Meek as a...

He fucked her harder then, slamming into her, as she fought to keep her balance, and to propel herself onto his awesome, worshipped cock. They continued to stare at each other, but now through the dresser mirror before her. He took her in, raping her form with his eyes, watching her dark nipples jiggle with his thrusts, watching her body wriggle and writhe against him as she fought to increase the pleasure she took from him. He watched her face. He watched her eyes and expressions, with the smiles that appeared one moment, betraying her joy, then vanished the next, replaced with a contorted face of pleased anguish, displaying that confused borderline between pleasure and pain that sex brought to her.

She watched him, as best she could. She took in his might hands, painfully crushing her hips in his passionate urge to rip into her. She took in his warm eyes, always flooding her with that tender warmth that incongruously existed within his hairy, bestial form, and contradicted the violent force with which he fucked her. She took in the hair on his body, his massive height and thick girth, his familiar, features. She took in the whole vision of him behind her, filling and rocking her as he fucked her to her limits.

In a moment of complete love, she reached back to him, contorting to wrap one hand behind his neck. One of his massive hands slipped up her body to cup her breast, using its position there as leverage to pull her back to him. She arched her back further, her mouth reaching eagerly for his.

Eyes wide open, they joined in a completing kiss. Once again they were totally united, his cock within her, their mouths interlocked, and their tongues, in constant motion, thoroughly intertwined. His powerful hand completely covered her tit, squeezing and massaging pleasure into her. She moaned her approval straight into her brother's mouth.

As her pleasure peaked, she pulled briefly away, as a radiating smile spread across her face, exposing to him the pure, distilled, tormenting pleasure that she endured under his skillful command. In response he bathed her with his own warm smile, taking in no small part some of his own joy from the mere act of bringing her into such a state of disconnected, mindless, overwhelming sensations. He took joy from driving her into a state of senselessness.

Their eyes met. In a moment of intense fear and need, Mouse mentally willed Michael to love her as she held his gaze.

Love me, she thought. Love me. Love your sister.

It was foolish, magical thinking, and completely unnecessary, but she did it none the less.

Fear often came to take her unawares, even at the oddest times, but especially when her senses were heightened by the pleasure he gave her with his body. It was just so likely that Michael would falter. He had rebelled against everything in his own nature by being with her. It was a game he had taken to too readily and easily after his monotonous marriage and painful divorce.

But it wasn't in his nature. He loved her. She knew that he did, and that she was perfect for him. She knew that too. But his better judgment could step in at any time.

She stared into his eyes, trying to master his will with her own, to subvert his own nature with hers. She tried to will him into loving her so fiercely that he could never, ever abandon it.

She knew deep down that he could, and might. Neither of them could never, ever forget that, according to everyone they knew, what they were doing was unacceptable. Even she herself kept expecting to come to her own senses, half hoping she would, while hoping and praying she never could. She spent to many days wrestling with the idea, considering her options, and whether or not it wouldn't be best, for him, to let him go.

It didn't matter. It didn't happen. Every time he entered her, she felt this way. It drove any thought of ending it from her mind. It drove any shame or sense of wrong doing from her conscience. It didn't diminish with time or repetition. It didn't lose its luster. Fucking her own loving brother was an experience that could never grow mundane, or even less than wondrous.

She wondered if anywhere in the world there was a person who could understand the primordial soup of extreme emotions that sparked her love. For this one man she felt longing, trust, jealousy, rage, attachment, understanding, empathy, and more.

The empathy was a surprise. They were so very different at their very cores, and in the ways that they had arrived at becoming who they were.

He had grown up in a different time, almost a different household, even if they shared the same house and parents. Certainly Mom and Dad had changed over the years, and raised her differently from Michael, and Melanie. Hell, half the time Michael was as much of a father to her as a brother, sometimes even more so than Dad himself. By the time Mouse came along, Dad had tired somewhat of the role of father. He'd moved on. He didn't entirely have the energy for it. So sometimes, in some ways, Michael had taken his place.

"I love fucking you, Mona 'Mouse' Josephine Castillo."

