Christa Makes A Few Mistakes

Christa Hill is a tired, horny girl. She stumbles in the door, long hair tangling on her purse snaps, on her fingers, everywhere as she puts away keys with a jingle that shouldn't be so loud because her parents might be home. She swings up the steps, snickering as her cheap-stylish shoes trip one another, a drugged-up college drop-out sneaking beauty and youth through her family's dim kitchen. She's sweaty from dancing, from necking and groping with her boyfriend and almost taking it up the ass for the first time on a couch with six other people around; she's giddy and high and she needs a shower. But the hallway carpet twists her feet in the wrong directions and she can't think of where the light switch might be so she aims for her room as best she can.

Through a door frame and around a corner, Christa pilots her compact, uncharacteristically clumsy body, sliding along walls and past a hardwood dresser, whose splintered edge catches and nearly steals away her clingy pink top, which will not be worn again after this night of invading boyfriend's arms and unforgiving furniture. She knows the bed is close, so she unfastens her soft jeans, letting them crumple down her legs. She'll sleep in the top. Maybe she'll rub herself a little, if she can keep conscious, because she still really needs the dick that softened earlier when her drunken lover passed out but fingers are nice too. Moonlight from the nearby window highlights her rounded rump while she struggles to lift and keep both knees on the bed, and as she sinks her face into that light, the only part of her mind that's clear enough to notice is the part that marvels at how pretty it is. And so, instead of wondering why she has never seen the moon from her bed before, Christa crawls with the resolution of weariness out of her pants and onto her brother Paul, who is sleeping quietly in this, his bedroom. She nestles against his lower body through the sheets, and idly works a hand between her thighs.

Of course someone is going to figure out what has happened. And this turns out to be Paul, whose leg is now pinned in a position that is awkward enough to force a reaction, whereas previously he had tracked his disheveled sister's intrusion with only half a dreaming ear. Though he is a few months past his eighteenth birthday, this is the first time Paul has participated in a piece of erotic fiction, and he struggles some moments to understand what in the world has landed on him. He shifts, improving his position and thus almost losing interest, so nearly asleep is he still, but humanity has not come so far as to produce him without teaching his penis what to do when a warm face breathes hot breath on it through only two or three scant layers of fabric. In ten or twenty seconds (though no one is keeping track) the lazy boy grows a firm, proper hard-on, and his hips even rock a little in search of pressure. Christa is just about asleep herself, but she reacts to the motion, pulling her arm up and under the rumpled sheets to encircle the warm anonymity on whom she lies. Further down, her fingers gently stroke a damp, engorged vulva.

Paul pushes his hungry groin weakly against its passenger, and though he doesn't yet understand that this is his pretty sister whose cheek now cradles his rigid cock, the sensation of it quickens his heart and inevitably pins the fabric of his dream to that small portion of the mundane world wherein fingers knead boxer-clad buttocks and face presses against manhood. In his mind he is trying to make it with the misty figure of bosomy blonde Elaine, his first high-school crush, and she's very close but he can't seem to move his hands to get his pants off, and the urge worries at him until he's slid out of the dream far enough to begin tugging aside his sheets.

Still animated by the pilot light burning under her slickened fingers, Christa smears herself languidly over her brother, letting the sheets hitch from beneath her. Her arm tightens around his thighs; her open mouth is less than an inch from the slit in his boxers. Paul lurches onto his elbows, not quite understanding why he can't free his legs. Then his eyes open, and he takes in the streams of red-blonde hair that pool over the moonlit portion of his bed. For a long, quiet moment he is frozen. But nothing changes; no one steps out to enforce the usual rules. So his shock, unnourished, bleeds away, and by the time it's gone the seed has already rooted: He is being groped by his sister, and she's messed up or something, and it sort of makes sense that he could touch her if he wanted. At once he is reaching out gingerly, his hand shaking a little, and when he touches that soft hair she mews, and he notices that she's moving. On top of her hand. And her legs are bare, and he gets to touch her butt, because there it is. The night is too late, and the hormones too thick, for consequences to have meaning. Though of course he thinks, with what small thinking part of him is awake, that he's going to wake the dumb girl up in a minute and send her off to her own bed.

