9 comments/ 105745 views/ 15 favorites DoubleDee42 Revealed By: qdata Author's preamble: DoubleDee42 (©) is a fictional story containing graphic descriptions of an incestuous relationship between siblings. Sexually active characters are at least eighteen years of age. If material of this nature is illegal where you are viewing it, please surf away now. If this kind of story is in any way offensive to you, may I respectfully suggest you hit the back button on your browser and select a different category. I have no wish to offend my readers. To those who have chosen to stay and read this story, I hope you enjoy it ... ~oOo~ I was happy to hear the familiar sound of a new email arriving. Hoping it wasn't just more spam, I checked and it was Greg's folder that was highlighted. I clicked my brother's message open and settled back to read the letter. They were always long and chatty. I was only twelve and he was twenty when he left home, I was too young to recognise his qualities as a man and there was too much of an age gap for us to be friends -- he had always just been my big brother. My parents would never tell me why Greg left home so suddenly but he sent them letters every few months -- they both read the letters but I think only Mummy answered them. He went to London looking for streets paved with gold. They weren't, of course. He did manage to get a decent job eventually. He settled down and married but didn't tell us until afterwards. They never had children and Ethel would never come north, among the savages, as she said so Greg never came north. Or so my parents led me to believe. His marriage just kind of fizzled out a few years ago. They sold the house and split the proceeds. Greg now had another mortgage round his neck, it was on a dreary house on a dreary estate in a dreary suburb. And he was stuck in a dead-end job he didn't really like. He still didn't come north. Then Mum and Dad died under the wheels of one of those huge trans-continental trucks and Greg came north. He got here as soon as he could and was a big help to me with all the endless phone calls and papers to collect and sign. Why does death have to be so complicated and so darned expensive? He asked if he could stay in the spare room -- his old room -- and of course I agreed but we were strangers in the same house. He stayed on for just a couple of days after the funeral then went home again but we swapped email addresses before he left. I didn't expect to hear from him very much but there was a message from him nestled amongst the 'forwarded' stuff from some of my American friends in my inbox next morning. He didn't say much, just that he got home safe etc. I responded rather perfunctorily but got another message from him next day, a bit longer and on a tasteful stationery which he had designed himself. Again I replied fairly briefly. He wrote to me every day after that, usually with a lovely background picture, and soon we were chatting by friendly email on a daily basis. Over several weeks we caught up on each others' lives. Not that mine was an exciting life. I've always been a quiet person and as a teenager I was shy and retiring -- bookish without being a swot and a little overweight -- so I missed out on the excesses of my generation. I made a few friends but they didn't last much beyond school except for Janice until she moved away when her husband got promoted to the Cardiff office and we lost contact. I never married: just never met the right man, not that I ever really felt the need to go looking for him, especially after Sebastian. I've never considered myself attractive, which is why I'm shy, so when he asked me out I nearly died. In retrospect I supposed it was my bust that attracted him. I've always been ashamed of the top heavy figure and generous flesh I inherited from my mother and tried to hide it in loose frumpy garments. All the girls talked and drooled about him. Trouble was, Sebastian knew it. So we went out together a few times in his car. He would usually want to kiss me but to be honest, I didn't really enjoy it. Soon, of course, he wanted to go further and paw at my breasts. I reluctantly allowed that and even more reluctantly allowed him to touch me 'down there', through my panties but I refused to go any further. "Not yet," I told him, "Give me time." He seemed to accept that but in my heart I knew this arrogant, selfish boy, for all his film star looks, would never have my virginity. We had arranged to go to a night club so the next night Sebastian collected me and I had made my mind up to finish with him that night. Maybe I dressed up a little for the club but certainly not provocatively, I just don't have that kind of wardrobe, but Sebastian seemed to be more attentive to me that evening, and he tried to get me to drink more than I wanted but I knew the dangers of that. He had several beers and wanted to slobber his kisses on me all the time. I felt quite uncomfortable when he held me close the couple of times we danced; he pressed his chest into the cushion of my bosom and he kept clutching at my bum in public. I was relieved