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Infatuation Ch. 01

By: VertigoJ



It happens to every guy. It seriously does. And I'm not talking about erectile dysfunction; I'm talking about walking in on your sister while she's buck naked. And if it's not your sister, then it's your mother, or your aunt, or – God forbid – your grandmother. Yes, let's all have a nice shudder before we continue.

That's better. Anyway, as I was saying, most guys will, at some point in their life, encounter an incident that involves, in some manner, a female relative and a whole lot of skin. It's really not our fault, considering how much time women spend in the bathroom. Yes, we probably should knock before going in, but why do they insist on standing in front of the mirror, in the nude, for several thoughtful minutes? The female body is beautiful! Your breasts aren't too small, your butt isn't too big and yes, you would look better shaved. But I guess the blame does rest on both sides of the fence.

Anyway, with an incident like this I guess you really have only two outcomes. Either the sight before your eyes is so hideously unattractive (and old) that you're scarred for life, and spend the rest of your years trying to give yourself a frontal lobotomy; or ... you spend the rest of your life trying to forget that perfect, heavenly sight, which – let's face it – just made your day, and possibly your entire childhood. Either way, it's a long-term thing.

So now that we've established that the guy isn't the only one at fault (keep that in mind for the next few pages, or at least until you've learnt to like me), let me tell you my story.

As you may have guessed, it involves my sister. My sister who, I had always thought, was your ordinary, run-of-the-mill female sibling whose only purpose in life (as far as I was concerned) was to make sure that I didn't have to do all the household chores. She was twenty-four at the time this happened, and I was eighteen.

Okay, so you already know what happened when I woke up that Friday morning, but it's no fun if I just skip it and tell you what happened afterwards. I have to describe it first, in detail, so that you can picture it and appreciate the full impact of the event. It's no small thing for an eighteen-year-old guy, you know. It's one of the major shaping points of his life. He holds onto that memory until he dies, or at least until he becomes senile. So yeah, hold your horses.

Anyway, as I said, it happened on a Friday morning. And let's be honest here – Friday mornings aren't that bad. Monday mornings are terrible, Thursday mornings are so close to the end of the week that they're basically a tease, but Friday mornings... they're all right. If you have school on a Friday, it's only six short hours until you're off for the week. And if you have work, it's two or three more. Unless, of course, you're working night shift, or your boss is a slave driver, or a vending machine falls on your legs and keeps you at work all weekend. But that's not too likely.

So I woke up feeling pretty good on Friday morning. I wasn't shouting "Hello, world!" from my open window, or singing along with the swallows that frequent our garden, but I was in a reasonably cheerful mood. I was also in a pair of blue polyester trousers (they're like silk trousers, only cheaper) and a plain white T-shirt – my basic night-time apparel. My hair was badly dishevelled, on account of the fact that I toss and turn regularly and always sleep on my side, and my skin was all sweaty and stiff. Not the prettiest picture to paint, but we're trying to be realistic here; and anyone who thinks they wake up looking like the crown prince of Handsome Land is kidding themselves.

So, in my post-sleep stupor, I stumbled to the bathroom, using one eye to navigate whilst I rubbed the other with my palm. (It's not as difficult as it sounds). When I reached the bathroom, the door was closed. I didn't pay much attention to that fact, because I knew my parents would have already showered, and my sister would have left for work by now, so the bathroom would be free. Someone had probably just forgotten to leave the door open after they'd finished. So, what do I do? I open the door, of course.

And then BANG! My entire body goes haywire. Let me try and describe exactly what happened to it.

My eyes, needless to say, increased their radius by an enormous degree; my mouth fell open like a wacky portcullis; my legs gave a kind of jelly-like tremble; and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. That wasn't all though. My mouth went immediately dry at first, then flooded with saliva; my palms and armpits began to produce sweat at a rate that would have cooled down the Sahara Desert; and, most obvious of all, my friendly neighbourhood trouser snake sprang to hard and painful attention. It was a mixed bag of feelings, to say the least.

But I'm neglecting the most important part. What could I have possibly been looking at to make my body go through such a complex string of reactions? Well, okay, you already know, but I'll tell you again anyway. It was my sister. My sister!

And mother of God, what a sister! I had never before, in my life, regarded her as attractive, nor had I ever entertained any curiosity as to what she looked like beneath her clothes. I'd remained completely and blissfully ignorant of this ... this ... goddess that was standing naked in front of me. But now ... it was like a veil had been lifted from my eyes, and I suddenly saw a completely different girl who had, nevertheless, been right under my nose for the past eighteen years. I should have guessed right away how much that incident would torture me. How was I ever supposed to let it go? I felt like it was burned into my brain; if I ever got a CAT scan, the doctors would see the image of my naked sister etched into my cerebral cortex. Obviously, I was kind of affected by this episode. But my sister...

"James, you fucking idiot! Get the hell out! GET OUT!" Her voice was like the shrill grinding of the garbage truck's brakes that wakes you up at six in the morning. I was actually tempted to clap my hands over my ears. She was hysterical.

"I'm ... sorry," I mumbled, still staring at her breasts. And oh, they were such lovely breasts. I was still a virgin, and I hadn't had so much as an experimental kiss before. Sure, I'd looked at porn (way, way too much) and I'd found myself gazing at the chests of beautiful women, but to actually see breasts, in real life, five feet away from me, just hanging there like a new, undiscovered fruit... It was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time – kind of like skydiving, I guess.

And then her belly – her soft, slender belly. And her hips! They weren't just straight and bony like mine – they actually curved out and plunged down to become her thighs. And such lovely thighs they were. I could almost have wrapped a single hand around one with my fingers meeting on the other side. But between them... It was like an epiphany for me – seeing a vagina for the first time. Here was my sister – my ordinary, boring sister – standing with the body of a mature woman, ready to copulate and have her period and make babies. I felt suddenly awakened to all of life's greatest miracles. My sister could do all those things. My sister!

As I stood there in dumbstruck awe, I had the sudden, desperate urge to tell her how much I loved and respected her, and how awesome her body was. I wanted to tell her that her collarbones were like lovely willow branches, that her lips were like rose petals, that her cheeks were as vibrant and alive as anything I had ever seen. I wanted her to take my hand and show me all sorts of new and wondrous things, to teach me about the female body and how to make love to it. I wanted to devote my entire life to the sight I saw before me.

And before you start wondering: no, I wasn't high. I was just full of an ineffable awe that is extremely hard to put into words. Hopefully, I've captured it to some degree.

But despite all this wonder and amazement that I felt, my sister was easily balancing the scales with her unbridled fury. "Get OUT!" she shrieked, and grabbed a fluffy white towel to wrap around her body. It was the towel that broke the spell. Now robbed of that radiant and beautiful sight (which made me want to beg for its return), I blinked several times and suddenly realised what I was doing. Oh, and my trousers were seriously tented.

"I'm sorry," I gasped, spinning around to go. I missed the door on the first spin, but got it on the second. "I'm sorry," I kept repeating, as I hurried out and closed the door behind me. I took one deep, shaky breath and then bolted back to my room. My mother impeded my progress, however.

"What's going on?" she asked, sounding confused.

"Nothing," I replied hastily, still out of breath.

"Why was Jemma shouting?"

"Uh ... I don't know," I lied. As my breath caught up to me, I started to frown and ponder a question of my own. "How come you're not at work?"

"Because it's only eight o'clock," my mother replied. "Why are you up so early?"

I thought about this for several confusing seconds. And then I remembered: the brief and annoying power outage last night, the resetting of my alarm clock, which I matched to my watch – my old, and almost never used watch which hadn't been updated for Daylight Savings Time. I had woken up an hour earlier than usual and assumed that it was still time to go to school. I wanted to mash my palm against my forehead, but I wasn't sure what my mother would make of that.

"Right," I said, trying to avoid her eye. "I'm gonna go back to bed." She was obviously still confused, but I hurried past her and made it to my room before she could raise any objections. Once there, I lay down on my bed, then sat up, then paced back and forth, and then decided to stare out of my window for several minutes. No matter where I looked, I could still see Jemma's naked body. It had become my Mecca, my Jesus, my religion! I wanted to lavish gifts and compliments on her in the hopes that she would allow me to glimpse her bare flesh once more. I felt a strange desire and reverence bubbling up inside me. I suppose that's what it feels like to achieve nirvana. Those monks are wasting their time though; they should just walk in on their sisters when they're in the bathroom and be done with it.

I wasn't done with it though. I hadn't even begun to contemplate, analyse and deconstruct every tiny little detail of my experience. I would spend months – years – tracing the sensuous lines of her body in my mind. I would scrutinise that mental image until I could recall it at a moment's instant. I would try (and fail) to decide which feature of her body I liked best. In short, I would go mad.

It started at school, on that same day. I waited until Jemma had left the house before going into the bathroom and finding the exact spot she had stood when I'd seen her. I played the event over in my mind, again and again, until I found that I was insanely horny, at which point I jacked myself off and came like a prize-winning bull. I didn't really feel that sordid at the time; I just knew I wanted to orgasm while I was thinking of my sister's soft, unrelenting body. Afterwards I felt bad, but it passed with time.

At school, nothing I did could shake the image from my mind. Maths equations, English essays, even tripping and falling down the steps during morning recess couldn't dislodge it. My friends commented on the fact that I was behaving quite 'absent-mindedly' during the day, but I was too absent-minded to make a reply. The only things I wanted to do were either see my sister naked again, or go to the toilet and jack off while I thought of her. But I'd never jacked off at school before and I wasn't going to start now. So I passed what felt like the longest day of my entire life just thinking, unendingly, of my sister and her divine body. I wanted to feel her breasts in my palms. That was the conclusion I came to by the end of the day.

By the time I got home, hot and sweaty and preoccupied, I decided that I also wanted to make her come. Sure, she was my sister and it was totally and utterly wrong, but I wanted to make her and her gorgeous body feel like a million, shiny silver dollars. I wanted to see what would happen to those spherical breasts and that firm stomach when she had an orgasm. I wanted to know what kind of sounds she made. I wanted to see where she put her hands at the moment of her climax. Would she squeeze her breasts and flatten them against her chest, or would she cling to me as though I were concrete pillar in a hurricane? I wanted to know it all, and I couldn't stand to be ignorant any longer.

I was the only one at home when I arrived, so I jacked off. I made myself a sandwich, then I jacked off again, then I ate the sandwich, and then I jacked off twice more. It was a record for me – six times in one day (I did it twice more that night). Maybe six isn't a lot, but I average, like, two a day, so six is impressive for me. Anyway, enough with my pubescent rantings. You all want to know what happened when my sister came home? Did she confront him about what had happened? Did she apologise for reacting so violently? Did she ask him if he liked what he saw, then pulled out his gigantic, ten-inch cock and made love to it with her mouth? Well, no, no, and most definitely no. For starters, I don't have a ten-inch cock, and even if I did, I doubt it would cause a sudden backflip in my sister's behaviour – that of not giving her brother oral sex in the evening, or during any other part of the day, for that matter.

