("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._ `6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`) (_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-' _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,' (((' (((-((('' (((( K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N _________________________________________ WARNING! This text file contains sexually explicit material. If you do not wish to read this type of literature, or you are under age, PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!! _________________________________________ Scroll down to view text -------------------------------------------------------- This work is copyrighted to the author © 2007. Please don't remove the author information or make any changes to this story. All rights reserved. Thank you for your consideration. -------------------------------------------------------- Hornes Syndrome by Marcia R. Hooper (marciarh35@yahoo.com) *** A 12th grader dreams of having sex with his twin sister. But how much of what he experiences is dream, and how much is reality? And who exactly, is doing the dreaming? (MF-teens, nc, inc, mast, sleepy) *** As the author, I claim all rights under international copyright laws. This work is not intended for sale, but please feel free to post this story to other archives or newsgroups, keeping the header and text intact. Revision to the text (such as the basis for another story) is acceptable as long as the original author is given credit and the resulting story is distributed free of charge. Any commercial use of this work is expressly forbidden without the written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction and is not meant to portray any person living or dead, nor any known situation. This story contains themes of incest and noncommittal sex, and is not meant to be read by person’s under the age of 18, or the legal age in the county/state/country in which the reader resides. If you would like a Microsoft Word version of the story, please contact me at MarciaRH35@yahoo.com *** HORNES SYNDROME by Marcia R. Hooper Tracey's breasts began to develop at the age most girls begin to develop. Tracey's problem, however, was that they stopped developing almost at the same time. It was midway through twelfth grade, in fact, before she needed anything bigger than a AA-size bra, and then only after stuffing it with tissues to impress someone. You can imagine her inferiority complex. The beginning of change for Trace came over the summer between the eleventh and twelfth grades. She was finally diagnosed with a rare genetic disorder called Hornes Syndrome, where the expression of certain genes, most notably those responsible for the development of breast tissue, the slimming of the waist and broadening of the hips, and the shaping of the thighs so noticeable in other post-pubescence girls, misfired. The disorder is caused by a defective gene one of the two X chromosomes every female is born with, and although similar in nature to another malady called Turner's Syndrome, it was different enough, and uncommon enough, that the doctors took six months to agree on a therapy. Once administered, however, my sister suddenly began to look more like a girl, than a skinny dude. Perversely, Trace had always preferred tight pullover shirts, which did nothing, of course, but advertise her condition after puberty. But suddenly those same tight shirts displayed a pair of fetching, though still rather diminutive breasts, instead of the flat chest of a child. And if she wore no bra underneath, as she normally did at home in the evenings, her pointy nipples also revealed themselves. The admiring looks she now received from boys simply delighted her, and rightly so, but she seemed totally unaware of the effect they had on me. "Oh, hi, Jack," she said carelessly one evening, meeting me in the upstairs hallway. I choked, managing to keep my jaw from dropping as, nonchalantly, she slid past me out of the bathroom, her nightshirt sliding up her slender arms and over her head and down over her wiggly body. In that quick glimpse, I beheld two perfectly-formed, symmetrical little mounds of flesh tipped with quarter-sized pink areole and pea-size nipples. "Tracey," I croaked, "do you really think it appropriate to be walking around topless?" "Oh, Jack!" she guffawed, as though I'd just suggested she do her homework on a Friday night. "It's just you and me. You've seen me before." Yeah, I thought, but not as a suddenly authentic girl, and not sauntering around in just your bikini panties. Come to think of it, those bikini panties had looked pretty good on her trim little hips. I should note right here that Tracey and I are twins. Paternal twins, which means we share no more genes than normal brothers and sisters, and thus am not afflicted (as far as I can tell) by any genetic abnormalities. Just the opposite, in fact, if the length and breadth of my cock are any indication. (No, I'm not telling you how big it is. I'm not that much of a braggart.) If I was honest with myself, being a twin had always been something of a drag. Shared birthdays, unisex clothes when we were growing up (she still could--and did--wear my clothes throughout middle and high school), and the burden of a gawky, half-mirror-image of myself tended to hurt my popularity. But once Trace and I hit seventeen, the miracle of a twin sister--even a malfunctioning one--suddenly manifested itself. We began going to the