Remarkable People Ch 03

De... bo... rah...

Martin didn't sleep at all well that night. Nor did he rise at the usual time the following morning.

His final, fitful doze -- the last of many -- ended early, but he lacked the courage to leave his room. Lying in his bed, he eventually perceived sounds... those of his mother and father as they prepared to leave for work. He even imagined that he could hear the voice of his sister now and then, quietly conversing with one parent or the other.

He wondered fearfully how long it would be before he heard outraged voices screaming his name.

A sudden, soft tap at his door almost made him leap off the bed.

"Martin?"

He recognised his mother's voice.

"Uh... yeah?" he croaked.

"Time to get up, sweetheart. Your breakfast is ready."

The kindly tone of her voice confused him. Why wasn't she accusing him, railing at him in furious judgement?

"I... I'll be down in a minute."

On reflection, Martin could only conclude that Deborah had kept the events of the previous evening to herself.

Why would she do that? he wondered. Then, he knew why... he thought he knew why: to preserve the family.

The idea that his sister could be so selfless only increased his self-hatred. He began to entertain the notion of suicide, to consider the possibility that he deserved to die.

His mother interrupted his thoughts by calling him to breakfast again, this time from downstairs.

Martin clenched his jaw. There was only one honourable course of action open to him: he must go downstairs and confess his crime, even though to do so would destroy the family and break his parents' hearts, all in the space of... oh, probably less than one hundred and twenty seconds.

With supreme reluctance, Martin rose from his bed, dragged on the clothing he had worn the previous evening and left the room. Having reached the bottom of the stairs, he shuffled along the passageway that led to the kitchen, feeling like a death-row prisoner on his way to the electric chair.

Upon arriving at the kitchen, Martin halted in the doorway and hovered there, indecisive. He saw that

she

was there, sitting on a stool at the bar, clad in an off-white woollen shift and lightweight, tan-coloured ankle boots. He noted dully that she looked, as always, utterly edible.

His father was nowhere to be seen, having presumably already departed.

His mother gave him a quizzical glance.

"What's wrong, Martin?" she asked.

Martin drew breath to confess his crime... but cowardice overwhelmed him at the final instant.

"I... I'm not feeling well," he said instead, quite truthfully. "I... don't think I'll be going to class today."

Deborah gave not the slightest sign that she was aware of his presence.

"Oh, dear," his mother responded sympathetically. "Better stay home, then, for a day of rest."

"Thanks."

Still ignoring him, Deborah rose from her seat and headed for the front door.

"Don't forget to say goodbye to your brother," his mother called.

Deborah froze in her tracks, stood utterly still for a moment, then slowly turned back.

"Of course," she murmured.

She walked over to her brother, smiled at him, placed both hands on his shoulders, rose up on her toes, leaned forward and touched her lips to his left cheek, briefly, softly, warmly.

"I hope you feel better soon," she said.

Then she was gone. His mother followed shortly afterward.

Martin's gut was as tightly knotted as it could be.

Deborah had seemed truly determined to behave as if absolutely nothing untoward had happened between them.

Martin suddenly remembered that he hadn't yet washed his body. He still carried the filth of his crime.

He made his way upstairs, took fresh clothing from his room and headed for the bathroom, where he stripped, then dropped his used clothing into the laundry basket. He stood under the shower for a very long time, pondering dazedly.

At last, he turned off the water, towelled himself dry, then dressed. He was glad to cover his body: his nakedness was abhorrent to him.

He needed to think, he decided. He needed to think a lot.

Martin made his way back to his bedroom, intending to lie down for his rumination. He had almost reached his bed when a voice spoke.

"I've been waiting for you."

Utterly shocked, Martin spun toward the sound so quickly, he almost lost his balance.

Deborah was there, sitting in a shadowed corner of his room.

"... whuh... whuh... whuh..." Martin babbled.

Deborah giggled.

"You sound like a confused helicopter."

Martin gulped.

"Wh-what are you doing here?" he said. "What do you want?"

Deborah stared at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

"That's right, Martin," she said. "That certainly is the question, isn't it? What does Deborah want. Because it would be a complete waste of time to ask what Martin wants. That question has already been answered, loud and clear."

Martin couldn't hold her gaze. Profoundly ashamed, he lowered his eyes.

"So... let's consider what Deborah wants," his sister continued.