No, what she did was completely ignore me. But that's normal right? I mean, we didn't talk much before. But, this time the silence was more like noise – it was heavy and it was excruciatingly awkward. Whenever I so much as moved a finger, Jemma's eyes would cut towards me with a distrustful and menacing glare. As long as I stayed perfectly still, she did too.

But I didn't want to stay perfectly still. I wanted to run up to her like a girl at a Justin Timberlake concert and tell her that I thought her body was "like, oh my God, the most amazing thing I have ever seen in my life! AIIIIEEEEEE!" She'd probably just slap me though and never wear anything even remotely revealing ever again. And that would suck. Big time. So I kept quiet, for the moment.

Willpower is a funny thing. Well, actually, it's not, but what I meant to say was that it doesn't last very long. I made it to about nine o'clock and then my subconscious took over. My id, as Freud would say. It was all food-drink-grunt-sex-grunt-sleep from then on. So when my lovely, magnificently beautiful sister decided that she was going upstairs to bed, I leapt to my feet and repeated her words exactly, then followed her up. She waited until she had gained the upstairs landing before rounding on me with white-hot eyes. I think she planned it so that I would still be on the stairs, and therefore in a lower position – both physically and feudally – allowing her to come across as more menacing. In truth, she looked as menacing as I could possibly imagine her to be, but I was so utterly infatuated with her then, that I failed to notice it. When she bared her teeth, I simply noted how white they were. And when those angry creases appeared between her eyebrows, I thought they were cute. I was smiling like a dazed clown.

"Why are you following me?" she demanded, as I was busy tracing the curve of her chin with my eyes. I shook my head to regain some composure and attempted to form a coherent response.

"I'm not," was all I could come up with.

"Then go to your room," Jemma suggested, then folded her arms and moved aside to let me pass. I looked at the gap I was supposed to walk through, then at Jemma's supple body, and said, "Well, what are you doing now?"

I should reiterate the fact that my sister and I had a very simple, almost non-existent relationship before that Friday morning. And she, apparently, wanted to keep it that way. I didn't though. I wanted to know everything about her.

"I'm going to bed," she replied bluntly, with her arms still crossed.

"Soooo ... you don't want to do something?" I asked slowly.

Jemma looked baffled. "Do something? What the hell are you talking about?"

"I don't know," I replied with a shrug. And then, as though I'd been struck by a brilliant, completely original idea, "We could listen to music!"

Her eyes widened about as much as mine had that morning. "You want to listen to music?" she said slowly. "With me?"

"Well, I mean, you have such good taste – maybe I could borrow some CDs from you."

She looked even more confused. "You hate the music I listen to. You tell me so all the time."

"Well, I'm older now. Maybe I'll like it."

Her expression changed then, to a knowing sort of look. "I know what this is about ... what you're trying to do."

I frowned innocently. "What am I trying to do?"

Jemma just smiled, though not very pleasantly, and walked away. I jogged to catch up to her, trying to reposition my erection as I did. "Hey, wait," I said, reaching her in the hallway.

"What?" she demanded sharply, spinning around.

"Er..." I said, stumbling for things to say. How could I subtly let her know that I thought she was the most beautiful thing on the entire planet? "I like your top," I said, pointing at the simple purple garment. It had a big, red sunflower right in the middle, most of it covering her breasts. Ah, those breasts...

Jemma didn't even look down. "Go away, you horny little prick," she said sternly. I might have been hurt, if I was in a very different mood.

"I'm not horny," I replied defensively.

"Oh, yeah?" said Jemma, and nodded at my crotch. "What's that, then?"

I looked down and saw the distinctive bulge in my trousers. Of course, there was no satisfactory answer I could give to that question, so Jemma didn't wait for one. She just smirked at me and took off for her room. The door closed behind her before I managed to spit out another useless sentence. Damn, I thought sharply, and stomped off to my room. Once there, I pulled my pillow between my legs and took it for a very brief ride.

It just didn't seem fair, I mused afterwards. All those years spent in lonely desperation, and now I realise that there's a gorgeous princess a few doors away and I can't even see her. She was right there, with her vagina and her cervix and her clitoris, and I had the perfect compliment to all those parts and I couldn't do anything with them. Didn't it make sense to wrap ourselves together and make long, passionate love with each other? It did to me.

But even if I couldn't have sex with her, I still wanted to see her naked. And if I couldn't see her naked, then I wanted to smell her or hear her. So I pushed myself out of bed, crept silently along the hall, and put an ear to Jemma's door. There was light coming out from beneath it, so I knew she was still awake. But what was she doing? Was she reading? Was she trying on new clothes? Was she inspecting herself in the mirror again? I had a sudden and old-fashioned-movie kind of picture of Jemma sitting at a vanity table and brushing her hair in the nude. It sent desire zinging down my spine.

Then the door opened. I fell forward but managed to keep my footing. Jemma was looming above me, fully clothed (in her pyjamas, however, which were similar to mine) and looking at me with cross-armed impatience. She looked as though she expected an explanation.

"Uh ... hi," I said, straightening up and swallowing as best I could. "How ... how are you?"

"I'm fine," Jemma responded, no doubt mocking me. "How are you?"

"Good," I replied, in a rather high-pitched tone. "How are you?"


Infatuation Ch. 01



She just narrowed her eyes. "What were you doing standing outside my door?"

"Outside your door?" I echoed stupidly. "Oh ... right. I was ... um ... I was going to see if ... if you wanted to watch some TV." At the time, I thought it was a brilliant notion. But if it was possible, Jemma's eyes narrowed even further.

"I am not watching TV with you."

"But ... there's a good movie on," I protested, as she began pushing me from her room. She made sure to turn me around first and pressed her palms flat against my back. It was nice, but I wanted to stay rather than leave, so I continued to protest. "Might be a good drama or something. Or those infomercials – they're always interesting. We don't even have to watch TV. We could play a board game. I mean, come on, how long has it been since we played Monopoly?"  

"Good night, James," she said pointedly, and closed her door in my face. The sound of the wood slamming shut pretty much mimicked the sound of my heart exploding. This wasn't fair. She couldn't just give me a glimpse of her body and then expect me to go cold turkey. Okay, so it wasn't exactly her choice to let me see her naked, but it had happened anyway, and to deprive me of further viewings was just plain cruel. Didn't she know what this could do to me in the long run? I could develop all sorts of repressed psychological problems. And that wasn't healthy!

In the end, I was forced to give up, and slink back to my room with my cock between my legs. My bed felt extra rigid that night, and the air inside my room extra stuffy. I told myself to get up and watch TV if I couldn't sleep, but that would be just as dull. Spending more time with Jemma was the only thing preferable to my current situation. There was her, and then there was everything else. That always happens when you become besotted with someone; the only thing you want to do is be around them, so that you don't miss a moment of their life. Everything else just seems like torture.

I was thankful for my insomnia though, because if I hadn't stayed awake all night, I wouldn't have heard Jemma leaving her room around two in the morning. I did though, and I followed straight away.

The house was dark and – I don't mind admitting – a little spooky, but I told myself I was a fearless, eighteen-year-old man (not a boy) and plunged into the gloomy kitchen. I almost leapt out of my goosebump-covered skin when I saw Jemma. She wasn't doing anything strange, nor did she leap out at me – I was just startled to see a pale, white figure standing amidst the hazy darkness. I think she noticed me at the same time.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed angrily. I thought that was highly unfair: I hadn't said a word yet and she was already annoyed with me.

"I'm getting a glass of milk," I replied innocently. I had intended to say water, but after seeing that Jemma was drinking milk, I made a quick ammedment to my words. I recovered the bottle of milk from the fridge and poured myself a full glass, hoping that it would give me an excuse to remain in the kitchen for as long as I needed to, which basically meant as long as Jemma was there.

Did I mention she looked particularly beautiful in the moonlight? Yeah, I know, beauty and moonlight make for the biggest cliché, but she seriously did look gorgeous. Her white top and whiter skin gave her an almost ethereal appearance, as though she was not quite real, not quite human. And against that pale backdrop, her copper-coloured hair, which fell halfway down her back, looked like the softest length of silk. Not as soft as her skin though, or her lips, which looked as though they wouldn't even break the surface of water. So yeah, she looked beautiful. Her mood though...

"I swear to God, James," she said sternly, "if you don't stop following me...."

"I'm not following you," I replied resentfully. "I just came down for a glass of milk. Like I said."

"At the exact same time I did?"

I shrugged. "It's not unusual, really. We're just so alike. Maybe our bodies are in sync."

Jemma's incredulous snort actually made me feel stupid. I had no idea why I was saying these idiotic things, but they seemed to come out of my mouth of their own accord. 

"Give me a break," she said, and possibly rolled her eyes while she said it. I couldn't be sure though.

After that, she tipped her glass back (which put her in a very sexy pose, by the way) and drained the rest of her milk. "Well," she said, putting her empty glass in the sink, "have fun."

"Hey ... wait," I said, taking a step to the side so that I blocked her escape. She raised her eyes mutinously and gave me a very "This better be fucking good" look. It took me a few seconds to get my voice box to work. "You know, seeing as we both can't sleep," I said, almost cringing as I heard my own voice, and knowing it wouldn't end well, "why don't we watch some TV?"

Jemma opened her mouth to reply (presumably angrily), then closed it again. For a shocking moment, I thought she was actually going to consider my proposal; then I realised she was just doing that thing where you start to reply, then stop and take a deep breath, and then reply in a different way. I think it's meant to show the other person that you're barely keeping your temper in check. Well, that, or you're an asthmatic.

"I never said I couldn't sleep," she said slowly, regarding me with a level gaze. "I'm going to bed."

And with that she pushed (pushed!) past me and headed towards the stairs. "Hey, wait," I cried. "Jem! Jem!" But as I reached the door, I stumbled and spilled some of my milk. "Bugger," I said to myself, remembering that I'd poured a full glass. So I tossed the whole thing back, with some difficulty, wiped my chin and the tiles and hurried upstairs after Jemma. Her door was shut though. Again.

Damn it, I thought despondently, and went to mope in my room. Oh, and I masturbated because I'd seen her in her pyjamas again.

The following day was a Saturday, or, as it would hereafter be known to me, 'the day after the greatest day of my life'. But that was long, and hard to say, so I decided to call it Saturday instead.

When I woke up on this 'Saturday', I found that I'd come down with a serious case of morning glory, which needed to be alleviated post-haste. The only problem was, I wanted to see Jemma first, so that I'd have something to – you know – help me along. So, even though I slept in my pyjama bottoms only, I fetched a pair of tight underwear from my drawer and slapped them on for the time being, thus making it safe to go outside. I also pulled on a T-shirt before leaving my room.

The first thing I did was to see if Jemma's door was closed. It wasn't, which meant that she was already up, and possibly out. So I ran downstairs to see if she was in the kitchen, or the lounge room, but met with no luck. However (and that's a significant however – you have to say it in a pompous tone of voice), I did see both my parents, and even managed to discover that Jemma hadn't left the house. So I fled back upstairs with a strange idea in mind, and sure enough, the bathroom door was closed. I think I actually rubbed my hands together.

