Sibling Love Ch. 01

Author's Note: Slow approach to incest – so be warned. If you want a quick fix, try some of my other stories.

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Dear Diary,

I've spent the last hour lying on my bed and crying, struggling to summon the self-control to pick up a pen and write the things I'm about to write. I know from experience that committing my thoughts to paper will help me make sense of them, and help me cope with them, but these thoughts in particular make it hard. Several times I sat up and made towards my desk, but each time the images would just come flooding back and I'd be reduced to a sobbing mess once more. Even now I'm wiping away stray tears as I write.

Perhaps the best place to start is at the beginning.

I suppose it began (inadvertently) when mum and dad announced this afternoon that they would be attending another small business seminar in the evening. This, then, left Kevin and I alone for the night. Being a Friday night, I thought that he might have plans with his friends, but apparently he, like me, didn't feel up to doing anything other than lazing about on the couch watching DVDs. And that was what we did.

Everything was fine until then, and for a while after. We watched mostly in a comfortable silence, as opposed to the awkward one that used to exist between us. There were, however, a few swapped comments or remarks, always courteous and sometimes even pleasant. I've written already about how things have subtly changed between us over the last few months, and I suppose it became obvious to me then that they really had. We no longer fight childishly or trade spiteful insults. In all honesty, spending time with Kevin is surprisingly nice; something I never would have expected.

I've thought often about that day when we walked home together from school, which was something we hadn't done in years. There were our clashing timetables to consider, but it was more that we just didn't want to associate with each other any more than we had to at home. But that day was different. I remember him asking me how my day was and making a real effort at polite conversation. And by the end, it was more like friendly palaver than just civil chatter. We genuinely had things to say to each other, and that shocked me more than a little.

And here I am with a smile on my face despite all the tears running over my lips. I guess that memory just makes me happy now. I wish it had stayed like that.

I'm stalling – I know; but it really is hard.

Anyway, as I said, we were both sitting on the couch (the same couch, bizarrely) watching a few DVDs we'd hired, when I decided to get something to eat. I stood up and walked into the kitchen, where I fished out a large bag of M&Ms from the pantry and emptied it into a bowl. I took it back into the living room, placed it on the coffee table in front of us and took my seat again. Kevin muttered a nonchalant "Thanks" and leaned forward to take a handful. We continued to watch the movie, every now and then grabbing some of the chocolates to eat.

That was fine;everything was fine then. Pretty soon though, the M&Ms dwindled, and only half a dozen or so were left. I leaned forward and scooped up a handful without looking, somehow managing to take all but one. Looking back, I wish to God I'd taken that one too, or had left another one – justone. Wishing won't do any good now though, and it certainly won't change what happened next.

A few minutes after I had finished my last handful, the last M&M was still left. I glanced briefly at Kevin, then reached for it. Kevin, however, lunged forward and snatched the tiny morsel out of the bowl, grinning from ear to ear. "Hey!" I cried indignantly. "I was about to take that." Kevin just kept grinning and said, "You'll have to be quicker next time."

I should have just let him have the damn chocolate, but seeing him like that, smiling triumphantly, just made me want to wipe the smirk off his face. More than that though, it was strange seeing him so lively and at ease around me, almost like we were children again. It had been so long since I'd seen him smile like that, and almost never had he smiled like that at me.

So, stupidly, I leapt forward and swiped at his hand, which he closed in a fist around the M&M. What ensued next was a very childish, very heated, and very (I'm ashamed to say) fun battle for the last M&M. Again, I'm smiling. It was like we were kids again, though I can barely remember what that was like; being on friendly terms – orany terms, really – with Kevin is such a foreign thought to me now. It was so easy just to let go and forget everything we knew about maturity and adult life.

Eventually, though, we ended up in an awkward position, which, in the end, was what led to the disaster. Kevin, having greater reach than me as well as more strength in his enclosed fist, had the luxury of staying in his sitting position and moving only his hand out of my reach. As determined as I was, wherever his hand went, I went. So when he held it behind him, over the back of the couch, I put my knees on either side of his lap and reached out for it. Our faces were never in danger of coming into contact, but it wasn't our faces I had to worry about. (That soundsreally bad.)

Still in playtime mode, I paid no heed to the impending catastrophe, and continued my efforts to reach the candy. Eventually I did, closing my hands around Kevin's fist and prising it open. I snatched the chocolate from inside (it was blue) and popped it in my mouth, laughing triumphantly. I suppose that's when I realised it had been too easy – that either Kevin had let me take it from him or...something had distracted him. That was when I looked down and noticed his stunned face, staring back at me with brown eyes wide and mouth slightly open. I noticed it immediately, and even looked down.

Our crotches were pressed up against each other; not just touching but really pressed up tight. Most of that was probably due to the fact that Kevin was extremely erect and very, very hard. It's no secret (to this diary, at least) that I'm still a virgin, in every way imaginable. The only thing I've ever done with a boy is hold hands during dance lessons at school, which I don't think really counts. So maybe my fascination – if that's what it was – was what stopped me from leaping off a split second after I had noticed.

As much as I hate to admit it and as bad as it makes me feel to do so, I can't lie in this diary – it feltgood. Not erotically or ardently good – at that point – but justnice. It felt like a missing piece of a jigsaw that was meant to fit there, and stay there. I guess that's the whole point of a binary reproductive system, but it still amazed me.