movies together, to the mall, to the beach, she began asking to borrow a shirt instead of just taking it out of my room, and we even helped each other with our homework. And as odd as it seems, until that night in the upstairs hallway, my seeing Trace without a shirt on was no big deal. Having no breasts, meant having nothing to hide, I guess. What I'm trying to say, none to ably, is that I had sexual feelings for my sister even before she began to sprout breasts. And sprout they did. Almost overnight, no more than a week after beginning her pill regimen, boobs popped up on her like a couple of jack-in-the boxes. It became quite trying for me, because until then, my desire of her underdeveloped body had seemed more comical than serious. That had now changed, and I was in trouble. *** The following evening, against my better judgments, I ended up in the upstairs hallway at the exact same time, expecting the exact same result. It was not to be, however. Because, along with her new-grown breasts had come new popularity, and with new popularity, attitude. This was six weeks after starting the pills, and my sister was quickly catching up at being a mouth- off. That afternoon, in fact, her mouth had gotten her grounded. (Yes, seniors in our household, especially sassy female ones, still got grounded.) She made no secret that schoolwork--any kind of work for that matter--was much less important to her than talking, texting or doing most anything else with her friends. Not exactly an endearment to Mom, who was used to Miss Wallflower obeying every word she uttered. For my own part, I was having just as much difficulty concentrating. Images of Trace's tight young ass grinding away on my throbbing cock as we banged away at bad guys on my Playstation, her sitting on my lap as we raced cars up and down city streets in search of hapless pedestrians to plow under, hunted down aliens to slaughter mercilessly, me fighting the overwhelming need to blow a load in my pants as Trace rocked and rolled on my erection had me frantic. I never saw her that night, luckily, because chances are I would have raped her where she stood. *** It was two o'clock in the morning. I was standing in the hallway outside Tracey's bedroom door. I could hear her breathing slowly and deeply inside. Down the hall, I could also hear Mom and Dad breathing in their own bedroom. The heat-pump hissed in the background and downstairs, the refrigerator's compressor kicked on. Cautiously, I placed my right hand on the doorknob and twisted it to the right. I hesitated a moment, then inched the door open and slipped inside, easing it closed behind me. Trace stirred in her sleep, muttered softly, but did not awaken. I waited, hands clutching the doorknob. Finally, when her breathing had resettled into a deep rhythm, I tiptoed across the room and stood beside her bed. She was on her back, sprawled beneath the covers like someone attempting a sloppy snow-angel. Blonde hair obscured half her face and every breath through her slightly parted lips fluttered a strand of hair into the air. Her bedclothes were twisted tight about her waist, and even in the dim light filtering through her bedroom window, I could see the soft bulge of her growing breasts beneath the pajama top. It was the yellow set given her for Christmas by Aunt T: a long sleeve, vee- neck top and baggy shorts with a rope tie at the waist. I rubbed my hard-on through the front of my shorts and thought: Okay. Let's do it. Reaching down, I took the top of the covers and dragged them down around her ankles. She stirred again and moaned in her sleep, made as though to turn over, but then lay flat on her back again. Trace was as light a sleeper as you could find -- tiptoe past her room at two in the morning on the way to the bathroom and she'd jerk awake and, just as likely, holler at you through her bedroom door. Tonight, however, she might have been slipped a Roofie at bedtime. Putting one hand down the front of my shorts, I clasped the hem of her pajama top in the other and slowly drew it up, exposing her new breasts. Bared to the cool night air, her nipples immediately hardened, making groan at the change and squirm uncomfortably. Suddenly a very clear image appeared in my head: one of her hard nipples in my mouth, what it would feel like against my tongue, between my lips, and I rubbed doubly-hard on my erection. Just a minute, I scolded myself. Just a minute and you can do anything you want. First, I wanted to see her pussy. Cautiously, because my hands shook, I loosened the tie around her waist, gripped her pajama bottoms with both hands and pulled them off her hips, down her coltish thighs, then removed them from her entirely. Dropping them on the floor, I then slid her panties down as well, removing them also and letting them drop on the floor beside her pajama bottoms. Trying to protect herself, even in sleep, Tracey immediately clamped her legs together and raised her knees. I carefully took one knee in each hand and spread her apart, revealing her lovely treasure. To my surprise she was smooth-shaven, with a pencil-line of fine blonde hair above her cleft as an accent. Her puffy lips, modestly closed, ran down to disappear between her butt cheeks. She showed nothing of her pink insides, and suddenly I feared that she might be menstruating. But I saw no tell-tale string escaping between her lips, and there had been no panty-liner in her underwear. (Menstruation, as a subject, came up more