seeing, and Monica asked about her like any disinterested sister would. My mother was glad I was finally dating someone again.

That night my dad and I drank beers on the porch and talked about the companies that were open. He'd been in the business for years and I'd already put in several years of my own. I'd be fine. I was on the right track, and in a couple years I knew I'd be designing the buildings I'd always dreamed of.

I retired late that night, book in hand, in bed. The hours crept by and, near midnight, there was a knock at my door. Monica, in nothing provocative (a simple shirt, simple shorts, no makeup), softly smiled and asked if she could sleep on my side of the bed. I laughed, and without thinking, scooted over to let her lie down. I continued to read, and the minutes crept by, and softly I heard her stir.

"It's too hot in here," she said. And without turning, her eyes closed, she hooked her thumbs into her shorts and slid them down her shapely ass. And then, her hair falling over her shoulder, she batted her eyes at me. "You want to put it in there?"

I didn't think. My cock was hard and ready before the book fell out of my hand. She was ready too, and we both hissed as I slid it in.

We kissed like we'd been separated by ages, by uncountable miles, as I fucked her from behind and reached into her shirt to clasp her heavy breasts - the breasts that swayed so hypnotically whenever she didn't wear a bra. Like tonight. Like at the dinner table. Like when she came so innocently into my room. I pulled her hair. She bit my lip. She grinded against me. I touched her everywhere, and she moaned into my mouth as I came in her. Then she, with a strength I scarcely recognized, forced herself down against me so she could cum with my full length inside of her.

As if we'd saved the foreplay for reverse, I pulled her shirt off and kissed her then, kissed her a hundred times as she wound her naked limbs through mine and collapsed with me on the bed. The two of us, our tongues tangled, giggled softly at each other as we shared the reunion we'd both been waiting for.

But I was seeing someone. Wasn't I? Didn't that mean something? Or did it mean nothing next to the jungle lust I stoked for my sister. I woke later in the night to read, and to think about that. And after an hour of thinking and reading Monica turned her eyes up to me, told me not to be mad, and we'd done it all over again.

Now, gazing down at her as she told me her little plan, I didn't know what to think.

"My love for you is complicated," I said.

"Yeah, no shit," she muttered. "But I know a good thing when I fuck it."

"You do fuck it very well."

She gave a chivalrous little nod. Then she coughed, and said quietly, "I slept in here a few times, after you left..."

"I missed you, too."

"Good."

I looked at the clock. It was no longer the wee morning hours. It was almost the normal morning hours. Almost time to go back to the world where we were just brother and sister. No benefits.

"I just don't want us to pretend this never happened," she said. "Don't do that thing where you take the moral high ground. That's bullshit." She gave me her best little sister glare, so I shut up. "I just want us to agree this is part of who we are."

"For better or worse," I intoned.

"I'm not asking for more than that," she said.

"So, if I've got this straight, we'll try to live normal, productive lives as normal, productive siblings...who occasionally sleep together."

"Not so much sleeping," she amended.

"Who occasionally rut like stoats."

"Sure," she said. "There's no way that can go wrong."

Well, I probably don't have to tell you this, but it went wrong all over the place.This is how it happened.

It was my last year of grad school and I was working my ass off. Sure, I was tense, but I had a great sense of purpose. My professors, on the whole, liked me, and as hard as their courses were I always did pretty well. Of course, blowing off steam was an integral part of that. Without that safety valve, I might have exploded - or imploded from the weight of all the things on my mind. But I was happy to discover that grad students, most of us, are on the same page where dating is concerned: Either you're looking for a hookup or you're looking to mate for life; someone to help reduce stress or someone who wants to make that their permanent side gig. It made things a lot simpler.

Pam had originally been the former, but whether through her machinations or the tricks of time she'd begun to slide into the latter. When I returned to school, I told her it was over. She wasn't happy about it, but she knew how we'd begun, and we hadn't been together long enough for it to sting so bad. At least that's what I thought.

I was running across campus one day - not out of panic; I was doing cardio - when I nearly passed by the most impressive set of legs I've ever seen. I was just about to turn the corner of the chemistry lab when they caught the sun in my periphery. I glanced to the side and saw them, the way the light clung to their toned musculature, the way the tight buttocks rose up into a pair of even tighter shorts. The legs belonged to Stephanie, and she was bent at the waist and standing in the grass. She was also running, or about to run, and was stretching for all the world to see. I decided to investigate.

As I approached, she rose up and I caught a glimpse of her cleavage. Her breasts were small, not much more than a handful each, but they moved with a fluid softness - even despite the sports bra. Her nose was a little sharper than I like, but it fit her face well: Brown, contoured eyebrows, an oval face, and cold eyes: Blue and hazel when she was relaxed, kind of green when she was mad or excited. Her long brunette hair was up in a ponytail, but it shined under the afternoon sun, which was currently spearing the two of us from between the trees. She was tall. Those legs.

"Hey," I said.

She gave me a look of passionate disdain. "What?"

"You run around here often?"

Her forehead crinkled as she tried to figure out if I was for real. She had the 'bitch face' down pat and it was going into tiger mode. If I was a smart man, I would have run rapidly in the other direction. But I was a horny man, and I couldn't stop thinking about what those legs would look like in high heels. (I have since seen those legs in high heels, and let me tell you - this bullshit was totally worth it.)

"What do you want, John?"

I was taken aback. "You- Have we met before?"

Once again, the forehead crinkled, this time accompanied by her knuckles on her hips. "I'm Pam's roommate."

Ah. Right. I am not an observant man. In my defense, the few times we went back to Pam's place Stephanie was either out or in her room (and we didn't spend a lot of time socializing, if you take my meaning).

"Of course," I said, trying to recover. "How you doing?"

"Are you seriously hitting on me right now?"

Her stomach was toned, there was a sheen of sweat on her forehead and, I'll be totally honest, the more her sharp nose and sharp eyebrows turned down, the more turned on I got. Maybe it's the masochist in me, or maybe I just have a thing for angry women with great legs. All I could think of now was her insulting me while we did it on top of Pam's kitchen table. True, it's an odd kink, but once you make peace with the fact that you've fucked your sister a few hundred times, you've made peace with most of your kinks.

So I said, "Yes, I'm definitely hitting on you. But I'm sorry, I don't remember your name."

And here's where Stephanie's personality shines through, because at this point she could have easily walked off - or, more appropriately, run off. She didn't. She planted her heels, swayed back on one hip, and frowned and smiled at the same time. "Stephanie," she said, as if even she couldn't believe we were still having a conversation.

"Right, Stephanie," I said. "Stephanie, what's your major?"

"International relations," she said. "Marketing, really. You're an engineer. Pam cried about you for a week."

Ooh, tough to come back from that one. I tried to look sincere (but not so sincere that I wasted my shot, if I had one) when I said, "I'm sorry to hear that. I didn't think Pam was that into me."

"You mean you thought you guys were just fuck buddies."

Yes. Probably shouldn't say yes, though.

I shrugged and opened my hands in a gesture of conciliation. "She's great. We went on a few great dates, but I just didn't feel that connection."

"Uh-huh," said Stephanie, not buying that bullshit at all. "Sounded to me like you felt that connection pretty regularly."

Oh man, Game Over. If this was Independence Day her little aliens would be blowing the shit out of my air force right now. And yet, she hadn't turned away. Her furrowed brows had relaxed and now she was wearing a look of amused disgust. I shrugged again and took a casual step forward. "I didn't realize you were listening."

