One In The Same
Brian Francis Ferguson
It was all very likely inevitable anyway.
After all, Maggie and George lived in the same townhouse. Downtown and a mile north of the theater district, they owned the old stone upright outright, were its only occupants, and so had the entire place to themselves. They lived in the same building but in separate apartments, on different floors, as a reluctant and ill-defined nod to propriety; she on the 2nd floor and he on the 4th, with the 3rd floor between them sound-proofed and dedicated as a studio and the ground floor empty and closed off to all but the property’s sole tenants. Maggie as well had a key to her brother’s door and occasionally liked to wander around inside and for hours while George was either in the studio or on the rare occasion outside altogether. In his place alone, sipping cold wine that he kept only for drinking with her (George always ordered out for food; one cupboard held surplus whiskey and cartons of cigarettes, and within the refrigerator the balance of room around the wine bottles was beer), Maggie would tune in an oldies station through the stereo and smoke kools and roam around the furniture from room to room, half-listening for the songs she and George had once recorded and lazily snooping through drawers and cabinets as a lover, albeit unconsummated, looking for evidence of infidelity.
George Lawrence & Geraldine Margaret (Maggie) Satellite were fraternal twins, rich and once celebrated, inarguably talented and intelligent if not particularly schooled, still young and, especially Maggie, attractive. Tall and solid at 5`10“ and 137 lbs., heavy breasted and bouncy, with a trim waist and a taut, meaty behind, Maggie moved with a graceful strength and sensuality that all men longingly noticed – rolling her buns with a provocative rocking tick-tock away from all whom she parted company, always happily unescorted. She was of gorgeous, Amazonian voluptuousness and she knew this (her face was by contrast only melodious: large, inviting eyes and a straight nose were all that were notable, her mouth unremarkable save for an a appealingly toothy smile). Maggie had never really abandoned the breezy, cosmopolitan fashions of her adolescence and, favoring hoop earrings and clear fingernail polish, often barefoot and wearing her blond hair straight and waist-length above the beltline of cinching, threadbare denims, her dress complemented a serene cerebral posture – and yet she was proud of and notorious for being recklessly but casually demanding and a harsh and seemingly omniscient judge of character. She was coolly contemptuous of men for their puerile, simpering advances and dismissive of their women for their envy.
As Maggie was an alluring physical symmetry of plush curves and warm promise, George’s handsomeness was by comparison, and defeating the genetic advantages he shared with his sister, all lanky straight edges and points and corners; with the lean, rawboned strength of corded steel or re-bar and murderously dark half-moons underscoring a starved, vacant countenance, his features were largely honed sharp by hard drink, lost sleep, and an often black moodiness that lent him the irresistibly dangerous beauty of the haunted and damned.
Nonetheless, Maggie had always loved her Georgie, desperately and protectively, and George as well loved Maggie – and would have gladly killed in her defense, to safeguard what was his – however heavily veiled his avarice. Indeed, given their affluence and influence, their beauty, and the requisite intelligence to rationalize any indulgence (or sacrifice) – that they at best were politely considerate of outsiders and all but worshipped themselves and each other; as one was the synonymous, opposite-sex approximate of the other and that they had long fought a peer-sibling rivalry as to whom would possess the other – it all may very well have been merely a matter of time.
Of course Maggie loved her brother, and was even in love with him, she supposed (her twin brother, she’d fondly emphasize, suggesting to herself a cosmic simpatico between them she hoped would absolve her of the stigma of her creepy lusts) and had so much as vaguely entertained a crush on him since they were teenagers; a seemingly innocuous crush that their fans and the media continued to dismiss, to her relief, as just the mutual affection of a brother-sister music act – just a couple of cute kids – still now and despite their maturity; a caress, a teasing squeeze, a quick kiss on the lips – the flirty, spirited one just being affectionately supportive of her brooding, reclusive brother (backstage before one performance many years ago, as the club emcee tried to assuage a half-drunk and rowdy, almost violently skeptical house – really, these kids rock! – a beered-up George gave Maggie’s ass cheek a lingering little squeeze and whispered to her “wish us luck …,” a gesture from then on that Maggie outwardly allowed with a smile but secretly welcomed). However, for the years since they last toured and having settled surely and amiably into the “Hey, didn’t you used to be …?” genre of obscurity, Maggie had been of the disturbing certainty that she harbored a lust for her brother that was unsettlingly sexual, far more than mere familial possessiveness. And the long evenings spent together in his apartment – now and then, at first, and each party propped up on separate furniture, just lounging about, drinking and talking and watching t.v. – had become inordinately frequent and decidedly more intimate with Maggie cuddling with George on the overstuffed sofa, lying back against his chest and cradled between his legs, his arms draped loose about her midsection. He had begun resting his hands under her shirt and playing with her navel and sometimes softly and unexpectedly kissing her throat and neither, least of all George, minded. These evenings had thrilled them both but despite their tacit practice of being always direct with each other, professionally and personally and regardless of how cruel the honesty –
“Try not to re-write ‘Imagine’.”
“Big talk, coming from the Cute Beatle.”
“Genius is knowing ‘She loves you, yea-yea-yea’ works; you’d have written ‘She loves you, indeed’. And Lennon wasn’t a hillbilly.”
“Your feet are dirty, Your Highness.”
– for the first time in their lives they only jokingly addressed what they were really doing and how it made them feel. George would remark how her nipples poked ridiculously prominent from behind her shirt, even through her bra, and Maggie would disingenuously note that she’d complain of his erection against her lumbar if the boorish lump weren’t so small, and in the wee a.m. hours they’d sleepily disentangle, yawn, listlessly mumble their goodnights to each other, and Maggie would go downstairs to her apartment and George would pour himself a nightcap or four to calm the nervy charge running the length of his body.
In time, their game was not so platonic. Languidly draped over one another on the couch, George would fondle Maggie’s breasts until, finally discarding any pretence of innocence, he one evening put his hand between her thighs and scrubbed at her vagina through her bluejeans. She drew up a leg in acquiescence and he scratched and dabbed at her clitoris through the denim while she ground her hips between his legs, neither of them watching the television they were looking at, his erection threatening so much greater now than when they were kids; when they were both thirteen and George was outweighed and out-muscled by a coltish, teenaged Maggie and she could, and would regularly, wrestle him down at will; when he was still unaccustomed to wet dreams and a thought of sex, or arithmetic, or Spring, or the wind equally could make his penis stiffen, and Maggie’s breasts we
re still just blossoms and her cupcake-butt only boyish as his, and roug
h-housing with his boy-crazy sister at night in front of the t.v. always happily resulted in her playfully dry-humping him through their nightwear during commercials and they had enjoyed each other’s company alone those evenings far too much for even their own comfort. This evening though, years later and each overtly predatory of the other, she arched heavily and agreeably against her brother, her head thrown back on his shoulder and her face to his throat. He rubbed and tugged at her harder and then whispered to his sister in a once-ambiguous lyric from one of their own songs a particularly unnatural desire of his for her and she abruptly crushed back into him in one violent, involuntary writhe: an ‘uhuh’, and then a trembling rush of breath past his ear, Maggie came and her crotch went damp, the sky-blue cotton between her legs darkening, and she dissolved back again against George. She kissed the underside of his jaw line and they continued to cozy, watching the news and comfortably saying nothing.
