Incestory: Muses

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An artist finds inspiration.
10.4k words
4.48
47.1k
25

Part 6 of the 19 part series

Updated 08/31/2017
Created 12/29/2010
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sex2xs2
sex2xs2
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Tim sensed someone was in his apartment and paused in the small hallway that connected his storage room to the main room of the loft he rented.

He listened for a moment before poking his head around the corner and scanning the dark expanse for threats.

The lights were out except for the small lamp over the drafting table near the back wall. A girl was standing with her back to him, her body blocking the light.

"Katie?" he asked.

She turned suddenly, guiltily, and stumbled back into the drafting table she'd been hovering over.

She was still dressed in her uniform so he assumed she must've come straight from campus. She'd cut her hair recently too and now she wore it in a jet-black chin length Bob.

"Tim ... hey," she smiled and stood up straight, "I was looking for you."

"You look very New Wave," he said teasingly.

She twirled a finger through one of the coal-black bangs and smiled sweetly - that only made him more nervous.

"What do you want, Katie?"

He couldn't help but check her out ... He'd seen her in far less clothing before but there was just something kinky about the pleated grey skirts and the tight midriff-hugging cut of the blue vests the college made the girls wear.

"Well," she clasped her hands in front of her and put on her 'Damsel in Distress' look, "I need a little favor from my most favoritist ever, bestest in the world, big brother."

"Can't you get one of your boyfriends to help you?"

She was pale, an almost milk-white, with sexy pouty lips and bright blue eyes. Her full breasts, long thick legs, and wide hips ensured that she was very popular with the boys even if it was only her freshman year.

"I need somebody smart."

"Right," he chuckled, "No one smart would ever date you."

"Of course they would," She turned back to the drafting table and spread a few of the drawings around to separate them. "I just don't let 'em."

"Do you mind not touching those?" Tim asked with a tone that indicated that he did - and therefore that she should.

"Don't you want to know what I need?" she asked, peeking at him over her shoulder.

"I'm assuming it's something related to academics."

She spun and smiled at him again, "See! You are a genius!"

"No," he stated." I won't do your homework and I won't write your papers. Mom's paying your tuition - the least that you can do is your own schoolwork."

"She likes us being together!" she stated in return, "That's why she paid for me to come here."

She leaned back and put her palms on the table behind her. The pose struck him as strangely seductive.

"And since we are here together," the look she gave him struck him as strangely seductive too, "there isn't any reason why you can't help me out ... academically."

He had to look away from her, intimidated by her intensity,

"I got a scholarship, remember? I pay for my school by getting good grades and I pay for this place by selling my work - she pays your tuition and housing out of her fund. I don't have time to help you."

Her smile turned to a frown.

"Are you gay?"

"What?" he stammered.

She looked around at the loft and the small piles of art in various places, the Spartan decor and the pile of pillows and blankets he used for a bed.

"You know you're never gonna get another girlfriend living like this ... it's like you don't want to ever get laid again with this 'Mister Crazy Repressed Gay Artist' shtick you got goin' on here."

"You're never gonna pass chemistry again are you?" he informed her, "And if that's your way of asking me to help you then the answer is definitely no."

She bit her lip to hold back a laugh.

"Okay!" She took a step towards him and held out her arms as if she wanted to hug him. "Let's make up already," she puckered her lips and imitated their mother, "Come give your Mum a kiss!"

"No."

She pouted at him like she always did when she didn't get her way.

"Damn," she reached back and pulled a few of his sketches off of the drafting table. "I didn't want to have to do this but ..." she held up the drawing for him to see.

The charcoal sketch was of their mother in a sensual pose in a window sill.

"That's really good work, Tim," she held up another one. It was a sketch of their mother asleep, one breast exposed, her legs slightly parted.

"Any one would recognize it as Mom." She cocked her head like she expected a response from him. "Does she know about your little Mommy issue?"

Tim looked down in shame and shook his head ... she had him. She'd used blackmail effectively on him when they were children and now that they were in college together, it appeared that she intended on continuing the successful enterprise.

"Bring your books with you next time," he spat.

