Mouse Bk. 07 Ch. 02

"You're a whore, a beautiful, perfect whore."

She yelled, speechlessly, as he pounded his thick, long cock into her.

"Incestuous whore," he yelled.

He was right. It was who she was, and who she wanted to be. She longed to please him. She lived to please him. Her body was there to please him, and only him, no one else. She was his whore, his little sister whore.

She wanted only to make him happy, however she could, no matter how wrong it was.

"Incestuous whore," he yelled again as he fucked her.

"Yes, Michael," she squealed breathlessly back at him.

"Your body is here for my cock. Your sweet, hot, little sister cunt is here for my cock."

"My brother's cock..."

"Your fucking beautiful body loves your brother's cock..."

"Yes, Michael!"

"... because your brother's fucking cock loves your beautiful, fucking, incestuous body."

"Yes, Micheal"

"My little whore"

"Yes..."

"My little sister whore"

"Yes..."

"Take my cock now, take all of your brother's cock..."

"Yes..."

She screamed as he plunged as deeply into her as he'd ever been. She lifted her hips up to meet him, grinding against him, trying to get even more of him inside of her.

"I love fucking you, Mouse. I never want to fuck anyone but you."

"Your little whore..."

"My sweet little sister whore..."

"Your bratty little sister whore.."

"My fucking sweet, tight, brother cock loving, little sister whore."

Her body convulsed. She writhed beneath him, as she felt her cunt twitching with orgasm after orgasm, grabbing and squeezing and clawing at his cock inside of her.

Her hands race frantically up and down his powerful arms to each side of her, moving randomly, not knowing what to do or where to go, or what to grab, in her mindless, senseless fits of pleasure.

She felt him stiffen. She felt his body tense and harden. She felt his cock tense, and harden. Then he shuddered. He groaned loudly, the most pleasing sound Mouse had ever known, as he shuddered and filled her with flood after flood of her brother's glorious, forbidden, magnificent, sinful, wondrous, incestuous cum.

* * *

He lay atop her, panting loud and hard from his exertions, as her hands continued to move tirelessly over his body, across his arms and back and sides, slowly and gently now, just comforting him, just pleasing and teasing and comforting his marvelous, giving body.

His cock stayed inside her, no longer thick and hard, but large enough, still comfortingly there inside of her.

Mouse closed her eyes. She remembered.

She was in the shower, with her brother, with his sexy, large, magnificent fingers invading ever part of her body, sending shiver after shiver through her.

She was on her knees, sucking his cock, foolishly panicking as he covered her face and lips and blouse with his sweet cum.

She clung to him as he fucked her, as thousands of reflections fucked in unison, in the mirrors that covered the walls of the dance studio.

She hovered over him, he wearing a tuxedo, she with the skirt of her own white wedding gown flowing around her, lifted over and over into the air by his spearing cock.

She was under a starry Mexican sky, laying back on him as his wife, while the incessant surf tickled her toes and Michael forced her skyward with every thrust of his hips and cock.

He nailed her to the hood of his car in front of their parent's house, in plain sight, where anyone could see, as the cold, stinging drops of rain pelted them both, and the thunder roared its approval all around them with a shaking strength that was puny compared to the power of his cock within her.

He fucked her as he should have, in her prom dress, in the car, in the dark, as she begged him over and over and over to give her a baby.

She lay on the stairs, running her fingers up and over and around his massive form as he smothered her with his body, and she remembered.

* * *

It wasn't entirely the last, for Mouse. She couldn't let it be. She kept him up all night, begging to be fucked, and he honored each and every request.

<8 Truth

She lay beside him, in the dark, in the night, as his chest rose and fell with ease. She watched him for a long while, admiring the size and bump of his family nose, larger and more masculine, but so like her own. She let one finger trace a tender path along the line of his jaw, before withdrawing, afraid of interrupting his gentle sleep.

She felt beautiful. He made her feel beautiful. More than any other man ever, he did and had, even before she'd kissed him, before she'd fucked him, back when he was only her bothersome big brother.

More importantly, with him, she felt warm and safe. She felt protected. He'd never let anyone hurt her. A man like Paul could maybe love her and care for her, but she wasn't sure he'd ever make her feel safe. She wasn't sure that she could ever trust a man the way she did Michael.

She smiled at the thought. After he way Michael had spent his life ridiculing and criticizing her, and the way she'd spent her life pushing him away and torturing him, who would have thought that he'd be the only man that could make her feel safe.