"Whatever," she said, and I thought she was about to make her exit, but instead she let out a little laugh. "I'll admit it doesn't take much to get Pam to cry, but whatever you think is happening here," she gestured between the two of us, "it is most certainly not."

"No, I didn't think anything was happening here," I said. "I was just saying hello."

"Uh-huh," she said again, her tongue working the inside of her cheek. She turned towards the chemistry lab (this is how bad I had it: even the way her ponytail whipped her neck turned me on) and then turned back to me. She narrowed her eyes. "Were you staring at my ass?"

"Hm?" I said, all innocence.

"You were running, and then you stopped. While I was stretching. Did you come over here because you saw my ass and...I'm sorry, what was your plan coming over here?"

Oh shit. I really liked this girl now. "Babble at you," I said seriously. "Babble at you until I got your number."

I watched her gnaw at the inside of her cheek, her mouth closed, while she weighed me with her eyes. She'd folded her arms against her chest now and I was fascinated just watching her mind work. Tried with all my might not to look down at the way those thighs slid down into those tight calves.

"You don't care how Pam feels at all, do you?"

"Sure I do," I said.

"What would I say to Pam, 'Hey, your ex was checking out my ass so I think we're going on a date tonight?' That's pretty shitty."

"No, I wouldn't say that," I said. "I probably wouldn't mention it. But you'd definitely get a good meal out of it. I mean, there's no fooling you, so I'd probably overspend on the date like crazy to get in your good graces. And you know how it is at grad school - you take those fancy meals where you can get 'em."

"Oh my God," said Stephanie, her mouth wide, her eyes flashing. "You're a creep."

"Is that a no?"

She laughed all the way through her jog, and it seemed like she was still laughing when she rounded the chemistry building. I had half a mind to chase her, but I don't think that would be the feminist thing to do. Instead, I brushed up on my international relations.

* * *

I ran a lot that semester. Sometimes I would pass her by the lake, throwing my arms wide in a 'why not?' gesture that she would shake her head at and then ignore. One of her professors was part of a poker club I belonged to, so from time to time I'd stop by the class to chat and, if she didn't immediately disappear, strike up a conversation with her as she walked to her next class. It infuriated her to a degree, but there was also something in her - that deep, dark, demented part - that was drawn to my stupidity and my tenacity. I know this because she told me.

She told me one day while we were walking across campus. We'd just left the economics wing and I was trying to make conversation about a party I didn't want to go to alone.

"I don't even have to see you anymore," she said. "I can just smell the desperation coming."

I'd only been at this for a week or two. She wasn't wrong, though.

Suddenly, she slapped her forehead. "Oh shit, I forgot to ask Tim if that paper is due this Friday or next." She swung on her heel, and so did I.

"So about this party," I said.

"Not a chance," she said. "When do you and Tim play poker? He's stupidly bad at answering emails."

"Later tonight," I said.

"Well if he's not here..." She brushed open the door to the lecture hall - the empty lecture hall - and cursed. She swiveled on her heel again and then made for his office. I followed, feeling, as I always did, that I was straddling a fine line between being a pest (or at worst, a stalker) and being on the verge of a breakthrough. I was to find out that, either way, she'd give me an answer soon enough. She'd never once told me to get lost, which I found encouraging.

"This paper is kicking my ass," she said, "and another week would be good. Plus there's the fucking firm and their stupid party-" Stephanie worked, as near as I could tell, three different jobs, or two jobs and an internship, in addition to her course work and teacher assistant duties. She was Type A all the way.

"You need a date?"

"I have too much work," she said. We entered the faculty offices and made a beeline for Tim's door. "That's all I do is work. I come home and Pam is sitting on the fucking couch whining about the last date that went awry. Like, I'm here to get a fucking job and as near as I can figure she's here to find a husband or die. It's gross." She did that magical business thing where her face went from utter contempt to bright and bubbly as she saw a professor she was trying to secure another internship with. "Mr. Gaffley! So good to see you! Oh my gosh, how did your daughter's recital go?"

I watched her chat with him like a machine, plugging in all the courtesies that were due and precisely working her way up from the personal to the academic to the brass tacks of her mission. It was cold, it was clinical, it was all bullshit, but it was bullshit that Stephanie used like a precision instrument. I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd given her the internship on the spot. Instead, they made a lunch date with another professor and would take it from there.

And then, before my eyes, someone else she knew - a professor or near enough to it - appeared down the hall and I watched her create a whole other program to get what she wanted from him. It was mesmerizing watching her work. Once that was over, she tightened those perfect gams of hers and continued on her journey to Tim's office. She scanned her watch, and then looked back at me to see if I was still there.

"Well done," I said.

"Yeah, and now I'm late for my least favorite class," she grunted. "I don't know why I'm killing myself for these assholes. Oh right, because I fucking hate myself."

She knocked on Tim's door. After no answer, another knock, and no answer, she turned the knob and poked her head inside. Her shoulders slumped. "Well that's just typical," she said. "Your buddy's gone fishing." Instead of leaving, though, she strode inside and whipped her bag onto one of the chairs. "Get in here," she said.

I did.

"Close the door," she said. So I did.

"Why don't you put that perpetual boner of yours to good use," she said, as she grabbed my arms and forced me against the door. I wasn't sure if it was a bite or it was a kiss, but soon enough I was tasting her. Her fingers dug into the back of my neck as she hissed into my ear, "If you're bad at this I'll slap you with a restraining order the next time I see you." Her other hand was already undoing my belt.

"What if Tim comes back?" I said.

"What if Stephanie needs to cum right now?" she asked. She looked up into my eyes. It was a challenge if I ever saw one.

When she got my pants off, she bent down into a crouch and pulled my cock out of my boxers. She gripped it tightly, inspected it, top to bottom, side to side. "Good," was all she said. "I hate tiny cocks." Then she put her mouth on it, and I shivered all the way down to my toes.

She wasn't at that long before she was up on her feet and tying her hair back in a ponytail. Then she pulled her shirt up over her head and threw it on top of her bag. "Help me pull these off," she said, backing up onto Tim's desk. She unbuttoned her shorts and put her ass up onto the desk as I slid them down her taut legs. Watching her extend those beautiful things only made me harder, and she noticed. I started on her shoes, but she shook her head. "I don't have time. Just pull my panties to the side. I want you to eat my pussy, and don't say you don't do that. Pam talks."

"Yes, ma'am," was all I said, as I bent down to Stephanie's shaved vagina and lovingly traced her clit with my tongue. I heard the sharp intake of breath that might have signaled I was on the right track. She buried her fingers in my hair and shoved me between her legs.

"Fuck," she said. "Deeper."

My tongue probed into her, the sour, acid taste of her, and soon her vulva was enveloped by my mouth. "Mmm," Stephanie moaned above me, and I moaned into her pussy. She liked that, so I did it again, and again as her thigh rubbed my cheek.

"Poor little Pam," I heard her murmur. "You're my little fucktoy now." She pushed forward with her pelvis to signal me to get up. I stood, my cock swinging, and she gave an appreciative raise of her eyebrows. "Now you get to do what you've been jerking off to since we met." She turned her back to me (Jesus, that ass) and pulled her panties down. Not all the way, though, not down to her ankles. She pulled them just low enough to give me access and then bent over Tim's desk.

I caressed that perfect ass and spread her cheeks, opening her up to see her asshole and her pussy. "Mmh," Stephanie groaned. "Have you been jerking off to me?"

"You know I have," I said. I encircled her wet slit with my pulsing cock.