So sitting up, he gently strokes Christa's temple with his finger, down her jaw, down her neck. She masturbates slowly beneath him, and her heat seems to collect right in his penis, making it harder. He'll take it out if this goes much further, plans be damned, but now the thought isn't in him. Instead he gently palms the sleek meat of her side, making that his. He draws little circles on her ribs. And when he has grown used to that, the magnetic bulge of her chest, just peeking out beneath her busy, taut arm, draws him one step deeper. He traces the boundary between tit and arm, and it's all so sexy that his muscles forget about the incest taboo and his groin hitches up so that he can feel delicious pressure against Christa's face.

"Mmmmm," she hums, and though she seems fairly senseless Paul knows (in his loins where it counts) that she's hot for him and he has permission. So he slowly grinds on her face, torso hunched awkwardly over her back, while his hands settle over the warm firmness of her ribcage, not quite ready to grasp and squeeze. Part of him thinks something is wrong about this; he knows he'll stop in just a moment, and before half a moment is past his decision is washed away in the urgent beat of his roaring pulse. He pushes on Christa, and his heavy, horny sister pushes back, boring her temple into the folded boy; they have entered a contract and now at least one must be brought to orgasm. By chance, one of Christa's moist lips pecks at bare dick-flesh through the splaying hole in Paul's boxers, and he tenses and pants, feeling a portion of his innocence deliciously burning in the heat of her breath. He clutches her now, maneuvering without maneuvering, too sticky with the inertia of human socialization to do the sensible thing and grasp his penis so that it may be inserted into her mouth. But the equally lusty Christa, whose nostrils are filled with urgent crotch-musk, presses her mouth into its support, finding by touch the naked flesh of her brother. She works her lips over the hole, stroking herself hard as the cocksucking habit looms strong in her brain.

This is all it takes—now Paul is the one owned. Her wet mouth nips his shaft, lapping exquisite warmth over his delicate nerves, and there is no more room for decision. Christa is moving slowly; both her arms are occupied and so she cannot easily trap the knob of this hot dick and suck as she wishes to do. But every little advancement newly paralyzes the boy, whose hands no longer think to grope, though their fingertips now rest on the same bare, graceful hips that he's never quite let himself fully lust after through all the long years since puberty. Then she catches his shaft in a good, wet grip, so that the sensitive length of him tilts out through the boxers finally, dragging on fabric as it goes. And before he's finished groaning at that, she's popped her lips over the glans and taken him properly.

That tongue feels so nice. He clutches her sides, doubled over atop her, and she has to release her own throbbing glands to stay in balance. Christa is really hot now, and she suckles with force. She barely knows where she is, but she knows she wants to be used. The cock in her mouth twists at the kink in her mind; when its blood-firmed glans pulses out desire she rushes to lick around its rim, and when the shaft thrusts she makes her tongue a channel for it, just too narrow to be passed without friction. When it traverses that passage and continues to push, she opens her throat. Fingers press around her belly, and she shimmies in their grip, making them feel her, letting her top ride up. She dreams of her boyfriend. She might pass out like he did, if she keeps this up much longer.

But Paul, gradually enveloped to the bone in his sister's salival massage, will surely shoot down her throat first. As she unsteadily rises upon quivering thighs to accept him ever deeper, he sags onto her back, nuzzling her sweaty panty-line. His hands fall naturally to her ripe-apple breasts, which he kneads inexpertly. Christa can no longer move significantly, impaled as she is, but some fantasy of hers is coming alive and her strangled grunts and moans are stimulation enough for Paul, who squeezes hard on his shapely handholds as his testicles contract and his pleasure threshold sags, then collapses. Cheek to cheek, he gasps and twitches and injects a blob of incestuous cum past Christa's slack, spasming throat. She hums her excitement, struggling unnecessarily to swallow, to take it even deeper. Together the rigid siblings press, holding steady their quivering frame so that semen can be launched into stomach, spurt after spurt after spurt.