Yeah, you can pretty much tell what I was thinking. The first word was yaba, the second was daba, and I'll let you guess the third. So, being the peerless actor that I am, I started to yawn, and rub my eyes and pretend I wasn't quite awake, which set up a good pretence for walking in on my sister a second time. I knew she'd be pissed, and I knew this would only confirm her suspicions, but there was no way in Hades I was going to pass up this opportunity. If you'd shackled me to a wall, I would have gnawed my feet off and crawled into the bathroom for a tiny, fleeting glimpse. Then I'd probably collapse from blood loss and – on the plus side – get a nice look between her legs from my crippled position. She might even give me mouth-to-mouth! Hey, I'm sure it's a viable method for curing amputation.

Anyway, back to the business at hand. The business being the doorknob and my hand being ... well, my hand. So I twisted the knob quickly, before Jemma would have a chance to cover herself with a towel, and pretended to stagger in. Can you possibly imagine my dismay when I saw my fully clothed sister standing in front of the mirror, brushing her hair? It was horrifying!

I opened and closed my mouth repeatedly in an effort to speak, but Jemma beat me to it. "Morning," she said cheerfully, and continued to brush her hair.

"M– morning," I replied, still taken aback by this strangely un-naked version of my sister. Something was terribly wrong here. I did manage to regain my senses eventually, however; at least enough to feign an apology. "Sorry," I said, trying to sound nonchalant. "I didn't know you were in here."

"That's okay," said Jemma, putting down her hairbrush and giving me a brief smile. "It's all yours." And then she walked out. Just like that. Walked right out.

"B– but," I stammered, trying once more to formulate a convincing and coherent protest. She was gone though, and suddenly the bathroom seemed like the most boring place on Earth. I needed to shower though, and come, so I did both in about five minutes and then went downstairs.

I stood in the kitchen, which is, I suppose, the hub of our house, and craned my neck to see if I could locate Jemma. It didn't look as though she was in the backyard, and she wasn't with my parents in the lounge room. The study door was open and I could see that she wasn't at the desk, and, unless she'd concealed herself in the pantry, she wasn't in the kitchen. I did check the pantry anyway though.

Finally caving, I decided to ask my parents. "Where's Jem?" I inquired casually.

"She went out, dear," my mother replied. I quickly ducked out of the room before she had a chance to accost me with a new idea for mother-son bonding.

So Jemma was out, and I was here, alone (my parents didn't count) and miserable. It was so unfair of her to just leave. I knew she was doing it to spite me. She was probably laughing with her friends about her horny little brother who was going to a colossal effort just to get a glimpse of her naked body again. And her friends were probably all ugly and straight-bodied, with nothing like the soft curves that Jemma had. No one could have a body like Jemma's.

Well, that was enough to get me going again, so I splattered an old towel and then decided to shave. It was only when my face started to burn as though it had been dipped in hydrochloric acid that I realised there was a car in the driveway. I shrugged my shirt back on and peeped out the window, hoping no one would notice me. Hanging around outside the car (but not really loitering) was Jemma, two boys and two other girls. Some of them looked familiar, some didn't, but I knew that this was her clique – her circle of friends, to put it in Care Bear terms. The first thing I noticed was that the guys weren't all that. They weren't even some of that. They were just regular, lose-'em-in-a-crowd kind of guys. The girls were the same, but definitely not ugly. Jemma though, was a gorgeous dove among crows. A succulent strawberry among prunes. A Gummi Bear among liquorice. I found myself sighing just from looking at her.

Unfortunately, I coupled said sigh with a dramatic, chin-on-the-palm gesture, with my elbow leaning on the windowsill. And what happened? I smacked my forehead on the glass. It didn't break, of course, because I'm not that bigheaded, but it reverberated with a loud thrum and caught the attention of the crowd below. Luckily, I managed (I think) to whip my head back before any of them noticed me. But as I massaged my sore head, I could distinctly hear Jemma saying, "I'll see you later guys," in an "I have to go inside and kill my brother" kind of voice. I should have been scared – I should have been terrified – but I felt only anticipation at seeing Jemma again. Or maybe it was only the pain in my head that stopped me from ruing the day I was born. Who knows?

Anyway, even though Jemma did come back inside, and looked a little miffed when I saw her, she didn't say anything to me. Not just about the window incident, but about anything. She was ignoring me again. Or at least I thought of it as her ignoring me; in truth, she was behaving in exactly the same way she always had towards me. This was our usual, brother-sister relationship, but it was no longer enough for me. I wanted to have Deep and Meaningful conversations, to trade gossip about our friends, to pick wildflowers in the park. Why did she insist on keeping her distance? Was she afraid to open up? Did she have trust issues? Why couldn't she love me!

So, as you can see, I was pretty insane by then, but I knew I could never rest unless I got another look at that perfect, flawless body that was now haunting my dreams. I didn't care if I couldn't touch it, or do anything with it – I just wanted to look at it. Stare, might be a more accurate term. I wanted to stare at my sister's naked body all day long. God how I wanted to stare at her!

But Jemma wasn't making that easy. In fact, I had an inkling that she was actually trying to prevent it. Which was just plain mean, to be honest. I mean, I'm supposed to be her brother. Didn't she know how important family was?

My attempts to see her naked again were matched, in effort, only by her attempts to prevent me from doing exactly that. She seemed to enjoy doing it as well: squashing all my hopes and dreams with one sinister smile. A lesser man would have given up, a nastier man would have decided to hate her – but me? I just kept on trying with a commitment that would have made Bruce Lee proud. I mean ... you know ... if he had condoned the act of trying to see your sister naked. Which he almost certainly wouldn't have.

But I digress ... again. And you're all anxious to know what happened to the dopey boy and his gorgeous sister. Well, maybe I won't tell you, if you think I'm so 'dopey'. But then that would defeat the purpose of everything I've written so far, so I'll keep going. But don't think it's because I like you!

So anyway, you're wondering how I tried to see my sister naked again? Well, admittedly, I didn't put much thought into a plan, I simply tried to wake up around the same time she did and get a nice look at her recently-awoken body. It wasn't naked, but it was something. Aside from that, I tried to spend more time with her; a strategy that she thwarted as immediately as she had the first time. I never gave up though, and soon it became like a game. Seduction is a game, after all. And I'm sticking to the idea that what I was doing was seduction, despite what anyone else might say.

It was exactly a week after I'd laid my humble, undeserving eyes on that oh-so-glorious sight that I came up with a definitive plan. It wasn't foolproof (in fact, a fool could easily have worked around it), but I thought that if I relied on Jemma's blind adherence to her daily bathroom routine, I could pull it off. After all, this had happened to me several times, and I was no fool. You heard what I said.

Anyway, what I did (and this is so fiendishly clever it may very well boggle your mind) was to wake up even earlier than Jemma, creep into the bathroom, and take the last clean towel off the rack. I know – it's brilliant. But leave your adulation aside (for now), so that I can finish telling the story.

As I said, I was going to rely on the assumption that Jemma (like myself) neglected to check if there were any clean towels in the bathroom before she hopped in the shower. If this was true, then bingo! Naked Jemma all round. Well, just for me actually, but that's all that matters.

So, after removing the last towel, I crept back to my room and sat back against the door, listening for Jemma's footsteps in the hall. Twelve minutes later, at 7:03, I heard her door open and her soft, superhuman footsteps augur her arrival in the bathroom. The door closed and I held my breath.

About then, it suddenly struck me how perverted I was being, and how much trouble I should get in for doing this, but I reminded myself that even Jemma was enjoying the game, and this whole wicked obsession I had was really a compliment to her, in a roundabout way. So I kept a steady mind, and listened anxiously for the sound of the shower. And it came! It came! Oh, it was wonderful. I could hear the pipes buzzing with the water flowing through them and the sound of the stream hitting the shower floor. She was in the shower, and when she got out she would find herself distinctly towelless. Didn't I tell you it was a brilliant plan? And you didn't believe me.

So, in order to fully reap the benefits, I went and sat outside the bathroom door, and waited for about fifteen minutes. Once that time was up, I heard the water stop, the door slide open and the pat pat of Jemma's feet stepping out of the shower. I was longing to see those feet again.

I fancied that I could actually hear, or sense, her confusion. I pictured what she was doing and, in doing so, brought a very wide smile to my face. I was a little off with the timing, but she did eventually open the door and stick her wet head out. The look on her face when she saw me was priceless.

"You little shit," she said, with – surprisingly – some admiration in her tone.

"Nice shower?" I asked, unable to suppress my grin. I knew it was an unspoken rule to remain nonchalant when we played our game, but it was becoming harder and harder.

Jemma sighed. Even the bare shoulder and wet hair that I could see was inflaming me beyond reasonable belief. "Can you get me a towel?" she asked. "Please."

"You didn't say the magic—" I began, then recalled her words. "Oh. You did say the magic word." I pushed myself to my feet and sighed ostentatiously. "Fine. I'll get you a towel." And so I ventured off to the linen closet and selected the smallest towel I could find. She wouldn't be getting it that easily though. When I got back to the bathroom, I knocked on the door and called to her. "Jem? Do you want your towel?"

"In a minute," she replied, causing me to frown with confusion. I couldn't imagine what she'd be doing. Unless... But no. But she might... No!

I sat back down against the wall and waited, knowing that my moment of glory was only sixty seconds away. Sixty small seconds and I'd get to see my sister in all her wonderful nakedness again. And this time I might even tell her how amazing she looked.

Now, try to comprehend the enormity of my horror when I saw the door open and my sister walk through it fully dressed! I blinked several times, tried to splutter an indignant complaint, and then finally decided I would be better off standing up. "H– how...?" I demanded feebly.

"You'll have to be quicker than that," Jemma replied with a victorious smirk.

"But..." I went on, at which point Jemma walked down the hall to her room, with a towel in her hand! And it hit me: the fact that I'd taken too bloody long to get her towel, and that in that time, she'd ducked into her room and retrieved one of her own.

Damn it, damn it, damn it, I yelled silently, and barely restrained myself from putting my fist through the wall. Which I could have done ... if I'd wanted to.

So that was the last straw. Another plan thwarted, another hope crushed... It was time to mope. And that's what I did, all day long, in my room, with only my pillow for company. I don't think my pillow liked me very much though, considering what I used it for. So I threw it on the floor.

I was so bloody desperate to see Jemma's body again, and just to get to know her better, that it felt like a physical pain inside my chest. I clutched my stomach for hours and tried to forget that stupid image which had caused me so much excitement and disappointment.




Infatuation Ch. 01



Then I remembered I had school, so I got ready in record time and went to mope in a different location. My friends said nothing; they just ignored me like Jemma did.

When I got home around three in the afternoon, I moped again, in my room, and did so until six o'clock. That's when Jemma actually came to my room. Not to talk to me or tell me she wanted to show me her body, mind you – just to tell me that dinner was on the table. She said it quickly and left, but reappeared almost straight away.

"Are you okay?" she asked uncertainly.