"That gets me wet," she said, as I pushed inside her. "Aww! Knowing you want it so bad. It's that s-stupid - ah - tenacious-n-ness - fuck! - that -" I shoved my full length inside her, not waiting for her to get used to me, and she stopped talking for a few seconds to quiver over the desk. "Ahhhnn," she groaned. "Didn't even...give me a...ahhhh." I pulled out and slid it back in. "I got so wet when I realized you were just staring at my ass," she said. "Listening to you fuck Pam, I, ahh! You creep. You're in-inside me now, I- ah!"

"Stephanie?" I said, leaning down over her ear. I was balls deep inside her, one hand on her hip, the other on her shoulder.

"Nn?" she said.

"Shut up."

I covered her mouth and began to fuck her hard. Stephanie moaned. She screamed. She cried bloody murder as I thrust and thrust, her thighs trapped by her tight panties tightening with every plunge, squeezing me deeper inside the constricting walls of her vagina. Her pelvis banged against the desk. Her knuckles turned white where they gripped the lip of the wood, and her ass turned red from my repeated poundings. I spanked her, I squeezed her, I used her with all the pent-up lust I had stored away for this day, and somewhere in the bewildering tangle of minutes it must have triggered the release that she craved. When she came, I felt her do it: A warm, thick flow dribbled over my balls and oozed down her thighs. "Ahhhhhh," she cried into my moist palm. "I'm so late for class..."

I pushed and pushed, riding her sweet canal until she had me to the hilt. Her legs went straight as I pinned her to the desk. She was balancing on the toes of her shoes. Breathless, she felt me nearing my end, and stammered into finger, "My ass. C-cum on my ass..."

It was painful to pull myself fully out of that tight, athletic body, but I obeyed, grasping myself and exploding across her beet-red buttocks. I heard another cry from her as my semen splattered against her skin, as if this too triggered another release. I came again and again, and she jerked with every new ejaculation, reeling from micro-orgasms that sparkled their way down her legs.

When it was over, I had to hold myself against the desk, my cock shrinking against her buttocks. Stephanie recovered more quickly, though she continued to pant for the ensuing minute.

Eventually she regained enough composure to reach across the desk for tissues. She handed me one and told me to clean up my mess. I grinned as I polished the sticky cum off her muscular ass, and she didn't seem to mind when I gave it an appreciative pinch. She slid a few tissues between her thighs, cleaning up her own cum, and then took a few more to dab at her forehead and under her eyes. I was treated to the mesmerizing sight of her shimmying her panties up her luscious legs and then stepping into her shorts.

"And that didn't even cost you dinner," she said, reaching up to pull her hair out of its ponytail. She combed her fingers through her brown tresses.

I buckled my belt and slung my bag over my shoulder. She grabbed her bag and gave the room a once-over, checking that everything was in place. "I hope Tim doesn't mind that sex smell," I said.

"You can ask him when you see him tonight," she said. I opened the door for her and she stepped out, checking both ends of the hall and walking with only the slightest hint that she'd been fucked like a prize mare.

As if she could read my thoughts, she gave a polite cough and rearranged herself, making sure to check no one was watching. She glanced at me over my shoulder. "Not bad, Johnny."

I grinned and fell in step beside her as we exited the econ building. "You know, I still want to take you to dinner."

"Oh, why spoil a good thing?" she said. "You got what you wanted, after all."

"And what do you want?" I asked.

"I want things to be simple," she said. "Efficient." Tentatively, she reached out and put her hand on my arm. "I wouldn't mind more of that, just like that."

"I want to see you in heels," I said.

That might have been one of the few times I saw her smile without reservation. "I know you do," she said.

* * *

That was the year my dad had his first heart attack. Steph and I had been seeing each other, on and off, for a few months; it wasn't exclusive but it was a little more serious than non-exclusive. Still, those months seemed to vanish like smoke when my sister met me outside the hospital and threw herself into my arms. Our lips met in a hot, wet kiss and we stayed like that much longer than was decent.

I wiped her eyes and helped clean the mascara off her cheeks. We kissed again (and when she jumped up against me I cupped her round ass) and then separated, lacing our hands together as we entered the hospital.

My mother was inside with my dad, who, even in his hospital bed and gown, thought we were all being way too serious about this. We sat around and talked as long as the nurses thought proper, and then they shooed us out, telling us he needed meds and rest. My mother was beside herself and my sister spoke to her softly in the backseat as I drove us all home.

After we put my mother to bed (she literally fell to sleep), Monica and I went downstairs to watch TV. The hour passed mindlessly, the two of us just staring at it and occasionally murmuring to each other, she curled up against my chest, me lying back against the pillows.

"Do you want to fool around?" she asked.

"Better not," I said.

"I'm exhausted too. Can you help me, though? I'm so damn tight."

I thought she was making a dirty joke, but she sat up and drew up her long, golden hair so she could point at her neck. "Here," she said.

"Of course."

I scooted forward on the cushions, my thighs hugging her hips, and reached for her as she held her hair in place. My fingers dug into her supple skin. I marveled at how soft and smooth she felt, how every touch called forth memories and how the scent of her still stirred in me a longing to explore her. Time passed in thoughtless caresses until I stopped trying to massage her from under her shirt and told her to just take it off.

Then my fingers were sliding under her bra, kneading into the knots, and soon that too was on the floor. I continued to massage her, but now nothing stopped me from running my fingers around her ribs to scoop up her generous breasts. Morbidly, I thought to myself what a perfect woman you could make if you Frankensteined Monica's top and Stephanie's bottom together, but the thought passed as quickly as it came. The two had wildly different body types, both were painfully beautiful, and I realized (also painfully) that I was inexorably being drawn into both of them.

By this time Monica was leaning against my chest and sighing softly against my cheek, my hands warming her as I gently played with her breasts. "Want you," she whispered to me.

We could have gone to my room; we should have. But instead she quickly rose and slid her pants down. I pulled mine off while still sitting on the couch, and then she was in my lap facing me, her buttocks coming to rest on my thighs, our arms encircling each other as she lowered herself onto my ready cock. She was wet and smooth and we breathed into each other's mouths as we joined again. It was a slow, tender fuck, the two of us gazing at each other in the half-light of the television, planting small kisses on one another's lips as we comforted each other there in the den.

I reached down and rolled her softness up and down my shaft. She flexed her thighs against my ribs. She pushed her breasts into me and I kissed the tops of them, running my fingers through her curly hair. Her pink nipples stiffened as my tongue skated across them and she cooed to me, not to leave her, to stay, to stay.

She rested her lips on my neck and her head on my shoulder, then held me tight as I slowly built my way towards climax. I don't know if she came then. I do know that wasn't what this was about. This was about being part of each other, of sharing each other's flesh, of feeling each other's lives in the pulsations of our sex. Every squirt of semen that entered her body assured her that I was alive and I was here, and her embrace tightened with each ejaculation. In her arms, around my shaft. We held each other for a long time, just like that, joined together.

When at last we parted I saw that she was crying silent tears. I kissed them away, helped her get her clothes on, then carried her upstairs.

* * *

I didn't stay the night. I wasn't tired, and I didn't want to see my mother or my sister in the morning. I would have liked to return to the hospital and speak to my father, but that wasn't going to happen at three in the morning. So I drove my car back to my apartment.

I was surprised when I got the text from Stephanie ("U up?") and parked the car on the side of the road to answer back. Less than an hour later we were sitting up in an all-night cafe, she bundled in a posh but warm looking jacket, me wearing the same thing I'd had on when I got the call earlier that day.

