One In The Same

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, their 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 not 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.