I decided that I wasn't going to let this stupid craving get in the way of my life anymore, so I rolled over, sat up and nodded.

Jemma smiled, said, "Okay," and started walking away.

"Hey, Jem," I said, and was relieved to see her come back. "Sorry about the whole ... you know."

I couldn't really read her expression then. It may have been amusement or it may have been pity. It might even have been disgust.

"I won't try to do it again," I said, and smiled. Jemma smiled back, a little hesitantly, and reminded me about dinner.

"Come on," she said, and led the way downstairs.

And so my quest ended, with only that single, rapturous moment to sustain me for the rest of my miserable existence. Nevermore would I...

Ah, what's the point? You all know there's more to come, anyway, so I won't bother. But just in case you think this was a very ordinary, very uninspired part of the tale, just remember that every good story has to have a beginning. And an end. And a middle. And a buxom heroine who has a butt you could crack a walnut on. Or so I hear. So stay tuned for more walnut-cracking, breast-ogling fun in the future. Ciao. 



Infatuation Ch. 02



Well, well – look who's back. Have you come looking for more twisted, filial voyeur? Well, you're in luck, because as it just so happens, I have more of my little tale to tell. So sit back, kick up your feet, and make sure to wipe up any mess you make afterwards. A hygienic pervert is a happy pervert, after all.

I'm just kidding. We're not perverts here – we're sex connoisseurs.

Now ... where did I leave off last time? Ah, yes, that's right; I remember. But perhaps before continuing I should recap the story so far. No? You want me to shut up and get on with it? Well, too bad, pal, because I'm in the driver's seat for this one. I'll be brief though.

Basically, I saw my sister naked, became obsessed with her body, and after a long and unsuccessful attempt to see her in the nude again, gave up. There – is that enough? Good. Now let's continue.

This part of the story picks up on the morning after the day that I decided to give up my failed schemes, which makes it a Sunday. Now, Sunday mornings are wonderful times. I mean, what better feeling is there (it's a rhetorical question – you don't have to say sex) than waking up early and knowing that you can stay in bed for as long as you like? Almost nothing feels better than that. (I told you not to say sex!). So I was a bit happier when I woke up on this Sunday morning, despite the fact that my mind was still heavily occupied by thoughts of Jemma. I reiterated to myself, however, that I was no longer going to play the part of the pathetic teenage boy, scrambling for the tiniest glimpse of naked flesh. True, my adoration of my sister extended further than her body, but it was still a bit twisted to try to catch her without any clothes on, simply for my own carnal fantasies. So I put on a smile and soon felt more clear-headed than I had the whole week.

But wait, you're saying; that's no fun. We want to read about how tortured and depressed you felt; we don't want to read about someone who's actually sane. Well, you lucky (and sadistic) devils, it just so happens that my blissful mental state didn't last very long. You see, as I was making my way through the upstairs hallway, heading down to breakfast, I noticed something very peculiar. And what was that, you might ask? Well, I'll tell you.

It seemed that the door to the bathroom was open. Actually, 'ajar' might be a better word. There were perhaps two, maybe three inches of space between the edge of the door and the jamb. I say it's peculiar because no one in our house leaves the door open while they're using the bathroom. And did I mention I could hear the shower going? I knew someone was in there, and I could guess who, but I couldn't for the life of me guess why the door was open. Later, it became obvious, but at the time I was flabbergasted.

So, crossing my fingers and hoping to God that I wasn't about to see one of my parents in their birthday suit, I put my eye to the sliver of empty space and looked inside. The shower, of course, was positioned in a corner that prevented it from being viewable from the doorway, but not so the mirror. The mirror and the bench were basically the only things I could see, but we all know that if you can see a mirror, you can see a lot of other stuff as well. And what did I see? Well, not much, to tell you the truth, but to me it was like staring at an exploding star – something you only see once in a lifetime. It was the blurry, indistinct shape of my sister's body. Yeah, not the most high quality of images, but it sent my blood racing.

See, the shower doors are opaque, and so Jemma showed up, on the mirror, as nothing more than a blur. But it was a skin-coloured blur and it was moving and I was so incredibly horny that I started rubbing my crotch without knowing it. At the same time, obscure thoughts began to parade through my brain, each vying for my attention.

Why was the door open? Did she leave it open on purpose? Why was I watching this when I'd sworn not to? Why am I rubbing my cock? What's going to happen if I wait here until she gets out? Do cats really have nine lives?

The penultimate question scrubbed out all the rest and soon I was trembling with anticipation. I was afraid of being caught, however, so I spent nearly as much time looking inside the bathroom as I did down the hall. I kept perfectly silent so that I would be able to detect the sound of footsteps should one of my parents decide to come upstairs. They didn't, though, and soon Jemma was turning off the taps.

I was so excited I felt like giggling. (I didn't though). I steadied myself against the wall and pushed my eye further forward, hoping to obtain the best view possible. By now, I was confident that Jemma had left the door ajar on purpose, in order to renew our little game of hide and seek, which, I was now convinced, was as much fun for her as it was for me. But I was also confident that she wouldn't go so far as to let me see her naked, and so I knew that something must crop up to prevent me catching a glimpse of that heavenly beauty of hers. And wouldn't you know it ... she wrapped a towel around herself before getting out of the shower. It may have been her normal shower-time practice, but it was something I never did.

At this point, Jemma had obviously decided that the show was over, and so, with a small smile on her lips, she turned around and closed the door, only moments after I'd withdrawn my face. And that was it for me; I knew I wouldn't come through on my promise. Now, I had to see her naked again. It was my mission, my purpose in life, my raison d'être!

And so the game began again. This time, however, Jemma seemed to be actively participating. Whenever I woke up in the morning, I inevitably found the bathroom door ajar, and was treated to some more blurry nakedness for a few glorious minutes. It still wasn't enough though, and I was getting impatient.

More moping ensued – quite a lot of it actually. No matter what I did, no matter where I went, I couldn't stop thinking about my sister. It was Jemma this and Jemma that and Jemma oh-my-God-I-love-her. I was obsessed! Obsessed, I tell you!

And now that Jemma had done something to encourage my curiosity, I couldn't turn back and give up like I had the last time. So I was ensnared in her web of rounded breasts and perfect buttocks. And it was a very sticky web, as you can probably imagine.

The thing that bothered me the most during that second week was that even though Jemma was now wholly engaged in this little pastime of ours, she still paid little to no attention to me during the day. And I craved her attention, in the same way that I craved another peek at her lovelies. I was desperate to talk to her, to hear the sound of her voice, but it seemed as though wherever I was, she was somewhere else.

Well, I thought to myself, that's enough of that. If she's going to put all her effort into ignoring me, then I'm going to put all mine into being the most ever-present, attention-seeking jackass to ever walk the planet. I would spend time with her even if that entailed having a heated argument. And so that's what I did.

I started sitting on the same couch as her, even though every other seat in the room was free. I went in and out of the study while she was doing homework, pretending to consult the dictionary. I even asked mum if she wanted me to help Jemma hang the clothes on the line, and then told a disgruntled Jemma that mum had made me help her. Every second I spent in her presence was a little scrap of paradise, and I was determined to collect them all and construct my very own fantasy island.

Needless to say, however, Jemma soon became irritated by my constant presence, and it was then that I finally broached the subject directly. I know, I know. "About time," you're all thinking.

It was on a Thursday afternoon. Mum and dad were at work, I had come home from school early, and Jemma was in the kitchen washing dishes. She looked highly appetising in her jeans and simple orange top. And as usual, her breasts seemed a lot bigger than they had two weeks ago.

"Hey, Jem," I greeted her, and ducked into the fridge for a drink. She ignored me, but I was used to that by then, so I asked her if she needed any help.

"No," she replied stiffly.

"Oh, come on," I said, once I'd drained my orange juice. "I can dry them for you."

"That's what the dish rack's for," she replied, stiffly again.

"Well," I said thoughtfully, "can I do anything else?"

"Yeah, you can stop bugging me."

"I'm not bugging you."

"Yes, you are," Jemma maintained, whilst running the sponge up and down a spoon in a very slow motion. That seriously wasn't cool.

I trembled. "Well, then, do you want to do something after you finish?"

And that's when she finally snapped. Well, sort of. She dropped the spoon in the sink, spun around, and glared at me with a startling amount of contempt. "Look, James," she said angrily; "you need to stop following me around. Okay? It's really annoying, and I can't stand it anymore."

Despite the fact that I was still desperate to be around her, I also wanted nothing more than to ensure my sister's happiness. And if I was annoying her, then something had to change. And so I took a different approach. "Oh, come on," I pleaded earnestly. "I just want to spend some time with you."

Jemma sighed in frustration, and then addressed me very carefully, as though she was using her words as a scalpel in a complicated medical procedure. "James ... you are not seeing me naked again."

I was floored by her direct reference to the event. We'd danced around it up until now, but there it was, laid before me as bare as Jemma had been. Which now meant that I could argue my case directly.

"Why not?" I asked miserably.

I don't think Jemma was expecting me to say that. She probably thought I'd deny that I ever had the intention of seeing her naked and that I thought she was hideously ugly. But my words had a significant impact on her, and so even though she was already facing the sink again, she spun around with astonishing speed. "JAMES!" she cried in outrage. I think she was both shocked and amazed that I had said it.

"What?" I said blankly. I couldn't see what the big deal was.

Jemma looked as though she was at a loss for words. Her mouth actually hung open for a few seconds. She looked so adorable. "What do you mean 'Why not?'" she demanded, her brow contracted with anger and confusion.

It was her expression, more than anything, that made me second-guess my response. What did I mean by 'Why not?'? Or, more accurately, how could I justify those words? In pondering these age-old questions, I found myself staring at a powerpoint on the wall. When I looked up again, Jemma mumbled something – which was either "Pervert" or "Sherbet" – and started washing the dishes again.

"Hey, wait..." I said, and reached for her elbow. The second I made contact she whirled around and shrieked, "DON'T TOUCH ME!"

I ignored this though, because my attention was far more focused on the fact that Jemma, having spun around at a faster-than-light speed, had neglected to put down the soggy, soapy and disgustingly filthy sponge she was using to wash the dishes. So, yeah, you can imagine what happened. A spray of foamy water arced out and caught me right in the face. After my initial reaction – which was to flinch backwards – I blinked my eyes open and just glared at my sister, who was now trying desperately to stifle her laughter. But she didn't try hard enough, because it exploded out of her mouth and soon she was racked by a gale of high-pitched and irritatingly adorable giggles. I wanted to yell at her and smile at her at the same time.

I said, "Thanks a lot," and flicked the water off my hands. Then Jemma, being the infinitely compassionate person that she is, threw a tea towel at me, which I used to wipe my face.

There was a time when, had Jemma splashed me with dirty dishwater like that, I would have tipped an entire bucket of the stuff over her plain and unattractive head. Now though, I just wanted her to apologise so that I could brush it off as though it was no big deal and win some points. She didn't apologise, however.

"Go and have a shower," she said, turning back to the dishes. "You stink."