when it was time for me to get my taxi home. I told him 'goodbye' and that I wouldn't be seeing him again but he escorted me out of the club and suddenly pulled me into the dark corner of a car park. He fumbled at his trousers then pulled out his thing, muttering something about a fucking cock-teaser. It was visibly growing as I stared in horror at the dimly-lit pink shape advancing on me. We often get posters advertising various women's groups at the library. One of them had offered a free one-day seminar on women's basic self-defence. I remembered the rather forceful woman who led the course and the savage triumph in her eyes as she acted out her strategy with the battle cry, "Stomp his Foot, Kick his Balls!" She was a real man-hater, that one, but she had been raped as a teenager and later gang raped by a half-drunken football team so I suppose it's understandable. I even felt sorry for the man-shaped punch bag she used for practice. Anyway, I was well armed with my four inch spikes so, with my bloodthirsty instructor's mantra ringing in my mind and putting all my ample weight to good effect, I stomped. Hard! I stepped back and I kicked as hard as I could using that pink thing as my target. Maybe the kick was overkill because the stomp alone caused him to squeal like a stuck pig. Which seemed appropriate as I had well and truly stuck that pig's trotter. I stepped round him as he puked up his beer, smoothed my dress and marched to the taxi rank, heels striking to the rhythm, "Stomp his Foot, Kick his Balls!" Next time we met he was wearing a plaster cast on his left ankle. Well, we didn't quite meet: as soon as he saw me he hobbled away rapidly in the opposite direction. Since then I've never been bothered about men so if Mr Right ever does appear, then he shall have my virginity. I've been a librarian all my life and now I drive the fifteen miles to the Central Library in town each day. I suppose I'm lucky still to be working after the savage cuts in the library service. Back home, my evenings are spent mainly maintaining my internet contacts and surfing the net. I had to learn 'computers and the internet' when they started getting introduced in the branches and that's when I got the surfing bug. Wednesdays are a little different. I stay on in town for the literary society meeting, have some supper in the same cheap and cheerful café each week then drive the fifteen miles home to a glass of wine or cup of cocoa while I check my emails, maybe responding to one or two of them before snuggling into bed. As I say, not an exciting 42 years. In their wills, our parents had left me the cottage and the bulk of their modest estate apart from a few small bequests to charities and Mum wanted Greg to have some family keepsakes. There turned out to be some 'slight legal problem' with the wills, according to their solicitor, so the wills were all in limbo for a few months until it was sorted out. Once everything had been cleared Greg asked if he could come and collect the items Mum had left him. Would I mind if he spent Christmas with me in the cottage? We had got very friendly in our emails so I readily agreed. I quite liked the thought of having him around and the house had seemed so empty without my parents so I hadn't been looking forward to spending the holiday alone. It was late on Friday evening when he arrived. He had driven here to the Yorkshire Dales after work and was grateful for the warm, welcoming log fire burning in the grate, the bowl of home made soup with wedges of fresh bread and butter and the beer I placed at his elbow. I sat opposite him enjoying the wry wit and self-deprecating humour as this entertaining raconteur told me about his day and the horrendous traffic the start of the holiday brought. I sipped at my wine and kept his beer supplied and could have listened to him all night but he pleaded exhaustion and went off to bed. I wasn't far behind him: the library had been tiring today as we prepared for the Christmas close-down. Next morning I had to get my groceries in for the holidays and asked if he would be OK for a couple of hours? No problem, he'd go for a walk around the village but could he use my computer to catch up on his emails? "Sure, help yourself," I told him as I started my car. When I returned he helped me unload and put away my shopping then invited me out to lunch. I agreed and drove us up to the moors to a remote pub set in the bleak high moors landscape. He had phoned around and managed to get a cancellation. We were lucky because everywhere was fully booked so close to Christmas. There was a big coal fire making the place warm and cosy. It was busy and it was crowded with people making an early start on the Bacchanalian festivities but we settled down to a tasty lunch, accepting the slow service as par for the course this time of year, then decided to get some fresh air. We strolled along one of the farm roads that snaked up the hillside, our breath steaming in the clear crisp air. Our conversation was wide and varied but we were both panting from the unaccustomed exercise when we turned back and