often than expected in our household. Dad was a Presbyterian minister, with a minister's rigid disposition, but Mom was a pediatrician and Trace a more-or-less typical teenage girl, insofar as her ability to inflict painful embarrassment. More than once they had driven me out of the room with discussions of the female workings. So it was with great relief then, that I didn't have that particular insult thrown in my face.) I stood back and enjoyed her youthful nakedness from all angles. She was not naked, however, and I diligently worked the top of her pajamas up and over her head and and tossed them on the floor also. She was now perfectly nude, and once I'd arranged her arms at just the right angles, perfectly posed as well. Impulsively, a leaned down and placed a kiss on the tip of her right nipple, then one on the tip of her left. Then I went and kissed her gently between her legs and she groaned loudly and arched her back, hands gripping fistful's of sheet. Another quick kiss and she flexed her legs wider still, and that was it. Already barely in control of myself, I yanked down my shorts and threw off my tee-shirt and stood there at her bedside, looking down at her, panting and yanking on my cock. I moaned and shivered uncontrollably as adrenalin-rush forced me onto my tiptoes. It took everything I had to let go before the hurricane hit. I backed away and stood in the corner between her dresser and the bedroom wall, panting and shaking. It had been close... it had been very close. Eventually, after the terrible urgency had drained, I crept back and knelt beside the bed. I cupped my hand over her right breast and let it rest there, enjoying the feel of her soft warm flesh. She murmured in her sleep and tucked her head against her right shoulder, as though trying to cuddle with whomever was touching her. I removed my hand and replaced it with my mouth, and her murmuring took on an added urgency. I played my tongue over the tip of the nipple, teasing it into acute hardness, then nibbled it with my teeth. Then I transferred my attention to her other breast, and as I did so, she whimpered and tried pushing me away. Then her hands were running through my hair and caressing my face and I let my right hand steal along the flat of her hard tummy, down to the cleft between her legs and, as the tip of my middle finger slid effortlessly inside her, she flexed and rose up to meet me. My finger went deep, the tip finding and massaging the dome of her cervix; she moaned deeply in her throat, arched her back higher and pressed her legs flat down on the mattress. Although I thought it impossible, my embedded finger pushed deeper still inside her, until it seemed I could tickle her belly-button from the inside. With no conscious decision, I glued my mouth to hers, my tongue whip-lashing hers in an effort to get down her throat. My lips mashed so hard against hers that our teeth ground. Then I could take no more and slid onto the mattress beside her, wanting to mount her and claim her virginity as my own. She was a virgin and I knew that she was a virgin. But the instant my cock touched her a tidal wave of sperm erupted out of me and I awoke, heart hammering madly and the insides of my shorts drenched with semen. Fuck! I thought, slamming back down onto my pillow. It was just a dream. Yeah, but what a dream, right? *** The next morning I got up late. I hadn't slept well after the dream, tossing and turning until I had finally kicked off my clean shorts and stroked myself off onto the mattress. It had been only the barest of help, however, because half an hour later I did it again. I was damned if I'd repeat myself a third time, however, so I forced myself to lay still and counted heartbeats silently in my head. I had just closed my eyes, it seemed, when the blasted alarm clock went off. As dreams do, my mid-night liaison with Trace had faded away to murky half-images and half-remembered scenes, like those in a movie with half the frames missing. In the cold light of day I was unsure even who the girl had been, though I suspected it was my sister. Rather than exciting me, the thought caused something close to revulsion. Had I really jerked off twice afterwards, visualizing Tracey? Tracey, it turned out, was already up and dressed. Headed for the bathroom, shower, I had just reached her door as it swung inward and out she stumbled, coat half-on and back-pack half-slung over her right shoulder. She banged right into me and we both banged off opposite walls. "Fucking watch it, will ya!" I growled at her, bending over to retrieve my tee-shirt. "Sorry," she mumbled. Head down, she looked at me quickly from beneath her brows, then she was rushing down the hallway, shoulders bunched, steps awkward and clumping, as always, pigeon- toed, and I thought, What the fuck was that about? scowling after her. When she reached the top of the stairs, she dared a backward glance and revealed a face blotchy and red, eyes shocked-looking, as though she'd just done something horrible I'd find out about. Then she was gone down the stairs, and the details of the dream came thundering back like a locomotive exploding out of a tunnel. I was glad she was not there to see my face. *** That evening, I couldn't decide whether I wanted to see Trace or not. But since she never come out of her room, claiming to be sick--Mom took her temperature, peering in her ears and down her throat for signs of a nasty bug, until rebelling, Trace had kicked her