He didn't judge her. He always had before they finally bonded, she remembered. He'd critique her. He'd point out her flaws. He'd tell her what she was doing wrong, how improperly she dressed or behaved, or what she should otherwise be doing with her life. He was full of criticisms for her, then.

But they didn't matter, now, or then. He wasn't really criticizing her. He was loving her. He was helping her. Even then, he was protecting her, from herself.

Now his big, hulking bulk took up more than half the bed, leaving her only a small parcel to sleep in. She was happy with that small parcel. His size made her feel safe. His oppressive bulk created a shield that would always protect her.

He didn't judge her openly anymore, and if he did, openly or in his own thoughts, so what? He was entitled. He'd earned it.

She trusted him.

She loved him more than he was ever going to know, and the thought of losing him stung and pained her as if she were losing everything she'd ever known and cared about.

"I love you," she whispered into his sleeping ear, hoping the words would find their way into his dreams.

<8 Abandonment

Mouse looked at the time on the display of her cell phone. She stood, looking at Michael, sitting across the room, fidgeting as he tried to read a magazine. He always fidgeted when she was getting ready to leave. It was his silent way of telling her not to go.

Her plane left in a few hours. She kept putting it off, but she couldn't anymore. She had to do it now.

"You should see Kate."

"Hm? What? I do see Kate."

"No, you should see her see her. You should sleep with her."

He held her eyes with his, unmoving.

"No, I don't think so."

"You should."

"I don't want to."

"Liar."

He glared at her. This wasn't going to go well. She knew it wasn't. It couldn't. She almost tried to make it go as badly as it could.

"Don't look at me like that. You're a liar. She'd be a hot, little fuck, and you know it."

"I already have a hot, little fuck," he said, grinning and looking back at his magazine, implying that she should drop the subject.

No you don't, she thought. Not anymore. For your own good.

"I'm going to sleep with Paul," she said.

That got his attention again.

"You can do what you want. But I'm not sleeping with Kate."

"Michael, she's nice. She's sweet. She's fun. She's sexy. She's everything you could want."

"So are you."

"I'm your sister."

"Shit. Really? Fuck. Really? I've been fucking my own sister?"

"Stop it. Michael... I think I'm going to develop something with Paul, something real."

Michael stared at her for a while, his face impassive.

"We've had this discussion before. Nothing's ever come of it. You can, if you want to."

"Michael, I'm not coming back."

That got him. The color drained from his face. He stood a little too abruptly, moving toward her. She backed up, not wanting him to come near her. She didn't think she'd have the strength to go through with it if he got too close, if she could see his eyes too closely, or if he touched her, or kissed her.

He saw her recoil, and stopped in his tracks a few steps away.

"You're serious," he said.

Her eyes dropped to his feet, unable to meet his.

"Yes," she answered.

He started to ask why, and hesitated. Without even looking up at him, she could sense the emotion welling up in his face. It filled him slowly like a bucket filling with rain water, drop by drop, not quickly, but inexorably, until it was ready to overflow.

She saw him swallow, trying to contain the sudden onset of emotions.

"Why?" he asked.

She was grateful that his voice didn't crack.

"You know why," she said, because she didn't have the courage to say more. If she tried, her voice would crack, too.

"Mouse, we don't have to do anything now. Some day, maybe, yes. Some day you'll find a man that will give you children, and a family and a house and a real life. But not today. It doesn't have to be today."

Yes, it does, she thought. It has to be today. But not for her. It had to be today for him.

"I think Paul might be the one, Michael," she lied. "I don't know, but I don't want to risk missing the chance."

"He's too old for you."

"So are you."

"He's older."

"You're my brother."

"I don't want to see you get hurt, Mouse."

The tears started then. He was still fucking protecting her. She was torturing him, for him, yes, but she was torturing him once again. She'd made a hobby her whole fucking life of sadistically abusing the poor, wonderful guy, and she was doing it again.

"You're my fucking brother, Michael. I'm fucking my own fucking brother. It can't go on. It has to stop."

The tears poured down her cheeks as the lie poured out of her mouth. It didn't have to stop. It never had to stop. She loved him. She wanted him. She wanted to love him, and to be with him, forever. She didn't want Paul. She didn't ever want to see Michael with Kate. She wanted him to herself. She wanted a family with him. She wanted to spend all of her years and time with him.

She loved him.

He stared at her in blank, stark shock. A tear welled in his eye, too, now.

"I can't fuck you forever, Michael. It was fun. I still love fucking you, but I can't anymore. It has to stop. We have to move on."

The doorbell rang. Michael's head and eyes swiveled toward the door, while hers stayed immovably rooted on his.