She rose to her feet, whereupon Martin saw that she was now wearing a short housecoat... and nothing else, as far as he could see. Smiling, she opened the housecoat, shrugged it off her shoulders and let it fall to the ground, demonstrating that it had indeed been her only garment.

"D-don't..." Martin stuttered.

Deborah looked at him in apparent surprise.

"Don't what?" she queried softly. "Don't get naked?"

Martin nodded dumbly.

"But, Martin," she said, as if confused, "I thought you liked me naked. You certainly seemed eager to see me naked last night."

To this, Martin could summon no answer.

For a moment, there was silence, during which Deborah regarded him speculatively.

"Didn't I please you?" she asked. "If I didn't please you, all I can say is that I'm sorry to hear it. Very, very sorry... because you pleased me, Martin. You pleased me beyond belief."

Martin could scarcely credit what his ears were hearing. He searched her face for signs of duplicity, but detected only candour. Her smile seemed nothing but inviting.

"So... did you... I thought you... did you...?" he mumbled.

"Did I come? Oh, yeah. I came alright. You well and truly popped my cork, little brother... no, you smashed the entire bottle of champagne to smithereens. I blasted off like a goddam rocket. I exploded like a fucking cluster bomb.

She shook her head, reminiscing.

"I didn't know my body had feelings like that in it. I think I'll be reliving it until the day I die."

She looked at him again, and gave him a smile full of promise.

"And now, little brother, I want you to please me again. And, I want to please you again."

Martin's eyes widened in astonishment.

"Don't you want to?" she asked, showing puzzlement.

"I... I didn't think

you'd

want to," Martin said, avoiding the subject of his guilt and remorse. "You... you seemed so distant this morning."

Deborah shrugged.

"Because I had to restrain myself, Martin," she explained. "If I'd let my feelings take over, I'd have fucked you in front of Mum, which would have been... indecorous."

Martin's eyes and mouth took on a certain roundness, so that he momentarily resembled a tropical fish.

"Oh," he said.

Still Martin stood as if rooted to the floor ... or confined behind the glass of an aquarium. Deborah nodded sympathetically.

"I understand, Martin," she said. "You're overwhelmed. It was your first time."

She smiled.

"Don't worry... I can help you, Martin."

She lifted her hand then, letting it glide, palm upward, near her naked belly and breasts, an oddly inviting gesture.

"Check me out," she murmured, then raised her arms above her head and began to move her unclothed body in a slow, sexy dance.

This time, her enthusiasm couldn't be doubted. Spearing him with a burning gaze, she lifted her breasts in her hands, offering them to him. She ground her hips in slow circles. She kissed and licked her own nipples. She put a finger into her mouth, then made love to it.

As she continued to move, signs of arousal appeared in her, until her face was flushed and her breathing hoarse. It was as if her own dancing excited her.

When at last she came to a halt, she stood with her legs parted, and locked eyes with her brother. She inserted the first and second fingers of her left hand into her mouth, moistened them, then let them glide slowly down her body, down, down, until they reached the delta between her legs. She paused, then slowly plunged them into her vagina as far as they would go. The fingers of her right hand, likewise moistened, found her clitoris and began describing slow circles.

The expression of her face slowly transformed into one of intense lust.

Over the next few minutes, her excitement gradually mounted towards a crescendo. She began to pant, her eyes closed, her right hand blurred... then she came hard, still standing, crying out her pleasure and release, over and over.

When her orgasm was done, she lifted her hands and regarded them. Her fingers glistened with her own lubricant.

Locking eyes with her brother again, she put them one by one slowly into her mouth and sucked off the juices.

"Mmm," she hummed. "I feel like such a slut. It's fucking delicious."

Martin's eyes felt ready to tumble from their sockets, and he was acutely aware of the uncomfortable stiffness of his penis.

"Your turn," she breathed. "Lie down on the bed for me?"

Shivering with anticipation, Martin slowly reclined.

"Uh... Martin," Deborah prompted him.

Martin looked a question.

"Clothing," she said.

"Oh."

Martin rose again, and began to take off his clothes, but Deborah intervened. Slowly, she stripped him, touching him intimately here and there as she went, then gently urged him to lay down once more.

When he had fully reclined, Deborah gently parted Martin's legs, then climbed onto the bed, and settled onto her knees between them.