"I'm sorry," she said again. Stephanie's parents were divorced and her relations with both were strained. Parents, and family in general, were not her favorite topic of conversation, but she wasn't a monster. She reached out and touched my cheek, and kissed me quickly just below my ear.

She sat back in her seat with a searching grin. "You've been with someone else tonight, haven't you?"

I was way past lying to her, not that morning, not at that hour. "Yeah," I said.

"Why did you pick me up?"

"I wanted to see you," I said. It was the truth. "I didn't want to sleep, or be alone." More truth. "And I'm confused." The most truth.

She licked her lips. "Do you want to take me back to your place?"

"Do you still want me to?"

Her expression was inscrutable. "I don't know," she said. She put her fingers to her lips, idly chewed on a nail. "I was up working, and I don't want to go back to working. Nor do I want to sleep." She sighed, and shrugged. "And I don't think I want to call up someone else. I think I want to go home with you."

For some reason I can't explain, the way she said it, just then, almost brought me to tears. It was so simple and so damn friendly.

She saw that, and sighed again. Stephanie could be very tender at very strange times. It was the hour, I think. The hurt and the need and the strangeness of it all. "Johnny," she said, "I think I'm getting to a place where I can't call you a fuck buddy anymore. But I also don't think I'm quite to a place where you being with someone else bothers me. But..."

"But before we go any further than that, maybe we should just go back to my place," I finished.

"You think you're up for it?"

"I'm always up for you."

It sounds like a line. It was a line. But it was also true. She knew that. She could see that. And, when she reached under the table, she felt that.

"Do I know her?" she said.

"I don't think you'll ever meet her."

"Let's stop talking about that," she decided. "I'm here for a booty call, after all. So come on." She stood up and gave me her hand. "This frigid bitch wants you inside her."

I took it and grinned. "Steph, I think I love you."

"That's so sad for you," she said, pulling me out of the cafe.

She made me shower before I fucked her, but before the shower was through she was in there with me, on her knees, sucking my cock. We fucked until the sun came up, and that morning was the first time we actually slept together.

I woke up, briefly, with her hand draped across my neck and her head on the other side of my pillow. I looked at her, at the bedside clock, at the morning light on the far wall, and wondered where all of us would go from here. And then, with one soft, smooth sigh, I decided to stop worrying, to let the world roll on, and to sleep.

* * *

Several days later I came to the house to talk to my father. He was alone - mom was at work, Moni was at college - and we had one of those good, gruff, manly conversations that mostly consist of grunts and, "It'll be alrights" and "Fuckin' hospital bills" and "Wish I could have a beer right nows."

At some point, I told him I was being torn between two women. First thing he asked was if it was fucking up my grades. "No they're doing pretty good," I assured him.

"Good," he said. "Which one's prettier?"

We both laughed, and it was good to hear him laugh like that. Then he said, "I'm supposed to say, don't be selfish and be respectful and all that, but hell, you think I ever got a chance like that? Thank God your mother ain't too bright, otherwise she wouldn't be with a dunce like me. But you, you find two dumb broads to take advantage of. I dunno if my heart could take that excitement." He grinned and scratched his stubble. "I dunno know what the hell you're supposed to do, kid. One of 'em's bound to get smart and dump your ass sooner or later. Till then, work hard, play hard."

He scratched his chest, right over the place where his heart was beating. "Maybe I'd've said something different last week. Now... It's a short life, kid. Sometimes it gets pretty weird. Sometimes it gets pretty nice. I got a sneakin' suspicion you're mixing your weird in your nice, but you know what?" He shrugged.

Then he leaned over. "Either one the kind of girl you'd bring home to your ma?"

I thought about that for a moment or two. "Uh, well..."

My father leaned back laughing. "Didn't think so." He thumped me on the shoulder. "You stay classy, Johnny."

In retrospect, it wasn't the most helpful conversation. But it did make me feel better, somehow.

After my father died, I would sometimes comfort myself with the thought that, while he wouldn't necessarily approve of the choices I made, he might have at least understood them.

Maybe. By the time I got my Master's, I was already working for a major architectural firm in the city. They subsidized a few ancillary classes I would later take in LEED design, but for the most part I was out of school and in the career I'd always dreamed of. And because I was that lucky, I could afford a place downtown.

I asked Stephanie to move in with me, and she took her time giving me an answer. I understood the reluctance. It was a confusing step, given our arrangement.

The two of us had decided several months ago that we liked each other enough to pursue a semi-serious relationship. However, Stephanie did not believe in monogamy. To an outsider, this would seem strange, considering how we acted with each other. Ostensibly, Stephanie and I were a good couple - I would go so far as to say we were a great couple. We went out for romantic nights on the town, sometimes we stayed in to watch movies on the couch, our jobs were very different and thus very interesting to each other (she worked as a consultant for a few peacekeeping, politicking and fundraising organizations while zeroing in on an overseas position she'd been eyeing since graduation), and we hardly ever fought. Also, the sex was phenomenal.

Yet despite all this harmony, for the most part we lived separate lives. We shared a passionate dedication to our work, but that meant our relationship would always come second. Stephanie had been frustrated with boyfriends in her past who couldn't stand that, being relegated to second, third, tenth or eleventh on her list of things to do. That's why, by the time she reached graduate school, she'd given up on relationships. She'd also given up on hooking up, except when her stress level absolutely necessitated a thorough fucking (she was not impressed with the crop of studs she'd mowed down across our campus, and most of them, she said, were way too clingy). But then there was me. I, too, had little time to devote to a real relationship, but I could be flexible.

There is something to be said for having someone to rely on, for comfort, for sex, and for emotional release. But I had secrets, and Steph had secrets, and neither one of us was in a place to share them. There would always be a line we didn't cross; at the same time, she was able to rely on me and I, gratefully, could rely on her. So when we dated, it always felt fresh. Oftentimes that was because we wouldn't see each other for a week at a time. We didn't probe too deeply. But many nights, even if we'd spent the day apart, we did sleep in the same bed.

So Stephanie was torn when I asked her to move in. We had an open relationship, and she liked that freedom - needed it, in fact. But she also, begrudingly, was fond of me.

"It won't work," she said as she was toweling her hair that morning. The steam from the shower was still floating around the room and I, as always, was mesmerized by the muscles in her long, lithe legs. I traced a few water droplets that clung to her buttock. She swiped my hand away. "Listen, Johnny."

"I'm listening," I said.

"Well what do you think is going to happen?"

I couldn't really say. And what I haven't said, yet, is why I was the way I was, why I was fine with an open relationship, why I wasn't more possessive of Stephanie. It was because I still had deep feelings for Monica. Deep, uncomplicated feelings. I wanted her, and that was wrong.

What I thought, being with Stephanie, was that I could live a (somewhat) normal life. I didn't need her to love me, but I did need to try and move past this longing. It had been a year since I'd graduated, a handful of summers since that day in Venice when she asked me to take her, hundreds of nights since we'd first fucked, and a thousand kisses later.

I could be with Stephanie because Stephanie didn't need me to give her more of myself than I could. She didn't want me to. That's why our relationship, in a sense, worked.

"I think we're going to move in together," I said.

She finished drying her hair and blew her bangs out of her face. She looked at me in that shrewd, no-bullshit way. "We have to have rules."

"Of course."

"No fucking other people in the apartment."

"Right."

Her shrewd look grew even shrewder. She squinted at me. "Who else are you fucking right now?"