An hour later, before leaving for her own apartment and still without a word between them regarding her glow, they bid goodnight with a loose embrace and an unhurried kiss, their tongues slowly swirling about at the heart of their incest.
Maggie found George’s porno stashed in an otherwise empty third drawer of a dresser set back against the far wall of his walk-in closet. She stood inside over the open drawer, among his clothes and amusedly thumbing through a back-issue of Abased Babes, a fringe publication of explicit photos exclusively of popularly pretty college girls being boned in the ass: triple-x still-frames from motel room productions of anonymous cocks rooted up the butts of ambitious co-eds, too fabulously fast-track to wait tables – moonlighters, going for the bonus pay, first-timers – hastily buttered belly-down over a pillow and put to the white-knuckle work, their expressions wide-eyed and focused acutely on an unseen astonishment.
“Eeew-yuck goddamn, Georgie,” she lamented, laughing, out loud and un-sticking some of the magazine pages and imagining her critically-acclaimed brother masturbating over these pictures – her masculine twin, bug-eyed and hunched over his poor wiener, squirrelly self-absorbed and tossing-off over this vacuous loveless-ness – and she quickly ignored an arrantly jealous annoyance with him for not approaching her with his need, however inconceivable the concept. Taking a long pull from her cigarette and then a longer swallow of wine, she set the magazine aside and pulled from the drawer from beneath some videotapes a framed photograph of herself.
It was an 8×10 inch glossy original of her modeling an indiscreet blue bikini for the celebrity swimsuit edition of a sports & fitness magazine last summer on a remote South Pacific island shore 2 minutes after sunset: she was spread wide and low on froggy all-fours and pointed toward the ocean and tropical twilight – her knees planted firmly in the sand and granules spilling through her fists, holding onto the planet and the soft crack of her luscious tush a gaping shadow beneath the sheer blue fabric of the tiny bikini bottom. Loop earrings shone like small halos and her hair hung pooled at her breasts brushing the beach. For good measure, she was gazing over her shoulder and smiling dreamily into the camera. A string of murky spots diagonally dotted the glass pane covering her image.
Maggie’s heart began wildly thumping and her knees were wobbly with adrenaline; the shirts and slacks and jackets that hung about her and packed close on their hangers suddenly smelled so strongly of George that he might just as well have been present. She reached back into the drawer and removed with one grasp the three boxed videotapes that had been stacked on her portrait: Anal Blondes – Vol. 7, Poop-Chute Cuties (8 Ass-Blasting Scenes! Blonde Voy`age!) and, somewhat incongruously, The Art Of Anal Sex.
Maggie’s breathing had condensed to coarse, rapid pants and with considerable effort she inhaled a roomy breath to clear her head and slow her pulse. Reflexively, still unable to think anything, she took the plastic videocassettes from their boxes and placed them aside, returning the shiny cardboard, the off-Hollywood rag, and the photograph of herself to the back of the drawer. Reconsidering, she reached back into the drawer and, retrieving her portrait, she as well discovered an unopened 13oz. squeeze-dispenser:
Petroleum-Based Anal Lubricant
Active Ingredients: Benzocaine (Topical Anesthetic) 11%
Maggie gathered the videocassettes, the photograph, and the tube of lubricant together and carried them out to the main room and dropped them into her tote bag on her way out the door and back downstairs to her own apartment.
The following Friday had been leaden and coolly overcast, then alternately heaving and steadily raining throughout the afternoon, and would do so all that evening, when Maggie dialed the downstairs studio number:
“Hey love …” he answered.
“Hey baby, I’m calling from your place. You coming up soon?”
“Yeah. Anything on cable?”
“I haven’t checked. Ten minutes?”
“See ya then.”
Maggie closed the phone and opened a window. She took a last look through the video camera’s view glass, made sure the sound was on, and poured herself some wine. She preemptively poured a tall scotch & ice for George. She took several lengthy drinks from her glass, lit a cigarette, and refilled. She left George’s whiskey at the bar and carried her own drink across the room to the bookcase that stood directly facing the front door fifteen feet away. She placed her glass on a shelf beside a pill bottle and, facing the book bindings, she stood with her back to the front door, as relaxed as she could manage, wearing only the tiny blue bikini and earrings from the swimwear layout, pensively inspecting her fingernails, sometimes clenching her fists, and listening to her heartbeat kick at her ribs while a cool scent of rain rode a clean breeze past the curtains from across the room and throughout. She couldn’t find the other ring, her keepsake, but she had combed cocoanut bath oil through her hair.
Conceding the evening’s only consciously contrived gesture, when she heard the door finally open behind her she deliberately paused for one long moment to allow for George’s mind to register the presence of his sister’s scrumptious, blue-bottomed near-nakedness – and all it implied she now knew – before evenly looking over her shoulder and meeting the expression of abject dismay in his eyes. However, in his desolation Maggie saw her brother ill with instinct and desire, sick with a singularly and ferociously depraved and wretched lust for her that abruptly whetted her crotch and very nearly buckled her knees from beneath her.
“Come here, baby” she said gently and turned back towards the bookcase.
George stood numb in the doorway for a short eternity before an astonishingly indecent arousal brought him around and he crossed the floor to her and stood at her bare back, firmly resting his hands on her hips, and she smiled quietly to herself. He drew Maggie’s yummy butt against the fat erection unfurling within his jeans and she in turn gave her ass a friendly little wiggle. She turned inside his embrace to face him and unabashedly grinned up at him. They kissed once, tenderly, before she pulled away and reached back for the pill bottle on the bookshelf behind her. She shook out two 50 mg doses of Viagra and put the pills to George’s lips.
“Take these; your drink `s on the bar. We’ve a long night ahead of us.”
A half-hour later George stood naked before her, very close and still, freshly showered and again in the main room. His balls hung from him like powder kegs. He waited while Maggie fondled him, sizing h
im up; his cock in her hand pointed well beyond just erect – now an angry and achingly swollen
and purplish tool of 10¼ inches, a broad and gnarled menace as big around as her arm and with the single-minded disembodiment of a wrench. He had cut back his pubic hair to bristles. He put his hands to her shoulders and nudged her to move to her knees.