Damn, she thought. She'd put it off too long. She hadn't left herself enough time.

"That's my cab," she said.

Then he noticed her bags, already packed and lined by the door. Then he knew.

"I can still take you to the airport. We need to talk this out."

"No."

"You can't take a fucking cab to the airport."

She didn't answer him. She walked to the door. He stood still behind her, pinned in place by panic, as she showed the cabbie her bags. She'd packed what she could. She still left a lot of stuff behind, but she'd have Melanie come to collect it for her, and she'd bring it home with her another time.

The cabbie retreated to his cab, lumbering under his load. She picked up the two small remaining bags.

"So that's it," Michael said.

No, it's not, she thought. It's not. It doesn't have to be it. Don't let it happen like this. Just stop her. She wanted him to stop her. She wanted him to kiss her, to fuck some sense into her right there on the floor, to tell her that it was okay, that everything would be okay, that they could stay together forever and they'd be happy and it would all be okay.

"Give Kate a call," she said, as she turned to walk out. He didn't say anything more. She strode to the cab.

She knew he wanted to beg her to stay, but he wouldn't. She wanted him to. He wanted to. But he wouldn't, and it was best that way.

She didn't even get to kiss him farewell.

* * *

The tears kept flowing, silently, down her cheek. She could feel the tickle of a drop, clinging, refusing to drip free, and she refused to wipe it away. She'd never done anything so horrible in her life. It felt wrong. She wanted to tell the cabbie to turn around. She wanted to run back to Michael, and to say she was sorry, and to give herself to him, totally and completely, forever, absolutely forever.

And that would have been selfish.

The cabbie had a song on the radio, a sad one. It was sad because she remembered dancing to it, for Michael, the night after he'd seduced her. He'd thought it would be a one time thing, a mistake that they'd always regret and put behind them, never speaking of it, and pretending it had never happened.

So she had danced for him. She put the music on, and the sound of a rich voiced diva had filled the room. She let her body move to the music, enticing him, seducing him, letting him see how beautiful she was, and how much he excited her, and most of all letting him know without question how much her body excited him.

I-'m a l-o-s-t
And lonesome g-i-r-l
S-p-i-n-n-i-n-g through
A l-o-n-e-l-y world

Wanting some - o-n-e
To t-a-k-e me d-o-w-n
And m-a-k-e me c-o-m-e to him

And m-a-k-e me c-o-m-e to him

Now she didn't want to dance. She would never excite him again. She'd dream about him. She'd dream about exciting him.

She'd spent her whole fucking life dreaming about being with him, and now she was throwing it away, to return to being with him only in her dreams.

I'm a s w-e-e-t
and bitter g-i-r-l
Trampled b y
An u-n - c-a-r-i-n-g world

Needing some - o-n-e
To t-a-k-e me d-o-w-n
And make me c-o-m-e to h-i-m

She muffled a sob. She wanted to ask the cabbie to turn it off, or change the station, but the song felt like it was the only piece of him that she was taking with her.

T-a-k-e me d-o-w-n
H-o-l-d me d-o-w-n
And make me c-o-m-e to him

H-o-l-d me d-o-w-n
And m-a-k-e me c-o-m-e for h-i-m
F-o-r h-i-m

They pulled up to the curb as the song was ending.

And m-a-k-e me c-o-m-e to him

Mouse was going home to her second life, her second choice in life, because she was never really allowed to even consider her first choice. It was never really a choice at all. It was only a game, like their wedding, like babysitting, like everything. It was all play acting. It was fun, but it was over.

Mouse left Michael behind.

* * *

A weed had sprouted up through a crack in the sidewalk, with very tiny, fragile, purple flowers budding here and there along it's length. It was pretty, in a way, but still a weed. Pretty or not, it didn't belong there. It was a sidewalk, clearly defined, and designed for a purpose. A plant there would be stepped on, or pulled up, or at worst ignored. No matter how pretty the flowers were on the weed, it didn't belong there. It was an eyesore.

It grew from a seed beneath the solid concrete. It forced its way up and through, drawn by the warmth of the sun, up into the light, where it could try to grow and thrive. It broke through a crack, or made its own. It did what it had to do. People would never see it that way. Most would see it as a distraction, an ugly blotch on a pristine utilitarian walkway, but a rare few would see that it brightened up an otherwise dreary, regimented slab of concrete.

A family of three came along, pulling their luggage right over the weed. After they had passed, it was flattened to the ground.

* * * * *

— From the author —

Don't fret. There is one more chapter left in Mouse's story. Look for it...

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— Rob