out of the room--the decision was not mine to make. Aggravated, cranky from lack of sleep, I lay down at ten o'clock to watch TV and fell right asleep. *** It was two o'clock in the morning again. I knew, because I was staring at the red numerals on Tracey's alarm clock. I didn't remember getting out of bed, or of sneaking out of my room and down the hall, nor of coming into Tracey's room. I just discovered myself standing there next to her bed. Tonight she was on her stomach, arms akimbo and one leg cocked over the other, discernible even beneath the covers. She snored lightly, mouth open with a dribble of saliva wetting the bed sheet. Her hair was twisted about her head even worse than the night before, and so were the blankets around her body. I could make out nothing beneath her hair from the mouth up. Her pajamas were also from the night before. The top was half-way up her back, and half-twisted around her torso. Except for her sex, I was reminded of Michael J. Fox in Back to the Future. I reached down, loosened the blankets and drew them down to the foot of the bed. She murmured, shifted position jerkily, then resumed her soft snoring. I couldn't decide if she looked sexy like this, hilarious or pitiful. I left the decision up to my cock: It decided it was sexy. The first thing I wanted was to see her ass. Her rear end, like everything else about her body, had transformed pretty dramatically over the last six weeks. Her waist had slimmed, her hips had filled out, and her thighs were like those of a fine young philly. I was willing, after last night, to bet the same was true of her ass. I straightened out her legs, then slid the yellow pajama bottoms off her hips and down her legs. This time, however, instead of simply dropping them on the floor, I removed myself from the confines of my boxer shorts and rubbed the pajama bottom up and down my cock. Marking my territory, if you will. Then, almost giddily, I placed them next to her face on the mattress so that she could breath our combined aromas. Her panties came next--this time, white with yellow piping around the legs holes and a yellow waistband sporting the Victoria's Secret logo. They slid effortlessly down her hips and revealed a rear end the sight of which took my breath away. Perfectly sculpted, I thought, a perfect example of what an adult's ass should look like. Looking at it, I accidentally leaked cum onto her bed sheets and knew I was in danger of -- forget premature -- spontaneous ejaculation. I slid her panties the rest of the way off, repeated my scenting procedure on them and lay them atop her pajama bottoms. She sensed something, either her lack of clothing below the waist, or the scent of her molester, and emitted a troubled groan while shifting position. She crossed her right calf over her left leg, then reversed the order, which of course, did nothing but expose more of her than before. It was when I removed her pajama top, however, that I got a real surprise: she had worn a bra to bed. An added bonus, I thought happily. Laying her pajama top aside, I oh-so-carefully unhooked her bra-strap, thinking as I did so, that as many girls as I had done this to, it had never been with the trepidation and excitement that I felt undoing the bra of my own sister. Okay, I mused. Now get it off without awakening her. I did somehow, one arm at a time, lifting and cajoling, tugging and sliding, until finally, triumphantly, I held the captured bra aloft, a handful of captured gold. I snatched in back down again, almost as fast, searching interestedly for an attached tag. I finally found it at the end of the left strap, and twisted it to the light. Size 34-B, it read. Imagine, my sister, a 34-B. Now she was naked. My cock throbbed and my heart pounded in my chest. The thing to do would be to mount her where she lay, I told myself, spread her legs and shove my cock into her before she awoke... and before I exploded. Instead, I lay down beside her on the bed, careful not to touch any part of her body with my cock. Placing the tips of my fingers on the knob of bone topping her spine -- she shuddered -- I let them course slowly down its length to the small of her back, where she moaned again, more deeply this time, and brought them back up to her neck. I want to fuck you, I thought, feeling her shudder. I want to fuck your mouth, your pussy, in the ass doggy- style. I imagined turning her over and forcing open her mouth and forcefully inserting my cock. I imagined the press of her lips against my shaft as she suckled me, the pressure of her tongue pushing it against the roof of her mouth, of pressing downward until I entered her throat, making her gag, and then the gout of hot sperm rushing down into her stomach. Instead, I moved my hand to her ass, letting it drift over the silky flesh, letting it explore the entire, exquisite roundness of it. Then I just let it rest there, relishing the fact that, other then the hand of my father, this was the first hand to ever touch her there. The first hand (I hoped) to do it caressingly. And I wondered, not for the first time, if my sister was truthful with me about her virginity. "Am I really your first?" I whispered to her. She murmured, shifting her bottom beneath my hand, drawing her arms inward so that her hands lay protectively either side of her head. The real question was, What to do next? Having calmed down to an acceptable level, I slipped out of my underwear and my tee-shirt, sidled up beside her