Sister And Sandra And Secrets

This story is half true, half not. Enjoy choosing which is which.

And let me know what you think! If you like this stuff, I'd like you to tell me.

I want it known that she came to me willingly. She showed up. She moved in. She paid bills. She pulled her weight and made my life easier than it's ever been. She knew what she was doing, and she did it better every day. Now we're married, and I don't care what people might think. We moved 1,400 miles away so we could live the way we wanted, and I'm only telling this tale to set the record straight. She seduced me. She planned it all along. My sister, my wife.

Sandra is important, too; and really, this part of the story is more about her than about my sister, Jamie. But I'll at least start this off with some words about my sister, nonetheless, since she started all this with me.

Boring details? I never thought of her in a truly sexual way when we were kids. Not truly as a fantasy girl in my life. Not even as young adults roaming free, drinking hard, partying together sometimes. She was my sister! It just wasn't a thought in my head. Sure, she was tall, with hair straight and full and soft as morning dreams. Dark and mysterious and dangerous, my sister; and her boyfriends never lasted more than a month. She was—and is—a woman who will not back down, who will not accept the role of the "worshipped beauty".

It used to be fun watching her intimidate the fools who fell for her. You could say she was like a female Good Will Hunting, except without all the baggage and bad language—and a whole lot better ass. Guys tried, and guys failed. The ones who wanted to look smart only got it a lot worse from her in the end, and faster. She got her PhD in Medieval English Literature and was an assistant professor by the age of 26, and no guy would push her around in any way. And do you think any of them made fun of her for being smart?

Piercings in her left nostril and right eyebrow and the tongue stud and the onyx spike in both earlobes (each only ¼-inch in diameter, don't freak out, she'd say to Mom, but Mom still did—and does) made her mildly exotic—considering the campus crowd—but put her in a writing seminar or in a faculty meeting… she was like Lady Godiva and Xena and Rockbitch, all wrapped up in one inscrutable package. That said, most of her longer-term boyfriends were older faculty members, most of them married, most of them from the Anthropology and Philosophy departments. That alone proves she had a first-class sense of humor.

I was 29. I hadn't seen her or heard from her in about a month. Then she calls me. I'd almost forgotten her voice, deep with a husky confidence, she always sounded a little breathy, liked she'd just finished fucking. It is an intoxicating way to deliver words. Of course, being 29, I was more ready than ever to get hard and be proud of myself for still managing to do so. Thirty, as a year of life, really isn't that awful; but the year leading up to it is. As her mouth vibrated that phone against my ear, my penis strained and ached worse than it had in a long time.

"Hey big bro, how 'ya been? Can I come over?" And that was it.

Her roommate kicked her out, there'd been a fight, and she needed to crash. She shows up at my door with one bag of clothes (OK, it was an army duffel bag), three plastic grocery bags full of shoes, and the back of her old S-10 full of boxes of books. Without shame or anger or any other sort of salutation, she simply turned her cheek to me as I opened the door. A long trio of nasty scratches ran down the side of her face, crusted in places where they had bled. It took me a few more minutes to notice the rest: her limp, her ripped shirt, her bleeding knuckles.

"Carol is a bitch, John, and I want you go over there and kill her."

Turns out, I didn't. I only went out to get her a case of Captain Morgan's and some Bactine. However, on the way back I swung by her house and knocked on the door. Nobody answered. That was good, since I didn't have any kind of plan. I'd left Jamie back at my place in the tub, where she wasn't in the mood to talk about it, so mainly I was just hunting clues. Turns out Carol would have probably shot me if she could, had she known I'd come by, but I got lucky.

It was eleven o'clock at night, and I thought Carol had gone somewhere else to ease her pain, too.

Living close to Jamie, I'd always had a spare key to her place, so it was easy to get in. Most of the lights were on, but, luckily, I didn't call out. Lying on the floor in the kitchen was a girl—maybe a sophomore or junior at the university—completely naked and utterly asleep. Her arms were stretched out on the pale linoleum to either side, palms down, duct-taped at the fingers, wrists, and elbows. Her knees, calves, and ankles were similarly duct-taped. The girl was sealed to the floor. Her legs were spread apart as far as they appeared able to get, considering the taping required them to be flat on the floor.