She laid her left hand upon Martin's right knee, then let it creep very slowly up his thigh, toward his erection.

With a sudden, mock-feral growl, she closed the final few inches with a grab that nonetheless took hold of his penis with a warm, silky grip.

Her hand began slowly gliding up and down.

"I'm going to make you come, Martin," she told him, her voice full of promise.

"I want you to come in my mouth.

"I want you to come on my face.

"I want you to come on my breasts.

"I'm a cock-hungry slut for you, Martin."

She lowered her head then, and engulfed his penis with her mouth, taking him deep, so deep that her very throat embraced the head of his penis at all points of the compass. So exquisite were the sensations that he would have come at that moment, had she not backed off.

Deborah lifted her head a little and gazed at him, smiling, the head of his cock still in her mouth.

Then she went to town on him, hand blurring with speed, yet with a grip that she somehow managed to keep soft and silky, tongue lapping, lips nuzzling, eyes fixed on his, promising to launch him well and truly into orbit.

Approximately fifteen seconds later, grunting and squealing like a pig at slop-time, Martin came so hard, he thought his brains were going to spray out through his penis.

All three of Deborah's stated wishes came true. Martin's first few spurts vanished into her gobbling mouth. Then, she rose up a little and, eyes closed and head tilted back in exultation, allowed the rest of Martin's load to decorate the flawless skin of her face and breasts.

As Martin's pleasure slowly faded, and his heartbeat and respiration returned to normal, Deborah held her position, immobile as a statue.

At last, she opened her eyes and smiled at him, then slowly licked off a drizzle of sperm adhering to her upper lip.

Martin's heart overflowed for his sister.

"I love you so fucking much, Deb," he said softly.

Deborah didn't speak, but a deep flush of emotion flamed in her face, which Martin interpreted as reciprocation of his heartfelt sentiment.

Martin sank back. His face settled naturally into a blissful expression, eyes closed, gently smiling, lips parted. In that moment, he felt so sated, so at peace, he couldn't imagine anything that would have made the world a better place.

He felt Deborah's weight shift on the bed, then settle into stillness again.

"Hey, Martin," Deborah said. "Check me out."

Martin smiled wider, wondering what outrageous idea she had thought up now.

He raised his head and opened his eyes. She was holding something in her right hand. Martin's gaze fell naturally in that direction. He heard a soft click. Multicoloured light filled his eyes...

***

Slowly Martin came to himself.

Deborah was still kneeling between his legs, gazing down at him thoughtfully. She was still naked. In her hands, she held a small flashlight, unlit, with a jewel taped to the lens.

Alarmed, Martin tried to sit up... to no avail. He twisted his neck awkwardly this way and that, and saw that his wrists were bound above his head, one to each bedpost. He then tried to move his legs, only to find that his ankles also were tethered, presumably to the legs of the bed.

His head was thoughtfully propped up on a couple of pillows.

"Whuh... what's going on?" he queried.

Deborah regarded him calmly.

"I wanted to have a talk, Martin," she said serenely. "Ask you a few questions."

"Wh-why did you tie me down?"

Deborah shrugged, causing her breasts to jog a little.

"Because," she said, "the idea occurred to me that you might not like some of the questions... and I didn't want you galloping away before my curiosity was satisfied."

Without shifting her eyes from his, Deborah reached out with her left hand and began to play absentmindedly with Martin's cock. Despite his trepidation and uncertainty, Martin found that he couldn't prevent his body from responding.

"First of all," Deborah began, "I have to tell you, what I said before was the truth. I never knew I could come so hard."

She smiled in pleasurable reminiscence for a moment... then her expression became thoughtful again.

"But later," she said, "I got to wondering

why

I had never come that hard before... why I never even knew I

could

come that hard."

She lifted the flashlight with the jewel.

"It was this, wasn't it?" she asked.

Martin hesitated, then nodded guiltily.

"Huh!" said Deborah quietly. She stared thoughtfully at the jewel for a moment, then laid the flashlight on the bed, and again turned her gaze on Martin.

"Been indulging in a little bit of mind-fucking, Martin?" she queried rhetorically. "Like the old days... but with a new toy... a better toy?

Martin blushed guiltily, but held his peace... though he felt anything but peaceful.