until my skin contacted her along the entire length of her body. This closeness she apparently liked, because she immediately crabbed sideways to cuddled up to me. When I let my hand drift off her bottom and down the inside of her left thigh, and then back up again, she shuddered deeply, raised her bottom and spread her thighs involuntarily. I accepted this invitation, sliding my fingers along the crack of her ass to find, and then penetrate her waiting lips. As my middle finger entered her moist cavity, she instinctively raised herself even higher, and with something of a shock I realized that Trace was not only wet inside, but absolutely drenched. She sucked in breath violently as I found, and then assaulted her cervix, twisted her hips as the attack intensified and groaned "No!" twice in her sleep, before thrusting her backside against my hand. That was it for me. Desperate, knowing that I had only seconds left, I climbed atop her, grabbed her wrists in my hands, forced her thighs apart with my knees, jabbed her between the cheeks as she raised high to take me in, and moment I touched I-- "No, godammit!" I cried. "Not again!" I was on my stomach on my bed, dry-humping the mattress, cum gushing unstoppably from my cock. I felt sickened, defeated, overwhelmed with loss, and frustrated beyond imagination. All this wonderful sperm going to waste, I thought, while fifteen feet away my sister lay asleep in her bed, unaware of anything. I flung myself angrily out of bed and thrust my middle finger at the door. "Fuck you and everyone that rides you!" I cried hoarsely. Then I went to the bathroom to clean up. *** Friday morning I was up and out of the house before Trace even awoke. In the evening I yearned to catch a hockey game with my friends Josh and Frank, and even though the Capitals would probably loose, it would be a wonderful experience being away from the house and away from my sister. However, Mom had a medical conference to attend the next day, in Philadelphia, and Dad was going with her. Their plan was to drive up that evening, after work, and stay at the Sheraton where the conference was being held. Driving home Saturday night was debated over dinner, but because the party afterward would run until eleven o'clock, more likely midnight, and maybe until 2:00 A.M, when the previous year's party had finally been shut down by the hotel management, and drinking and driving for Mom and Dad was a no-no, they decided that they would stay Saturday also. Afterward I had grouched to Mom: "You could at least have Tracey spend the weekend with a friend. Then I could see my hockey game, and have Josh and Frank over for the weekend." Which elicited a shake of the head and knowing grin from my mother. "And this is a better idea than you babysitting your little sister?" she asked. "My 'little sister' is six minutes younger than me," I reminded her needlessly. "She doesn't need a baby- sitter." Which was maybe not the truth, given her compulsion lately to make up for lost time, both sexually and mischief-wise. "And if you're worried about a party," I added drying, "you should know that 'Little sister' can drink just as much as I can any day day of the week." She poked a finger in my chest. "But I'm not worried about partying in my house when I'm away. Am I, John?" she said. What you should be worried about, I wanted to say, is something else entirely. But I agreed that, No, no partying would occur over the weekend. "We'll be good little kids," I promised. "Good," she said, and walked away. Good little kids, I thought, like Hansel and Gretel. Or maybe Bonnie and Clyde. *** Friday night, the shit hit the fan, but not in the way I expected. It was just after seven o'clock, and I had crept upstairs while Trace was in the shower. But my iPod was not in my back-pack as I had expected, and a ten-minute search of my room turned up nothing more than a history assignment I'd not turned in that week, the moldy remains of a microwave pizza beneath my bed, and the Hustler magazine I'd evidently lied to Josh about returning. It was at that point that I remembered my iPod was in the pocket of my coat downstairs, but I couldn't very well leave the magazine without perusing some of the spread legs and offered behinds. It was therefore not fate that put me in the hallway just as the bathroom door opened and ejected Trace amidst a cloud of steam, but my own stupidity. "Oh, hi," she mumbled. Her hair was in a towel, and she wore the yellow terry clothe robe that I had given her for Christmas. It was disturbing, knowing that Trace was probably nude beneath the robe, except for maybe a pair of panties. She clutched herself in the robe as though I meant to rip it off her. "What's the matter with you?" I growled, suddenly angry at her demeanor. "Nothing," she mumbled back, shoulders bunched and knees locked together tightly, more facing the wall than facing me. "Dad wail on you again?" I taunted, as I always did when I wanted a reaction. This time, however, instead of the red-face and huffily-replied, "Fuck you, John!" my sister only shrugged. "He did?" I said, blinking in surprise. She hadn't been spanked in years, but that hadn't stopped Dad from threatening it. More than once over the past six weeks she'd been threatened to get it bare-handed, and bare- bottomed. Only Mom's intervention had averted that little disaster. But she only shook her head, sullenly. "Mom?" I ventured doubtfully, to which she again shook her head. "Then