descended to the pub. The drive home took us through villages of stone cottages nestled along the rocky mountain stream which rapidly became a river bubbling in its urgency to reach the distant sea. The sky was beginning to darken as we wound through the narrow roads to our destination. "God, I miss this place," he said as we got out of the car. He stretched his arms to encompass the fertile valleys and starkly beautiful moors beyond. I followed his distant gaze and saw the lights of the cottages glimmering against black shadow of the hills in the rapidly descending darkness of night. I love it myself, I thought. It was all so real, so solid, so eternal. The cottages were built of the backbone of England and the rugged land fashioned the people with the same down-to-earth permanence. We watched night fall in silent companionship which he broke with his hand held up open to the sky, "I haven't seen stars like these since I was a kid. Way too much light pollution down south. Even on a clear night I can only make out a couple of the major constellations. I had forgotten how beautiful it is." His voice faded to quiet reverence as I turned to face the points of light shining adamantly against the blackness that is not black of the limitless universe. Was it the awesome beauty of the stars sprayed unwinking across the void that made me shiver or the temperature now plummeting below freezing? I opened the cottage door and we removed our outer clothing then he stirred the fire back to life as I blinked my way through to the kitchen peering through steamed-up spectacles to put the kettle on. We watched a re-run of Judy Garland's "The Wizard of Oz" then we were mutually delighted to learn that we both played backgammon. He set the board up and piled enough logs on the fire to last all night as I made a plate of sandwiches. With the sandwiches and bowls of nuts and some Wensleydale cheese on the coffee table between us and both of us drinking freely of the wine, we set to battle. He played a safe defensive game and gave my more adventurous tactics a testing time but after four hard-fought games we were evenly matched and set the board up for the decider. I left my home board a bit ragged and his lucky string of doubles decimated me. I was stuck with three on the bar and only my first point open as his string of doubles continued and he quickly bore off. "I like your style, you play with fire. Bubbly and adventurous." His comment as we packed the game away, made me smile. Then, "Just as I would expect from 'DoubleDee42.'" I felt myself blanch and he had to rescue the glass which threatened to slip from my fingers. "I've followed her stories ever since I came across them." DoubleDee42 was my Literotica nom-de-plume and alter ego, the secret side of me that nobody knew. I put my hand to my mouth as I realised that I hadn't set him up with a guest account on my computer. "You never replied to any of my private messages. 'ShigalegBoy.'" "I seldom reply to men," I replied. Even to myself I sounded like an automaton. "Too many complications. I didn't expect you to pry." "I didn't pry," he said gently. "'Betty's bOObs 01' was there when the screensaver faded." I had forgotten I'd been working on it that morning before breakfast -- often my most creative time. Damn it all, I'm just not used sharing my computer so have no internal privacy. Greg continued, "I guessed maybe the lack of response was something like that but I wanted to discuss styles and so on. I was also hoping I could get you to collaborate with me. I have a story idea but I know you have the writing skill." His relaxed acceptance of my alter ego surprised me, as did the coincidence of him being a 'fan' whom I did vaguely remember from his encouraging messages. I had never given thought to collaborating on a story and I always ignored the semi-literate demands with too many capitals that 'he/she/they should do ...' whatever was his (invariably his) favourite obsession. Not that I recall ShigalegBoy being in that category. I do remember clicking through to his stories but couldn't recall any of them. "Let's look at them together, maybe you can give me some pointers, from the woman's point of view. How the heck would I know?" he asked with a shrug. And how the heck would I know? I thought. My heroines bimbo their way through life with their 42DD tits hanging out everywhere. They're always 42DD breasts, it's a kind of 'watermark' with me. But the stories on Literotica had been my classroom and my small collection of toys were my teachers. I was only technically a virgin: I had surrendered my hymen to eight inches of cold plastic years ago. "Would you believe, my knowledge is as theoretical as yours?" I said with a wry smile. No, he didn't believe it until I found myself telling him about Sebastian. I had never mentioned it to my parents or anyone else and just talking about it now brought back all those sickening memories buried within. Even my victory march seemed shabby after all these years. The tears started as I told him and soon they were gushing uncontrollably. I felt his arms go round