Author's note: I got a job. Then I lost said job in a week. Now I am back to writing. Thanks for your patience, and thanks to everyone who encouraged me to keep the plot going (with plenty of sex to come, of course!).
Chapter 4
In the first lecture of the semester, when I saw Justine sitting right at the front, I realized I'd been hoping all summer that she wouldn't be taking this unit. In the afternoon I was dismayed to find that not only was she taking the unit, but she was also in the same tutorial group. It was rotten luck, but I consoled myself with the fact that this was the last year. Then she would take her major in international business, disappear into her father's business empire, and leave us commoners in peace to get regular day jobs.
I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath. If I focused hard enough I could almost recall Chloe's sweet scent. The thought soothed me, but the others were watching and I had to answer the bitch soon or back down. I'm ashamed to say that I resorted to an ad hominem argument.
"Fair to
you
maybe, because you know so much about being an average worker." I glared at Justine from across the table in our tutorial room.
Naturally, she wasn't going to let me get away with that and retorted swiftly in her crisp, clear voice. There was a trace of a British accent in it, a sign of her exclusive private tutoring.
"Since you are resorting to a sarcastic personal attack, you must consider my point inarguable." Her smile of victory, although decidedly fake and designed to irritate, was dazzling nonetheless. Damn it, she was so smug, it made my blood boil. The worst thing about her was that she had every reason to be smug, not least of which was her amazing appearance. I hated to admit it to myself, but she was beautiful. I told myself I wasn't attracted to her though; that would be like surrendering to the enemy.
The tutor, a small and learned gentleman in his sixties, was clearly taken aback by the hijacking of his agenda by two students. He tried -- for what must have been the tenth time in fifteen minutes of otherwise continuous argument -- to move past the unexpectedly rocky issue of industrial relations law.
"I appreciate the, the, erm...
enthusiasm
with which you have discussed the issue. However, the primary point I was trying to make is that regardless of..."
I zoned out, figuring that he was just repeating what our lecturer had said already, and went about trying to empty my head of all the bourgeoisie bullshit Miss Justine Fox had spouted. She was sitting primly with one smooth leg crossed over the other and was dressed in a black business skirt and white blouse. The material was expensive, obviously. Her hair was in a sophisticated chignon which exposed an elegant neck and her face was inclined attentively towards the tutor. Some said she was a proper lady. I called her the stupid blonde bitch. She was blonde. She was also undoubtedly a bitch. However, she was unfortunately not stupid, which meant that she often had a witty but specious retort ready for me whenever I argued with her appallingly skewed upper-class views. I think she took a kind of sick satisfaction in winding me up whilst remaining perfectly calm herself; she probably thought it proved her superior breeding or whatever.
*
The transition from car to couch after a day at uni was made with the familiarity of three years' routine. I plopped down heavily and switched on the TV, needing to unwind. My prescribed reading list was already prohibitively long, and the titles were uniformly uninspiring. Almost immediately I began mourning the loss of the holidays and regretting not being more appreciative of the free time. I counted that Easter break was six weeks into semester --
one day down, forty-one to go
. Isn't it funny how we don't appreciate what we have until it's gone? I registered Libby coming in the front door. She went straight to her room.
It was two days since I had surprised Chloe at her house, and two days since Libby had last spoken to me. Although I knew that it was going to happen eventually, I wasn't entirely comfortable that I had consummated my relationship with Chloe and lost my virginity whilst still hazy with lust for Libby. We were definitely in love and my girlfriend was certainly happy that it finally happened, so what if it was partially a distraction from a fantasy of more sinful fornication? Whenever my thoughts strayed in that direction, I whispered the word "incest" to myself, and it echoed softly in my ears. I just had to protect her, protect us both, from myself.
*
After an hour or so I hefted my bag and got to work, starting with the macroeconomic outlook article. From the look of things, the think-tank that published it was decidedly right-wing. I tried to picture Justine. She was probably at a mahogany desk in her riverside mansion, already on the last of the articles. Then I mused that perhaps she had a personal assistant to summarize and read them to her. The thought of her one-upping me spurred me on, and I lost myself in the work until late that night, reading until my head felt heavy and the words lost their meaning.
I felt the air move and swiveled in my chair to see the door swing open. Relief flooded me as Libby appeared; I was so glad that she wasn't mad at me anymore. Relief turned to desire when I saw that she was wearing a red satin slip, the kind of lingerie that is designed to be removed by a lover. Her expression was both demure and sexual. Seemingly moving in slow motion, she came to kneel before me with her head bowed, fixated on the bulge in my pants. Although a rich brown, her hair shone under my reading light. Elegant fingers opened my fly, and then she was holding me. She looked up with a cheeky expression on her face, winked at me, and then began to stroke softly. Pleasure electrified my entire body as I watched her place her other hand lower down and pump. My hips jerked up involuntarily and my eyes rolled back in my head. I was lost in the moment until she stilled her ministrations. There was no protest from me, because I saw what her intention was. With both hands wrapped around the rigid shaft, her head was moving millimeter by millimeter closer to the exposed end. She breathed a warm, moist breath over my angrily swollen cockhead, causing me to grit my teeth. I put my hand on her head, wanting so badly to fuck her face like an animal, but knowing that I could only plead for more with gentle pressure. Her tongue darted out to moisten full soft lips. Then she was closing the distance...
The dampness of a full load of cum in my pants woke me. I sat up slowly, lifting my head off the table and carrying the top page of a report with it. I peeled it off my face, looked at the hole in the page, and figured I must still be wearing several sentences on the emerging economies. My watch indicated it was already two in the morning.
What a dream!
As I wiped away the drool I had shed for my sister, I wondered if I could be blamed for what happened in my sleep. It wasn't like I chose to dream about her. Still reflecting, I started cleaning up the cum. How much control did I actually have over my attraction to her? Was she just a guilty pleasure for me or was she simply too hot for any straight man to resist, even her own brother?
*
After the icing incident there was no pretending that nothing had happened. Libby and I were both painfully aware of each other and spent the weeks following that last summer weekend avoiding any time alone together. On one level it hurt me, but I knew that it was the only way. She did her driving practice with Dad instead of me. Across the table at mealtimes she wouldn't meet my eye. Around the house she started wearing her older, more conservative clothes, covering her luscious body from view. The only time I saw her wearing anything revealing was right before she left for class in the mornings. I felt a pang of jealousy at the thought of all those freshmen getting an eyeful of Libby dressed in her short skirts and shorts. I'd even started to worry that she would be looking out for a suitable guy from amongst the many who would doubtless be hitting on her. Perhaps she would take the same route as me: diverting her affections from her sibling onto someone else. Obviously I was feeling more than a normal, protective brother would for his little sister; I was feeling
possessive
more than protective. That was a concerning difference, but I couldn't bear the thought of someone else touching her, especially touching her the way I wanted to.
What actually happened remained a secret between Libby and I. Chloe fortunately hadn't had a chance to observe us together and therefore notice that we were acting differently toward each other, and I didn't want to embolden her exploration of the incest topic by providing fresh incriminating evidence. Mom seemed to figure that our behaviour had something to do with the charred cake she had pulled from the oven on that fateful Saturday, but she merely pursed her lips occasionally, evidently trusting that we would figure it out ourselves. Incidentally, she was still over the moon that Chloe and I were dating.
*