what?" I demanded peevishly. She shook her head again, then, peeking up from beneath her eyebrows and, after a further moment of courage- gathering, asked: "Did you come into my bedroom last night?" I flinched involuntarily, then exclaimed "No!" hoping to gloss over my shock. "Why?" I demanded. "The night before?" she persisted. "No!" I said again, shaking my head emphatically, praying that the dimness of the hall hid my rising color. Then, stiffly I said: "I did not come into your room last night, or the night before. Why do you ask?" Speaking in a hoarse whisper, looking away from me, she said: "Because both nights I woke up with my clothes off and in the middle of having sex." "What?" I choked. She shuddered, then began to slowly twist back and forth, her arms clutched so tightly over her chest and her knees locked together so hard that I thought she'd pop a joint. "Tracey," I said shakily. "What are you talking about? Why are you telling me this?" "Because it was you," she said hoarsely, "that I was doing it with." *** After this bomb-shell, Trace had stumbled off to her bedroom and I went downstairs to meditate the intricacies of the human condition. In other words, to panic. Mumbling impossible theories to myself, I paced stiff- legged up and down the family room for fifteen minutes. Then I forced myself to sit down and grabbed a game- controller off the table and, because HALO 3 was in the Playstation, that's what I played for the next hour and fifteen minutes, loosing points and lives like a newbie. At just before nine o'clock, I looked up and discovered Trace standing in the doorway. "What are you doing?" I asked stupidly. She wore an exceeding ugly outfit of a long-sleeved, purple and mauve striped top and mauve-colored stretch pants. Her hair was uncombed and tucked sloppily behind her ears; she stood hunched over, knees locked together and arms clutching her chest as she had upstairs. Perversely, despite the seriousness of the moment, despite her disheveled appearance and outlandish outfit, she looked as fetching to me as a fairy tale princess. "Nothing," she muttered with a shrug. "You winning?" "Sure," I lied, taking a hit that almost knocked me out of the game. "You want to talk?" Tears sprang to her eyes and her face pinched in preparation of a sob. She controlled it, however, and after wiping her eyes on the cuff of her shirt-sleeve, and sniffing loudly, she cried: "I want to know what's going on, John!" I dropped the game-controller and stood up awkwardly, I didn't know whether to go to her or not. Chickening out, I said weakly: "It was only a dream. I have dreams like that all the time." "Dreams where your brother takes your clothes off and tries to rape you?" she fired back hotly. "Dreams where you wake up and find yourself in the most ludicrous positions?" She shook momentarily with anger, then steadied herself and added, "Sorry," knowing that her words had stung. "It's okay," I said, shakily. "Dreams can be pretty confusing sometimes. The last couple of nights--" I started, before reconsidering what I was about to say. "It's... it's probably just a side-effect," I went on lamely. "From the--" "Pills?" she interjected. "The pills, right," I said numbly. Then, after an embarrassingly extended silence, I ventured: "Dreaming stuff about your brother would be pretty unnerving, I imagine. Has it happened before? Before the pills, I mean?" She shook her head. "Well, then, there you go," I said, unconvincingly. "Nothing to worry about." She nodded, more a shrug than in agreement. Eyes red and haunted-looking, she said to me: "I'm scared about these dreams, John. What if I cry out in my sleep... make noises like--?" She faltered, eyes panicky now. "What if Mom or Dad came in while I was in the middle of one of these and there I am, naked and --and--?" She burst into tears and I went to her then, putting an arm around her shoulders and leading her over to the couch and sitting her down. I kept my arm around her shoulders and tried to console her with things like: "Look, it's all right." "Things happen." "It's nothing to worry about, sis." "You can lock your bedroom door," each sounding more inane than the one before, until I finally just shut up. Stupid or not, however, they had desired effect on her. "I just don't know what to do," she sobbed quietly, wiping tears on her already soaked shirt-cuff. "Last night I woke up with my clothes piled up next to my face on the bed. I was..." she faltered again, wringing her hands and staring at the floor. "Was what?" I asked, trying not to sound cajoling. If I wasn't hearing this with my own two ears, I'd say I was crazy. Maybe I was crazy. She took a deep breath, then finished her sentence. "I was on my stomach with my butt up in the air, letting you fuck me, Jack. And you just disappeared." "Disappeared?" I said, numbly. "Yes!" she wailed. "You were there and I was ready and you got on top of me, and, and--" "Tracey!" I blurted. "Stop! I believe you! You don't have to say any more." She laughed, wiping her eyes and showing a brave little smile. "If you think it's embarrassing hearing it, John, try--" "Okay!" I agreed. "I get your point." She sighed, sniffed loudly, and said: "The point is, if these dreams keep happening, I could be in real trouble. I can lock my bedroom door, but Mom'd just take that as just another sign of rebellion." "Hey," I protested. "You're a teenage girl. You're supposed to keep your door locked at night. We all know you