“Not just yet. Have a seat.”
She led him by his appendage over to the giant recliner and straddled his lap, she seated upright and facing him square, the moist crotch of her bikini all that separated her vagina from direct contact with the length and breadth of his shaft. Her tan had paled almost entirely since last summer, but before she could prompt him he was already affectionately smoothing his palms along the faint flesh of her thighs. As well adoring, she took his face in her hands.
“I want us to be lovers” she began.
“Okay” he agreed grandly, taking a sip of his already second scotch from his right and a draft from a Marlboro from his left. He was feeling much better.
“Listen,” she said, taking the cigarette from his fingers and crushing it out. She leaned forward and kissed his lips. “I’m in love with you; and you’re in love with me. I know this”.
Now serious, he admitted “Yes, I am in love with you, Maggie.” So far, so good.
She studied his eyes, then said “What do you want?” her nipples as hard as glass marbles through her bikini top. From her tote bag beside the recliner, she brought out and showed him the swimwear portrait of herself.
Escaping her scrutiny, he looked long at the fantasy photograph and said, somewhat honestly, “I want you …inside you, to make love to you gently and lovingly forever.”
‘Amen’, she almost laughed at him, but she just smiled, and content with his prose, George renewed his caress of her thighs. He took her left breast in his hand and brushed a thumb across her nipple, a small rock.
“I love you so much, George” she said genuinely, a little sadly.
“I love you too, Maggie” George said, also genuinely, emphatically.
Maggie reached back into the bag and retrieved the first two videocassettes and held them up one after the other, their titles labeled in bold print and unmistakably legible at a glance. The How-To video she dismissively left downstairs.
“Read these to me – aloud, sweetheart” she softly demanded. George swallowed, a gulp.
“‘Anal Blondes'” and Maggie offered an unmindful toss of her pretty head, “…and ‘Poop-Chute Cuties'” George said, hoarse, and she felt a twitch of his cock against her glove, her satin astride his steel-incarnate.
“Tell me what you want, Georgie” unsmiling but her eyes shining delightedly.
“Maggie, I do love you …” he said, beseeching, acknowledging the sound he’d heard her make the last time, when they were sixteen, before he quite knew what he was doing or how to do it – but did anyway – and she hadn’t quite not screamed when he did.
Maggie withdrew from the bag the last torment, the tube of lubricant, and held it a little too closely to his face.
“Read the label to me, baby.”
“‘Pipe Grease'” he coughed.
“And …?” she persisted.
“‘Petroleum-Based Anal Lubricant.'”
“Tell me what you want, baby” the crotch of her bikini slick, sopping, her vagina having graduated to cunt. Unmercifully, smiling knowingly, she answered for him:
“You want to buttfuck me” she purred to him in a taunting little singsong, ” – you want to sodomize your own sister” she sang quietly, leaning closer to his face and kissing him. George leaned forward as if to return her buss and slid his hands from her thighs to her buttocks, and massaging her tush divided wide, he swiftly slipped his hand under the waistband of her bikini and with his forefinger gave her anus a thick dry gouge, a vengeful little stab at her pucker. Maggie started sharply and slammed the heels of her hands against his chest, banging him back into his seat. He watched her eyes and caught a spark of searing lust and fury within her, a white-hot desire of which he thought only himself capable. She leaned in close again, her breathing ragged and clipped, panting. He could smell her control: smoke and soap, wrath and arousal.
“Don’t rape me before we’re ready” she distinctly threatened, then just as suddenly softened. George carefully, cautiously kissed her and Maggie rejoined with a smile, foxy.
“You do want to hurt me” she ventured.
“No. The lubricant would make it easier” reassuring himself.
“You lie. The grease would make it easier, better, for you” she stressed sweetly, “and you bought oil-based, at that” challenging him with what he knew to be her irrefutable insight, “because you want a long, thorough ride, merciless and leaving nothing to our imaginations.” Maggie leaned in very close and put her lips to his ear, still not wanting, after all these years, to meet his eyes when she stated their only one, really, terrible truth; she spoke to him in a whisper so soft as to be just this side of a private thought:
“I think you kinda liked it that I bled some” she breathed, and held her face to the side of her brother’s, waiting until the moment passed when she thought they could both bear to look at each other again.
George was silent, his truths indefensible.
“I know you don’t want to ‘gently, lovingly ease your engorged member through my dainty ideal, my most teasing breech'” she said, now wistfully, famously regaining her composure and mocking his mollifying, ostensibly considerate, courteous depiction of ‘blasting’ her ass. “I watched the tapes, Georgie; I know you want to buttfuck me – painfully and unconscionably, ferociously and forever – and I want you (too or to?, he thought, pouncing on this crucial point; what did she just say?)” George smiled. “I want to ride you, Georgie – like that, even – as long & often as you like” she allowed, ” – tonight we’ll mean it.” It was too late for coy.
“Prescription-strength sodomy” he mused, ” – your idea. Blush for me, Margaret.”
Ignoring him, “We only get one chance at a first time – you’re still too big, even bigger, and I’m as good as brand new since then …we’ll set a timer; an hour should be forever enough, for tonight anyway” she said, disguised as if an afterthought, feigning calm. She took George’s hand between her own, first kissing then wetly sucking his middle finger. She brought his hand around her waist and again down the back of her swimsuit and between her cheeks, encouraging his forefinger to salve her anus with her saliva. Drawing his hand back out, she then placed the tip of that same middle finger between his lips.
“Wound me well, my love” she whispered. “Poke me, Georgie; I’ll help.”
Maggie dismounted George’s lap, and without a word or a glance back she walked over to the L-shaped couch and knelt wide in its corner, setting the lubricant to one side and resting her forearms on the sofa back, her rounded backside lurid and pouting beneath the blue swim panties, her blonde head bowed and, again, absently inspecting her nails, waiting. George came up behind her and held her by the hips, motioning her, feeling his grip. He ran his palms up and down the sides of her waist and ribs, massaging her entire upper and lower back and she parted her knees farther on the sofa seat, relaxing, casually bracing. George pulled Maggie’s shoulders upright to his chest and embraced her, unfastened her swim bra and, slipping the string straps off her shoulders and removing the garment altogether, he kneaded, hefted and caressed her fresh breasts a pound apiece, pointed and pillowy, each half-again more than his hands could hold, and alternately petted her bare midriff. He slipped a finger down the steamy front of her swim panties and touched and toyed with her clitoris, kissing her throat an
d shoulders and the fragrance of her hair and scalp intoxicating and wafting about his mind and she swallowed, a gulp, and moaned and writhe
d within his hug. He hooked his thumbs in her waistband and Maggie leaned forward again against the sofa back and scooted her knees together. George reverently disrobed her of the swim panties and laid them aside. She reassumed the position and kneeling behind her, he held her firmly by her hips and felt her body tense, clutch.