It was plenty wide enough for me to see her pussy, which was shaved completely and shining. Her breasts were lolling out over her sides, heavy D-cups, and her nipples were pierced and thick. All over her flesh were bright splashes of red and blue and yellow. Wax. A red, a blue, and a yellow candle each lay in the sink, gutted down to nubs. Five bottles of Rolling Rock lay empty in the sink, too, along with a very fat and very black latex dildo.

I wanted to unzip, right then and there, and stroke my cum all over this pitiful sleeping girl.

Despite my shock—because of it!—I wanted to fuck her.

Nevertheless, I was civilized. Then. I quickly walked throughout the house, but no one else was hog-tied or folded into a cabinet or anything. It occurred to me that this was probably illegal and certainly depraved. Yet, it was in Jamie's house, the place she'd shared with Carol right up until a few hours before. Anything I reported would be reflected on Jamie somehow. I was sure of it. So I took pictures instead.

I worked for the local paper. (I work for a paper now, as a matter of fact.) A good reporter always has a camera handy, even if he isn't a paid photographer. Because you never know. A good reporter also has a photographer buddy who lets him use his private darkroom, which meant I wasn't about to hesitate in getting some good shots of this poor, crazy chick. As I came back from my car with my Nikon, I noticed a window on the side of the house, low to the ground, basement-level. Red light gleamed dully behind the dusty glass. I kept going on into the house, now completely nervous and explosively horny. If someone was down in that basement, they were either hiding, unconscious, or bound. And I was determined to find out.

But first the girl. After the tenth or eleventh shot, she was still asleep, so I figured her to be drunk—or more—and kept on going. Lying on my stomach across the kitchen from her grimy bare feet, I shot some artsy angles. Her toes, her crack, her tummy, her tits. Like a mountain range of woman. Then I saw the dark flat panel of latex under her cunt, and I realized it was the base of a butt-plug, and that she was filled up in the ass with something nice and big.

That did it. Pulling down my pants, I stroked maybe twenty times before I shot rope after rope of jizz all over the girl's body. I shot from her cunt to her face, gushing like I hadn't done in years. Got a cramp in my calf as I strained, too, but it was worth it.

And she never moved a muscle, just breathed softly in, softly out.

The basement opened right down from behind the corner that led out to the kitchen. I'd always thought it was a closet. Keen reporting instincts, you know. I was still plenty hard and very curious, so down I went. The old wooden stairs made enough noise to wake anybody in the house not drugged, but I kept going. And there was Carol. And another sophomore-aged college girl.

They were lying, spooned together, on a king-sized bed in the corner. Both appeared to be utterly stoned, or worse; they were naked, pink in the ruddy light. The younger girl was fat, perhaps thirty pounds overweight, and Carol was compact and athletic, as usual. Carol's hand was on the chubby girl's tit, and her thigh was snugly tucked between the soft flesh of her younger lover's legs. They looked happy together, and I continued to get sucked into the bizarre world of that house, forgetting a bit longer about my disheveled sister and her army bag and her scratched face.

It was a finished basement, with heat registers and wood paneling and a big screen TV against one wall, in front of an old leather couch. In the middle of the room stood a big wooden X with straps attached to it, along with a barrel padded in leather and laid cut to fit over a large sawhorse. The floor was linoleum there beneath those contraptions, and it was vastly puddled. Startled, I even saw a large lump of shit lying half-flattened at the edge of one of the thin pools.

I was suddenly very aware of the stench, and I was just as suddenly wanting to cum again, deliriously, painfully, immediately. Something in me was twisted for good. Only, I didn't know what. Not yet, at any rate.

A chest of drawers stood against another wall, near the door to a small bathroom. One of the drawers was pulled half-open, revealing a neat row of dildoes arranged on a plush velvet cushion. Inspection of the other drawers produced similarly kinky equipment: whips, straps, clamps, a shoebox full of half-empty bottles of lubricant. Astroglide appeared to be the overwhelming brand of choice.

In the shower hung three red enema bags, a hose assembly, and a pair of pantyhose. There was an empty bottle of Stoli and seven empty Rolling Rocks in the sink. And unflushed puke all over the toilet and floor. I backed out of there quickly.