girls go to bed with your lipstick vibrators." She laughed, as did I, both embarrassed by my words, before saying, "I suppose you're right, but Mom would still take it the wrong way." There was nothing to say to that, so we just sat there in silence for a time, me enjoying her closeness, her my supposed moral support. Knowing what she had endured over the last two nights made me feel both giddy and ashamed. I was the worst kind of molester: one she loved and trusted. Finally, I suggested the only thing that I could think of. "Go to sleep tonight, and see what happens. It's just you and me in the house, remember? If I show up again, kick me the hell out and tell me to use my hand." She said softly, "What if I don't want you to get out? What if I want you to finish this time?" I stared at her, mouth open, too shocked to speak. Grinning, she punched me on the shoulder, said "Punch- buggy red," signifying that I had just been tagged. Then she got up, smiled down at me, and said, "Thanks, big brother, for listening to me," kissing me on the forehead afterwards. "You're not stupid," I said inanely. As she headed for the door, wanting the conversation to end on a lighted note, I called out after her: "Just so I know what to expect tonight, what are you wearing to bed?' She grinned at me, almost evilly, and said, "The same thing I wore the last two nights. My yellow pajamas." "Must be getting a little funky by now," I said, flexing my nostrils. "I can stand it if you can," she said, grinning at me over her shoulder as she disappeared into the darkness of the downstairs hallway. I sat back on the couch, both enjoying and feeling irritation at my thickening cock, wondering, rather distractedly, just whose dream I was in. There was only one way to find out. *** Rolling over, I looked at the bedside clock and saw that it was two o'clock. The witching hour, I thought, then corrected myself. The witching hour was three o'clock, at least according to some movie I'd seen lately. I lay staring at the clock for a time, wondering what movie that had been. Then it came to me: The Exorcism of Emily Rose. I hoped that wasn't somehow a premonition. Getting up, I tiptoed across the room and put my ear to the door. I heard nothing, not even the breathing of my sister. After a moment, a low hiss of air coming out of the vents told me that the heat-pump had kicked on. I noticed the air had a hint of a chill in it, which it should, considering that it was maybe ten degrees outside. I crept down the hall to Trace's bedroom door and placed my ear against the laminate surface. I could hear her breathing now, the same gentle snoring of the night before, which told me she was probably on her stomach. I wondered what condition the covers and her night-clothes were in tonight. Judging from the thickening of my cock, I couldn't wait to find out. Holding my breath, I turned the knob and pushed the door open a crack. One of the hinges squealed sharply, making Trace stir grumpily in her sleep, but it remained quiet as I opened the door far enough to peer inside. Trace lay face down on the bed, as expected, facing away from me. She wore the same yellow pajama set, the back of which was wrenched halfway up to her shoulder blades. It was twisted so badly that it looked on the verge of ripping. I slipped inside, closed the door softly behind me, and crept over to the bed. "Hello, little sister," I whispered down at her. Again, tangled hair hid the upper part of her face. She lay sprawled beneath the covers, arms and legs thrust in every direction, a Raggedy Ann doll tossed out of a skyscraper. Her mouth was open, and as I bent down to look for saliva, she began to snore softly. I stood erect, and not for the first time, I longed for a camera to capture the magic of the moment. Even more, the magic moment of her nakedness once I'd unclothed her. But a picture would need a flash, and a flash was definitely out of the question. So no, no camera. I lifted the back of her pajama top and peered beneath. I could just make out the bottom edge of her bra strap. Good, I thought. They were was so much fun to take off. Gently moving her arms into position above her head, I worked the pajama top over her head, and off her arms. I dropped it on the floor without thinking, then retrieved and rubbed it up and down my bare cock. Freshly marked, I lay it on the bed beside her face. Then, for some reason I am want to explain, I picked it up again and folded it neatly and returned it to the bed. I stood there, looking down at her, conflicting thoughts warring in my head. What was I doing here? Why don't you undo her bra strap? came an answer. This girl is my sister: Do I really want to violate her? I wondered. Look at that fine young ass, the answer was. Don't you want to have it? Hadn't she told me something tonight? I wondered. Something that had distressed her? Think how warm and wet and inviting her pussy is, the voice came back. The voice won out, and I reached down to grab the bed covers, to expose the yellow pajama bottoms which I would then remove. But she jerked suddenly in her sleep, twisting her shoulder blades as though she had an itch. Okay, I thought. Your bra first then. Unhooking the loops, I lay the bra-straps out either side of her on the mattress. I then gently scratched the red indents in her skin, where the straps had been, eliciting a grateful moan, and a flexing of her back muscles beneath my fingertips. Encouraged, I began to scratch