"It was a bold move, Martin... I have to give you that... going straight from 'cluck like a chicken' to full-on 'fuck like a sex-slave.'

She looked at him.

"Still I wonder... when you thought up this dire scheme of yours, did you think of possible consequences? Did you think of what might happen if I told Mum and Dad? If I went to the police?"

Martin avoided her gaze.

"I... I didn't think about it," he admitted dismally.

Deborah's eyebrows lifted momentarily.

"You didn't think about it," she said thoughtfully.

Her hand continued to stroke his cock. It was now as stiff as a staff. He wondered whether she was even aware of what her hand was doing.

Deborah spoke again.

"I guess, if you had thought about it beforehand, you would have said something when you had me at your mercy, so to speak. You would have wanted to make sure I couldn't give the game away. Either I would never have considered betraying you, or I would have found it impossible to do so. Am I right?"

To this, Martin answered neither yea nor nay, yet Deborah, after searching his guilty face, nodded, seemingly reaching her own conclusion.

"Next item," she said, as though she were working her way through an agenda. "It's about other consequences you may not have considered... since we've already established that you didn't think of everything.

"We know there's nothing stopping me from telling Mum and Dad... so here's my question: if I did tell them, what about afterward? Do you think they would still love you, still care about you, after hearing what I would have to say? Do you think they would ever again give you a kind word, ever again think a kind thought about you? Do you think they would ever again willingly communicate with you, ever again want to look you in the face? If I decided to go to the police, do you think Mum and Dad would ever visit you in prison?"

Martin's heart dropped like a plugged duck.

"I... didn't think about it," he admitted miserably.

Deborah nodded.

"You didn't think about it," she said again. "I see."

She briefly raised one eyebrow.

"Turns out there are quite a few things you didn't think about. Right, Martin?"

Her gaze intensified.

"You're really a bit of a loose cannon, aren't you, Martin?"

At this point, Martin began to cry.

Deborah's gentle smile never wavered as he wept. She simply observed, almost sympathetically. After a while, she put another question to him.

"Why are you crying, Martin?" she asked.

"Because... because I'm s-sorry," he sobbed.

Deborah took a moment to digest this answer, then nodded.

"I understand, Martin," she said. "You're sorry. But, I don't think you're sorry for doing what you did. Not primarily. No. I think you're mostly sorry about the nature of the world. You're sorry that actions have consequences. You're sorry that you couldn't do what you did and get away with it scot-free."

She lowered her head a little.

"Isn't that really what you're sorry about, Martin?"

Her words stabbed Martin's heart like white-hot needles, and whether he agreed with her or not, he had no desire at all to try to defend himself.

"But, you're sorry," she said. "That would normally mean something, I suppose. It's just a pity you chose the wrong time to be sorry."

She shook her head sympathetically.

"Do you know what the right time to be sorry would have been, Martin? The right time to be sorry would have been just after you thought of me as an object you could casually fuck and then just go on your merry way. The right time to be sorry would have been

before

you actually did anything about it. Being sorry after the fact doesn't make anything better, does it? It doesn't make a blind bit of difference to me whether you're sorry or not, after you've fucked over my mind, so you could fuck over my body."

Martin didn't answer.

"Does it, my darling?" she queried, lowering her voice to a confidential whisper.

Martin was so filled with shame, he couldn't bring himself to look at her.

"No..." he said, his voice almost inaudible.

Deborah smiled.

"Thank you for your honesty," she said.

She looked at him.

"Martin?" Deborah breathed, in a tone that promised wonders.

"Y-yes?"

"I have something else to show you."

Martin didn't want to look.

Deborah waited a moment, then gave Martin's straining cock an encouraging squeeze.

"Check me out, Martin," she breathed.

And despite himself, Martin looked. Deborah was smiling at him fondly. With her right hand, she reached behind herself. Her left continued to stroke his stiff cock lovingly, keeping him simmering against his will.

Deborah's right hand lifted back into view.

It was holding a large, silver chef's knife.

At the sight, Martin's heart actually stopped. He had enough time to feel the flow of blood through his body cease, and to wonder whether it would ever start again, before his heartbeat resumed, with a blow like a hammer on an anvil.

Martin watched in fascination as the shining blade drifted gradually upward, until it was raised high, as if in preparation for a killing stroke. For a moment, it hovered, then began to descend, very slowly, in the direction of his groin.