"No one," I said. It was the truth.

"I don't want to get married, John. Ever."

"I just said move in together."

"I know." She pulled her bra off the nightstand, started to put it on, and then stopped. "Does this still work for you?"

I grabbed her and threw her down on the bed. I watched her breasts bounce with a hungry smile. "Oh, it works."

"Uh-uh," she said. "I just showered." She tried to get up and I pushed her back down. She bounced, tried to get up. I jumped on her, loving the clean smell of her, loving the struggle. I buried my nose in her neck and forced myself between her legs. She grabbed me, stroked me, and dug her heels into my tailbone. "I can say no," she said.

"You won't," I said. I rubbed my shaft against her moistening pussy lips. Up and down. And then I guided the head against slit.

"How do you know?" she grunted as I pushed.

"It works for you too."

"Your cock works," she groaned, rolling her head against the mattress. The walls of her vagina closed around me.

"Do it for a year, see if you like it." I thrust, pinning her against the bed.

"I like it," she groaned. "I like it." She tried to push her way off the mattress and I pushed her down again, hard, the way she liked it. "Fuck," she gasped. "Harder."

I fucked her harder, tightening my fingers in her hair and driving myself all the way down to the hilt. She screamed and bucked against me, telling me a stream of dirty things. "I'll do it," she murmured into my ear as I came in her. "But you're going to be sorry," she said.

I squeezed her ass. An appreciative moan slipped from her lips. "Now get off," she said, "I have to clean up all over again..."

* * *

"So, two years after grad school, that's where we are, in an open relationship, living together downtown, with sworn promises to each other that we will always be clean and clear about our other affairs." I finished rinsing the dish and set it in my mother's drying rack. Sitting on the counter, my sister twirled her finger through her blonde curls and rolled her eyes. I tried my best not to stare at where her shorts rode up her meaty ass, or at her thighs (thicker than Steph's, but in the best, softest way) as she lifted herself up with just her arms and languidly crossed them at the knee. She caught me looking, and smirked.

"What does 'clean and clear' mean?"

"It means we regularly get ourselves checked out - inspected, as it were - and use protection if we have sex with someone else."

"Obviously," said Monica. "But the 'clear' part? You tell each other who else you're fucking?"

"No," I said. "I suppose what I mean is that we're clear on the rules. We don't talk about that."

Monica squinted at me. "Who else are you fucking?"

"No one," I said. It was the truth.

"And who's she fucking?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. Don't care."

Monica leaned down (she knew I knew she wasn't wearing a bra, and the way her breasts rolled under her loose, gray top was a thing of beauty). "How can you not care?"

I sighed. "I just don't, Moni. That's how it works."

"You're lying," she said.

That was sort of true. I was a little possessive of Stephanie, who I still considered my girlfriend, in a macho, self-defeating way. "Well," I said, "I suppose I do care. But I don't care about that as much as I care about other things."

"What other things?"

I dried my hands on the dish towel. I avoided her bright, almost green eyes for as long as I could, until she touched my chin with her fingertips, and pulled me close, and kissed me softly on the mouth. We stayed like that longer than was prudent (my mother was in the next room on the phone with our uncle), but it was a sweet little kiss.

I watched her eyes open when I pulled away. The lashes caught the light; they fairly sparkled.

"How's Ralph?" I said.

She socked me in the shoulder. "Way to kill the mood. And his name is Ray."

"You still seeing him?"

"No," she said. "Not really." She hopped down from the counter and pulled me with her into the living room. "I'm not going to say what I'm thinking, but you already know what I'm thinking."

"'If you have permission to fuck who you want, why don't you fuck me?'"

Monica let go of my fingers and spun against the couch. She tucked her hands behind her back, dug her fingers into the armrest, and gave me a big, stupid wink as she hunched in her shoulders and treated me to a deep, delicious look down her ample cleavage. She wiggled her hips and grinned. "You're so smart, big bro." Then she took a few quick steps forward and slapped me. "But I don't sound that bubbly."

"Sometimes when I fucked you in the ass your voice got pretty damn bubbly."

She turned a little red and quickly glanced down the hall. Our mother was still talking, oblivious. She sighed, and gave me a sidelong glare. "So?"

It was my turn to sigh, and I went back to the fridge for a beer. Since our father passed away the year before, my sister and I did our best to visit our mother on the weekends that we could spare. Sometimes it was just me, sometimes it was just her, but sometimes it was both of us. And, I'm sad to say, the times my mother was on the phone were those few occasions we had to both see and talk to each other freely. I tried not to see Monica outside the house if I could help it.

I had to. I couldn't help myself otherwise.

I handed Monica a beer and we sat on the couch together. "I'm trying to live a normal life," I said.

"I don't want a normal life," she said. "Or no. Forget that. Who said it can't be normal?"

"Just about everybody, Moni."

She made a rude noise and set her beer on the table. She took mine and set it next to hers. Then she grabbed the back of the couch and threw her leg over my hips. She straddled me. "Mon!" I started.

"Shut up," she said, her manicured finger against my lips. She pushed her chest against my face, rubbing her crotch into mine. "I want this, and I'm not afraid to tell you that. You haven't let me talk about this for a year, but I'm tired of pretending I don't want you."

"It would break mom's heart," I said simply.

"So mom doesn't have to know," she said, still gently rubbing against me. "Stephanie doesn't have to know either."

Sure, she was right. But it wasn't how I wanted it. I wanted to live my life and have Monica, and not have to worry about keeping secrets. That's what I wanted.

And, somehow, Monica knew this, knew all of this without me saying it. Her face softened from its tranquil fury to gentle understanding. "We don't know anybody in the Valley," she said. "Not too many people, anyway. You wouldn't have to leave your job."

"You've really been thinking about this," I said.

She sighed, then she swung her leg away and sat down next to me. She gave a bigger, more dramatic sigh, and pushed her head into my shoulder. "I was really horny when this all started, and now? It's like I'm a nun. Except when I see you. When I see you, I remember everything we've done, everything you said to me, how you never judged me, how giving you were, what you let me do... I've tried, Johnny. I've really tried putting it behind me. Maybe I could if you really didn't want this. But I know you do."

I put my hand on her shoulder. She laid her hand over mine. There wasn't much more to say on the subject. I'd put off that conversation for a year, and nothing had changed.

Monica wasn't desperate. She never called me in the middle of the night to come over to her place across town (though often I dreamed she did). She'd given me my space ever since I told her I was dating Stephanie two years ago. We saw each other on those weekends, perhaps once in a while when Steph and I would meet up with whatever guy she was dating at the time. But she didn't push it. If I was going to try to live a non-incestuous life, she would too.

But Monica knew what she wanted; she always had. And she was honest about it, which I couldn't really say of myself.

I did my best not to think about it, and had it been up to me, I probably would have spent the rest of my life "not thinking about it." But then I found myself hosting a dinner party at a very inconvenient time, and the life I knew went right out the window.

* * *

Brodie Nash was an old friend of mine from high school. He also happened to be filthy rich - by virtue of his father being exponentially richer - and as fate would have it, his father had entrusted him with "revitalizing" a historic building in downtown. It was the first real job Brodie was entrusted with after dropping out of school. Now that Brodie was married (to Elaine Bringham, also from money, also very Catholic), it was the opinion of his combined families that he should do something with his life. Thus far, the most Brodie had managed to do with his life was get Elaine pregnant and star in a very entertaining viral video about how not to drive while intoxicated. The downtown revitalization was an attempt to rebuild the Nash/Bringham image, and Brodie's father was very insistent it go off without a hitch.