me and I wept my grief out on his shoulder. As my sobs subsided to the last few hiccoughs he rubbed the back of my shoulder consolingly and whispered that it was OK now and in the past. His soft words and comforting arms soothed me. He finally gave me a quick hug, pecked a kiss on my forehead and stood up from his squatting position by my chair. Or tried to stand: his knee had stiffened up while he was dawn there and he hobbled back to his own chair massaging his knee. "Sorry about the amateur dramatics," I sniffed. He smiled back at me, "You've carried that load a long time. It needed to come out." He was right, I did feel 'cleaner' and refreshed. I thanked him again and told him I was OK now then went on to explain how I had gained my knowledge just by reading the stories on Literotica, especially the female authors. "And from my bedroom toys," I added without further explanation. "Feel like reading some porn with me, then?" If it hadn't been for our previous conversation, that would have sounded like the corniest of pick-up lines but it was delivered with a friendly grin. I had moved into my parents' lovely big bed after the funeral. I had always made it known to my Mum that I loved the way it caught the early morning sunshine and the view across the Dale was so peaceful. I've always had her blessing that it would be mine so my old bedroom had been turned into my study as soon as Greg had left after the funeral. He pulled a spare chair up and sat looking over my shoulder at the screen. He navigated me to his own stories list. They were all in the Incest/Taboo category but writers often have a favourite theme and I noticed all but one had that little red 'H' next to it. I opened the first by date of publication. It was a teenage boy/man being seduced by his mother. The plot was credible with a nice switch, he had brought out the angst of the boy's conscience and the sex wasn't shot through with upper case obscenities. The rest of his stories, including a four-part mini series, were all variations of the son/mother relationship, seduction being either way or mutual. Except for the one story without the icon they were all well-written and Greg told me he had agonised a lot over the odd one out. He'd switched it round a lot, heavy editing and even a complete rewrite but just couldn't get it right and had published it almost to bury the ghost. I knew that feeling. I also knew the feelings reading the stories evoked in my body. But something was disturbing me a little. I recognised Greg as the youth in his stories, but the mother always looked like me. Suddenly the tumblers clicked into place. It wasn't me he was describing. "So that's why you left home so suddenly," I accused. "You and Mummy." Maybe because I'd just being reading so many stories with that theme, the idea didn't seem as alien as it would have done had I come across it 'cold' as it were. I was curious. No I was nosy but I asked which of the stories told the truth about them. He didn't deny my accusation, just said, after a few moments of thought, "I suppose the first of the 'Just you wait' series is the closest. Every night after Dad had gone up to the pub at the crossroads and you had gone to bed, she would flirt with me, getting more and more outrageous as she flashed those gorgeous big breasts in front of my eyes. Maybe it was Mum who turned me into an unashamed tit man." He looked pointedly at my breasts and, contrary to my usual 'hide them' mode I found myself pushing mine towards him. The floppy cardigan camouflage fell on one side to reveal my rounded contours straining the weave of my burgundy top. It took all my self-control not to correct the action but I felt somehow 'safe' with him, maybe even ready to come out of my shell a little. "I guess you took the name DoubleDee42 from those. Is that your size?" he asked and I smiled my confirmation. "Then one morning," Greg continued, "Dad had taken the early train to Leeds and would be gone for the day, you had been sent to Aunt Jane's and Mum walked into my bedroom in just her underwear. I was masturbating at the time and the rest is history." He grinned and shrugged and was still staring at my bosom. It was becoming slightly embarrassing, especially as my nipples were beginning to respond and make themselves visible so I caught his attention again by asking, "So what's this story you want to write?" He looked away from my breasts and collected his ideas. "I thought to continue that series -- it's mostly true stories of me and Mum -- we were pretty outrageous sometimes and maybe lucky we weren't caught earlier. Anyway, we were always willing to experiment and had planned the next time Dad went to the city to have a day hurting each other. Nothing severe, just maybe pinching nipples and spanking and so on as a prelude to hot sex." DoubleDee42 Revealed Funny coincidence department. I had been half toying with the idea of putting Betty (her of the bOObs) through that kind of treatment. She is going to be kinky, that character. But I was up against my old problem that somehow couldn't get 'into the heads' of the girls