His words intruded on her thoughts. The realization that she'd been distracted led her to she mindlessly scold herself for thinking anything conscious in this most perfect of couplings. As she replayed his words in her mind, Mouse's lip curled into a sneer, followed by the narrowing of her entire face into a well-aimed scowl. She glared ahead into the mirror, at her form held tightly against his, with his cock clearly inserted up into her body. She bounced daggers off the mirror at her brother with her devilishly black eyes.

"I told you never to call me that."

The complaint was interrupted with a tortured squeal as Michael thrust his cock more deeply into her, lifting her higher into the air while stretching her more widely for him with the thick, filling, very base of his cock.

"No one else is here, Mona "Mouse" Josephine," he said, after she'd recovered her senses, to open her eyes again to the sight of him joined with her.

"Don't fucking call me that, Michael Martin Castillo," she said, emphasizing his own middle name.

She held a cruel, angry expression on her face as he fucked her, even as her body betrayed her desire by writhing her ass against his stomach, stirring his huge cock inside her like a spoon stirring cream into coffee.

"It's your name, Joey. Think about it."

"Fuck it, Michael, don't call me Joey," she said, then had to stop to quickly inhale as another of his magical thrusts took her breath from her. She was dangerously close to climaxing. She was losing control.

"Josephine is bad enough. Fuck."

That last word tailed off into a long, tortured squeal, as he first pulled his cock almost completely from her, lifting her into the air with his exciting, irresistible strength, then pulling her down and burying his full length inside of her in one sudden, rapacious thrust. His cock hit that spot, that perfect spot, that reminded Mouse how large he was, and how deeply inside of her he could embed himself. He held himself there, holding Mouse at the very brink of ultimate pleasure.

"No one knows that's your middle name, Mouse. No one but Mom and Dad and Melanie, and me."

The timbre of his voice cut through to her fogged consciousness.

"Your friends in Chicago don't know, do they? Does anyone at work? No one knows but your mother and father. And your big sister. And the brother whose cock is stuffed up inside of you right now."

He hammered his cock into her again with another fearsome, violent thrust that almost knocked Mouse off balance. One hand reached out, as she instinctively fought the feeling of falling, scrambling to find solid purchase somewhere. She screamed with panicked joy at the sensation. Again she had to close her eyes just to wrestle with the exquisite, painful pleasure of it all. She was so close to coming for him.

"I love you, Michael Martin Castillo," she managed to get out in a breathy squeal.

"I love you, too, Mona "Mouse" Josephine Castillo. Come for me, Josephine. Come for your brother, Joey Mouse. Come hard for your big brother."

It was the last thing she remembered clearly before her mind and body exploded under her brother's heaving, powerful grasp and penetration. She reached back to cling to the back of his bald skull. One of his firm hands held her thigh up and against him, while the other crushed her tit in its grasp. Separated from the ground and the world, completely at his mercy, she came for him.

The sudden rush of her climax took her and threw her bodily against an imaginary wall. With an almost audible snap of her own bones breaking with pleasure, she writhed and twisted in his powerful grasp, exercising her body with seemingly impossible contortions. Each time they fucked she had expected that violent concussion of pleasure to diminish. She expected the searing thrill to wear off. A day might come, she thought, when fucking this one forbidden man, of all of the men on Earth, would lose the evil, violent, spectacular explosion of rapture that always arrived to mercilessly rip her soul into fragments.

But the day never came. Each and every time he fucked her, her body reached that point where it exploded into a billion shards that scattered throughout the universe, destroying every awareness of anything in her mind until all that was left of anything was her and her loving brother, becoming one and the same in the glorious release of his own forbidden seed into her wicked, welcoming body.

* * *

"I told you never to call me that, you bastard! Mom!"

"You're a little old to go running to Mom, Joey."

"Dad!"

The loud, drawn out whine was half playful, half serious.

"It's your name. Why don't you like it?"

"Shut the fuck up, Michael."

"I'm just saying, you've got muscles like a boy now."

"I told you, it's from dancing. Dancing is hard." "And now you're hard like a boy. Joey."

"Don't call me that! Dad!"

"Michael," their father's voice boomed in from across the house. It struggled to sound stern, but they could both hear his amusement within the words. "Stop tormenting your sister."