I mention all of this because it was my personal connection to Brodie that may have influenced his decision to contract my firm for the project. I rarely worked the public relations side of things, but my firm was understandably adamant that I work this one to the hilt.

Which is why I shouldn't have been surprised when Brodie called me one afternoon to ask if I'd mind hosting a small dinner party for he and his wife and the project manager. But I was surprised, so I asked if this particular dinner hadn't already been planned by one of our PR people at the home of my company's CEO.

"Yeah," said Brodie, his voice trailing off the receiver. "But he's a tool. You're cool. So let's have a few drinks and get my wife off my back for a few hours."

To which I said, "Sure, Brodie. Anything for you."

Now I had a problem. I - as most of my friends and family will tell you - am a terrible cook. As far as take-out goes, I had that covered, but my boss (who called me into his office immediately after I hung up the phone) made me promise to treat Brodie to something home cooked. In other words, "make an effort, and make him see the effort."

Had Steph been with me, she might have known what to do. My ostensible girlfriend was not much of a cook either, but she at least knew how these things were supposed to go (she was very good at the whole networking game). But Steph was up in NorCal working with OxFam or the Red Cross and wasn't supposed to be back until tomorrow.

In his office, my boss gave me a helpless grimace. "You think you can get him to sign tonight?" All we needed was one final signature and we were set. I'd been working on the plans for the ground floor refurbishment for the past week, but I had no idea who on the Nash side had actually seen them. Moreover, that wasn't my job. Me and my department were the brains; the rest of the company was for greasing palms and signing papers.

"Absolutely," I said.

"I know Stephanie's out tonight. You know someone who can cook?"

"I...do," I said.

"What?" His forehead was actually wet with perspiration (Mr. Thompson was a nervous man in general, but this project was worth more money than a quarter of our projects last year). "Why you say it like that, Johnny? He a lousy cook?"

"No, she's..." Hoo boy. "She's really fucking good."

"Oh!" Mr. Thompson wiped his forehead. "Thank Christ for that. Little bit of the culinary spark in her?"

"She did a few years as a line supervisor and a caterer at the Hilton."

"Holy shit!" said Mr. Thompson. "Yeah! Grab 'er! Get 'er! That's perfect."

"Yeah, but-" I started.

"But nothing!"

"...'kay."

He gave me the rest of the day off to get ready. I had about four hours.

I took a deep breath in the parking lot, leaned against my car, and dialed Monica's number. "Hey," I said when she picked up.

"Hi," she said.

"I need to ask you...for a favor."

I heard movement, shuffling, and then tried not to imagine her grinning into the receiver. "Oh really..."

"Yeah," I said. "I have about three hours to make dinner for a client. It's not really something I do, but-"

"Is it for Brodie?"

"Yeah," I said.

She laughed.

"Don't laugh."

She laughed some more. It was like tinkling bells being blown up her nose. I loved that laugh.

"It's not funny," I said.

"He's such a prick. He probably thinks you guys are gonna hang out and talk about old times."

"Yeah, well, if I'm lucky. Look, I just need to make something for him and his wife and maybe one or two other people-"

"And you-"

"And me, I guess. I wouldn't have bothered you but you actually know how to do this."

"I do," she said, as if realizing this for the first time. "What about your happy little homemaker?"

"Steph's busy."

"Uh-huh," she said. "So you need your amazing little sister to swoop in and save the day."

"Yes, Mon. But look, no funny business."

"Oh no," she said. "Certainly not." I heard her moving around and then the sound of her writing. "I remember what Brodie likes. I can make a fancy stir fry with some wine and some other appetizer things. Oh, and the favor you owe me is in addition to what this is going to cost."

"I'll reimburse you," I said.

"Yep," she said. "No sweat. I'll pick this stuff up and be at your place in an hour. That's two hours to cook...should be fine. Don't worry, Johnny."

"Thanks, sis."

She hung up, and for almost an hour I was sure everything would be fine.

* * *

As soon as I opened the door, I realized everything would not be fine. Monica had all of the ingredients ready and waiting in several grocery bags that lined the hallway behind her, and she was standing amidst them with a sweet and very helpful smile on her face. That, of course, was not the problem. The problem was that my sister was wearing an outfit that did not so much suggest French Maid as scream it in the dirtiest French possible.

My sister, all five foot nothing of her, was propped up in shiny black stiletto heels that made her well-proportioned legs look like two sticks of edible dynamite. Those legs were encased in sheer black stockings that led up to a black and white skirt that might have been classy if it was several (and then several more) inches longer. Her ample chest was pushed together and nearly bursting out of the tight, buttoned top (her cleavage could have swallowed the Spanish Armada), and her lips were a brighter shade of blood. She batted her big, beautiful eyes at me and affixed her little maid's cap. She pushed it to a rakish angle and swept back one leg. "Well? What do you think?""I..." I said. This was not good.

"It's a little tight," she admitted, turning around and wiggling her butt at me. The floofy white ribbon on the back, whatever it's called, ruffled provocatively. "But do you think Brodie will like it?"

"I think his wife's going to have a heart attack."

"Oh good!" she said, clapping her hands together. "That's one less plate to make. Here, now you take this." She shoved a bag into my arms and clacked past me into the apartment. "Man, your place is clean," she said. She inspected the kitchen, checking the drawers for her tools, scoped out every cupboard, and then put her hands on her hips and nodded, the little cap falling over her eyes. "Yep, I can work with this. Bring me my things, slave."

Grumbling, I started to cart in the bags. "You're the one dressed like a..." She ignored me and emptied each bag onto the counter, organizing the ingredients into orderly rows.

"Dressed to impress," she said. "And you should do the same. Go find something in your smarty pants closet and get business casual. And stay out of my kitchen if you know what's good for you."

I brought in the last of the bags and frowned. Despite the outrageous outfit, she was all business, and I watched her methodically begin to cut and separate and set pots to boil. I was relieved. Maybe she was taking this seriously.

Twenty minutes later, she dropped the first pan, startling me from my closet and bringing me back into the kitchen. Thankfully, it was empty of food, but she was standing over the pan as if it had tried to bite her. "What happened?" I said.

"Oh, I just seemed to have dropped it," she said. "Clumsy me." She bent over to get it, and as she did so the skirt rode up her curvaceous ass, exposing her completely. She wasn't wearing anything underneath. My sister's supple, pink pussy lips gleamed under the kitchen lights.

I swallowed hard.

Crouched on the floor, Monica looked at me innocently, pan in hand. "Something the matter, Johnny?"

I would not rise to the bait. "N...no."

She bit her lip, coyly putting her finger to her chin. "You look sick."

"'m'not," I said.

She smiled. "Well good. You get back in there and you get yourself dolled up real nice, my big bad business man."

Grumbling, I stalked back to my room and tried to find a tie.

Fifteen minutes later, she dropped the pan again.

I ran out. Once again, nothing was in the pan. Onions and chives were chopped up on the chopping board, various pots were boiling on the stove, and something delicious was already heating up in the oven; everything was perfect, but that damn pan...

"I'm so clumsy," she murmured to herself. And she bent over, again. Her ass - perched on the tops of her thigh-hugging stockings - taunted me, again.

"Please stop doing that," I said.

"Something wrong?" she said to me over her shoulder. She was still bent over.

"No..." I grunted, and turned back to my room. I had barely crossed the threshold when the pan clanged to the floor again. "Okay, that's it!" I growled.