He said “I know you’re virgin, Maggie” and threw her over onto her back to a slouching, half-seated position and stepped between her legs, “…and ovulating” and she as suddenly tried to bring her knees together. Unable to guard herself, she put her hand to his abdomen – an uncertain, trembling touch, suggesting she could be scared of him, a new drama to be played out.
” …no, baby, please; not this way – not yet” a soft plea, but he thought she might cry.
George dropped to his knees between her legs and Maggie grabbed him by the shoulders, neither pulling him toward her nor pushing him away, just trying to steady the chaos around her. He kept his hands at her waist and, her panic lessening, she let him draw close enough to kiss her and he whispered in her ear:
“You wanted me to, and you were afraid I would; you lie too, precious” he said, and she bit down on his earlobe hard enough to draw blood. He remained motionless until she had finished injuring him, unclenching her teeth and then sucking his wound, nursing the injury she had inflicted on him. George then held Maggie away from him at arms length and saw her furious with emotion, no less than the storm outside their window.
“I’m gonna fuck you dead” she spat, both a sob and a hiss.
“Shhh …” soothing, conciliatory, and he put his mouth to her left breast, and then her right, sucking her nipples gently, deliberately, not as a hungry child but rather as an animal relishing its prey. Lowering his head, he slung his arms under her legs and kissed and licked her lower belly, where her legs joined her hips, and along her inner thighs; he would not concede her real pleasure just yet and she knew he was stalking her and her warm aroma grew ever more moist. Maggie finally placed her hands at the back of his head and George allowed her his undivided attention, luxurious and excruciating. Stroking his hair and full of his face, when she felt his tongue bathe and then probe her rectum – a deeply wet and grotesque shame she could not discourage – she rocked her pelvis up against his mouth, demanding she be ravaged.
Resurfacing, he uncapped the tube of lubricant and Maggie raised her knees toward her ears. George inserted the plastic nozzle into her anus and emptied ¼ of its contents up her lower intestine and she shivered. He set aside the dispenser and smeared the jelly over her surface and rim and inserted one finger to the first knuckle, snug and stubborn, then two and three fingers, somewhat more so, and sliding up to the last knuckles he turned and twisted his fingers around inside her, coating her orifice and ensuring she was agape and gooey and seeping with preparation. They watched each other’s eyes while they both readied her and said nothing, only listening to the rainfall outside and the moist noises of her being delicately reamed.
He withdrew his fingers from her and stood, and she lowered her legs and sat up. George placed a hand behind his sister’s head at the base of her skull; a bitter, saline dollop of pre-semen had gathered and now hung from the end of his erection and then Maggie took her brother into her mouth, sucking and sipping, softly tasting his flesh and fluid. They did this without thought, an unconscious obedience to their base instincts as a man and a woman, consensually alone and naked in the other’s presence, a harbinger to their impending communion, however vile.
George withdrew from Maggie’s mouth and handed her the tube of lubricant, disallowing her any illusion of passivity. She squeezed another ¼ of the jelly into her palm and slathered his cock with a slippery, gelatinous finish. She wiped the excess from her hands on his buttocks and along the length of his thighs and looked up into his eyes.
“Get on your knees & elbows” he said, ” …bend over, Maggie – and beg for it.” An ugly, lame assertion, and so she instead stood nude before him.
“You’ll earn me this time, boy” and she smacked him hard across the mouth. He grabbed her by the wrists and yanked her close, looking far into her eyes with a frightening, lightening-sky strike of violent carnality – and George so desperately loved her all over again for so far having so wonderfully played along, since this would be, they both knew, from now on all too real. He wiped his tongue once, wet and thick, up the front of her face.
“I’m going to make an awful lot of room back there, sweet-seat” he told her, brushing his lips against hers, ” – powerfully, prodigiously …”
” – ‘ease me your meat’? ‘People my peep-hole – impolitely’? Say it, coward” she told him, struggling, feral and forcing him to further force her. “Tell me what you want.”
“I’m going to so buttfuck you, Maggie” he said low and tonelessly, and she hung on his promise no less than she hung from his arms, her breathing harried, fitful huffs, and as well licking his face while he assured her of his love as combat. “I’m going to so cornhole you, my love; fuck you anally far up your pretty ass like I’ve always wanted to. I’m gonna cram my cock hard up your butt and screw you long after you’ve cried ‘no’ and until ‘yes’ means I’ve cum inside you and popped your beauteous ass for only the first time for the rest of our lives. Yes, I want to buttfuck you, Maggie; you – my own sister, my brave, brash girl” and he swung her over onto her hands and knees inside the corner of the couch back and with a stinging swat of her haunch. George knelt behind Maggie and locked his knees to the inside of hers, spreading her legs apart and her backside wide, exposing her pristine pink squint. He started the timer and it began counting down the minutes in electronic silence from sixty. He wedged the head of his cock between her cheeks and, pressed blunt against the fragile aperture of her anus, he held her hips inescapably in place.
Until this moment, sexplay with her brother felt as if she had awakened underwater to discover that she could still breathe, or that she were asleep and yet aware she was dreaming. However, their fun now no more just abstract speculation and her bare ass sacrificially held fixed in his grip, his scored, calloused palms parting her seat cheeks, Maggie knew with terrifying clarity that what she had meticulously incited her brother to do she would indeed next endure and that with George formidably and irreparably set sledgehammer at and in appallingly voluminous contrast to her access – her hopelessly, vainly unyielding elasticity – there were finally no tricks or curses or bullying that would stop him – her once reliably expert, scheming femininity, any attempt to exploit her brother’s love for her no longer of any consequence. She felt him push and she knew ruefully he would next be supremely inside her and make her yell and that she desired it, that she wanted his intimate hurt of her, and this atrocity would then be now.
Until this moment, sexplay with his sister was a playful if volatile exchange of control, each alternately seducing the other, their mutual manipulation of one another swinging back and forth as a feather floats to earth until their instincts alighted onto their purest ground. However, his wettest dreams now made real – Maggie’s creamy, bare rump ceremoniously held firm in his hands, her buns vulnerably separated soft, dividing her crack and redoubtably, inexorably set rock-cock hot against her elasticity – her sweetly, vainly unyielding access – George could see that he was really, criminally, too broad for her this way and that, worse, this savagery of her by his size would not stop him. He began to push a
nd knew ruefully he would next be supremely inside her and make her
yell and that he would enjoy it, that he craved his intimate hurt of her, and this atrocity would then be now.