I read about in 'Fetish' and 'BDSM.' I told him so and he glumly admitted the same problem. Stalemate, "How did you get found out?" I asked after we had sat lost in our own thoughts for a couple of minutes. "You wouldn't believe the cliché. Dad came home from the pub early one night. It was snowing hard outside and, well you'll know how quickly that road can get blocked, he didn't want to get stuck up in the Pig and Whistle so left early. Mum and I took our chances where we could, having to dodge around you all the time." He smiled and reached over to pat my arm. "You gave us a couple of real scares, not knowing it. Anyway when Dad walked in, Mum was over the kitchen table, skirt flipped up and getting it from behind from me. When Dad finally calmed down we came to an agreement. I was to pack my bags and leave in the morning and if I ever set foot in Yorkshire while he was alive he'd take his story to the police." "Did you love her?" I asked. "Very much." I heard the grief in his voice and saw the quivering of his chin. "As she did me. We were trying for our own baby. Dad had barely touched her for years, even back then. We've written to each other regularly, using Aunt Jane's address as my post box. She'd always known about me and Mum." Tears were brimming in his eye. "We knew we'd never meet again when I left. That was the hardest thing." His shoulders heaved and he hid his face in his hands. I crossed the short gap between us, shedding my cardigan as I went, and pulled his head to my shoulder, resting it on the swell of flesh above my bosom and offering him the same comfort he had given me. "I was reading Mum's latest -- last -- letter when Aunt Jane phoned to say she was dead." He tried to get his words through the sobs. "Then -- at -- last -- I -- c-c-could -- come -- home and you, Pat," his sobs were heartrending, "you l-l-l -- you -- look -- so -- much -- like -- I remem-ber -- her." It was then I became conscious of his hand on my breast and my mind flashed back to Sebastian but only briefly. This wasn't that brute's fumbling paws groping my tits, Greg's hand was soft against my breast, gently kneading. But was I ready for this? He just about had control of himself once more so I moved back to my own chair, trying to sort out the chaotic thoughts flying round my head. 'Catalogue them,' my training took over, 'Catalogue your thoughts.' Item: I'm sexually attracted to a man for the first time in my life. I'm scared spitless. Item: but he's my long-lost brother. I'm scared spitless. Item: he sees me as a surrogate for our mother. I'm scared spitless. Item: he's going to have my cherry. A frisson of fear shot through me and I shivered at the decision my body had betrayed me into making. I ran that one past myself again: my brother is going to have my cherry. Now. I was still scared spitless and held by his gaze. I turned my eyes away and whispered, "I've never been with a man before and I'm scared, Greg. Help me." I felt his hand on my arm, helping me to stand. His hands held my face as he closed in to kiss me, a long but soft, almost chaste, kiss which still had me panting a little. He led me to the big sheepskin rug in front of the fire. He gave me another sweet kiss, this time holding the back of my head, twining fingers through my hair. Just as he was breaking away he ran his tongue over my lips. A gasp parted mine and my own tongue traced where his had touched me. Now his tongue was dancing on my lips, seeking admission as his hand closed over my breast again. As I allowed his tongue to slip through my lips he squeezed my breast, causing it to ache for more. Not knowing what to do with my arms, I just hung them round his neck and instigated the next kiss. His hands fumbled for the hem of my top and slowly pulled it up. I felt it every inch of the way as my breasts got pulled up with the garment until they finally fell back to their normal confines within my stout bra. I was blinded and my arms trapped by the sleeves as a pair of hot lips seared into the swell of flesh where it bulged above my bra then he removed my top completely and stood there for a minute just cradling my breasts, now and then bending to drop fluttering kisses on the heaving exposed flesh. He curved fingers inside the cups and loosened the hooks of my bra, releasing my breasts from their constraints. My nipples felt even bigger than usual. My fingers went to squeeze one as they did when I was masturbating but Greg pushed them aside and settled a suckling mouth over it. Nor did he neglect my other breast as his fingers did a better job than mine. When I masturbate, I always know what my fingers are going to do but now I was in a state of conscious anticipation. I loved what he was doing to me but each little roll or tweak or squeeze was a delicious surprise. I felt bereft when his hands left off but he bent down, kissed my left nipple then took it gently in his teeth and gave it a sharp nip which made me jerk but I felt it all the way to my clitoris. He then repeated the process on my right nipple. It too was connected to my nub. His hands moved to my