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From: Incest Man <incestman@graffiti.net>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.hetero,alt.sex.stories.d
Subject: incest story "Two Sisters"
Date: Mon, 10 Jul 2006 14:11:10 -0700
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===================
http://www.incesttabooo.com/2sis.html
Two Sisters
In my dream a sleek, whiskered rodent climbed onto our bed while
we made love; it squirmed between us, and tried to gnaw our genitals
apart
while squeaking insanely. My wife's beeper was going off: I woke up as
she reached over to her bedside table to silence the damn thing.
Wearing
underwear and a t-shirt, Jeanette got out of bed and went into the
other
room to answer the call.
Her voice sounded tense and slightly hoarse as she greeted her
sister, Stephanie, who lived in New England and took care of their
ailing
mother. Stephanie, who once accused me of marrying Jeanette for the
money
she'd some day inherit from their ailing mother.
Jeanette was silent in the other room. Outside I heard the faint
rushing sound that always seems audible in Southern California, coming
either from the beach or the freeways.
My wife appeared at the doorway. Her face was downcast.
"Mom just died," she said.
The family estate near Cape Cod, Massachusetts consisted of a
three-story, five-bedroom house, an old barn, and seven acres of land
that
included a granite quarry -- a deep depression in the ground from which
stone had been dug, and which then filled up with rain and became a
sort
of natural swimming pool. My wife took me there when we arrived for
the
settling of her mother's estate.
"Over there," she pointed, "where the maple trees are? I used to
have sex with my high school boyfriends. We'd go skinny-dipping on
humid
summer nights -- the moon always seemed full, like a bright, swelling
clitoris in the sky -- and we'd screw on the grassy plateau."
"Did your sister join you?"
"Nah, guys never liked her. She was a nasty runt."
"She still is," I said.
We walked over to the maple trees and looked at the surface of the
pond. It was glassy-smooth: a perfectly round image of the sun
reflected
on the dark water. Then a breeze fractured the image, sending a
blanket
of flashing ripples towards us. I hugged my wife from behind, pressing
gently against her rear. My soft cock nudged against the crack between
her firm cheeks. I meant it to be purely affectionate, but my wife
seemed
excited -- I think partly because she was remembering her early erotic
adventures by the pond. She grabbed my wrists and put my hands over
her
breasts. I cupped them, carressing her firm flesh, her hardening
nipples,
then she reached behind me and ran her fingernails across my ass. I
stroked her some more, felt the familiar tension of her body becoming
aroused, then slid my hand over her belly and down across her skirt. I
lifted it with one hand, and pulled down her underwear with the other.
My
fingers found her wet; I made tiny circles with her own juices over her
clitoris. She moaned, reached behind her, and grabbed -- almost
roughly
-- at my crotch.
"Screw me, Paul," she said, "pin me to the ground and screw me."
I ripped her underwear off, tossed it aside -- it landed in a
crumple of lace on the surface of the pond -- and laid Jeanette on the
ground. As I drove my cock into her, feeling her tense, muscular body
rising against mine, I imagined her as a young girl. I imagined what
she
was like when her old schoolmates screwed her -- a lean, dewy,
fourteen-year-old girl, aching in a constant hormonal rush, revelling
in
the erotic whirl of new sexual and emotional experiences: a young girl
of
wildly intense, confused feelings. I imagined her breasts smaller,
still
budding, and her body barely pubescent, with a kid's face -- that mix
of
extreme shyness and starving libido.
"Oh, yeah, yeah, fuck me, Paul: fuck me, fuck me..."
I imagined her on her first time, feeling her virginal resistance:
pounding against it: breaking her open. I envisioned her face,
shocked,
pained, but flashing -- awakened. I imagined the tears of her
deflowering, her muffled cries, then, relentless, plunging into her hot
young vagina to douse her blood with sperm.
Jeanette's voice was passionate, gasping, "What am I, Paul? Tell
me what I am."
"You're a fucking slut, Jeanette," I hissed at her. She moaned
animalistically, scratching at my back. "You fuck everybody in school,
don't you, you worthless slut? You probably take your teachers out
here
and screw them to get passing grades."
Grabbing her hair, I yanked her head back; I hammered my cock into
her. "You do that, don't you, you filthy little whore? You screw your
whole fucking school."
Her hot pussy swallowed my cock like a spoonful of some sweet
liquid drug. Her eyes were closed, her slender body writhed, her
vagina
scorched: "I'll fuck 'em all," she gasped "Anyone with a cock can screw
me; anyone who has the balls can fuck me."