When she felt him begin to pull her onto him, pry and pack himself into her, feeling the endlessly exponential stretch then helpless give of her sphincter – this secret, indelible branding of Maggie by his distension of her forever marking her as his (though in truth she knew she now owned him) – she triumphantly and in defiance of her own well-being sat back hard onto his post. In that instant the whole of George’s mass solidly disappeared up Maggie’s behind: a thick squish of lubricant and a crashing slap of flesh, they withdrew just shy of his entire length and, repeating the ferocity of their first thrust, there was again another clap as his lap slapped her seat.
An obscene strain, bright and profound – her agony hard and as clean as a new dime, steely and exact, and an impulsive attempt to twist free, arrested at her hips – and yet Maggie sounded only a husky grunt in acknowledgement of his colossal inhabitancy of her among those first furious fifty strokes – their lunging, colliding strides through her insubordination, George’s every crisp, flat spank of Maggie’s beautiful bottom a further punishing penetration deep up her delicious ass until her arms folded and she dropped her shoulders onto the sofa back, her will to even contribute to, let alone resist, her brother’s sodomy of her at last defeated.
“Ooow-uhaaah!” Maggie finally wailed, a sonorous, suffering, surrendering howl of protest and release and from the floor of her lungs. And with this collapse of her resolve and her mind and muscles slack with whole submissiveness, George halved the rate and redoubled the power of his pace up her backside from a gallop to a march, gloriously parading them both through their intercourse while the rainfall outside applauded their sin.
Maggie held on as George pumped at her, plied and lay waste her bum’s prim obstinacy, and she laid her head between her grip of the couch back and squeaked and whimpered in time to her brother’s relentless abuse of her bottom. Shoe-horned into her and invulnerable to reason, he compulsively fucked her butt with both a heartless indifference to and an impassioned prejudice of her outrage: his girlfriend, best groupie, and lover, the co-author of his success and now his mate, she was all of these and as well his sister, and if she were to know him she would be made to endure all of him. Twenty minutes and 900 thrusts later, her trauma polished smooth of its splintered anomalies and her discomfort largely abated, George had gradually eased back his assault of his sister’s plump duff from those first brutal, initiating plunges to a routine of seamlessly pistoning penetrations, settling into a full-length loping rhythm of level, measured strokes up Maggie’s ass. With the hurricane of their sex circling about them in ominous calm, Maggie could now hear over her shoulder the elements of this storm of theirs’ indoors – hearing, absorbing the juicy, metronomic pump and squelch of George’s efforts behind her, the fleshy bell toll of his repeated impact with the fat compact of her loaves, and then the throaty mummers of his own dissolution:
” …umh, ahh; oh, Maggie – my lovely, naughty Maggie” he groaned as he sawed at her, grinding away at both of them of what little remained of their modesties and sensibilities and enkindling some primal desire of hers to enjoy her brother’s own enjoyment of his so unlawful use of her.
“Do me, Georgie” she crooned back to him, and so ended the civility of their dialogue for the next several minutes as they spoke to each other, at and over each other, in expletive barks and slurs and fractured declarations of raw want realized – coaxing, cajoling, each building on the other’s last vulgarity, exclaiming the exquisite filth of their desires for one another, their voices ringing off the walls and out the window and all but inaudible from the street four floors below.
Whirling shouts of you/me this and give/take that – speech coherent only in the context of lovemaking or warmongering – their flurried verbiage culminated when George felt the warm, warning roar of near-orgasm within his loins, and he told Maggie that he was finally about to come. Maggie’s experience until this moment, an ascension from sacrifice to exertion and then to even this weird, dirty pleasure, had still been far less sure of climax than the tidal certainty of orgasm throbbing within her brother’s groin; but hearing his words – this knowledge that their act, this taboo, a so unspeakably forbidden crime against nature that nature so casually suggested of them, would indeed be done – as if her first piercing weren’t enough – she now knew suddenly that she too would soon come as irrevocably as would her brother behind her and she cried out her discovery to him with an alarming urgency. He grappled her hips and incessantly bored open her rose-hole and she clung tight to the couch back and squatted aft, a rebounding bump back inbound at the end of each thrust for an extra fraction of depth, and George grimaced skyward and called out her name and came hard with a wrenching landslide of sour, seminal momentum: a splashing gush of semen, loathsome and bestial, he spilled tumbling, weighted ropes and curds of sperm up Maggie’s bowels, heating her guts and invisible to all but God. And feeling his hot mess pour into her, Maggie responded in kind – shrieking and flailing and calling to George at the crest of her climax to be more completely, impossibly deeper and harder inside her and she as well came wildly with a writhing, spasmodic cloudburst of her every whorey need sated, her secretions tracing from her pussy shiny lines down the inside of her thighs and her ripe, dense stench suddenly clouding the immediate air.
They washed ashore from their orgasms as if survivors of a shipwreck: breathless and clumsily, their stumbling thrusts into/onto each other staggered and halting. “Don’t stop, baby …” Maggie mewed over her shoulder, sensing her brother might try to spare himself any further guilt by way of a dishonest mercy for her – and lose the renaissance of a new affinity for each other from the ruins of their old selves – but, chemically sustained and still sound inside her, his desires revived by her humid, pheromonal odor, George resumed his angular command of her ass with an easy, gliding precision and they swung along together in unison like this for some time more, blissfully, like sweethearts hand-in-hand down a boulevard in any weather on a day made beautiful by the other’s presence. Relieved of his lust’s frenzy, George could savor his idling ride of Maggie hugged over the corner of the couch back and her similarly assuming the position in which she had appeared in the photograph. From his hold of her pelvis, he could observe, relish, his penetrations of her – her venerably heart-shaped tush – and between her buns feel the more muscular, strangling slick-friction of her wrap of him within as he stirred and churned his semen inside her, her depths soupy, sloppy with sperm and lubricant; his thrusts compounded would amount to a short ton of his meat packed up her ass before they were through, he imagined, ponderously piling his bulk into her pound after pound, one brick at a time: building on their blasphemy, erecting their sacrilege – this deliciously unlovely buggery of his sister’s delightful fanny.
She felt her brother still huge and invasive inside her, a plowing, cylindrical enormity crowding her aft-cache replete beyond his actual dimensions, his pubic stubble prickling, and Maggie laid her face again alongside the upholstery between her grips of the sofa back. Glancing at the timer, she saw their hour well over half-elapsed but, at this rate, still hundreds of thrusts from finished; his accumulative strokes would amount to a half-mile ride before they were through, she thought, 10 long inches after another: his hands
steering her hips, and herself, the
ir journey – her brother as a bus smoothly bombing up her backcountry. On the far wall, she saw their play-rape artfully framed and reflected in full in the mirror across the room and she watched their bodies move in tandem, his pole alternately laid bare then buried big back up her rump, she leisurely meeting his lengths, his lines leveraging and her curves swaying, their forms beautifully functioning together – a surreal brew she immersed herself in as both voyeur and participant. Aware of a dull, vague ache of her sphincter muscle, she readjusted her stance and tried in earnest to further relax and accept, envelop even, George’s penetrating tonnage and this private little pain – and the math, the imagery – that hurt so good she giggled, and she looked over her shoulder to watch his face until he looked up from his work of her and met her eyes, seeing her grinning at him brightly, knowingly.