Snapping another roll of film down there, I finally backed into the motherlode of all discoveries—a video camera on a tripod in the corner. There was a bookcase beside the big screen TV, and I finally noticed that it was heavily populated by video tapes. First, I popped the tape out of the recorder, found a case for it, and stashed it in my coat pocket. Then I went back up to the kitchen, found an empty garbage bag, and went back down to clean her out. Fifty-three videos in all. Every last bit of her collection I could find. The titles ranged from "Amy, March, 1997" to "Vegas With Nana" to "Erica, Christmas Eve, 2001". Nine tapes had Jamie's name on them, and my dick grew nine times harder than steel when I realized I was stealing them for my own.

It might be nice to say I decided to spare the bedrooms of the house, that I'd gotten away with enough. But it wouldn't be true. I ran out of time to pillage. The girl in the kitchen woke up.

"Carol!" came the weak cry. "Carol! Please let me up!"

In an instant I was up the steps and out the door, the girl in the duct tape so terrified she ripped herself right off the linoleum and tore down the steps screaming. I could still hear her shrieks as I hit reverse and whined my car back out of Carol's driveway, but Carol never poked her head out the door.

Then I thought of my sister. Then I thought of the tapes. Then I masturbated as I drove home, shedding shoes and pants at a stoplight and pumping my cock as slowly as I could. I lasted about a mile.

At home, I found Jamie with her feet propped up on the couch, her hair in a towel, her long sweet body in one of my old t-shirts. She was even wearing a pair of my boxers. Her toes were painted purple, and her nipples stood up hard as rocks beneath the thin cotton of my shirt. She smiled at me. The scratches on her cheek were mostly just faded pink lines now. They were covered in a thin layer of goo.

"Well, welcome back, bro," she said. "Got any liquor on 'ya?" I plopped the Captain Morgan's down beside her and went to get a couple glasses and a bottle of Coke out of the fridge. She was still smiling. With her hair up, the piercings in her nose and eyebrow looked especially odd, and I noticed there were a lot freckles on her nose. She was gorgeous, and I desperately wanted to go back to my car, drive to the nearest empty house with a VCR, and start watching her do whatever she did.

"You want to hear about it?" she asked me, still smiling a little.

I sat down and poured for us. "Yeah," I muttered. "If you want. You don't have to." I figured I'd never get anything near the truth, and of course I didn't.

"Carol's cat attacked me. I freaked out and kicked it. Then Carol kicked me out. Dumb, right?"

Yeah, I'm thinking. But I just nod. The only cat getting kicked around in that house was sophomore pussy. And, apparently, it was not a pastime that got you in trouble anymore.

"So, are you going to go back?" I ventured. She immediately shook her head.

"Nope. Done with that. I just washed my hair with bitch-be-gone!" And we both laughed at her stupid joke, and we got drunk. She more than me. Jamie finally passed out with her head on my shoulder. Her long soft hair, free of the towel, fell across my cheek. All I could do was sit and smell her and want her, and I couldn't believe I hadn't had these feelings before then. It had been a night to turn me onto a completely different path.

Gently sliding out from under her head, I laid her down on the couch and slowly slid my hands up under the t-shirt and rubbed her breasts. Her nipples were fat and long, and I wanted them in my mouth. She moaned and turned over, though, and I knew I was insane.

I went back to my car and got the videos. It occurred to me that Carol might figure out that it was me who raided her house, so she might come to demand her stuff. However, I decided to develop those pictures that next morning, and I sent her extra copies of every one that had her in the frame. The crowning print was a beautiful 8 x 10 of the splattered mound of shit in the foreground, sharply focused, while the soft shapes of the two kinky lesbians lay hand-in-glove above and beyond, pink and plump.

We never heard a peep, ever again, out of Carol. The sophomores, yes; but Carol was gone from our lives.

Closing and locking the door to my bedroom, I set the garbage bag in the back of my closet and commenced a good rummage. Soon I found a Jamie tape at random, went to the VCR I kept in my room, and slid it in. I'd suspected Jamie was bisexual, and now I had living proof. My cock could have cracked diamonds all that night.

Jamie was biting Carol's tits in the very first scene. Both naked, they stood in the dungeon of Carol's house, with Carol tied to the cross. Her smaller, thinner body was shaking from the pain, but she moaned in pure lust as Jamie bent to sink her teeth into the flesh of her breasts. Time after time, Jamie bit down on Carol's tit and pulled back, yanking the whole breast with her teeth. Then she'd let it go, the breast flopping back, dark teeth marks and saliva visible even to the grainy video camera.