I sniffed the back of my hand. "I can't smell anything."

"Well, then, maybe that's why you can't tell that you smell like shit," Jemma replied flippantly. I laughed at her joke, but my laughter sounded false even to my ears.

"All I can smell is your perfume," I said, sniffing the air again. "It's – um – really nice."

Even though she was facing away from me, I could tell, quite easily, that she had rolled her eyes. "Just go," she said, and I went.

That's right: I went. Because, let's be honest, if you're trying to court a beautiful woman, you don't want to smell like Au de Dishwater. What I didn't do, however, was shower for longer than about thirty seconds. After I'd dried myself off, I sprayed on some cologne from the bottle I never used, applied a liberal amount of deodorant and paraded my wonderfully aromatic self into the kitchen.

Jemma was just finishing the dishes and my God in heaven did she look hot! The kind of hot that made me want to drop my tongue on the floor and pant like a cartoon dog. Her denim-clad butt was so perfectly round it looked as though it had been shaped by Mother Nature's own ice-cream scoop. And her breasts, just as round themselves, were the perfect compliment to her perfect posterior. She was just so curvy. Every part of her body ran into every other part – flawless pieces of a flawless whole. How could I ever have thought my sister to be ugly? How, I ask you?

Well, seeing as you haven't actually seen her, you can't answer that. But neither can I. I have no bloody idea why I'd thought she was ugly, but I had, and boy was I mistaken.

So, summoning up my courage and my wit and my charming sense of humour (let's try to stagger the eye rolling, please) I approached the image of perfection that was my sister and tried to think of something interesting to say.

"Hwdurje," is probably the best assortment of letters to describe what came out of my mouth. But, despite its obvious lack of poetic effect, the word (or whatever the hell it is) succeeded in gaining Jemma's attention. She rolled her eyes again. I think she was happy to see me.

"What do you want now?"

You! And your but. And your breasts. And your soft, fluttering lips and everything you've ever touched in your entire life!

"Nothing," I replied.

"Then buzz off."

I actually felt hurt. So I sighed dramatically and tried to appeal to her sense of pity. Apparently, though, she didn't have one where I was concerned.

Well, that does it, I thought; it's time to bring out the big guns. If she wants to keep ignoring the issue, I'll delve right into it – then she can't ignore it.

"I know you left the door open for me," I said quickly, the words overlapping each other.

Jemma looked at me with a bored gaze. "Are you still on this?" she said, and walked into the lounge room. I followed her closely, trying to keep my mind focused on our conversation and not her oh-so-heavenly buttocks.

"You wanted me to see you," I said.

"No – I didn't," Jemma replied firmly, flopping down on the couch. I flopped down right next to her and she glared at me some more.

"You were actually excited, weren't you?" I said, with a knowing grin.

"By my perverted little brother? I don't think so." She said it so casually, almost too casually.

"So it's just a coincidence that you started leaving the door open the day after I told you I'd stop trying to see you naked?"

"James!" Jemma hissed, turning around to see – presumably – if anyone had suddenly materialised in our lounge room.

"Oh, come on," I said. "You knew what I was trying to do, and I know you're trying to do."

"I'm not trying to do anything," Jemma responded sharply.

"Yes, you are," I said, and then pleadingly, "Come on. Can you show me again?"

Jemma looked horrified. I actually felt horrified. What the hell was I doing, soliciting my sister to show me her naked body again? Feeding an obsession that would never truly go away? God, I was sick. Sick and twisted and horny and in love with my God damned sister. What a mess!

"You're sick," Jemma replied, echoing my own thoughts.

I think I may have groaned then. Yep, I definitely groaned. "Come ooooon," I begged her sadly. "You can't just let me see once and then take it away."

"Let you see!" Jemma exclaimed in outrage. "I didn't let you see. You walked in one me!"

"It's still cruel," I protested. "I mean...." I looked down at her body and let out a deep sigh. "You're so incredibly gorgeous and you've got this perfect, perfect body and I can't stop bloody thinking about it and it's all your fault!" I finished angrily.

What a pathetically stupid thing to say, right? Ah, but that's where you're wrong, my friend. For you see, the inherent patheticness of this statement was what finally succeeded in breaking down the barriers of Jemma's obstinacy. Did you get that? Good.

But before you get ahead of yourself: no, she didn't cave in and agree to have sex with me, and no, she didn't tell me I was the sweetest guy in the world and offer to cuddle with me, which, for the record, would have been awesome. All that happened was that she simply hesitated for a second, as though she was startled by what I'd said. I'm guessing that since I had never given her a compliment before, she was.

Her initial hesitation turned into a pause, which morphed into an awkward silence, which transmogrified into a cynical expression. "You think I'm gorgeous?" she inquired with her eyebrows raised and her tone on the verge of laughter. I was confused, and hurt, and even though I opened my mouth to reply, she cut me off. "I don't believe this," she said, with a hollow laugh, and made to get up.

"Hey, wait," I said, and grabbed her hand. It was so amazingly soft that I was in fear of losing myself in the sensation and forgetting what I was going to say. But Jemma quickly jerked it out of my grasp and fixed me with an irritable glare. "I'm serious," I said in earnest. "I think you're beautiful."

"James..." she began in an impatient tone; but no, I wasn't going to let her rob me of this. Maybe she didn't want to spend any time with me, and maybe she didn't want to have wild, uncontrollable sex together, but she was sure as hell going to know how attractive I thought she was.

"You're the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen in my entire life," I blurted out stupidly. "Everything about you – your eyes, your hands, your breasts, even your nose – it's all perfect."

"James..." Jemma said, in a very different tone. I'd actually never heard her speak like this before. She sounded sort of sad, and she was refusing to meet my eyes. "Don't," she said simply.

"Why not?" I asked. "I'm just telling you what I think."

She finally looked up. "Yeah, and it's creeping me out, so just stop, okay?" After that, she made another attempt to escape our awkward conversation, but once more I managed to foil it, this time by taking both her hands. Alarmingly, she didn't snatch them away this time.

"Please," I said, not really knowing what I wanted to say. "Can't we just spend some time together?"

Jemma looked at me with a pained expression, as though she was preparing to deliver the worst news of my life. But within that there was also a sort of ambivalence that gave me hope.

She opened her mouth once again, and once again I cut her off, this time forgoing any pretence and simply speaking from my heart. Or at least I think it was from my heart. "I think you're beautiful," I said, leaning a little closer. "I really do. I know I'm not supposed to think that, but I do, and I can't help it. I think you're more attractive than any girl I've ever seen before, and nothing you say can change that."




Infatuation Ch. 02



I felt like a fool. The things I was saying were so corny they would have been cut from even the cheesiest daytime soap opera. But it was what I felt, and I've always thought that expressing your affection for someone requires a solid amount of clichés.

"What do you want from me?" Jemma asked, voicing the million-dollar question. I could have come up with just as many answers.

"I don't know," I said, looking down at our hands. It felt so good to be touching her, as though I was slowly drawing closer to home, or to some place that was ready to embrace me with pleasant familiarity. I looked up again, wondering what I could say.

"I'm not having sex with you," Jemma said frankly.

Just hearing her use that three-letter word made my cock jump in my pants. I hadn't even been hard until then. I'm not sure why I hadn't been, but perhaps I was simply too wrapped up in the details of our conversation.

I felt like the only way I could reply to that candid statement was to smile agreeably. And, truthfully, I wasn't sure whether that was what I wanted or not. "Can we just do something together?" I asked, hoping I no longer sounded corny. I'm pretty sure I did though.

"Like what?" Jemma asked, still a bit sceptical of my sincerity, and finally taking her hands back. My own hands felt empty now.

"I don't know," I replied. "Anything you want. It doesn't matter."

"You're such a horny little prick, you know that?" Jemma said with a smile.

"I'm not horny," I protested. "I told you ... I just want to spend some time with you."

"Whatever," said Jemma. "You can help me dust the living room, if you like."

It was the only time in my life that I'd agreed to do housework without a groan of irritation. I practically flew to the cupboard, snatched the duster, flew back to the lounge room and started dusting things. I think Jemma was amused. She was still smiling, and shaking her head, and – I just knew it – starting to see how she could use my silly crush to her advantage. She's intelligent like that, my sister.

I felt so lonely when Jemma left the room, but all she did was get another duster and start on the opposite side of the room. I pretty much gave up on my half after that, preferring instead to watch her bend over or bounce on her toes as she tried to dust a tall shelf. I knew that was my opening, because it always is in the movies. She couldn't reach something, her top was exposing her belly, and her loving brother was there to help her. So what did I do?

Nope, sorry ... you're wrong. I didn't offer to dust the shelf for her. How stupid do you think I am? (You don't have to answer that. Oh, you did anyway. Well, screw you then.) Instead, I reached out and held her hips to steady her. I didn't wrap my arms around them or anything; I just made sure they stopped swaying.

Well! Try telling that to Jemma! She spun around so fast I had to duck to avoid being hit by her duster. And yes, I know you were all hoping I wouldn't duck in time, so I'm sorry to disappoint. Bastards.

Anyway, as well as turning around, Jemma also shrieked, "JAMES!" again. I conjured a mental picture of her in bed with me and suddenly her scream wasn't so unpleasant. "What the hell are you doing?" she demanded.

"I was just steadying you," I said innocently.

Jemma opened her mouth to reply, then sighed, and finally brandished her duster at me. "I swear to God..." she said menacingly.

I rolled my eyes and went back to my half of the room. "Drama queen," I added before I left.

"Pervert," Jemma snapped in retort.

It was hard to concentrate after that, mainly because I could still feel Jemma's phantom hips in my hands. There was also the small – I mean big; really big – problem of my cock being hard. I repeat: big!

Needless to say, after that little incident, Jemma began casting furtive looks at me every few seconds, to make sure I was where I was supposed to be. I don't think she realised that I was supposed to be in her arms, and she in mine. If she had figured that out, it would have saved me a lot of trouble.

My blood was running so hot by now that all I wanted to do was toss the friggin' duster out the window and start groping Jemma. Of course, that wouldn't be a very honourable thing to do and I doubt my parents would have overlooked the broken window, so I chose to restrain myself. Which was really, really hard.

The only thing I could do was to steer my path towards Jemma's, so that, after she had finished dusting the coffee table and straightened up, she found herself face to face with me, without realising it.

"Shit!" she cried out, and jumped back a step or two. Then her eyes glazed over with fury. "James!"

"What?" I protested. This certainly wasn't fair.

What Jemma did then was pretty awesome. No, she didn't strip down to her underwear and ask me to lather her up (although kudos on the imagery), instead, she grabbed me by the shoulders, pushed me down on the couch and stared at me from only a few inches away.

"James," she said slowly. "Will you please stop harassing me?"

"Harassing you!" I exclaimed, and opened my mouth to argue further, but Jemma cut me off.

"Whatever you want to call it," she said. "Just stop."

"I'm not doing anything," I replied, somewhat vacantly, because I'd just noticed how smooth her arms were.