“How dare I enjoy this so” he smiled back at her, blushing, despite everything, and she laughed.
“I know what you mean” she said, “me too,” and resting her head again, she watched their incestuous harmony in the mirror for another minute before George, realigning his aim into her, inadvertently knelt on the stereo’s remote that had been lost between the sofa’s seat cushions. The radio pre-set suddenly lit up and the room swelled with low volume lite-rock and Maggie began to hum and then quietly sing to her brother about how she as well could feel the earth – move – under her feet, feeling the sky tum-ba-lin’ down, a-tum-ba-lin’ down.
“Mmm, so very good” George groaned, listening to his sister solicit him:
“‘ – I’ve just got to have ya, baay-beh'”
“‘ – uhuh-uhuh, uhuhh – ‘” he reveled,
“‘ – uhuh-uhuh, uhuhh, yeah-yeaah'” she rallied,
and so they randomly, discordantly, parried back and forth, song after bastardized song – a steely, don’tch-ya-need-me-heyhey-oooyeah free-fall bridge, then a bitch/tease goddess-on-her-knees riff – and fucking with renewed vigor until the radio played one of their own songs and they serenely slipped mutually, heartfelt into their own music, singing, serenading in innuendo along with themselves together to one another a lyric, ethereal groove from their earlier days that they had written – each secretly regarding the other – about the peacefulness of familiar love and, conspiratorially, how that might be in the wake of familial sex.
A pause in the action, and then the room went silent, their fucky-lovemaking as suddenly void of music as if they’d both gone stone deaf. George had stepped up onto the couch, standing on the sofa cushions and ponyed atop Maggie’s back, and the sight of this reflected in the mirror she thought looked a little silly until she saw her brother’s face stricken with a dangerous ardor and she heard a dreadful resolve in his voice as he told her, repeating several times, that he so dearly loved her, that he was in love with her, and afraid for her brother she answered him as many times that she as well very much loved him, it’s alright Georgie, but he seemed inconsolable, saying only I love you, Maggie, I’m so in love with you.
Then, his fingers closing over her wrists, ” – but now I’m going to rape you, love, as I said I would; really, awfully fuck your sweet butt like I’ve always wanted to” and in their reflection she saw him hide his face in her hair, felt his breath steamy at her throat, and watching George’s hips rise high toward the ceiling, his marbled pillar bridging their bodies, she barely got out ‘ok – ‘ before he broke back into her ass with 180 lb. drives bigger than all the past hour’s thrusts as one.
They both heard the microscopic crack of her sphincter and Maggie screamed weakly once as she briefly hurt virgin-again twice in as many hours, her asshole not-quite accommodating her brother’s bloodlust. The weight and strength of his split of her spread her stance flat, driving her pussy to the upholstery and stifling her voice in mid-sentence – elementary masculine violence, too rough at this late stage, she thought; last winter she’d slipped and sat down on the ice softer than this – and so as he slammed-home hurtled in & out of her, she told him what women know all men want to hear, oh-no, oh-no, your so big and strong, it’s too much, blah-blah.
George listened to Maggie recite the porn-queen script, barreling into her what felt like from across the room, and waited for her to really speak to him. The scary buttfuck he’d promised her wouldn’t begin for another ten minutes of these race-engine industrial thrusts – 20 inches per cycle, 50 feet per minute – and not until long-after their scheduled hour had expired; when as the oil began to fail and feeling his cock chaff with the building friction, he heard his sister begin to talk less and say more, her face a crimson mask of increasingly contorted grimaces, her wrists twisting within his grip.
“georgie? baby? – it hurts.”
“I love you, Maggie” drop-hammering granite and titanic into her astride her hips and from almost a foot overhead.
what was her still silky if frayed rosebud at the agreed-upon end of tonight’s romp was, now trespassing well into the 2nd hour, fast becoming a tired crater, her anus beaten loosed and unmoored from it’s diamond-tight maidenhood of so many years, her beautiful if common enough behind a home for his dragon in which to behave or breathe flame, in which to delight or damage.
Maggie had felt her asshole cooked. Then dry and burning as it got raw as salt. Now afire. And alighting her behind as bright as a match head – and so soon since his especially thorough orgasm – this searing fuck-bludgeoning of her rectum from above could potentially continue for … until when? the nightly news? midnight? 1 a.m.?
She began to beg George to stop, spilling tears – please georgie, stop – then bribe him, offering to suck him off clean, unwashed shit-filthy fresh out of her ass, and swallow every drop of his sperm. She tried somewhat to fight him, squealed ‘rape’ twice, then bit him, sinking her teeth into his forearm, and thought suddenly she might vomit – throwing-up or pissing herself would certainly stop him, she was as suddenly sure; but she then felt one thin hot trickle that she knew to be neither semen nor lubricant slip down the back of her leg, and she instead just laid her head to one side and began to openly bawl, mournfully giving up.
George didn’t go any easier on her, but he sobbed into the back of her neck at the scent of blood, and she wept a little easier. And in the closing moments of their tear they together wrung from themselves the last of the evening’s lusts with a Herculean dribble and a tumultuous trickle, George ejaculating again into his sister, and Maggie, in spite of herself, as well cumming with him while the timer to their right blindly blinked zeros at them with mute, digital impassiveness, it’s exact signal for them to quit having another hour ago imperceptibly passed unacknowledged.
George managed only another dozen or so chops with his diminishing erection until he could finally remain only still to the hilt inside Maggie, deflating, and she felt her brother at last softening and then doughy inside her before he reluctantly, sloppily, uncorked from her butt and stepped down. Maggie turned around, gingerly, and seated herself upright with her leg tucked under her.
“I need a towel” she whispered, as if to not be overheard by even herself, and he stood and instead gathered his cock into his sister’s mouth for her to briefly suck anyway, then gathered her into his arms slightly higher than to her feet to hold her off the floor in his embrace until she conceded to wrap her legs around him and let herself leak. George carried Maggie to his bedroom and dropped her into bed among his giant pillows and sweat-soured sheets and pillowcases, not letting her hide from him. He asked her to no
t escape him, to not wash off their iniquity, and she told him there was a
wedge of cheese in the fridge. He returned from the kitchen after a minute with eats and drinks and smokes, and they talked for a long time: friendly, facetiously chiding – there was a small swollen split at the corner of his lip, lavender fingerprints polka-dotted her buttocks, and they’d both walk funny for a day or two – and when they did sleep, finally and for the first time their bodies enfolded naked in the other’s, George especially slept restfully and for more consecutive hours than he had in years.