I licked her areolas, nibbled her full, hard nipples.
"What about you, Paul? Do you have the balls? Can you fuck me?
Can you fuck me harder? Can you do it?"
I felt the crescendo of approaching orgasm -- like my mind rushing
increasingly faster into the air -- then the crashing descent, like
skyscrapers shattering, their rubble collapsing to the ground as balls
exploded semen into her with several spurts that shook my body.
Jeanette
held my sweating form against her, weighting her down on the ground
where
she had slept with so many other people as a girl.
Lying on the grass, our bodies entangled, our sweat drying in the
shaded breeze, we looked at her underwear floating on the small waves
of
the pond.
We went for a swim. On one side of the quarry was a high ridge
overlooking the water which she dove off -- sleek, like a shiny badger
--
plunging beyond my sight into the dark water. I climbed up the ridge
to
follow her.
Jeanette resurfaced, and told me to be careful: "See where those
lilly pads are growing? It's really shallow there, but the water is so
dark you can't tell. If you dive there, you'll hit your head on the
rock
and break your neck."
I dove where she did, then swam an evasive turn under the water to
confuse her. I held my breath as long as I could, then swam up behind
her
and, like a shark, pulled her off her feet and devoured her in the
water.
As you've probably guessed my wife wasn't exactly crushed about
her mother passing on. They didn't have a very close relationship --
her
mother had always condemned her for being too unruly, too un-Christian
--
and anyway, her mother had been in cancer treatment for more than a
year.
It was expected.
Still, Jeanette wasn't blissfully happy, either -- partly because
she was worried about conflicts with her sister.
"You should really try getting along with Stephanie better, Paul."
"She's a bitch. A fucking nag."
"It'll make sorting out the will a lot easier if you can be nice
to her."
"It'd make being nice to her a lot easier if she got a brain
transplant."
"How about this: tonight, I'll go visit some of my old
girlfriends. You and Stephanie can hang out, okay? Just sit around
with
her and watch T.V., or drink, or play cards, or do whatever. Just try
to
forget about what a bitch she is and let her learn to trust you. I'm
serious: it'll totally make our upcoming legal discussions a lot
smoother
if she didn't think I was going to share whatever I got with someone
she
hates."
I saw her point and, when Jeanette promised me slavish sexual
favors as an additional incentive, I agreed to try to be nice to her
sister.
The truth about Stephanie is that, sure, she's a snobbish bitch,
but she's also pretty stylish -- though in an exotic, pretentious
European
sort of way. One of the reasons she didn't date at all in high school
is
that she intimidated guys with her looks as much as with her
bitchiness.
That, and Jeanette used to spread lies about her so that she wouldn't
be
able to compete for guys -- lies that she'd contracted syphilis on a
study-abroad trip in Turkey, that she was intimate with their Saint
Bernard, that she was really her brother but had been in drag since
nursery school, etc.
So when I found out Stephanie got less bitchy as she had more to
drink, I -- number one -- began kind of enjoying her, and number two,
began pouring her more drinks.
Stephanie was wearing a tight, black V-neck top which revealed
cleavage as subtle as a seismic fault line. She wore a ruby red velvet
skirt, black fishnet stockings, and tied her hair in a long, black
braid
that looked like a viper. Her eyes were totally unlike her sister's:
Jeanette's were dark brown, but Stephanie's were a strange, pale blue.
After we'd talked for about an hour, I asked her why she hadn't
dated during high school: I wanted to see how she'd react and, since I
was
beginning to feel horny, I wanted to steer the conversation toward sex.
She blushed. "Did Jeanette tell you that I didn't date? That's
such a lie. I dated as much as she did, I just didn't flaunt it. I
didn't have to prove things to everyone like she did."
I stared at her, a little angry that she talked about Jeanette
like that. "You're a liar, Stephanie."
She looked away from me. She started to get up, so I grabbed her
arm. "You're a fucking liar," I repeated. "You didn't date at all.
You
were afraid of sex. You were afraid that everyone thought you were
hideous. Most of all, you were afraid of competing with Jeanette: you
didn't want people to know that you were less of a woman than she was."
Instead of spitting insults back at me, Stephanie looked down and
began crying. Instantly I felt guilty for hurting her.
"Look, Stephanie, I'm sorry: that was mean of me."
She continued crying, so I put my arm around her. She accepted my
affection, leaning closer toward me. I embraced her.
I could feel the intensity of her emotion -- and the pressure of
her large breasts against my chest. I became aroused; my cock throbbed
against cruel confines of my boxer shorts.