Then the boy softens, while the girl twists from his grip, dazedly throat-fucking him with increasing ardor. She knows only heat and hunger and the thrill of being pierced so deeply. To cooling Paul she seems ridiculous now and a little frightening, flopping on him as she is, but she remains the beautiful woman who has just emptied him and he lets her have her way, though in a few moments his half-deflated penis slips free of her mouth altogether. Christa totters onto her face, pushing Paul down, and with a sickness he knows she will come to her senses now and god knows what will happen. But instead she begins clambering up his body, dragging her sweaty hair around his face in a girl-smelling fountain of strawberry strands, and straddling him, she plants her pussy right on his groin. She hitches it forward, and her lips part in pleasure. Then back again, and down, and forward. Paul stares helplessly into her lust-drenched face, awaiting discovery, or orgasm, or something else. Her forehead dips and comes to rest atop his. "Fuck... oh, fuck," she says in a little voice, the loudest sound in the room. Paul is beginning to feel blood returning to his lower parts, and he gingerly raises his hands to hold her round, flexing hips. He thinks about entering her—should he dare? Is she on the pill? Does he have a choice? He breathes her air; he thinks about kissing her. Some foolish fleeting portion of him is falling in love.

But Christa is finally on the brink, and she hooks her neck over his shoulder, hugging him tightly. He hugs her back, and firms his hips so that she may find the pressure she seeks. She twitches and peeps for many seconds. He fondles her panty-clad ass until her breath comes slowly again and all is still. As quickly as that, the girl is asleep, and now her brother must find a way to escape from her wonderful, soft embrace. He tries to think through the fog of night and sex, but only manages to stroke her pretty, private flesh until consciousness departs, never quite figuring out what he really ought to do.

---

---

A long while later, it seems, Christa stands in the first-floor bathroom, now a mundane box with fluorescent lighting where previously it had seemed a country much too far to reach. Her legs are steady, although faint, dark moons mar her pretty eyes, and she is basically clean, on the outside at least. The inside she isn't sure about. It's really hard to understand, when you are very tired and a little strung out, why you might have awakened hanging off the side of your brother's bed after (you're pretty sure) you deep-throated your boyfriend in a dream... or was that back at the party? Are you a terrible whore, if that happens? Have you broken your fragile place in the world? Christa knows not, and can only drift on to bed once more, trusting the morning to come eventually.

But her room stinks of urine. She touches the bed, and sure enough it is wet. The goddamn dog, tonight of all nights. She stares through moonless darkness at the invisible puddle on her mattress and begins to cry. Then she turns and shuffles away, heading for the living room where she sways for a moment, planless. She will have to sleep on the couch. As a child she would have crept down the hall to her sister's room, now Paul's, and huddled there with little Cassandra, snug away from whatever nightmares had driven her. But now she is grown, and nothing is so easy. She and Cassie don't even really talk anymore.

But Christa finds herself padding back toward the front door anyhow, so that she may round the corner and slink through darkness to the hideout in the corner of the basement that Cassie now makes her bedroom. Cassie will be asleep down there anyway, and she's still Christa's friend after all, and anyhow Christa is too proud and impetuous, even at this rather uncertain moment, to settle for that unwelcoming couch. Like a long-haired ghost in her cotton nightshirt, she treads across the thick-knit basement carpet in perfect silence, and climbs under the sheets next to her sister like a twelve-year-old.

The even breathing of eighteen-year-old Cassie is a comfort to Christa, though she doesn't quite dare to hug her sister as she would like to. Even a whore can be shy, she thinks, even around family. But the sound soon changes, and before long Christa feels something shifting next to her.

"Hi," says Cassandra, whose voice is simple with sleep.

"Hi," replies Christa.

"What's going on?"

Christa considers the question. The whole story is too hard to think about. "I had a bad dream," she says foolishly, with a timid little laugh, though strictly speaking the dream was actually really very nice.

"Oh," says the slim shadow that is Cassandra's face. No more words come forth, and Christa feels relief when Cassie turns onto her belly and seemingly goes back to sleep. Then the younger girl's thin arm presses on Christa's, and finds her hand, entwining their fingers together. Christa pulls close to Cassie, feeling her old love for her sister awaken again.

And now, or later perhaps--the time drifts obscurely--it is her turn to be fished out of a dream, as the dog she is playing with, a younger, better-behaved version of the one whose waste stains her bed, pokes his wet nose into her face again and again even though she is trying to train him to sit and be still. She can't seem to give him the command, and as she struggles to speak her mind is agitated back into her body, back in its bed, her sister's bed, where something wet still nibbles at her real lips and a hand is even on her breast—oh god, she thinks, if I didn't do it before I'm doing it now. Because her crotch is getting wet; it understands almost before she does.