She held out her arms and puckered her lips in imitation of their mother again.

"Come, come," she smiled cruelly, "Come give us a kiss!"

**************************************

Tim did miss his mother - she was the only family he and Katie knew.

Their father was a mystery to them. She never spoke of him except to say that he'd made sure all of them were taken care of. They'd never met any of the cousins or aunts and uncles she would mention occasionally, and as time passed, he assumed he never would.

She'd raised them herself and he'd always been enamored of her. He'd never outgrown her, not like his friends had outgrown their own mothers. The difference was, to him at least, that his mother wasn't ordinary like their mothers were ... there was too much about her to love.

Her image burned in him.

The only release he could ever fathom was sketching her or sculpting a likeness of her. He particularly liked sculpting her and he wondered if it wasn't a pleasure derived out of some sick need to run his hands over her body.

When he sketched her, he'd spend hours just shading her hair or shaping her breast. He'd linger on the line of her cheeks or the nape of her neck. He especially paid attention to her eyes ... sometimes; he'd press the image of her eyes into the paper with his charcoals so hard that he'd rip it.

Her gaze entranced him - even from the two dimensional prison of the papyrus.

He had hundreds of them ... sometimes he'd do three or four in a night, those times he could sleep decently for a few days afterwards - at least until the tension built up again and new images of her would burst from him in a flurry of creativity.

Lately the sketches had become darker, more sensual.

He wasn't blind to it. There was an obvious subtle shifting of her image as he perceived her. As if the innocent admiration of her beauty and charm so evident in his earliest work was fading and being replaced with some dark sexual obsession.

He was sure it was some sort of mental illness, a form of Oedipus complex most likely. He just didn't know if he wanted any help with it - and that was probably the most damning part of it all.

His sister had seen them now. She knew what they meant to him even if others wouldn't. She would use that to her advantage.

**************************************

They lay on their stomachs on a makeshift bed of pillows in the center of the loft's cold hardwood floor, her books and papers between them, facing each other.

She was eating a long red licorice stick and gazing over his shoulder.

"Well?" he asked.

"X equals negative b plus or minus the square root of b squared minus four times a times c and all divided by two a," she droned and buried her head in her arms.

"That's right," he told her encouragingly, "You understand this stuff. I don't understand why you can't learn it from the professors."

"They aren't as interesting as you are," she said off-handedly, looking up, and appearing distracted by something behind him again.

It struck him that she had just complimented him without realizing it.

"What is that?" she asked pointing the licorice over his shoulder.

He turned around and tried to follow where the licorice was pointing but wasn't able to discern anything in the clutter of the loft to concern him.

He turned back around and came face to face with one of his sketches.

This one was different from the others. It was a relatively innocent picture - his very first - and one of the most precious to him.

She stood in a white summer dress, her arm entwined in the ropes of a plankwood swing suspended from the branch of an Oak tree. She was caught in a beam of sunlight that shone through the dress, outlining the waiflike body beneath. The sketch was dominated by the looming presence of the old gnarled Oak, its branches spread above her in a way that somehow appeared to be both menacing and protecting her at the same time.

"She told you?" Katie asked quietly, lowering the sketch so she could look into his eyes. He almost looked away but managed to hold her gaze - he'd figured out that it was bad luck to show weakness to his sister. "She told you the story about the tree?"

"What tree?" he asked.

She looked at the sketch again for a moment and shrugged, tossing it aside carelessly, making him cringe.

"Never mind," she said.

He glared at her; she smiled sweetly and stuck the licorice back in her mouth.

"So," he said, opening her Calculus book to the relevant chapter, "You understand Quadratic Equations and the basics of Differentials ... you're good for your first semester."

She looked at him strangely for a moment then smiled like she always did just before she vandalized something.

"Will you sketch me like you sketch Mom?" she asked.

He froze and looked up at her again.

"Why?" he managed to ask.

She pulled herself up into a sitting position with her chin on her knees. He had to sit up to keep her from kicking him in the face.

"Listen," she pointed the licorice at him. "You're a really good artist- I mean it. You draw Mom how she really looks," she waved her arms as if trying to summon the words she needed to express her thoughts, "not like a picture ever could ... but you capture 'HER' y'know ... like you draw her ... her essence!"