either side of the strap marks, which she appreciated even more. "Mmmm," she murmured in her sleep. "Thas good, John." Surprised and giddy, I leaned over and whispered in her ear, "I'm glad you enjoy it, sis. Want your entire back scratched?" She shuddered lightly, closed her mouth and worked her lips, as though thinking about it, then said softly, "Sure, John. That would be great." My grin widened: Sleep-talking with my sister. I rubbed, scratched and kneaded her from neck to the small of her back. She groaned continually, a happy groan, nodding occasionally and breathing, "Uh-huh" when I found an especially good spot with my fingernails, or worked an especially needy muscle. While I did this my cock ached with a need of its own, a need I feared would erupt in a torrent of flame at her very first touch. Five minutes of effort left Trace's back a tracery of fingernail scrapes, knead-marks and flushed healthily with blood. Her breathing was easily as labored as my own, going loudly in and out of her open mouth. Her hands clenched and released the bedclothes spasmodically and her legs twitched, opened, closed, and then opened again. It was time to get her out of her clothes and onto her knees. Stripping back the bedclothes, I grabbed her pajama bottoms by the legs and yanked them down to mid-thigh, her panties trailing along half the distance. I pulled them the rest of the way down, then ran my hands over her buttocks (my decidedly shaking hands), enjoying their suppleness and their warmth. On sudden impulse I spread her cheeks, exposing the brown spot of her little anus, which drew an immediate intake of breath from me, and a grunt of protest from Trace. She clenched her cheeks and crossed her legs protectively. Testosterone had my blood-pressure cranked higher than a soaring eagle. The thought of that cute little brown spot clamped tightly around my trusting cock was just too much to bear, and I thought, Okay. Back away from this, or you won't get past her pajama bottoms. Scrambling off the bed, I took a couple of much-needed laps around the bedroom. Rather than think of Trace, I concentrated on the carpet disappearing beneath my feet. Her bare white bottom, flagged by the half- removed panties and pajama bottoms, beckoned me like a siren from the Odyssey. Wanting it, and wanting it now, I rushed back to the bed and tore off her panties and pajama bottoms and threw them on the floor. I wanted her bra off as well, but had neither the patience, nor the wherewithal to attempt it. I got on my hands and knees, preparing to mount her, when suddenly she rotated beneath me, arms slithering around my neck, drawing me down, hungrily finding my mouth. "Tonight," she informed me, between desperate windings of our tongues, "you are not leaving me, John." I lasted long enough to thrust my way inside her and then, like a volcano spewing molten lava, hot juices cascaded from me, filling her, claiming the right of first passage into her womb, where miraculously, no egg awaited us for fertilization. Her orgasm, I believe, was even greater than mine. Epilogue: It's years later now, and Trace and I are both married. Her husband is an FBI agent out of the Washington, DC field office. His name is Robert, and although he's a nice enough guy, and we get along as well as brothers- in-law can, I suppose, it's still a little unnerving having my sister married to a cop. She talks in her sleep, if you remember. Janice was one of Trace's closest girlfriend growing up. They lost contact after high school, however, Trace attending Penn State, my dad's Alma-Mater, with Jan ending up at, of all places, the University of Utah. No, she's not a Mormon. Unfortunately, my marriage to Jan took the same path as so many do these days: to court. Jan and I separated four months ago; I moved into an apartment, and kept the cat, while she got the kids. Trace also, has two kids. In the early morning hours after our first successful dream-coupling, I woke Trace up and confessed everything: How I had entered her bedroom in the dreams, disrobed her and attempted to force sex upon her, how I awoke in my own bed to complete the wet- dream in frustration. She confessed something as well: For her, the dreams had begun the same week as her pill regimen. They became progressively more explicit and frightening to her, until the night she had brushed past me in the upstairs hallway, topless. "I acted like it was nothing," she admitted that morning. "But the instant I got into my bedroom I threw myself onto the bed, knowing that I had just shown my boobies to my brother. I was so embarrassed. And then that night..." She shrugged, red-faced at the memory. I then recounted my own anxiety and frustration over the incident. "Truthfully," I told her. "I had wanted you for a long, long time, but nothing like after that night." What happened between us after that? Before retiring to our respective bedrooms at eight o'clock in the morning for whatever sleep could be salvaged, we promised to discuss things again that night. And we had discussed them... in Tracey's bed, in the nude, and at great length. Thank God Mom and Dad hadn't come home until Sunday afternoon. And what about now? you say. Do we still dream together? You bet we do, only now we do it in my bed. THE END ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author does not condone the described behavior in real life. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Kristen's collection - Directory 52