shoulders then ran slowly down the outside of my arms, tenderly accepting the pudginess I found so hard to keep under control but he didn't seem repulsed by it. Nor by the sight of my underarm hair. I've never had a reason to shave, my body was always covered by my clothing so only I would see it. Far from disgusted he raised my arms and started curling the hairs in his fingers, tugging gently and I discovered another two places linked to my erogenous zones by some neural network. Moving his face close, he sniffed at the perspiration cooling as the air reached in. He licked at the moisture and it gave me a warm glowing feeling through my body. He was caught up in his task when I thought back to his stories where his females were often hirsute. And come to think of it, our own Mum never shaved herself. But was that for her or for Daddy or initially for Greg? Whatever, Greg was certainly a believer and I was happy to be on the receiving end of his worship. Eventually he stood straight again and gave me another loving, gentle kiss. I could taste the salt of myself on his face and lips and was glad to share his pleasure. Still holding the kiss, I wrapped my arms around his neck. His hands moved from behind my head down to my breasts which received a brief embrace then moved to caress my rounded tummy and circle the rim of flesh above my skirt. He likes me fat, I thought with relief. I had been so scared he would reject my extra pounds but he liked it. Come to think of it, again my mother was never a slim line. He lowered himself to his knees and kissed all over my tummy and through the light hair below my waist which thickened to a dense bush all around my pubic region, giving me goose bumps and making me shiver with excitement. His tongue probed the deep cleft in my tummy as his hands went round my back and pulled my body to his face while he made love to my navel. Next his hands reached to the fasteners on my slacks and I felt the relief of pressure as the button and zip were opened. He lowered my slacks and helped me step out of them, then he removed my woolly socks and peeled off my tights leaving me standing before him in just my knickers. His hands moved caressingly over my bum, my tummy and my thighs, getting closer to my private parts. I felt myself start to panic a little, what should I do? Then I got an inspiration -- what would Betty do? Taking my cues from my heroines' 'memoirs', I pulled Greg to his feet again and kissed him, my tongue seeking his. I had my arms around him, feeling the muscles in his back through the tee shirt and I knew I wanted to touch his flesh so I pulled the shirt over his head and dropped it at our feet. Pulling him close for another kiss I felt my nipples pressing into his chest until a hand came between us and gently massaged one of my breasts, tweaking at the nipple. I could feel his manhood like an iron bar pressing into my tummy urgently and, just as urgently, I suddenly wanted to see and touch his flesh. With trepidation and panting breath I got to my knees in front of him and in true Betty fashion, I opened his flies and dragged his jeans off his legs. I had to steady him as he almost overbalanced while stepping out of the jeans but I clung hold of him and found my face pressing into the bulge straining his briefs. Feeling as brave as Betty I kissed the lump then released it from its confines, jerking my head back as it sprang out to slap my face leaving a sticky smear over my cheek and lips. My tongue instinctively licked my lips. It tasted faintly salty but not much more flavour. I held his tool in front of my face, just looking at it and watched fascinated as another liquid jewel appeared at the tip. I knew what Betty would do so I kissed the end of his tool and licked at the glistening liquid, relishing the more distinct pleasant taste. With my heart pounding I guided the beautiful throbbing-veined penis between my lips and filled my mouth with this tasty morsel. Oh how I loved the feel of it twitching on my tongue and the groans coming from his mouth excited me even more. My vagina felt very wet and it ached for fulfilment. As if reading my mind, Greg knelt beside me and I whimpered as his tool slipped from my mouth. He got down on the rug and pulled me beside him. We struggled to get my knickers off but soon we were both naked and kissing each other in front of the fire. He had me on my back and parted my thighs with his hands and I thrilled as his eyes showed his pleasure at seeing me naked and spread before him. His fingers probed at my nether lips, rubbing them gently through the lubrication and causing me to squirm in pleasure at the delicate touch. My whole body was suffused in a warm, expectant glow and when his fingers parted my clitoris hood I squealed and jerked my hips. His fingers were driving my little button wild but I wanted more, I wanted him inside me. I reached out for his tool and ran my thumb round the inside of his foreskin, slick with his own secretions, and pulled him towards me, guiding him to my waiting, aching pussy. He kissed me softly, lovingly then pressed the