Book 7: Funeral for a Mouse
Chapter 1
The "Mouse" tales are a wild, erotic, incestuous, romantic fantasy. It's not meant to be entirely realistic, and it's not always meant to be arousing. The sex can be hot, while the events enveloping the sex acts can be wildly unrealistic, but the interactions are also meant, on some level, to be real. The real world feelings that make incest a difficult act to pursue, the guilt and reluctance and hesitation, often intrude on the otherwise shameless desires of the characters.
This book, in particular, contains
very little sex
. It's the end of a long, involved and complex series of events.
So, if you are looking for an involved story and something intricate to chew on, while maybe getting a little bit hot and bothered, please read on. If you haven't read the first books, this book isn't a good place to start.
If you are looking for a raw, pleasing release through unrestrained, intensely sexual writing, then you should probably move on to something else. This story is likely to disappoint you.
— The Author
<8 Flight
Mouse looked without seeing out the window at the distant, uneven floor of brilliant white clouds below the plane.
As naturally as it came to her, she tried not to be angry with Michael. He'd never cheated on her.
Melanie had kept her carefully informed of everything he did. Michael didn't hide it from Melanie, and Melanie didn't try to hide it from Mouse. She wasn't telling her everything just to hurt her, when it did hurt, or to drive them apart, which it could. Melanie understood what they meant to each other. She just didn't want to see her little sister get ambushed. She wanted what was best for both of them.
And Michael hadn't cheated. He hadn't. He'd been seeing Kate a lot, too much, and he certainly hadn't ever mentioned it himself to Mouse, but he hadn't slept with her. Mouse would have known if he had. She knew she'd hear it in his voice. She was sure that she knew him that well. She'd known him that well even before they'd started fucking.
She didn't even think he'd kissed her, at least not much, not with feeling. There was never anything more than a chaste, brotherly, good night kiss for Kate from Michael. He reserved his passion for his true love, someone that truly excited him, his little sister. She was certain of it.
But Michael was trying to have it both ways. He was trying to live two lives, but neither of them fully, or well.
Mouse pulled the window shade down, shutting out the dazzling light. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the change. For a passing instant, she was partially blind. Everything was a dim, gray blur.
She couldn't be mad. It was what he needed. It honestly was what he should be doing. If she really loved him, she'd make him do it.
He was her brother. He was more than a brother. This was all fun, what they had. It was something they both wanted, and needed, but in the end it didn't seem like it was going to be enough to make it last, and Mouse couldn't figure out how to make it more.
Her brother needed more than sex. He needed more than affection. He needed more than love, even. He needed a woman who was a mate, a full time, real, permissible mate with a future. He needed someone that society would accept for him. He needed someone that could give him a family.
He needed to get rid of Mouse.
A tear should have formed in Mouse's eye, which she should have bravely fought back. The thought angered her. She didn't want or need to be brave, but she didn't even feel like that was what she was doing. She wanted to feel the pain, and the sense of loss, or impending loss.
She wasn't sure what she felt. That more than anything pissed her off, which made it even worse.
A bell sounded in the cabin as the fasten seat belts sign illuminated. The attendant's disembodied voice hummed through the air with the same standard, tired monologue about seat backs and trays in their upright and locked positions, while Mouse imagined tears running down her cheeks.
In under an hour she'd be beside Michael. She was afraid that she wouldn't really be with him, but merely beside him.
She wondered what she'd feel when she was.
* * *
As she waited for her own luggage to be unloaded from the plane, the baggage carousel turned and turned, always with the same three bags going around and away and around and back, luggage somehow abandoned after a previous flight, or maybe diverted to the wrong place. At every airport, after every flight, there were two or three inexplicably orphaned bags, no matter how intricate and well designed the tracking systems were made.
Somewhere in the country was another airport, with another baggage claim area, with a carousel that went round and round with nothing on it, while some poor guy waited in vain for his luggage to come down the shoot and around to him, which it never would because the bags were here.
For all she knew, that guy for these bags was Paul. He wasn't in Chicago to see her off on this trip. He was out of town, again. He'd been away for ten days this time. If he'd come back in time, the way she'd been feeling, she might almost have given in to his charms and finally slept with him. Then she could hate herself for that, too.
It was probably best that he was away for a lot of reasons. He was no good for her. He was too much like she was, too much of an adventurer. He was too unreliable. He was a too much of a rogue, the imperfect complement to Mouse as the indomitable rascal.
He had an odd, comfortable warmth to him, though. He was great to be around, inspiring and calming, both at once. He was like her father, or even better the cool uncle that she'd never had.
He was too old for her, well into his fifties, and recently widowed. He was certainly old and experienced enough to be her own father. He was childless, at least, which was why he could continue to be so wild at his age. He flirted ceaselessly, and not only with Mouse. That was annoying. He was obviously someone that couldn't be trusted.
That was silly, and unfair. He didn't belong to her. She'd never even let him kiss her, and he'd tried often enough. There was no issue of trust involved. She hadn't extended the opportunity to him.