"The hell you aren't," Jemma exclaimed. "Touching me, asking to spend time with me, trying to see me ... JAMES!"

She snatched her arm away just as I had begun to caress it. She looked horrified again. "You little...." She was, apparently, too furious to speak.

I made a show of rolling my eyes. "You're such a prude."

"A prude?" Jemma cried, her eyes widening to the size of ping-pong balls. "Because I won't let my brother feel me up?"

"I'm not trying to 'feel you up'," I replied defensively. "I was just caressing you."

"Well, do me a favour and don't do it again, okay?"

I scooted forward on the couch, so that I was within reaching distance of Jemma's hips. I didn't touch them though, because, let's face it, you don't prolong a conversation with your enraged sister by doing the thing she's enraged about. I wanted to though. I really wanted to.

"I can't help it," I said plaintively. "Whenever I look at you I just want to—"

"Don't!" Jemma exclaimed, pointing a stern finger at me. "Don't finish that sentence."

"...touch you," I said, thinking that the only reason she wanted me to stop talking was because she thought I'd say "have sex with you". But "touch you" wasn't gross; it was romantic, if anything. And she'd see that.

Well, I thought she'd see that. But instead of seeing it, she kind of shuddered and turned away from me, as though someone had just force fed her rat droppings. "Just ... stop talking," she said pleadingly, as she collected her duster again.

"But..."

"NO, James!" she yelled, brandishing her duster at me. "I said stop – talking!" I paused for a moment, and then opened my mouth. "STOP!" Jemma interrupted me, widening her eyes and giving me a look that was, I could tell, predicated on amusement. So I shut my mouth like a good boy, and sat back on the couch, and waited for her to turn around. Once she had, I said quickly, "I think you're really pretty."

"Arrgh!" she replied, and stormed out of the room. And suddenly the lounge room was a lonely, foreboding place that I no longer wished to be in. And where did I wish to be? Why, wherever Jemma was, of course. So I set off in search of her, hoping that maybe I could persuade her to spend some more time with me.

She was in her room, of course, dusting, and of course she looked incredible. I could just picture her in a skimpy little maid's outfit and a pair of heels. Although, truthfully, I didn't think it was possible to make her look any sexier than she already did.

I simply waited in her doorway until she turned around to dust her bookshelf and finally caught sight of me. She didn't jump this time, probably because she was expecting me. "Get out, James!" she snapped, starting forward to shut her door, but before she could, I jumped inside. "James!" she roared, and started towards me instead.

The first thing I did was to run around the other side of her bed, and then, as Jemma followed me, I leapt over it. Or, rather, I staggered over it and managed to keep my footing. All Jemma did, though, was bound smoothly over it and continue to chase me, around and around in circles until I was dizzy down to my bones. I'd always known (well, I'd known for a little while) that my sister was perfect in every way, but I hadn't given much thought to her athletic ability. Until now, that is, when she was tearing after me like a hungry cheetah. I actually got tired before she did. And all the while she was shouting, "James, you shit head! James, you stupid prick! Get out of my room!" I knew, obviously, that she didn't mean those things, so I let them slide.

Something else I let slide was my foot, as I was rounding the end of Jemma's bed. My sock bunched up and suddenly I went crashing to the ground, which hurt. But it was one of those silver lining moments, for you see, when one crashes miserably to the earth, one usually gets crushed by any people following closely at one's heels; which is basically a fancy way of saying Jemma fell on top of me.

I rolled over straight away and tried to get up (this was before my brain had acknowledged the benefits of my situation), but Jemma dug her knuckles into my chest and pinned me down with her knees. She was panting too, which ... you know ... was really cool.

I knew there was a big tirade coming, a big diatribe on how perverted I was and how much I was annoying her, but before she had even enunciated the first syllable, my arms went gently around her torso as though it was their natural occupation to do so.

"James!" Jemma screamed, and tried to writhe free. But, as you all know, writhing is a very sexual action, and not at all designed to get you out of someone's arms.

But let's pause for a second here and remind everyone that, contrary to what you've read, I'm not actually a depraved pervert who would hold a girl in place for his own benefit. (And no, I don't want to hear what you think. I'm stating the facts here, bub, and I say that I'm not a monster.) On the other hand, though, I didn't want to let go. Hence my predicament: I couldn't hold her on me against her will, but neither could I just give up this amazingly sensual moment. So, naturally, I tickled her.

And boy did I tickle her. Angry people usually have a very high tickle threshold, and unless you break that threshold, they're not going to laugh. Jemma didn't laugh at the start, but I moved my fingers around so quickly that eventually she started to spasm against me and cry out with furious, teary-eyed laughter. Listening to her, and watching her, I felt warm inside.

And I was hard, too, but I chose to ignore that.

So a person who's having the stuffing tickled out of them generally doesn't pay much attention to anything else. Which is why I was able to pull my sister closer and feel those lovely, rounded breasts pressed up against my chest. I'm telling you ... it was heaven. Heaven! Pure, unadulterated bliss. I could have lain there for eternity.

But I was so hard, and this was the most intimate thing I'd ever done with a girl before. The lack of stimulation on my cock was almost painful. I usually had a hand on it when I was this horny, but now it was just sitting there all alone. A few times, Jemma's knee brushed it, but the sensation this produced was short-lived and far from orgasmic.

So I slowly abated with my tickling and instead slid the tips of my fingers – just the tips! – underneath Jemma's top, to caress her belly. There was no way anyone could construe that as a wanton act of lust, but Jemma seemed to take heavy offence to it. She grabbed my wrists and tried to yank them away, but she couldn't exactly move them. "James!" she said warningly, though the smile that still graced her lips – from the tickling, of course – belied some of her anger.

"I'm just caressing you," I said, and gently stroked her skin again, as best I could.

"James!" she admonished me, and finally wrenched my hands out.

I just smiled at up her with perfect serenity. "You're so cute when you're angry."

Jemma scoffed and tried to respond, but my hands were free again and I was running them along her sides again. "Jaaaaaames!" she groaned, but not from pleasure.

She was about to pull away from me, so I pushed myself into a sitting position and wrapped my arms all the way around her. We were now locked in a fierce, sitting embrace, which felt even more erotic than our prone embrace had been. "James!" Jemma kept saying, about as often as she tried to wrest my hands from her body, which was pretty damn often. But as she was twisting from side to side and trying to get free – albeit with far less effort than she could have used, in my opinion – her neck exposed itself to me and suddenly I was leaning into, pursing my lips and planting the softest possible kiss on her bare flesh. Jemma didn't notice the first one, but I kissed her again, and again, and again, until she gave up on my hands and squealed with fright. "JAMES!"

I looked right into her eyes and smiled. And not the deranged smile you're all picturing either. This whole story is making me come off as a decadent jerk, isn't it? Well, anyway ... this is what I said to her:

"I'll let you go if you kiss me."

Her eyes grew wide and her mouth fell open and suddenly she was snarling and spitting and trying to twist herself out of my arms. I held onto though and tried to kiss her neck again. "Jaaaames," she moaned, as though she was on the verge of tears. She wasn't, of course, because I would have known if she was, and I would have let her go immediately. But I still had an inkling that she was enjoying this as much as I was, so I held fast.

It didn't take long for her to give up, having spent all her energy on that last desperate escape attempt, the way crocodiles tire themselves out before submitting themselves to the unfortunate fate of having Steve Irwin leap on top of them. But, needless to say, Jemma felt a lot better than a crocodile. And now she was practically sitting on my lap, her head above my own and her eyes looking down into mine. They had a furious expression in them, but at least she was looking at me. I smiled a little and gently tickled her sides.

A muffled groan, or growl, or protest, or something, escaped Jemma's lips, and then she leant down and pecked me quickly on the mouth. It was so quick I didn't have time to register it, but I felt it – briefly – and my arms were already loosening of their own accord.

"Pervert," Jemma said sharply as she got to her feet, and kicked me in the shin. But I was oblivious to pain right then, because my body was suffused by a blissful calm that seemed to resonate through every nerve and blood vessel within me. I was only vaguely aware of Jemma staring down at me, a blurry, yet still attractive, shadow.

"Get out of my room!" she snapped, and started kicking me in the back. I finally recovered enough of my senses to stagger to my feet and walk drunkenly out of the room.

Now, that was probably the best moment of my life. I know it wasn't exactly an ideal kiss ... in the sense that she was willing to kiss me, but I'm pretty sure she could have screamed and kicked and clawed at me to get away, rather than kissing me. So I was left to wonder: just how does Jemma feel about me? But I knew the answer right away. Her irritation was genuine. Her disgust though ... well, that was open to analysis.

So, where did we go from there? Well, as it just so happens, that part comes next chapter. So if you're curious to find out whether I actually got my dream girl and Jemma's walls of resistance came crashing down around her, you'll have to tune in next time for some more forbidden treats. Remember: same taboo time, same taboo channel. See you then!



Infatuation Ch. 03



Welcome one and all to the next part of my fascinating, captivating and highly titillating story. I hope you all remembered to bring your water bottles because things are about to get hot!

Okay, now I just sound like a cheesy strip club announcer, so I'll stop.

But I am glad to see you back. You must be dying to know what happens next with Jemma. I know I am, and I lived it! Curiosity may have killed the cat, but at least he went out in style. Not like those mice who have a metal bar clamped down over half their body while they're still trying to eat the damned piece of cheese. Morons.

Anyway, where were we? Oh, we haven't started yet. Well, let's do that now, shall we?

So I'd held Jemma in my arms. A less forgiving person might say fondled, or groped, but I'll stick with held. And I'd even gotten her to peck me on the lips before she literally kicked me out of her room. I was on a dizzy high all week, noticing somehow that my sister now appeared even more beautiful than she had pre-kiss. Can you seriously comprehend how perfect she is? She's just amazing! Just amazing! But she didn't want to hear that. She ignored me for about three whole days, even though I did everything I could think of to get her attention. I asked her what was on TV – she threw the guide at me; I asked her if she wanted me to make her a sandwich – she went out for lunch; I even offered to do all her chores, which she agreed to, but only with a shrug. She just wouldn't speak to me or even look at me.

But then I realised that the only way I'd ever gotten to her before was to be direct and aggressive. Not physically aggressive, mind you, just focused and determined to achieve my goal. And what was my goal this time? Buggered if I know; I just wanted to hold her again.

So that's exactly what I did. She was washing the dishes again, so I walked up behind her and, at first, put my hands on her shoulders and rested my chin on one of them as well. To my utter surprise, she didn't jump out of her skin – though that may have been because she was holding a large glass bowl in her hands. Her first reaction was actually to turn around and look at me, and then, seeing that my nose was only an inch away from hers, remove my head from her shoulder with a violent shrug. My teeth clattered together but I managed to suppress the yell I wanted so badly to utter.

"I'm just giving you a massage," I said, giving my bruised jaw one in the meantime.

"I don't want one," Jemma replied, as she continued to wash the bowl.

So I took a step forward and like a love-sick puppy that never learns, put my chin on her shoulder again and made a sound that expressed all my sadness and melancholy. This time, she didn't shrug me off.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, refusing to look at me this time, and simply continuing to wash the bowl.