slippery tip of his tool at the entrance to my body then slowly eased the head inside and I felt every little bump as my organ expanded to take him. My first real tool probed inside me, feeling oh so much better than even my favourite big and realistic toy. What had I been missing? I wanted more and thrust my hips towards him: he quickly read the cue and pushed himself all the way in, filling me. I held him still for a few seconds, just marvelling at the feelings his throbbing flesh was creating through my body. It seemed like the whole universe was centred around my pussy engulfing my brother's manhood. Now I started moving my groin against his, trying to grate my clitoris into his pubic bone. Greg countered that by slowly starting to stroke his prick up and down inside me. Long, slow strokes taking it all the way back so only the head was left inside me, then smoothly pushing it home again until our pubes came together then repeating the movement. Frantically I sought his face and his mouth and surrendered myself to his passionate kiss as our groins speeded up together. The volcano building inside me had me squealing with each false alarm. "Greg," I called, breaking from the kiss. "I love you. I want you. Oh god, now, now, now ... Yes!" -- the last cry was wrenched from my throat as the volcano finally exploded and the world went away. I was aware of my lover's increasing grunts as he strove for his own release then his own "Yes!" chorused mine as he pumped his seed into my waiting womb. But I knew of nothing else until I heard in the distance, "I love you Pat, I love you Pat ..." over and over again as he ran his hands over my head and shoulders soothingly. I could feel his tool softening and dropping out of me, leaving me bereft. He rolled off me and lay by my side, propped up on one elbow; his other hand was gently playing with my body, running all over my thighs and tummy to my breasts which were lovingly fondled. He bent down to kiss me gently, undemanding. "I love you, Pat," he said softly. "I confess, when I first saw you, I thought of Mum and I wanted to be back with her, you do look so much like her." He smiled almost repentantly. I shrugged my own smile to let him know it was OK. "Since I got here -- was it only yesterday? -- I've grown to know you and come to love you for yourself. I promise you I made love to Pat tonight." I was by now starting to want him again so I teased him a little. With one finger under his chin, I turned his face so he looked me in the eyes. "You never thought of Mum at any time?" He tried to but couldn't outstare me. Soon his eyes slid from mine. "When I saw that you didn't shave -- well, Mum always kept herself like that for me." "I don't think she ever changed right to the end, Greg. Maybe that was in memory of you. But listen to me. I'm happy to be that memory for you if you ever want to make love to Mum. I love you too, Greg, just as you are and including your memories." I pulled him down to me again, kissed him and whispered, "Just call me Mum if you do, then I'll share in your fantasy. Now make love to me again, any way you want, Big Brother." He kissed me slowly, sensuously, as his tongue entwined with mine. I felt both his hands on the nearest breast, now squeezing and moulding it with urgency. Suddenly he broke the kiss and took the same nipple into his mouth, sucking hard and flicking his tongue over the sensitive tip, making the shivers of pleasure course through my body again. He never stopped his hands working the pliant flesh of my breast, sometimes pulling it up into a cone, then squash it back to my chest, all the time using his suction, tongue and teeth on that engorged nipple. He seemed to be enjoying himself so I just lay back and accepted his exciting homage One of his hands let go of my breast and roamed over the other one, teasing at the nipple but leaving it feeling hard-done-to after the workout my other nipple was still getting. The hand wandered across my belly with a whispery light touch, skimming across the surface of my hairs, getting ever closer to my pussy which needed him but was being denied. His mouth left my breast so he could see what he was doing and watch my reactions. Every now and then one of the hovering fingers would dip close enough to touch my skin, making me jump. I lifted my head so I see the next tap coming but Greg spread his upper body over my chest, squashing my breasts flat and effectively screening my vision. So I was in a state of constant anticipation as his hands continued to roam over my belly and widespread thighs making me quiver at the imagined touches until the spark was lit with another brief real contact. I jumped at each micro-light stroke wherever it landed and desperately wanted this delicious torment to end. Greg's body across mine prevented my hands getting to the source of my need. His hands were hovering over that source now, wide open and wet, fingertips just catching the surrounding hairs, making me flinch. He bent closer and blew softly over my ultra-sensitive pussy. But oh, the dreaded/desired touch never came, never came ... I