My sister cowered before me as I stalked over to her and grabbed her wrist. "I'm sorry, big brother. The pan's just so slippery!" I all but threw her against the counter, flipped her skirt up over her ass and spanked her with all my might. "Oh, Johnny! That hurts!" I spanked her again, and again, watching her ass turn red and loving the way the springy flesh recoiled from every blow. The tight muscles in her thighs jiggled. "Oh!" she moaned. "Please don't! I'll be better! I promise, master!"

One last crack. My hand left her ass. I watched the puckered lips between her thighs and thought, it would be so easy. My dick hardened in my pants. I growled, and took my hand off her shoulder. "Just stop," I said.

My sister demurely swept her skirt back over her ass, stood to her full height, and meekly adjusted her cap. "Yes, sir..." she said, averting her eyes.

Fifteen minutes later, she dropped the fucking pan again.

This time I bent my sister over the couch and spanked her until she buried her face in the pillows to scream. Then I squeezed each cheek, rolling them in my tight fingers while she moaned for me to stop. "Please, master!" she cried into the pillow. "I'll be good! Just don't spank me again. Oh, please, please!"

"You dirty little slut," I said. "Your master's going to punish you!"

"Please, no!" she moaned, shaking her blonde head into the pillow. "We don't have much time, master! Don't make me do it."

"I'll show you what happens to naughty maids who drop their pans!"

It was ridiculous, it was stupid, but I was going to take her right then and there and damn the consequences. I was pushing against her ass with my crotch, my cock hard and rising behind my slacks, ready to defile my sister, when suddenly there was a knock at the door.

I sprang from my sister's ass and she fell off the armrest with an "oof!" Then she picked herself up and clattered into the kitchen, pulling her tight skirt over her bouncing buttocks as she fled. I coughed, straightened my tie, and tried to will away my erection. "Hello?" I said as I opened the door.

"HEEEYYYY!" Brodie shouted from the other side. His wife, Elaine, nodded at me politely and another man, bespectacled, said "Hello" in turn.

"Uh," I said as Brodie threw his arms around my shoulders. "You're- You're all early? I-" I checked the clock.

"Yeah, well, I got tired of waiting," said Brodie, loosening his already rumpled tie and ushering his wife inside. "John, you've met Elaine."

"How do you do?" I said, taking her hand.

"My, how formal," she said.

"And this is Melvin, the accountant," said Brodie. Brodie pushed the guy ahead of him and the man gave a cough of protest.

"I'm the Financial Director," he said to me as we shook hands.

"Uh," I said.

"Accountant, he's an accountant," said Brodie. By the look of him, Brodie was about three beers or three glasses of wine ahead of me. The red flush in Melvin's cheeks suggested he wasn't far behind Brodie. "So what're we eating?"

"Uh," I said.

"We're starting off with some stuffed mushrooms," said Monica, carrying the tray deftly from the kitchen to the dining table. While we'd been talking, she'd already poured four glasses of wine and set the napkins and utensils down.

"Ho-ly shit," said Brodie. "Is that little Monica? Monica, what the hell're you dressed like that for?"

Monica preened in front of him as she offered him his glass of wine and let him kiss her cheeks. "I thought a special occasion occasioned special accoutrement," she said sweetly.

"You're god damn right you do," he said. "Speaking French and everything..." Brodie shut his gaping mouth as his wife swept around the table to take her glass. "So, uh, what are these things, er, stuffed with?"

Monica gave a theatrical sweep of her hands. "Oh, just a little something I threw together. Pecorino Romano, garlic, parsley, bread crumbs and some fresh mint. Enjoy."

She swept back into the kitchen, Melvin and Brodie watching her every airy step.

Melvin bit into one of the mushrooms. "This is fantastic," he said.

"Yes, they're quite good," said Elaine.

"Uh," I said.

"Sit down, Johnny," said Monica. "I'm just fine in here."

"You, uh, need any help?" asked Brodie.

She wiggled her nose at him. "Tush, tush, Brodie. Stay out of my kitchen."

"Yes, ma'am." He swung back around to me and mouthed "OH MY GOD" as best he could while his wife checked her cellphone.

"Terribly sorry to put you at this inconvenience," said Melvin. "Mr. Thompson had quite a night planned but Brodie was insistent that we-"

Brodie had just about drained his glass of wine already when he pulled it from his lips. "Aw, put a sock in it, Mel. I wanted to see my old buddy here. He doesn't mind, do ya, John?"

"Uh," I said.

Brodie swung his glass towards me, nearly spilling the rest of his wine over the table. "See that? A real friend right there."

The rest of the night was a blur. Monica brought forth more appetizers, which Melvin and Brodie wolfed down and Elaine took small, polite bites out of. All three of them were equally eager to drink, though I think for very different reasons. Elaine seemed perpetually mortified, Melvin sounded like he was on the verge of losing his job, and Brodie, well, Brodie just liked to drink.

I had two glasses of wine that night, drawn out over many, many hours. The others drained three or four bottles between them (and kudos to Monica for even thinking to buy that many). There was some talk of business, but mostly it was Brodie bullshitting and me doing my best to appease him.

And Monica. Even in an outfit like that, Monica was the height of class, joking with Brodie, putting Melvin at ease, commiserating with Elaine. And every now and then she'd look up from the stove and give me a warm, knowing smirk. She put everything together. She was absolutely incredible. I was so hard I could barely stand it. Indeed, if asked, I would not have been able to stand.

This must have been clear to Monica, and I would have been surprised if this was not part of her plan too, because in addition to refilling everyone's glasses like clockwork, I noticed she had somehow, either before or after the guests' arrival, hidden away any extra chairs in the apartment. This meant that, between carrying the food from the kitchen to the table, or pouring the wine, she spent her time sitting in my lap. I'm sure this would have seemed more peculiar to Brodie or Elaine or Melvin, but by the time she mentioned that there weren't any chairs left, both the men were red in the face and liable to laugh at any remark - no matter how comedic it actually was. When she said, "You boys took all the chairs," they laughed, and when she said, "I guess I'll just have to make myself a seat," they laughed, and when she rolled her eyes and plopped herself down in my lap, they laughed.

And while they laughed, she rolled herself right up against my erection.

By that point she'd gotten me so hard that I almost moaned aloud when her fingers surreptitiously reached down to undo my fly. I let her unzip me without protest and tried my damnedest to continue my conversation with Brodie - even as Monica giggled and peeled my boxers open with her deft little fingers. Melvin was squinting into his drink, Elaine was on her phone, and Brodie was guffawing like a donkey as my sister lovingly squeezed my cock just below their eyelines. Then, rearranging herself so that the back of her skirt rode up her ass, she guided me along her naked crack. She was soft. She was heaven.

We grunted in unison as she took me into her tight, wet body, and I had to bite my knuckle to keep from crying out. My cockhead squeezed past her lips and she sealed over me like a glove. Christ, she felt so fucking good.

"Alright, John?" Brodie, drunk as he was, noticed me trying to fit my whole fist into my mouth.

"Hmm? Mm-hmm. Yep. Uh-huh. Yeah. Yes, Brodie. I was just thinking about what you-"

Monica pretended to cough and bounced in my lap. My cock pulsated inside of her.

"Oh Jesus!" I exclaimed. "You- what you said, Bro."

That non-answer was still good enough for Brodie, who nodded and continued to drone on. Monica flashed me a wicked grin over her shoulder and continued to grind down into my lap, rolling her hips against mine.