In the main room, their smells remained awake and all over; the camera could record only the still for the next hour, then ran out of tape.
Maggie sat straddling her brother, wearing only one of his dress shirts and twirling her bikini panties around her index finger, watching him wake up. It was the following afternoon and she was hungry. Stirring from sleep, trying to roll onto his side between her thighs, George opened his eyes and confusedly wondered if this all hadn’t already happened before exchanging morning breath with his sister when she kissed him.
“Meet me at my place, love; we’re going out” she said, and got off of him to leave for her own apartment.
George showed up forty-five minutes later, freshly showered and groomed, and Maggie wide-open answered the door two raps into the first knocks, her hair still half-damp since her shower, and of course conspicuously too-late closing her robe, the game still afoot. Smiling, she watched his eyes while he held her gaze for the ten seconds he could effect before his sight irresistibly swept her exposure and, having won another point, she casually covered up.
“Grab a beer, have a seat (yours, my maggie-luv, he thought)” she said, “I’m almost ready (for you again, georgie-sweets; we’re just gettin’ started)” and she left him in the doorway to go finish dressing, closing her bedroom door behind her. Maggie bought fussy beers that could not be just twisted open and in lieu of a bottle-opener he cleanly clipped off the cap of his beer from a protruding brick from the fireplace (sharp; hot; her).
She re-emerged obsolete-chic, dressed in a fitted black turtleneck sweater, a short plaid skirt, and knee-high boots; George was dressed to not kill, conservative-blah this side of invisible. Maggie left a kiss print on his throat as they departed, her mark, corvette red, that he’d wear loud and pristine for the rest of the day. They had rented a limousine and rode miles out of town to one of the city’s surrounding hamlets, the whole way keeping the partition between them closed and having tipped the driver well up-front to mind his own damn business. They held hands while idly strolling the narrow streets and window-shopping, their waning folk-rock recognition for once welcome, and talked of movies, music, the weather, the store-front displays, lively speaking of anything except last night, thinking only of it. She knew with a smile every time he stole a glance at her backside and he thought all the while, with great satisfaction, of the scar of last night’s sex, the evidence of his presence, curtained under her skirt and tucked neatly between her cheeks. Without discussion they’d decided on the same bistro, the same heavy food, and as they ate she was pleased that rather than having cooked the meal she had at least figured considerably into his improved appetite. During a pause in their chat, she caught and held his eyes between bites and made a slow show of adjusting her seat, shifting her weight from one womanly-broad bun to the other.
“Ouch” she grinned, ” – nice work, stud” but he didn’t blanch. He instead reached into his jacket and brought out the tarnished, low-gold band he’d given to her when they were kids but had secreted from her some time ago. Checkmate. Gin. Game, Set, Match. He took her left hand and placed the ring over her third finger, incanting softly “With this ring, I do thee wed …” It had been re-sized, fit perfectly, and was still junk. Maggie got teary. George said they’d shop for one worth a small mortgage tomorrow, and she told him to shut up, I want this one.
They both felt far more comfortable for now not really mentioning last night but for eye contact between them and its promise of the sex they knew they would someway do with each other, brother and sister, tonight and in subsequent nights, their perversity for now still clandestine even in the light of day and among normal people: regular guys and gals and other decent folk, and, paradoxically in spite of the sex-shop two blocks down the street in the other direction that they didn’t know was there – striping, raw-hide leather whips, drop cloths, locking fur-lined steel handcuffs, and rubber masks and gags Since 1981– they assumed themselves for as long as they were anywhere but home to be the whole goddamn world’s sole freak show. And relishing their deceit of all humanity, they paid their bill and stole away from the restaurant and into the limo that they had unnecessarily had parked hidden in back, slowly climbing over-around-and-again-over each other sealed within the confines of the backseat, the car doors closed about them and the gravel parking lot crunching under the tires as the limousine lumbered onto the asphalt road, wrestling gently, their quiet play novel given that they both knew, fully clothed and this time well in advance of the act, that sex between them tonight would happen as legitimate lovers would anticipate, this moment unbeknownst to either of them as an unnerving celebration of the twenty hour anniversary of when George was first infinitely inside Maggie and she was trying to catch her breath so she could then spend the ensuing forty seconds piteously suppressing a cry to him to stop, it still doesn’t fit.
Facing him, Maggie sat saddled in George’s lap and they smooched while the Cadillac rode them home through the rain. “I owe you a blow when we get back” she told him, “and later we’ll make love properly; but don’t gag me, I’ll swallow” and she then happily belched a hot fume of wine & garlic in his face.
“While you’re so generously ingesting my seed – fruitlessly spent up your butt or down your throat – when do you mean to get pregnant?” George said and Maggie looked at him for a long moment, silently, now her truths indefensible. She curled up beside him, laying her head in his lap, and George petted her, massages segueing into molestations – rubbing her shoulder so as to squeeze her breast, stroking her hip so as to pat her fanny – caressing and copping feels, the two of them quietly listening to the wet road-noise humming up through the floorboards.
“When did you know?” she asked after a time, thumping his knee with her fist.
“You were too good last night – so much, so suddenly. I’d have done anything for you anyway – and will; indebting me to you with what I’ve always wanted from you was ambrosia. Banging your ass is a bribe I’ll be glad to exact from you regularly and frequently from now on.”
“I’ll be healed in a few days; feel free.”
“Not always, but another time you’ll have to genuinely fight me; we’ll be arguing and mad at each other, and when we’re most loud and insulting and pissed-off, you’ll at that moment have to guess as to whether we’ll reason out our differences – or I force you over something and we listen to the crack of a paddle on your bare ass for a half-hour and I ass-rape you between your stung buns for an hour after that – and afterwards agree to disagree with you. Between feedings, of course, or even before you’re too pregnant.”
“I’ll bear that in mind tonight while you’re cumming in my mouth” and she gently closed her teeth over his thumb.
They arrived in front of their building and the driver assisted Maggie out of the car as if she were a queen. George tipped him half-again more and he gave George his card and an assurance that he could be available again as ordered .
Hand in hand, at Maggie’s door George started to continue ups
tairs to his apartment, pulling her along. “I’ve got drink and smokes” she said, pulling him back. “As for the other, I’m still sore, and you’ve still other work to do. C`mere.”