"Thanks," he said, actually very pleased that she'd been nice to him twice in the same day, even if unintentionally.

"I want you to draw 'ME'."

He rubbed his eyes so she couldn't see his expression.

"I don't think that's a good idea," he said through his fingers.

She pouted the way she always did when she wanted her way.

"You don't want to draw me?" she asked as if offended.

Tim knew the ice was thin. It was the classic 'does this make my butt look fat' sort of trap - only far more dangerous.

"I do draw you," he admitted. "I just don't think ..."

She sprang up and dashed for his piles of artwork on the drafting table. He grabbed at her but the uniform skirt was too short and his hand slipped off of her leg as she ran past him.

He sprung after her and they collided when they reached the table. He slid and smashed her body into the table with his but she ignored the collision to shove away the piles of paper she'd already been through to find his sketches of her.

"Katie! Stop!"

She elbowed him in the jaw and he fell back a few steps. He leapt back at her, grabbed her around the waist, and slung her away from the table.

She landed gracefully on her feet with several of his sketches clasped in each fist.

He froze ... he didn't want her to see them but he didn't want her to destroy them in a struggle either. He didn't want them to be any more damaged than they were now.

He was torn and couldn't move in his indecision and fear. She started going through them and he stood there helpless and watched.

She looked at each one in turn then let them fall, one after the other, to the floor. When she got to the last one she flipped it around so he could see it and glared at him.

"That's how you see me?" she asked, tears welling in her eyes. "Really?"

"Katie," he stepped forward but she stepped back and slid on one of the sheets of paper before quickly regaining her balance. "Don't come near me, Asshole!"

"Katie, I tried to warn ..."

"Fuck you, Tim!" she said evenly and stormed away, slamming the door behind her.

He knelt and gathered the papers together, straightening them as he did.

He looked at the last one she'd seen.

Tear drops smeared the charcoal but the image was still intact.

She crouched on his chest as he slept, pressing his body deep into his mattress with her weight, her long fingers clasping his head, their noses only inches apart, her short hair casting her eyes in demonic black shadow as she slowly sucked the life from him with a tender kiss.

**************************************

He stared into the black of the vaulted ceiling looking for some image to appear to him but nothing would come.

He rolled onto his side in the pile of blankets and pillows that constituted his bed and looked at the crumpled sheets of paper scattered around his drafting table.

Each crumpled ball was a failed attempt to draw a representation of his sister that didn't make her seem like a trampy, selfish, and self-centered cunt.

He sighed and rolled back over to stare at the ceiling again and tried to lose himself in its abyss.

A light tapping caught his attention.

He sat up and listened. The tapping increased in strength until it became a steady knock at the door.

**************************************

He slung open the door but the girl who stood there wasn't his sister.

He took a step back and stared at her in momentary shock.

She was a beautiful young woman with long silky blonde hair. She had light-brown freckles sprinkled across her nose, classic cheekbones, and sultry rich almond shaped brown eyes that sparkled with mischief.

She wore the school's uniform with the exception that the top three buttons of her blouse were undone to reveal the generous cleavage the tight blue vests encouraged. Her legs were long, thin, and athletic.

The skirt seemed a bit shorter than it should have been and he was pretty sure that if he were to measure the length - it wouldn't be regulation.

"Not who you expected?" she asked, glancing down at the bulge in his boxers.

He stepped back another step.

She stepped into the loft and looked around.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

She shot a look at his bulge again, looked into his eyes with a grin, and shrugged: "That depends on what you wanna help me with."

They just stood there staring at each other.

"Katie said you were a serious guy," she laughed and shoved an Organic Chemistry book at him with an assignment folded up in the cover. "She needs that by Monday morning."

He took the book and as soon as she was free of the burden she walked past him to a set of oils he'd done last year. They'd sat forgotten, propped against one of the wooden columns that supported the roof, until now.

"I know that place," she said pointing to one of the pieces, "King's Cross." She turned and looked at him, "You've been to London?"