"You're right," she said, resigned, her warm breath on my face.
"I've always felt inferior to Jeanette. I've always hated her, but
I've
always wanted to be like her. At least to know what it's like to have
so
many people adore me."
Holding her hand, I got up, and led her out of the house. It was
nighttime: a cool, bright night with as many stars in one inch of sky
as
there are in the entire Southern Californian skyscape. I led Stephanie
to
the spot by the maple trees.
"I used to see Jeanette come down here with guys," she said. "I
felt like throwing rocks at them to shut up their dumb love-grunts. I
wanted to see them go skinny-dipping and drown."
"What did you really want?" I asked. "You really wanted to be in
her place, didn't you?"
"Yes," she admitted bitterly.
I kissed her. I didn't know what the hell I was doing: the
alcohol, the intoxicating atmosphere, the feeling of her heavy breasts
all
conspired to undermine my self-control. She resisted me at first, but
only half-heartedly. Then she kissed me back, hungrily. She moaned
when
I placed my hands over her breasts; she gasped when I slid my hand up
her
skirt. She wasn't wearing underwear.
She reached out and unzipped me; she unbuckled my belt, and let my
cock snap up like a switch-blade. She dropped to her knees and took me
into her mouth, with one hand holding my shaft and the other massaging
my
balls with warm, firm strokes.
It was extraordinary head: I felt like a piece of chocolate
dissolving in her mouth. Occasionally her teeth scraped against my
cock,
casting shivers along my nerves. Stephanie released my flesh, and
panted,
"Paul, I need you inside me. I need your cock between my legs."
I almost leaped on her. I shoved her back onto the grass, lifted
up her skirt, and slid my steel cock into her tight pussy. She cried
out,
and pounded her palms against my shoulders as I rammed her.
She was an extremely vocal lay; I instinctively worried about
neighbors hearing, but then remembered that she and Jeanette owned all
the
land around us. Relaxing, I became more vocal as well.
After she came -- thrashing, gasping -- she was extremely quiet
and still. She spoke in whispers.
"Did you like that?" I asked.
"Mm-hm..."
"Do you know what it's like to feel like Jeanette now?"
She laughed quietly, then hugged me.
"Jeanette told me," I said, "that I should make you like me more.
It'd make things easier. I think I succeeded."
She kissed my shoulder. "I like you more," she said. "But I
don't know if things'll get easier for you, Paul."
"What do you mean?"
"Well," she said, stroking her hand against my chest, "you've
cheated on your wife by fucking her sister. That's a dangerous secret,
you know." I felt her hand go to my crotch; she slid her hand under my
ball sack, and stroked it.
"I could ruin your marriage with that secret. I guess you could
say I've got you by the balls, Paul." Her fingers closed gently but
firmly around my testicles.
"I guess you could say you're in a very vulnerable position now,
aren't you, my little sex-puppet?"
I felt a twinge of nervousness, and jumped slightly as she gave my
balls an upward jolt.
Not knowing how to respond, I kissed her. She laughed an
evil-sounding laugh, then moved on top of me. She rubbed her clitoris
against my semi-hard cock, purring, "Come on, Paul. Let's do it again.
Can you get it up again?"
Surprisingly, my cock rose against her wet, hungry gash, and she
took me in to the hilt.
As she began riding me, she scratched her nails across my chest.
"I love screwing my sister's husband," she moaned. "It's like I've got
you both by the balls. And you're as much of a slut as she is."
Afterwards, I told her that Jeanette always swam with her lovers
after fucking them there, and invited her to dive in with me. She told
me
that she didn't really like to swim, and that she thought there would
be
leaches in the pond. I assured her that she was wrong, and that there
was
nothing like screwing underwater. She asked if I could handle her
again.
I told her if she'd join me in the water, I promised her another fuck.
I
led her to the high ridge overlooking the pond, and pointed to the
lilly
pads.
"That's where the water's the deepest," I said, "by the lilly
pads. Jump in right where they are."
"You first."
"Don't be a coward, Stephanie." I spanked her ass playfully.
"Jump in, and I'll dive on top of you."
She gave me a lusty look, then, grinning evilly, dove into the
pond -- right at the shallow point; right where I told her.
You might say it was a double-tragedy for my wife: her mother's
death from cancer, then Stephanie's spine-breaking diving injury.
Which
resulted in her drowning. With no one around to save her. But
Jeanette
had the now simplified legal matters to occupy her mind, and she coped
really well. The emotional bonds had never been very strong between
the
two sisters.
Wanna more incest stories? >
http://www.incesttabooo.com/2sis.html