Her apartment smelled clean and fresh, and given the discrepancy he could only conclude that his place stunk. George imagined making Maggie cry out in his own bed, her face in his unwashed sheets, before this time next week and he hardened. She told him to make himself comfortable as she left him in the main room, so he stripped naked and went to the refrigerator for a beer. He this time looked for a bottle opener and after a swig of brew he snooped for something slick and yet reasonably fit for oral consumption. He decided against vegetable oil in favor of either maple syrup or Cool Whip; Maggie had been stark naked from the bathroom some thirty seconds before and had been watching George smear his erection with the whipped cream, swirling the tip of his cock in the plastic tub, and giggling she indicated he follow her into her bedroom.
She turned on the stereo, and following her into her room George turned it back off. A bell in the back of her mind rang with the feeble, imprecise alarm of a wind-up clock, and listening to it weakly un-spring, she reminded herself that given their origins, better her brother tonight – whatever he had in mind – than those hill-country pigs when she was twelve – their uncles, after their father of course, if they hadn’t together run – and she stood hundreds of miles and a million dollars away at the head of her high, giant bed, facing George in the failing light.
“I’d have done you unadorned, ba – ” she started to say before he suddenly kissed her with a passionate strength that surprised and dazed her enough for her to only somewhat register that he’d said that he was in love with her and that this wasn’t going to be what she had expected. He turned her facing from him as gracefully as if they were dancers and, lowering himself the length of his erection, he slipped the tip of his cock between her buttocks for the second time in as many days and stood up through her newly compliant back-pocket – forgiving, subordinate yield born of last night’s carnage – as easily as if it had always belonged there, embracing Maggie from behind and lifting her to just off her toes by the base of his meat at her anus.
Maggie gasped and kicked and when the crown of her head crashed back against his cheekbone, George tasted a drop of his sister’s tear splash into his mouth.
“Georgie…we have other business” she sniffled, still tender.
He lowered her so she stood flat-footed again but still held her close. She’d stopped clawing at him.
“I want you to suck me off, Maggie, like in the videos you know I’m so fond of; right after it’s been deep up your ass” he whispered to her, and pumped her twice long and slowly for emphasis.
“This isn’t the scary buttfuck you promised me?” stalling, delaying the fellatio; maybe he’ll finish this way and I’ll make him wash, she thought.
George thrust twice more, lifting Maggie off her heels. He let her back to her feet and stood behind her, motionless inside her, for a full minute, soaking himself in her implicit filth, she knew.
When he spoke he thrilled and defeated her in one fell swoop. “My cock’s up your ass, Maggie, and then it’s going to be in your mouth and you’re going to suck it and taste yourself and then I’m going to cum in your mouth and then you’ll taste me, my sperm, your own brother’s semen, and then swallow it – all of it. Ready?”
“Yes, baby, I will – but, really Georgie, I’m serious; you force me…you choke me, I chew. Careful?”
George unhooked from his sister’s ass and when he sat at the edge of her bed she spun around and strode toward the bathroom. Maggie was in possession of a blued, snub-nose, five-shot .357 magnum – and a box of hollow-point rounds – that he knew she knew how to, and had before, fired, egregiously so, one time years ago when they were kids in defense of themselves, after money for which they’d performed, for food and a room, had been denied them and their mere survival was in question. She fisted her medicine cabinet and scattered everything but what she walked away with, and circling back she curtsied in her closet for some other items and flung the lot of her gatherings at his face as she walked back through the bedroom into the kitchen: the crass tube of lube, an equally vulgar butt-plug – a D-cell, 9 volt quaker, unchristened – and a wooden ping-pong paddle and two pairs of novelty handcuffs variously bounced and clanged off George’s forehead into his lap. Maggie dragged a narrow, straight-back chair into the bedroom and propped it firmly to the foot of her bed. She straddled it backwards and folded her arms over the chair back, resting her chin, not shooting him.
“Tonight won’t be so easy for either of us, huh Georgie? – especially me, I gather” she told him while locking each of her own wrists around the chair back to the iron rungs of the footboard, either cuffs’ trigger within a fingertip’s touch of the other, and gripping the bars as if jailed. “‘Gimme, gimme, gim-meh the honky-tonk blues– awlright'” she sang to him and let him unclip then clap the free ends of the handcuff clasps each one rung farther apart and out of her reach. He put a pillow between her head and the chair back and tied Maggie’s ankles to the chair’s forelegs with neckties she’d stolen from him, dumb ones she knew he’d just as soon not wear anyway.
Maggie laid her face to the side of the pillow and so luxuriated in her restraints that he had to re-secure her ankles, and he watched her muscles again tense, smooth tensility running from her calves up her thighs and over her buttocks through her back and shoulders. He kissed the nape of her neck and liberally re-greased her anus, doping the blued, still-oily wreckage of her rectum’s crushed virginity and her hole twitched at the touch. George fell to his knees behind Maggie and kissed both of her buns – cool, soft and smooth, as tenderly as if each were an infant’s forehead, especially smooching the teeth-prints he’d left in her a dozen years ago when they were each last innocent of the other’s body and first, if obliviously, wild for the other’s sex – and licked her anus in and around like lapping the icing off a donut, tonguing her asshole, her eye-wide-open then emitting a methane puff of exhaust in his face (he heard her above him smile to herself) and he burrowed further, inhaling from her furrow, tasting crude and breathing-in her rich, rural soil.
“I’m gonna mark you again, Maggie” and so she rolled the meat of her buttocks off the chair’s seat and into his mouth, and George slowly sank his teeth into the most outward fleshy aspect of Maggie’s left ass-cheek, leaving a neat set of bite marks opposite the perfect scars he’d left on her right that had years ago healed into faint indentations that only a doctor could get close enough to question and only a lover would recognize. “Bite me, Georgie” she whispered to him without the least hint of humor or venom, ” – mark me again” while her rump quivered in his jaws. He un-punctured his teeth from her, having forever precluded her modeling of a thong bikini, or otherwise have to explain those perfect bite marks to all who already silently suspected almost worse than their own sick thoughts regarding themselves to the extent that no one ever said anything (unthinkable; as clouds passing behind the sun, as wanton a suggestion that the Olsen Twins are queer for each other) of her own brother’s taste for her that she knew she’d never really deny if asked, nor even deny she loved and courted. He kissed away his boo-boo of her with the greedy covetousness of an animal.
Maggie had held the gun that they’d brought down with them, and George had carried the guitar, a twelve-string – their valuables in
lieu of provisions. They lay wrapped together in army surplus overc
oats, hidden from yesterday and tomorrow both for that one first night without a roof over them, bordering somewhere that wasn’t home, breathing no louder than cooing to one another required; thirteen, and a small cannon resting armed, un-hammered, between them.
They survived well, though: $300 dollars a night, cash money, for three h