"I don't know," I said in a muffled voice. "I just want to spend some time with you."

"Oh, like last time?" said Jemma.

"I'm sorry," I said, and found that I actually did feel sorry. My actions, I realised, were quite appalling, but I was thankful for the fact that they'd given me an opening of sorts, through which I could expand my relationship with my lovely sister.

At this point I felt bold enough to edge my fingers forward and rest them against Jemma's sides. She still had her gloved hands in the sink, so the only thing she could do to stop me was to twist her body to the side. "Jaaaames!" she admonished me.

"Oh, come on," I said, and tickled her sides a little. "I'm just giving you a hug."

And so I reached my arms right around her waist and pressed my chest against her back. Oh, what a blissful feeling. That was seriously better than masturbating – just holding this beautiful girl in my arms. Jemma twisted aside again, but then seemed to give up with a defeated sigh. I finally took my chin off her shoulder, swept her luscious hair aside and placed the softest kiss on her neck.

And do you know how purely excited I was when I felt her shake a little, and even gasp. That was it for me. That's when I knew that she felt something. Maybe not anything close to what I felt, but it was something, and I could appeal to that something. I had a good idea what it was though.

"You look so nice," I said, and then very slowly kissed my way up the side of her neck. She tried to roll her neck out of the way, but I just followed it with my mouth and planted more kisses.

Her skin smelled so fresh and invigorating, and it tasted just as good. I slowly started to add the pressure of my tongue to my kisses, until Jemma was telling me to stop again, albeit in a far from resolute voice. I lifted a hand up and with a single finger, moved the collar of her top back a bit so that I could kiss her shoulder.

I wanted to reach around and cup her breasts, or – at the insistence of my brain – press my cock against her ass. But that, I knew, was suicide, and so I refrained as best I could. But Jemma didn't know how hard I was, and so when she was once more attempting a light-hearted escape manoeuvre, she pushed back against my cock and couldn't fail to feel it. That's what jarred her awake and made her take her gloves off, I think.

"No more," she said sternly. Then she pulled the plug from the sink and walked away as the water started gurgling loudly down the drain. I felt lonely and unsatisfied, but also happier than I had in, well ... forever.

I thought about that incident all night. And I do mean all night, because while I slept for about five hours, I dreamt about it, and in my dream Jemma had turned around and kissed me. True, her gloves had sprung to life and strangled me as well, but she'd kissed me, so I could live with it.

The following morning I ran into Jemma right outside the bathroom. She was heading for the shower and I – ostensibly – was also heading for it. In truth, I was hoping to precipitate just such a rendezvous, so that I could talk to her again or, at the very least, see her. Our parents were downstairs, but they couldn't hear us talking.

"You look nice this morning," I said cheerfully. And she did indeed. She was wearing a pair of long-sleeved peach-coloured pyjamas, which I think she only donned in order to make it safely to the bathroom. I was pretty sure she slept in less than that.

Jemma narrowed her eyes at me. "What do you want?"

"I don't know," I said, and lightly tugged at her fingers. She just rolled her eyes and tried to get past me, but I reached out and put my arms around her waist. "Can't you just stay for a second?"

She was actually looking directly up into my eyes now, as though preparing to admonish me. "James," she said in a measured tone, "I need to take a shower. I'm going to be late."

But I wasn't listening anymore, because my face was buried somewhere in her neck, madly planting kisses all over her throat. "James!" she yelped, and tried to force my head away. At the same time she was staring down the hall in case we were interrupted.

"James, stop it!" she said, and writhed against the wall in an effort to pry my lips off her throat. But I didn't want to stop kissing her, and, like before, I knew she could do more to stop me if she really wanted to.

"Jaaames," she pleaded, but that only succeeded in encouraging me. "Stop it," she said. "Mom and dad might see."

But I ignored her (although not by choice; I would willingly listen to anything Jemma said) and slowly slid my hand between two of the buttons on her pyjama top. "James!" she squealed quietly, and finally pushed me away. Again, I felt like an idiot, but I was still drawn to her body.

Jemma turned around then and walked into the bathroom, despite my protests. "Can I join you?" I asked, but she shut the door in my face. So, heaving a sigh, I tramped back to my room and prepared to face the next six and a half hours without her.

And boy was it excruciating. Just maths equations and basketball practice and a lot of ugly girls. Even those girls who I'd previously found attractive held no interest for me anymore. Not one of them could compare to my scintillating sister.

What kept my mind occupied all day was the question of why Jemma hadn't entirely prevented my advances. Surely she could have screamed bloody murder or given me a swift kick in the crotch (which, by the way ... ow!). But she hadn't done either of those things. True, she'd moaned and groaned the whole time, but, seriously ... since when is that a method of preventing sexual advances?

So we're in agreement then? Jemma felt something for me, however small that feeling was. But, as I mentioned earlier, I could make an educated guess as to the source of her interest in me. If she had an interest in me (which, admittedly, was still up in the air), I gathered that it arose purely out of gratitude for the things I'd said to her. I'd lavished praise on her with complete abandon (although I meant every word of it) and I doubt Jemma had ever heard those sorts of compliments before, especially from guys. She'd had several male friends before, but I wasn't aware of any boyfriends in her life. Maybe she was a lesbian, I thought. And then: Oh, my God! Maybe she's a lesbian!

Needless to say, that single thought made the rest of my school day excruciatingly uncomfortable, helped along in no small way by the fact that my IT teacher looked a bit like Jemma when I squinted at her. But then so did the flagpole when I squinted hard enough.

All in all, the day was painfully long. By the end, I couldn't wait to get out of that Jemma-lacking hellhole and fly back to my fair princess locked away in her castle. No dragon would keep me away, not even hot-headed Mr. Wood, the maths teacher, who insisted the entire class stay back for an extra ten minutes to go over a test we'd all managed to screw up. Like hell, I thought, and slipped out the door. Sure, that spelled detention the next day, but I'd suffer through anything to spend more time with Jemma, even Mr. Wood's tuna breath.

When I arrived at said castle, said princess was sitting on the bench in her gown of denim and cotton and talking on the phone to some phoney Prince Charming. It may have been a Princess Charming, but it was better not to go down that road. Until later that night, of course, when I'd turn on my high beams and make like an escaped criminal.

I mouthed a hello to Jemma after putting my bag down, and, after she ignored me, mouthed another ten of them.

"Can you hold on a second?" Jemma said into the phone, with infinite courtesy. Then she rounded on me, not so courteously. "Go away!" she whispered furiously, her hand covering the bottom of the receiver.

"I'm just saying hello," I protested, pretending to be hurt. Well, I think I was pretending.

"I don't care," Jemma said clearly, and jerked her head to the side to let me know she wanted me out of the room A.S.A.P.

"Who are you talking to?" I asked instead.

Jemma grumbled angrily. "What does it matter?"

"Is it a guy?" I asked quite plainly. "Is he asking you out?"

Her brows contracted and, rather than looking angry, she now looked completely baffled. She shook her head as if she hadn't heard me properly and said, "What?"

"Is he asking you out?" I repeated, unaware of how idiotic I sounded.

Yes, I know you're aware, but I thought we'd already established the fact that your opinions don't count.

Jemma closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, then opened them again and whispered, barely audibly, "Piss – off."

Without waiting for me to leave, she lifted the receiver to her ear again and said, "Hey, sorry about that. My brother's annoying me." Then she started talking about college and birthday parties and so-and-so who got stood up last Friday night; but I tuned out her conversation in order to pinch her toes. Well, not pinch really – more like pluck. And very softly at that.

At first, Jemma continued talking on the phone, albeit with a furious look on her face, and merely kicked her foot violently whenever I touched it. But I wasn't discouraged and soon we were both grinning broadly and a note of laughter was beginning to creep into Jemma's tone. She was still talking to her friend, who I gathered, from the amount of gossip being shared, was (thankfully) female, but at the same time she was able to snatch her foot back every time I pinched it. She's a real multi-tasker my sister. Sharp as a dagger. Except her body, of course, which is soft as a beanbag. Though not as saggy. More like a scoop of delicious ice cream really.

Eventually I mustered enough courage to extend my little game further up Jemma's legs, as well as underneath her jeans. Her indignation began all over again when I started plucking her ankles, but she soon lapsed into enjoyment once more. The same thing happened when I pinched her sides, and when I poked her belly. By this time, I think she was more engaged with our game than with her conversation with her friend. The friend, I think, thought likewise.

"Uh, no," Jemma said, batting my hand away once more. "I'm just ... trying to make my bed at the same time." Then she laughed. Then she said, "I do it all the time." Which was a lie, of course.

In truth, I think I was dreading the end of her phone call more than I was looking forward to having her undivided attention once more. I knew she would explode once she was free of distractions, and so when the time came for her to hang up, I braced myself for a verbal onslaught. But all Jemma did was hop down (gracefully) from the bench and hit me lightly on the chest. "You're so annoying," she said, but her tone was without rancour. 

That's right! Without rancour. She liked it!

But before I get ahead of myself, I have to describe how hurt I was when the smile faded off Jemma's face and she left the room. I was so excited whenever she responded to my advances, but that excitement was always as fleeting as snow in the middle of summer. She just never stuck around long enough to spend any time with me. It was maddening!

And so I followed her upstairs, and leaned against her doorjamb, just absorbing her beauty. She was reading a magazine and it wasn't until she closed her eyes and sighed irritably that I realised she was aware of my presence. "What do you want?" she asked without opening her eyes.

"I don't want anything," I replied innocently. So, yeah, it wasn't the first answer that came to mind, but it was sure as hell the safest.

Jemma opened her eyes and looked over at me with a bored expression on her face. Even then she looked cute. "I'm trying to read," she said.

"Well, do you have any magazines I can read?" I asked hopefully.

"Yeah, I think I have the new Lonely Pervert around here somewhere," said Jemma, and pretended to cast her eyes about in search of the non-existent magazine. At least, I assume it doesn't exist. But who knows?

I ignored her comment because I'm sure she didn't mean it, and instead crossed her room and picked up a Cosmo from her pile. "I could read this," I said.

Jemma sighed. "Fine. Just do it in your own room."

"Why can't I read here?" I asked, as though I was confused, which, really, I was.

"Because this is my fucking bedroom!" Jemma cried out loudly. Then she grunted and said, "God! You are so annoying!"

"Okay, okay," I said, suddenly feeling that I might be safer outside the room. Plus, I figured I'd score some points for heeding her wishes. After all, girls are drawn to guys who give in to their every wish, right?

"I'll just ... uh ... read this in my room," I said, and traipsed back to Lonely Land.

I closed my door behind me and dropped the magazine on my bed. It had a picture of a gorgeous-looking model on the front cover, but in my opinion she couldn't hold a candle to Jemma and her heavenly beauty. Still, I figured that getting some insight into the female psyche might lend me an advantage when it came to courting my lovely sister. So I flipped open the magazine and, after finding that over fifty percent of the thing was made up of advertisements, came across one of those quiz thingies that girls seem to treat as reputable scientific questionnaires. 'How sensitive is your man?' it said, and a thought suddenly occurred to me.