"I'm going to kill you," I whispered into her ear.

"You love it," she whispered back. She dug her fingers into my thighs and gently bobbed her ass up and down. I had to fight every urge to stand up and bend her over my dinner plate.

"You're a bad little girl," I said.

"So bad," she agreed.

I wanted to spread her legs apart and pull her skirt up over her waist, play with her clit and let her juices dribble down my pants. But I had guests to entertain. "Uhm. Brodie, so you, you had a chance to look over the plans for the - gurk - the Pinehurst Lobby."

"Uhhhh." Brodie searched the recesses of his intoxicated brain. "Yes," he said. "They're pretty good. I signed off on them before I left on Monday."

"You did?" I said, sitting up in my chair. This time it was Monica's turn to make a funny noise. She steadied herself on the table's edge.

"Oooh!" she moaned as my cock drove up against her G spot. "Th-that's good!" she covered. "That's sooo good, isn't it, Johnny?"

I had no idea the plans had already been approved. "Are you sure?" I said. "I thought we were meeting tonight to - ffff - finalize the- the, uh-" With her hands on the table, Monica was using her leverage to squeeze me back and forth inside her. I felt the muscles in her thighs tightening.

"Oh sure, sure," Brodie waved his hand, "but it's a formality. I've got consultants who do all this stuff for me and they always say you're the best. I signed that shit right away. While I'm thinking about it, though, could we put the fountain nearer to the door?"

"I like fountains," said Monica. "I love it when they gush everywhere."

"Very funny," I said, reaching down to pin her to my lap. I needed to concentrate just now and squeezing Moni's clit between my thumb and forefinger was a good way to get her to sit still. She bit her lip and tried not to cross her legs as I massaged it under the table. "Well, Brodie, uh - mmm - if we moved it closer to the doors then we couldn't put in that interactive light display that shows the company's logo. Hgk!"

"Oh right!" said Brodie. He nudged Melvin beside him. "See? He knows what the fuck he's talking about. You forgot about the light thing."

Melvin, his forehead slick, just nodded and had another gulp of wine. "Quite, quite."

"He always knows what the fuck he's doing, doesn't he?" Moni said to me.

"Moni, could we get another refill over here?" Brodie asked.

Monica whipped her hair back to face him and, in a move that was so deft it was almost magical, slid off my cock and slid her dress back down her thighs in one movement. She smiled and clacked around the table, taking his drink and patting his shoulder. "No problem, Mr. Nash."

Brodie chuckled. "See, honey?" he said to Elaine. "That's service with a smile."

Elaine just rolled her eyes. "Better top me off too, Monica. We're taking an uber tonight."

"Coming right up," said Monica cheerfully. She filled Brodie's glass, set it down by his hand, and then refilled Elaine's. When she returned to the kitchen, everyone's eyes were on the table or facing my direction, so no one saw her stick out her tongue and pull her top down to flash me.

Under the table, my exposed cock bobbed with appreciation.

Melvin tried to get into the specifics of the contracting, but no one seemed too interested in that. Brodie was already talking about their next building when Monica returned to the table and sat cross-wise in my lap. My cock slapped against her stocking and she reached down to stroke it. Slowly. Squeezing her way up to the head.

I didn't know how much more of that I could take, but I didn't have to find out. After only another few minutes, Elaine announced that it was high time they all went home. As they arose, Monica deftly transferred a dinner napkin from the table to my lap, dropping it over me as she stood up so that I could (try to) fit my cock back into my pants while she cleared the dishes and played visual interference.

Somehow I managed to get everything tucked away in time to accompany them to the living room. I hoped they just ignored the wet spot around my lap where Moni had squirmed. We said our goodbyes, everyone commenting on how it was so much later than they thought and that Monica was a remarkable cook.

"She sure is," said Brodie as he brought me in for a half-hug. "Your sister looks amazing," he said into my ear. "Is she seeing anyone right now?"

"I'll have to ask her," I said. "But I know you are."

He grinned as he pulled away and we shook hands. "Well, there's married, and then there's married."

"Absolutely," I said (having no idea what was the right response to that).

"Bye, Moni!" he said, leaning into the doorway to leer at her one last time.

Monica, balanced against the kitchen counter, raised her glass and blew him a kiss. "Bye, Brodie," she chirped.

"Great dinner," he said to me before wincing at the sound of Elaine's voice calling him downstairs. "Comin'! Comin'!" I probably should have helped him down the steps, but he managed to make it most of the way before he fell. "'m'alright!" he yelled up as I shut the door behind me.

A long, low sigh of relief squeezed out of me as I backed against the wall. I loosened my tie. I took a deep breath.

Across the room, Monica set down her drink. "Are you going to yell at me?" she said. Slowly, carefully, she swayed towareds me in her heels.

"No," I said, draping the tie over the back of the chair. "I'm just going to fuck you."

When we reached the dinner table, my sister jumped into my arms. Her strong legs wrapped around me as she bit my lips, and I pulled her skirt up over her waist as I slammed her down on the dinner table. "So do it, big brother," she demanded, her hands fumbling with my belt. "I'm calling in that favor you owe me-"

Then my cock was free and it was sliding into her naked softness. Her scream pierced the air of the apartment. "Oh God, I missed that big thing inside me," she gasped. Our hips slammed together as she forced me in deeper and we found our furious rhythm. "Was I a good little housewife?" she purred.

"So good," I said. I popped open her blouse to play with her magnificent tits. I suckled at one, then the other. I missed those pink nipples; I missed the way they tasted.

"Nobody fucks like you, Johnny," she moaned. She was tight and pliant, eager and savage. One of her heels clattered to the floor as she tried to lock her ankles behind me.

"Nobody drives me crazy like you do," I gasped. She made a noise like a wild animal, and I buried myself inside her. It seemed no matter how hard or how many times I thrust, I would not cum, though every fiber of my body was desperate to flood her womb with my sperm. We went on like that for what could have been minutes or hours, our bodies driven by a desire so fierce it seemed there wasn't a force on Earth that could tear us apart. Neither of us heard the door open or shut, but we both came to when we heard a voice gently cough.

My head whipped across my shoulder as if I'd been caught by a fishing hook. Stephanie stood by the door, her hands folded under her breasts, her purse dangling from her shoulder. Her mouth, pressed into a thin line, twitched into the tightest of smiles when she waved at me. "Ahem," she said again. "Hi."

* * *

I won't get into the sticky details of Moni hopping off the table, me trying to rearrange my clothes into something resembling civility (Monica had torn the shoulders out). The girls didn't say much to each other; Monica went to the bathroom, Stephanie slipped out of her heels and set her purse on the coffee table.

She waited for me to stand by her, near the doorway to our bedroom.

"I'm sorry," I said lamely.

She raised her eyebrows. "You sure? That looked like a lot of fun."

I opened my mouth. I closed my mouth.

Stephanie frowned. "Is that Monica?"

There was no hiding it. "Yeah." I wiped my mouth, realizing her lipstick was all over it.

"You guys are still blood-related, right?"

"Yeah," I said, after a pause.

She crossed her arms again, for the first time looking upset. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Despite the intensity of the situation, or perhaps because of it, I laughed. It was a dark, small, mess of a laugh. "Oh, well," I said. "It's probably because she's my sister." Stephane almost smiled.

"How long?" she said.

I shook my head. "Steph, what does it matter?"

"No, I mean, how long have you been sleeping together? I should probably say fucking. That was definitely fucking you were doing."