"No ... I ... I just ... it was an image - maybe a dream, I don't know."

She squinted at him as if she didn't believe him and turned to a porcelain statuette next. It was an image of a Greek Goddess holding out an apple as if frozen right at the moment of tossing it away.

The girl bent over to inspect the inscription.

Tim couldn't resist and let his eyes wander over the beautiful vision before him.

"Where'd you buy this?" she asked as if she'd want one herself.

Her panties were a light blue and contrasted with the creamy white of her thighs perfectly. Her long thin legs and slender calves were elegant and delicate.

"I made it," he said proudly.

She looked at him over her shoulder.

He caught sight of one of his pairs of overalls hanging from a nail on another column only a few feet away and ripped them down to put them on.

"Kallisti ..." she said, reading the inscription he'd etched out loud. "That's the Apple of Discord, so that must be ..."

"Eris," he interrupted, "She's the goddess ..."

"Strife whose wrath is relentless," She turned back around just as he was struggling to pull up the braces and took a step towards him, "she is the sister and companion of murderous Ares," she took another step closer, "she who is only a little thing at the first, but thereafter grows until she strides on the earth with her head striking heaven."

She was close to him now ... nearly nose to nose.

"You've read the Iliad?" he asked.

"It's required," she giggled.

He smiled at his own folly.

"Of course," he replied.

"And what inspired you to so honor Discordia?" she asked.

"My sister," he replied.

She reached up and took his chin between his fingers and pulled his face down into a tender kiss.

"What was that for?" he asked, his heart fluttering uncontrollably at her touch and the intensity of her beauty.

"I've never kissed a real artist before," she stated.

He leaned down to kiss her again but she put her fingers to his lips to stop him.

"And now I have."

She spun on her heel and strode to the door, turning around to smile at him, to see his reaction to her. He'd been around his sister long enough to control himself ... not reacting was always the best tactic when dealing with this type of girl.

"Be done with it Sunday night," she said.

"What?"

"The assignment," she nodded at the book he held in his hand.

He looked down at it and when he looked up she was gone. She'd left the door wide open.

He dashed for the doorway and slid on the hardwood until he hit the carpet of the hallway and stumbled.

She was half-skipping down the hall, her beautiful blonde hair swaying side to side like strands of silver, the little skirt bouncing with each step to reveal her blue panties.

"Hey!" he called to her.

She spun around but didn't break stride, continuing down the hall backwards.

"What's your name?"

"Claire," she said just as she reached the elevator door.

The elevator chimed just then and the door slid open behind her.

"Claire ... what?" he asked.

"Don't worry, Mister Artist," she laughed and stepped backwards onto the elevator. "I'm positive we'll meet again!"

She blew him a kiss as the doors slid shut.

**************************************

He watched her beautiful thick Auburn hair blow in the cool wind that roared over the white cliffs while the ocean roared below her.

He smiled in enjoyment at her enjoyment of the moment.

Something changed ... she looked sad and a tear formed in her eye. The tear rolled down her cheek to the corner of her mouth and she tasted the salt of it.

Her clothes fell away and she slipped over the rocks to disappear into the inky water, leaving only a ripple distorting the reflection of the moon to indicate she'd ever been there.

**************************************

He looked up from the sketch and wiped perspiration from his brow.

It was the best he'd ever done.

She was frozen in time ... at the very instant that the gravity of the sea claimed her from the weight of the earth, the rocks giving her up to the deep's embrace.

Her arms were outstretched in an arc like angel's wings, her eyes to heaven, her lithe nude body stretched and arched as she teetered at the point where the worlds of land and sea met, ready to return to the world she belonged to.

"Why don't you fuck her and get it over with?" Katie asked from behind him.

He spun to see Katie and her hot friend Claire standing only a few yards away.

"I gotta start locking that goddamned door!" he spat, mainly to himself.

"It was locked," Claire said with a sly grin.

Katie crossed her arms and pouted at him: "Is it done?"

He pointed at her book on the floor and nodded. Katie stomped across the floor and scooped the book up.

Claire smiled at Tim and winked.

"Can we go now?" Katie whined to Claire.

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