Carol had nice B-cup tits, but they could not compare to Jamie's perfect D's. I was glad I was pretty smashed on the rum, because otherwise I might not have let myself slip so far into that depraved frame of mind. All I wanted to do was to watch my sister fuck—even if was only dildoes and butt-plugs—and then I wanted to fuck her myself. I sat on the edge of my bed and came three more times before morning and all the tapes of Jamie were done.

That morning I went to my friend's house and developed the prints. I was exhausted. I'd already called in sick to work, and I called home to check on Jamie, but she didn't answer. Gone to work, most likely, I thought. That was how tough she was. As for me, I wanted to go home and sleep.

On my doorstep, however, was a girl. The girl from the kitchen floor. And, once more, she was asleep; except this time she wasn't taped down. As soon as she heard me approach, she jumped up and smoothed her hair, her shorts. Her eyes were puffy-red, and her clothes were horribly wrinkled. She stank. I figured she must have come straight from Carol's—as soon as she had been recovered enough to "go" anywhere.

I hadn't been particularly horny that day, even when developing those stunning pictures. I was too tired! But seeing that girl on my doorstep worked a miracle. My cock fattened again, and I was ready to fuck her if it led to that. Standing up, that girl was even hotter. Her shorts barely covered her ass, and her legs stretched way down to long bare feet. Her t-shirt was one of those quarter-sleeve button-ups, and the buttons were not up. She wore a tight wifebeater tank underneath, and obviously no bra. Her D-cups were straining for me, I just knew it.

Here and there on her legs and arms and neck I could see vestiges of the hot wax, even a few streaks and scrapes from the duct tape. I tried not to make it obvious that I noticed. The girl was extremely nervous.

"C—can we talk?" she asked, looking at my chest, the ficus beside the door, anywhere but in my eyes. "I'm scared." She was twisting one hand around the other in agony.

I unlocked the door and held it open for her. "Sure," I said. "Come on in and have some water or something. And relax. It's OK."

After a few minutes of gentle coaxing, I had her sitting on the couch next to me as we sipped water. She didn't refer directly to the events of the previous night. She didn't even tell me how she'd found where I lived. Instead, she said, "I wanted to tell you I was sorry."

Baffled, I stammered, "For what?"

She looked down at her lap and shrugged. "I don't know," she muttered. I'm just sorry."

Leaning over, she lowered her head to my crotch and began to suck on the bulge in my jeans.

Shocked—and a little afraid—I sat still and let her continue to suck on the length of my shaft through the denim. This is a girl with real problems, I thought. But then I thought her mouth felt nice, and I sat still for a little while longer. She obviously had used sex as a means for emotional bargaining many times in her life. She was clearly twisted up somehow and rewired to think that offering herself to a former—and possibly future—intruder would serve to protect her from his worse appetites. Perhaps, in a strange way, she was on the right track. Perhaps she was simply worried about gossip getting around and wanted to pay for my silence.

At that moment, I didn't care about any of that. Her mouth felt nice.

Getting my cock out of my jeans, she proceeded to take me down to the root. With a groan, I lay my head back and let her work. Up and down her mouth slid, wet and hot over my cock. One of her hands stroked my base, while her other lightly fondled my balls. Heaven!

Soon we were both naked. She was still covered in waxy crust, and she smelled funkier than ever. My cock swelled even more. Nevertheless, she needed a shower. Standing, I scooped her up into my arms and took her to the bathroom. After soaping her up and rinsing her off, she looked almost ready to fall asleep on her feet, but I was ready to fall into her cunt now.

I dried us off and took her to the bed. Lying back, I motioned to her, and she immediately got over me and straddled my face. Reaching down, she again took my cock into her warm mouth. My tongue soon found her honey, and we were both moaning away. Another day, I thought, another weird sexual milestone. My 29th year might not be so bad after all.

As the pressure began to build in my balls, she started grinding her cunt on my face and growling. Pulling away from my cock, she pumped it and whispered huskily, "I want to piss in your mouth. Please!" Gripping my cock and pumping harder, she didn't wait for a reply.

Piss gushed out of her cunt and straight into my mouth and nose. My eyes caught it, too, and they stung like hell. Reflexively, I flung her off me and rolled to the other side of the bed, wiping my eyes and cursing. She fell with a thud to the floor and stayed there, curled up in a little pink ball. She was crying.