"Remember when we used to do this," breathes Cassie, who has evidently noticed the change in Christa's state. "We used to practice kissing so you'd be ready for boys," and she brushes her lips over Christa's as if to provide evidence. But Christa has already remembered, and she knows that this fingertip teasing her nipple is new, not a part of the games the girls played long ago, games that were barely even sexual anyhow though they'd certainly expended enough angst over it once the elder Hill had started to think she was a sinner or something... it was so long ago, it barely makes sense anymore.

"Nooo," groans Christa soggily. She lurches abruptly onto her back, flushing as the faint heat in her loins collapses into betrayal. This was supposed to be a refuge, and now what? Fuck this, this is fucking weird, and it's too late to think and where in the world else can a person comfortably sleep?

"Don't be mad," coos Cassie, placating. She climbs half over Christa, kissing her again but only on the cheek. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm like this, I'm just glad you came down here. I've missed you forever Christa," and she's sort of whining now, and Christa wonders what in the world has been happening in the head of her poor sister who made her parents move her into the basement and doesn't seem to have any friends really, come to think of it.

"No just let me sleep," mumbles Christa, who is half-dreaming somehow still—she is really awfully tired. And scared, sort of, because she has thoughts about girls sometimes and it did feel nice and she knows she won't go looking for another bed, not in this murky crazy night. Whatever happens, whatever she is, she knows she is going to lie in it until sunrise if not much later.

"Don't be mad," Cassie says again, hugging Christa softly and nestling her face into the warm nest of hair above her sister's shoulder. She stays that way, quietly, too suddenly still to be properly sleeping--thinking, perhaps--and Christa drifts in the strange jungles of her own uneasy mind. Then a thin, very white arm reaches across to the bedside table and comes back with something oblong. Fumbling seconds later, a faint buzzing arises from the bed. The sheets tent above the younger Hill's shifting heels and curling toes; higher up the bed they ease aside, offering no defense as Cassie's fingers slide across her sister's cotton-wrapped left tit. Cassie breathes hotly into Christa, whose own molested chest begins to rise and fall a little faster. Two girls here are excited, and both are scared and confused, and here again sex wins out. Cassie nibbles at her sister's fine jaw, hunching her urgent hips so that the hidden vibrator nudges Christa's outstretched wrist; though the older girl lies stubbornly limp, these visceral reminders of the sexiness of masturbation seem to drag her unwilling clit a tiny bit out from its hood, to tighten her fickle nipples atop their mounts. Cassie is touching one of those nipples, and she notices. Meanwhile the dark-headed waif moves her little hand fast, cumming on the metal vibe in near-silence. As she relaxes back into a softer pleasure, something desperate catches at her mind again and she rolls atop Christa. She licks her lips, pauses for a nervous beat, and kisses her sister full on the red lips.

Christa bends her knees up partway in an aimless token of resistance that only centers her rapist between her naked legs. And she pushes her mouth on Cassie's, despite herself, thinking now not so much of clandestine meetings past, as of the vivacious, curly-haired Sydney, a girl from her old dorm, who was supposedly bisexual or something, and who seemed to smile at Christa a lot, and whose butt looked really nice maybe in the sweatshorts she used to wear jogging, if you thought about it the way a guy might. If you were sort of queer that way, just in your fantasies, just a little. Not enough to be really bad... and tingle tingle, the vibrator is pressing into her nipple, and now seems like the time to be queer. Christa twists and moans; she pivots helplessly around the dark mass of her misgivings while her body floods with that electric, delirious pleasure she feels whenever someone really starts to screw her. Cassandra is floating above her, utterly attentive, and she bucks and grasps the sheets, mouthing her sister's lips briefly in spite of herself. Cassie gulps audibly at this, and seizes upon her wiggly paramour with the jerky hunger of a repressed teenager. Her hips wedge firmly between Christa's thicker ones as she buries herself in a proper makeout session. The vibrator falls, unneeded for the moment, and Christa's arms tentatively rise, elbows still planted on the bed, as she accepts and repays her sister's insistent, deep tongue-kisses.