Their mother glided through the room, hurrying from one errand to the next, barely taking time to put her own opinion in.

"How old are you now Michael, twenty six, or six? And that goes for you, too, Mona. Your father and I are too old for little kids. I'm not even sure why we had you. Any of you."

The last words were leaving her mouth even as she was leaving the room, not having even hesitated to pretend to mediate the dispute.

Mouse snapped at her retreating back, just after she'd left the room.

"You shouldn't have had me if you were going to name me Josephine."

The even, nearly emotionless response drifted back.

"We didn't. We named you Mona."

"And then you wrecked it by tacking on Josephine!"

"Come on, Joey. I have to get to work," Michael piped in. "Do you still want me to give you a lift to the dance class? Or are you thinking of quitting, now?"

* * *

Mouse languished in that warm memory as her senses slowly returned to her. She loved having memories like those, memories that no two normal lovers could ever share.

Fucking Michael was such an incredible high. Coming down from that high was like a slow, precarious descent down a frighteningly high ladder. It was like coming down from the huge water tower they all used to climb as kids, on a never ending, always frightening and thrilling dare. Going up had always been hard enough, but going down forced an awareness of just how high it was, and that there was nothing between that precarious perch and a perilous fall to the ground except for a clenched, exaggerated grip on the ladder. The whole experience made one's heart pound, and one's head dangerously light. It gave an ethereal, out of body feeling to the experience.

Coming back from an orgasm with Michael was just like that.

The bastard had called her Joey. As he fucked her, he had called her Joey once again. She grinned. She'd like it, too. He was right. No one knew that she was Josephine besides him, and their family. No man in the world other than her brother could or would even know to call her Josephine while he fucked her.

She yanked hard on his chest hairs as she had the thought. She'd get him back for it.

She would, even if she had enjoyed it, and he deserved better. He was the only person in the world who, like her, knew what it was like to crave something forbidden, or someone, for so very long, a desire everyone in the entire world says can't be indulged, but when finally sampled, teaches that it was worth more than anyone ever imagined, and that all of those years had been wasted in forestalling the inevitable by listening to them. It had left her feeling perpetually evil and wrong minded. It had tormented her until a fog was finally lifted by the experience of what she'd only imagined, and then she instead felt wondrously beautiful, and wanted, and loved, and fulfilled.

He knew all that, in a way no one else did or could.

"We better get cleaned up," she told him, not actually wanting to move. "Mel is going to be here in less than a half hour to pick us up."

"Pick us up? Why? Are you kidding? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you wouldn't have fucked me again first if you knew."

He kissed her hard, in an unfriendly, rapacious way. Mouse enjoyed it. When he tried to end the kiss, she instead lingered and held him close.

"Mouse, let go, I'll never get ready that fast," he said, when he was able to pry himself loose from her grip.

"Sure you will, you're a guy. Throw on a clean shirt and you're done. Me, I have to get moving to make it on that sort of schedule, and still look as beautiful as I always do."

Mouse squealed loudly as Michael spanked her ass, with a sharp sting, as she retreated. She quickened her step to get away, with a little jig of a double step thrown in to keep her butt out of reach of another threatened blow.

"But why is she picking us up?" Michael asked. "Why can't we just go together, and meet her there?"

"Because she's already asking insightful, leading, difficult questions. Too much has changed too quickly between you and I. I think she's catching on. So I told her I didn't want to be alone with you more than I had to."

Before he could ask for clarification, she closed the bathroom door behind her and turned on the water.

Let him worry, she thought. It will do him good.

* * *

"How's your fish?"

"It's good. A little bland, but good enough."

Mouse watched as Melanie pushed the halibut around on her plate. She'd barely touched it, which was a bad sign. Melanie wasn't the moody sort. What was bugging her was more than just a little thing.

Shit. As much as she'd teased Michael about it, things were already complicated enough. They didn't need more stress. If Melanie knew, it meant real trouble.

Mouse looked off across the dimly lit restaurant at Michael's retreating form. They had maybe five minutes before he returned. With no time for subtlety, she dove in, head first.

"What's bugging you?"