Yes, you know what it is, so let's just skip the details and say that I filled it out until I scored thirty out of thirty. I actually got twenty-four on my own, so all you sceptics can shove that down your pie hole, thank you very much!

Anyway, after I'd amended my wrong answers, I yanked my door open and hurried back to Jemma's room, not really expecting anything more than the greeting I received. The order of the day was a sigh, some eye rolling and a generous siding of, "What now?"

"I just wanted you to look at this," I said, walking over to stand beside her and showing her the magazine proudly. "I did this quiz, and look what score I got."

Jemma glanced up disinterestedly, read my score, then just stared at me. "So what?"

"So I got a perfect score!" I replied emphatically. "I'm the perfect guy!"

Jemma just burst out laughing, which didn't do wonders for my self-esteem, I have to say. But once her paroxysm of mirth subsided, I was able to correct my statement, in the hopes that it would offset some of the humiliation I was liable to suffer. "I meant I'm a perfectly sensitive guy," I said.

Jemma was wiping tears from her eyes. I was both annoyed and happy to see her laugh. "Well, at least you have a sense of humour," she said, and gave another long chuckle.

"Hey, come on," I said, "how many of your boyfriends would have gotten a thirty?"

"None of my boyfriends," said Jemma, "would have been pathetic enough to take that quiz."

What I said next was uttered out of pure habit. It was the kind of remark that came naturally to me before I'd seen Jemma naked. "They went out with you, didn't they?"

Jemma glared at me. "I thought you were being nice to me now?"

"Well, you're not being nice to me, so why should I be nice to you?" I demanded.

"You're right," said Jemma, in a carefree tone, "you shouldn't." She raised her magazine again and either read it or pretended to read it.

I was thoroughly annoyed by now. "Fine!" I said sharply, standing up straight. "Then I won't be nice to you anymore. We can go back to the way things were."

"Fine by me," Jemma replied without even looking up.

"Okay, then," I said, slowly turning towards the door. "But don't say I didn't try."

"I won't," said Jemma, still refusing to look at me.

I waited another few moments, just to see if she'd cave in and ask me to stay, but she didn't – for some reason – and so I stormed out of her room.

I made it as far as my own room before I turned back and begged for her forgiveness. "I didn't mean it," I said. "It was just habit. You know what I think of you."

I waited and waited and waited for Jemma to raise her eyes from her magazine, but when she finally did, all she said was, "Are you still here?"

"Arrgh!" I cried, and stormed out again.

This time I made it to the stairs, and then I was back in her room, pacing back and forth. "You know, this is really unfair," I said, trying to ignore the fact that she had now put down her magazine and was regarding me with cool amusement. "I... I come here, trying to be nice, and civil, and polite, and all you do is tell me to bugger off. Well, excuse me for trying to patch things up between us, because ... you know ... I thought it might be nice. But of course you don't, because you're perfectly happy just sitting there reading your magazine and ignoring your own brother! Well, I'm sorry if I think you're attractive as hell and I can't get you out of my head." I stopped pacing and started jabbing myself in the chest with a finger, which kind of hurt actually. "You think I wanted this to happen? You think I wanted to be in here pestering you about some stupid magazines? Well, I didn't. I was happy with my life. I mean, sure, I spend most of my time at home and I don't talk to girls all that much and, yeah, I play the occasional video game; but I was content. And then you come along, with your... your," I gesticulated towards her body, "your hips and your breasts and your... your curves. How is that fair?" I demanded, raising my voice. "How is that bloody fair?




Infatuation Ch. 03



"You think I enjoy lying in bed at night thinking about my sister, for God's sake? Because I don't; but that's what happens: I sit there, thinking, 'I wonder what Jemma's doing', 'I wonder if Jemma's asleep yet', 'I wonder what bloody Jemma's wearing to bed tonight'. And try as I might, I can't get those freaking thoughts out of my head. Because of you! You and your..." I gestured frantically, "nakedness."

For the record, yes, I was aware that I was being completely irrational, but there is nothing so irrational in this world as love. Or so people who use corny phrases like that say. But wait, there's more...

"Why couldn't you have been ugly?" I demanded fervently. "I mean, mom and dad aren't good-looking people, and I very much doubt that I am, but you ... you had to be a total babe, didn't you? Well, excuse me for noticing that!

"And you know," I said, sitting down on the edge of Jemma's bed, "I think you tampered with my clock that day. I think you wanted me to see you naked, so that you could get this little power trip and make my life a living hell. Well, guess what? Mission accomplished! Now, on top of all my previous pathetic achievements, I can add the one about being crazy about my sister. Congratulations. I hope you're happy!"

And with that I stormed out for the third time in as many minutes, refusing even to register the expression on Jemma's face. This time I only made it to the door.

"Are you ... happy?" I asked in a softer tone, the anger gone from my voice. "I mean, 'cause you should be happy."

That was when I noticed that Jemma had gone into a kind of trance, as though she was staring through her bedroom wall at some strange occurrence taking place on the other side. But, as far as I knew, this was the strangest occurrence that had ever taken place in this house.

"Uh ... Jem?" I said, as I began to worry about her health.

She finally blinked her eyes and looked up dazedly for a moment. "You need to stop saying those things," she said seriously, as she pushed herself to her feet.

"Why?" I asked.

Jemma ignored me and simply tried to leave, but I caught her around the waist and pulled her back. "James!" she admonished me, resting one of her hands on mine, but doing nothing to remove it.

"Come on, just stay here for a bit," I said, wrapping my arms around her.

"No!" she hissed reproachfully, and tried to struggle free. But then... "Oh, my God," she groaned miserably, as though she'd just swallowed a snail. "You're hard." She looked as though she was about to be sick. Which, again, not all that great for the self-esteem.

"I'm sorry," I said, and I was. I didn't want something like that to get in the way of our intimate embrace.

"Just let me go," Jemma implored me as she tried to wriggle free.

I loosened my arms a bit, so that it didn't seem as though I was holding her against her will – even though, technically, I was – but I couldn't relinquish my hold on her altogether. "Wait, please," I said, trying to look into her eyes; it was difficult though, on account of the fact that she was twisting her head furiously from side to side. "Pleeease," I begged her. "Please just stay. Please?"

But Jemma was having none of it, and so I employed my guaranteed, all-purpose, problem-solving method. Yup, I tickled her again.

Jemma began to laugh vigorously and alternated between trying to pull free and moving closer to me, so as to prevent my errant fingers from getting at her ticklish sides. But all that happened was that we moved up against the wall, so that she was leaning back against it and was looking up into my face. God, I wanted her.

To let her realise the full impact of this special 'moment' of ours, I stopped tickling her and let her just look at me, you know the way guys and girls look at each other in those bad teenage dramas. Yeah, that's the way. She looked so young then, and so vulnerable, and for once she wasn't looking at me with disgust or impatience or anything other than fearful curiosity. Or at least that's what I thought it was. I was sure about the fearful bit, but not so much about the curiosity.

"I love you," I said, and lowered my mouth to her neck.

"Yeah, and I love you, too," said Jemma, trying to force my head away. "You're my brother."

"I don't mean it like that," I said, and managed to reach her neck despite her resisting hands. I kissed her soft, warm flesh and suddenly I was drowning in a vat of pleasure. I hugged her closer and became gradually unaware of her protests. Again, I was sure she could have broken free if she had really wanted to, so I didn't worry about forcing her to do something she didn't want to do. Plus, I hadn't even kissed her on the mouth yet. Well, except for that peck she'd given me a few days back, but that didn't count.

"You're so beautiful," I said, kissing her furiously in every place I could reach. I was greatly encouraged when Jemma leaned her head back, exposing the entirety of her neck to me. She was still protesting as best she could, but instead of trying to push me away, her hands were now gripping my arms like vices.

I kissed my way towards her throat, past her clavicles and down into Cleavage Country. Jemma actually moaned. How cool is that?

By now I was trying to lift her top up a bit as well, hoping that she'd let me see her breasts again. But I was wary of suddenly jarring her out of this strange, quasi-amiable state she seemed to be in, so I backtracked to her neck again, just to reassure her. My hands were underneath her top now, though, running around to her spine. Her skin was so amazing. Why even bother describing it to you when I can't describe it to myself?

"James," Jemma said, or possibly groaned. But that's when I took the plunge. I lifted my mouth until it was level with hers, and mashed them both together with abandon. Well, 'mashed' makes it sound rougher than it really was, but it was a pretty intense kiss, at least for me. At first Jemma made the predictable, "Mmmmfff" sound, as though I was suffocating her, but then her arms went all the way around me and she was kissing me back far more furiously than I was kissing her. And that, my friends, was a revelation.

I don't know how long the kiss lasted. Five seconds? Ten seconds? Maybe even thirty. But however long it was, it wasn't long enough. Before my brain had even begun to process what was happening (and there was a lot to process – the feel of her lips, the taste of her mouth, the texture of her tongue) Jemma was pushing me away and wiping her mouth. She looked quite upset. "Never again," she said, and walked away.

But it took several minutes for me to realise she had left. I was swaying perilously on my feet, threatening to crash into her bed and nightstand. What had just happened? Scratch that – I knew what had happened. But why? Why in God's name had she kissed me back? And why had she kissed me like that? So passionately. So ... hungrily.

It was my first kiss, too. My very first. Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, kiddies. But you know what? I'm glad that that was my first. First kisses should always be memorable and, well, mashing lips with your sister for a single, passionate moment must weigh in pretty high on the memorable scale.

So there that was. My first kiss, my first official 'action' with Jemma, and the first time in my life that I'd almost fainted. 'Almost' being the operative word there.

So where did I go from there? Well, to tell you the truth, I hadn't a bloody clue. In the short term, I simply staggered into my room and fell heavily onto my bed. I missed it entirely at first, but I managed to land squarely in the middle on my second attempt.

And then I fell asleep. Yeah, okay ... not the most romantic thing to do post-first kiss, but I was drained. I felt like the energy had been sucked out of me. Of course, the idea that my lovely sister Jemma was actually an evil succubus did occur to me, but even if she were evil, I wouldn't have cared. When you look as good as she does you can steal as many souls as you like, in my opinion. I'd already lost mine anyway, that moment I'd seen my sister in all her naked glory. She had everything of mine now: my heart, my thoughts, my attention – everything! But, of course, a single kiss wasn't anywhere near enough to satisfy my appetites. And things did go further than that, but I think we'll leave that for next chapter, because, let's face it, I don't want to overload you with too much eroticism all at once. What's that? There was no eroticism in this chapter? What are you, kidding me? Did I not describe how intense that kiss was? And the tickling? And the toe plucking? Jeez. It's all blowjobs and anal sex with you kids these days, isn't it? Okay, so technically I'm a kid as well, but if I can appreciate the beauty in a simple French kiss, then you should be able to as well. But if you can't – for some reason – then keep reading anyway, because things might just get a little hotter.