almost heaved his body off mine when his hand suddenly clapped onto my pussy almost hard enough to be a slap -- or maybe I was so sensitive down there it just felt like that. Now, at last, I felt his fingers probing my sloppy cunt which was leaking our combined juices into the hairs between my legs. But the fingers didn't stay there alone for long. He quickly moved between my thighs, spreading them wide with his knees and put his head into my thatch, sniffing urgently. I felt his tongue like a red-hot brand searing against my pussy lips and I thrust my hips up for more. He grabbed me round the buttocks, fingers painfully gripping the flesh as he buried his whole face in my cunt, kissing and licking -- but not going near my aching clitoris. My breasts were in need of some attention but they got none from Greg who was busy invading my pussy with hands and fingers and tongue and teeth. I caught my left breast -- the one which had been neglected by my lover -- and raised the nipple to my mouth, trying to give it the same treatment he had given its twin. I had just suckled the nipple in my mouth when his tongue found my clitoris. The jolt of electricity blasting through me made me bite my own nipple harshly: I don't know of these made me squeal, releasing my nipple, but I wanted more of both. I pushed his head further into my groin and then quickly resumed my own assault on my breast. Then I felt it, like a tsunami coming over the ocean it burst upon my body leaving me thrashing in its wake as Greg kept up his relentless licking and probing as if he was trying to capture every last drop of our combined juices from my pussy. Until I gently pushed him away, sated for the moment. Just as gently, he kissed the inside of both thighs then kissed his way slowly back up my body, once again concentrating briefly at my navel then both breasts before he kissed me slowly on the mouth, tenderly penetrating my lips with his tongue in controlled passion. His fingers were gently running through my pubic hair, trailing across my belly, down over the pubic bone and between my legs and around my anus. Every now and then he would tweak at the hairs, making me jump just a little. His lips made their way to my ear and gently nibbled on the lobe, blowing his warm breath, sending shivers down my spine. "Don't ever shave, please, Pat. I love you the way you are." My hands found their way to his groin and closed around his semi-erect manhood. I rubbed it up and down, thrilling as it responded to my touch. I cupped his scrotum with one hand and he flinched as I squeezed, but I was ever so gentle, having read how tender men's testicles are. Continuing to explore I ran a finger to his anus. He flinched again as I first circled it then put my fingertip directly on the hole and pressed, but not enough to penetrate but enough to make him groan just one word, "Mum ..." Somehow it thrilled me to hear him say that. "Yes, my son, come to me. Make love to your Mum." He lost no time in mounting himself between my thighs again, his tool now fully rampant. I was just as ready to take him into my body and raised my hips to meet his first full deep thrust. As he pumped almost frantically into me I felt my own lust surge. He kept whispering over and over, "Mum, oh Mum." "Yes son, fuck your mother. Give it all to me." His panting grunts were coming very fast now and I felt myself reaching a peak when he suddenly thrust right inside me, pumping. "Have my baby, Mum!" That tipped me over the edge and I yelled back at him, "Yes, give me your baby, Greg." And I don't know if it was our Mum or me shouting and bucking our hips for greatest penetration. Hours -- or was it really only minutes -- later he was trying to keep his softening tool inside me but failing. Well, Greg was no spring chicken and couldn't keep it up forever but I was sorry when it left me. I hugged him close for a while, exchanging kisses and cuddles, before he took a nipple into his mouth and just held it there under gentle suction and languorously rubbed his tongue around and over the tip. Not sexy but oh, so comfy. What a lovely way to relax after sex. "Did you mean it?" His quiet voice broke my reverie. DoubleDee42 Revealed "Mean what?" I murmured. "Having my baby. Mum and I were trying for one but she never caught." "Let me think a minute." Obviously I was unprotected -- why would I need the pill? I counted the days back and conjured an ovulation chart into my mind from the medical books I had read during slack times at the library. My periods were as regular as clockwork. As they would say in the States, I was as fertile as a turtle. Maybe one of his wigglers was wiggling its way now. There was nothing I could do about it anyway -- the pharmacist was closed for the next four days so I couldn't even get a 'morning after pill. I felt myself willing that wiggler on. "Yes, Greg," I whispered. "I'll carry our baby." ~oOo~ I hope you have enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed the writing. I'm happy to receive public or private feedback, comments and constructive criticism. Don't forget to vote ;-)