Melanie looked up from her plate to hold her gaze with one of those patented, dissecting, maternal stares of hers. Being fourteen years older, it had always been easy for Melanie to adopt that attitude with Mouse. She held the stare long enough to try to make Mouse squirm, and as always, she completely failed. And, as always, it visibly irked her.

"What the hell are you and Michael doing?"

Mouse tried to twist her smile into a look of confusion.

"And don't give me that 'what ever do you mean' crap, Mona. What are you and Michael doing?"

"But what do you mean? What are we doing? You make it sound like we're partners in plotting some sort of devilish crime. I'm visiting him."

"You've never, ever visited Michael before. Ever. Not in all the years you lived in Chicago, not even when you lived at home, after he'd moved out, unless we made you."

"So? It's not like you're his only sister."

"So you spend one weekend with him for Mom and Dad's anniversary, then suddenly he's flying to Chicago on business trips, visiting you, and you're flying back here, not only visiting him, but visiting only him, staying with him, and ignoring Mom, Dad and me."

Mouse smirked at her.

"Is that what this is about? You're jealous?"

"No, stupid, I'm not jealous."

"Mom said not to call me stupid."

"When you were five."

"Still, she said."

Melanie laughed, lightly and awkwardly, with more of a grunt than a chuckle. Mouse, showing her own nervous discomfort, stuttered a clumsy laugh of her own.

"Okay, I take it back, Mona. You're not stupid."

"Say you're sorry."

Melanie rolled her eyes, while grinning.

"Okay, I'm sorry. Please don't tell Mom!"

She added that last bit with comically wide, pleading eyes, followed by another quick laugh. To cover her anxiety Mouse took a sip of her drink, hoping she'd weathered the storm.

"But really," Melanie continued. "What's up?"

Mouse put her glass down on the table with a clink, then pushed it away, then shoved it from left to right, like a hockey star toying with the puck before going for the winning shot.

She looked back towards the restrooms to be sure Michael wasn't coming, that she had time. She looked at Melanie, who appeared both cool and calculating. That wasn't at all unusual for her, but it frightened Mouse. Melanie didn't exactly know anything, or she wouldn't be so indirect. She'd come right out with it, Mouse was sure. But she could know something, and the possibility played on Mouse's fears.

She stuck to her planned response.

"Look. I love Michael. I never show it, but I do. In another year I'll be thirty."

Melanie scowled.

"Wait until you're well past forty."

Melanie looked very good for her age, curvaceous and still firm, but she was such a perfectionist that it wasn't good enough, for her.

"Michael's past forty, too. He's already been married and divorced," Mouse said.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Mouse looked around at the other diners, hesitating. Beside them was a young, well dressed couple, laughing loudly together in total oblivion to everyone else. The girl sparkled like sun on snow, with all of the diamond jewelry she wore. He must have bought her every piece, over the course of their relationship, and she must be wearing every single piece he ever bought her tonight. She looked like a living chandelier. She looked happy, too.

Beyond them was a family of five, with the oldest, acned teen boy sulking within a hooded sweatshirt, like a turtle dressed as medieval monk, while the two younger kids fought energetically and too loudly over a small toy, like two squeaking, angry chipmunks. To their left was an older couple, worn and somewhat washed out, yet somehow still vibrant, with that same loving look the young couple shared and that same sense of separated togetherness. She wore an awful lot of jewelry, too.

Michael was going to have to start buying her things, she thought. But they were all couples and families, enjoying meals together, talking, laughing, just being together without having to deal with all of the confusion and chaos that Mouse herself had put onto her own menu.

She took a deep breath. What she was going to say was true, in a lot of ways, even if it dodged the real, deep, true truth.

"I've lived my whole life like the spoiled little brat, Mel. I've taken advantage of him, teased him, used him, but he's always been there for me. So have you, and I appreciate it, but he's really, really been there for me. Always, in spite of how badly I've behaved."

"So you're magically turning over a new leaf?"

Mouse glared at her.

"Not magically, no. It took that weekend, and maybe a little growing up, and maybe the scary shock of turning thirty, for me to realize that it's past time for me to grow up. Maybe I'll never meet the guy who's right for me, to tame my wild side and force me to settle down, like you and Mom are always saying. So I have to start doing it myself. And I'm starting with Michael."