But there was something wickedly delicious about him. He was naughty and responsible, daring and boring, old and young, all at once. There was something intoxicating in the thought of fucking him, or being fucked by him, a man that must have pleased many women, and could patiently work to please her, while making her feel beautiful and feminine and sensual simply by choosing to be with her.
The seduction, whether she seduced him, or he her, would be teasingly prolonged and delectable. That alone would make the actual act something to remember.
She was sure that she'd call him "daddy" as he entered her, and she was equally sure that it would drive him as wild as it would her. If they slept together, she knew it would be better than good, and that the more twisted she made the experience, the more wild it would make the next. It would be better than good.
Maybe almost half as good as being with Michael.
But they hadn't. She wanted to, but she didn't, and wouldn't. She belonged to Michael. She wanted Michael.
Everything was so fucked up.
* * *
Michael drove them home from the airport in an comfortable, uncomfortable silence. He didn't know what to think. This wasn't what he'd been expecting.
As soon as she'd seen him, she'd thrown her arms around him to kiss him. He should have resisted, for a lot of reasons, but he hadn't. They'd kissed in that airport before. They'd let strangers watch their act of romantic, sexual, if subdued, incest in public before.
As her lips met his, he thought about Kate. As her tongue slipped over his lower lip, then his upper, then into his mouth looking for his own, he forgot about Kate. With her arms around him, with her light, slim body in his hands, in his charge, he forgot about Kate. With her sweet breasts poking into his chest as her hands tickled the back of his bald scalp and her lips travelled ceaselessly over his, he forgot all about Kate.
Mouse fell away, looking admiringly up at him with sultry, dark eyes and a pouting mouth that begged for another kiss, and he forgot about everything around him.
Now, in the car, he was thinking again. The drive from the airport back to his place was a long one. It felt longer, because Mouse sat away from him, not holding his hand or nuzzling against him as she usually did. His chest hairs ached to be tugged, twisted, teased and tortured by her delicate, intruding fingers. Instead, she looked somberly out the window, as boring scenery flicked by like the unimportant, tedious, everyday memories that fly by in a lifetime.
"Did you finish that wedding gown you were so excited about? The baby doll one?"
Mouse took a while to answer.
"The customer pulled the order. She chickened out."
"That's too bad. Maybe you can get someone else to try the idea."
"No. Not likely."
"Maybe do a mockup, to show people."
"I already did a sketch. That's how I start with any customer. I show them a collection of wild, sensual things they could never have imagined wearing, then I listen as they pick one and act all excited and rebelliously naughty, and then they chicken out and make me do something more boring."
"You sound pissed. You can hardly be mad at them for being more conventional than you are."
Mouse stared askance at him. She looked pissed, too. He was starting to think she was pissed at him, but she couldn't be, not after a kiss like the one in the airport.
"So what are we doing this week?" he asked her, before she could start a spat with a response.
"Fucking," she answered, turning back to look out the window.
"I thought we'd try the 400 Club. Maybe make a dinner game of figuring out who saw us kissing in the parking lot that night."
"I'd rather fuck."
"We have to eat."
"No we don't."
"At the end of the week, they'd find us in bed together, spent, emaciated and dead."
"Fine," she said, her tone of voice as flat as the word.
* * *
The thing was, she really didn't want to eat. She wanted to fuck him. That's all she wanted to do, was to fuck him, fuck him, and fuck him some more. She wanted to use every single moment enjoying his body, because any moment, any fuck, might be the last.
She loved being fucked by him. He still didn't get that part. He said he did, he acted like it, he even said the words when they were fucking, but he didn't completely get it.
He called her a slut. He called her an incestuous whore. He called her his little sister slut whore.
But he deep down didn't know how right he was.
Sex is all a slut wants. It's all she thinks about. It's all she works towards. Except a slut wants sex with just about anyone. An incestuous slut only wants sex with her brother. It was all she'd think about and work toward.
It was true. She was an incestuous slut, probably the only one in the entire world. She was The Incestuous Slut. The moment she was with him, as soon as she'd touched him, all of her other tangled, confusing, irrelevant thoughts vanished. All of her concerns and worries magnified ten fold. Paul became an annoyance back home that she was glad to escape. Kate became a hated home wrecker.
She wanted him to fuck her in front of everyone, right there at the airport. She wanted to scream and claw at him, begging him for more where everyone could see. And she wanted them to know who they were to each other. She wanted them to be hauled off and thrown in jail, together, where they would be forced to fuck and fuck and fuck incestuously for the rest of their lives.
Mouse smiled wanly out the window at the absurdity of the thought.
He just didn't get it. Sex with him was amazing. She knew it was the same for him. He was better at denying it, maybe. He was better at lying to himself about what he really wanted, and how important the sex was.
But it was everything to him, just like it was to her. She knew it. Someone else might think the whole thing adolescent, and undignified, and irresponsible. Someone else might think it could and should be controlled.
They were wrong. Mouse fucked her brother. Michael fucked his sister. They did it, they wanted to do it, and it was the most important thing in the world to both of them. In the end, nothing else really mattered, to her, or to him.
Mouse had made up her mind. No more moping. No more feeling sorry for herself.
Mouse had to find a way to make it all work.