I had already been staring at our joint crotches for a while when I looked back up, my expression no doubt mirroring Kevin's by then. A small lifetime was crammed into those few seconds, and even now I couldn't tell you what was happening on the TV or whether a bomb had exploded outside. We just sat there, staring, not at each other's face but into each other'seyes. It was scary and intrusive and thrilling all at once; I wasn't sure whether I wanted it to stop or whether I wanted more. The answer, though, is obvious.

In retrospect, I know it was my fault – even though Kevin didn't exactly try to stop it. I was just so caught up in the moment, in the feeling, that I barely registered the fact that I had begun rocking my hips slowly back and forth, grinding my crotch down against my brother's. If it had felt good before, I won't even bother trying to describe what it felt like then. Kevin's expression never changed, and neither, I think, did mine. We just kept on staring like two speared fish as I continued to push my crotch back and forth along his...well, you know what I mean.

I did it slowly – very slowly – but even so, my crotch was burning up very soon. I remember now that Kevin absent-mindedly placed a hand on my hip, then dropped it. Maybe he lacked the confidence to do anything else or maybe, like me, he was too preoccupied with the feeling our bodies were creating to concentrate on doing anything else with them. The entire time we never broke our eye contact, and in the end I think that's what pushed us over the edge.

I felt it first, like a stirring deep – much deeper than when I felt it alone – inside my stomach. It started to boil up and spread through my body. It was, in all honesty, the single most amazing and most wretched moment of my life. I think that that may have been when the first tears fell, but it was also when my mouth dropped open and my eyes shot wide. I'm almost certain that Kevin reacted not in response to what he felt in his loins, but because of what he saw on my face. It looked almost as though he'd forgotten entirely about the feelings in his own body, and was deriving all his pleasure and – if he felt like me – all his misery from my changing expression. I've never had anyone – male or female – look at me like that before. It was terrifying and, to a lesser extent, exhilarating. I felt exposed, as though he was seeing past my skin and into whatever was residing inside my mind. He just stared, and as my face contorted, so did his, his brow furrowing and his eyes widening.

And then I was cumming, and it wasn't anything like it was when I caused it myself – not even close. There was the heat in my crotch and the feeling of Kevin's erection beneath it andhis face – it was so much. Reality ceased to exist for me in those few moments; my head whirled crazily, my body was racked by wave after wave after wave of unbridled pleasure, and all I could do was keep staring into his eyes, because I couldn't look away even if I'd wanted to.

I knew Kevin was cumming and I have no idea what it felt like for him, whether it matched the intensity and the sheer ferocity of my own orgasm. They say sex is a selfish act – that at the crucial moment we think only of ourselves and how we can best magnify and prolong that feeling, by using the other person to do so. I'm not sure what sex is like, but I suppose there's some truth to that. I didn't really pay any heed to how Kevin must be feeling; I just wanted to cum more and to never stop.

But it did stop, and it was like a train crashing through a wall, slamming reality back into my mind along with comprehension, guilt and consequences. That's when I became conscious of the tears, and they fell as intensely as I had cum. I felt wretched in that moment – utterly and completely wretched. No matter how bad things have gotten in my life, I'd never thought it before – but I thought it then. I wanted to die. Right then and there, all I wanted to do was die.

I was numb from head to toe; I couldn't see properly and I felt like throwing up. I was dizzy, even as I staggered to my feet, staring down at Kevin's now-blank face through a veil of tears. Part of me – a small part – wanted to reach out to him and tell him I was sorry, that everything would be okay; but mostly, I wanted to slap him, to scream at him and ask him what the hell we had just done. I wanted to know – badly – whether he understood my pain, whether he was feeling it too. Did he care? Did he hate me? Would he despise me for the rest of his life?

I couldn't ask him any of those questions, of course. All I could do was take a shaky step back, and flinch away when he reached out for my hand and said my name.

"No," I cried, and took another step back. I felt the coffee table against my knees and it seemed to jar me awake. Sobbing, I ran from the room, tore up the stairs as fast as I could and slammed my bedroom door shut, collapsing onto my bed with the only energy I had left. I think that, just before I flew out of the room, Kevin called out to me one last time, though I'm not positive – it may have just been my imagination. He hasn't tried to talk to me though, and I don't blame him. I don't know what I'll do tomorrow – whether mum and dad will notice something's up, whether Kevin will try to talk to me or whether I should try to talk to him. I don't know what to say to him or what to do to make this all go away. I feel like my whole life has just fallen apart in front of my eyes and now I'll never get it back. I feel lost. Lost and miserable. I can't stop crying.

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Dear Journal,

I thought that sleeping on it would make my head clearer in the morning, make it easier to analyse what happened and figure out some kind of solution. And now, eight hours later, it's Saturday morning and I think that, rather than feeling the need to write some more about it, I'm using this entry as an excuse not to get up and face Kyla. Writing her name sends shivers down my spine.

It took me hours to get to sleep last night. I thought that, by writing things down while they were still fresh in my mind, I'd effectively be passing my thoughts onto my journal, storing them in its pages so that I wouldn't have to keep them in my head. But it didn't work like that – writing them down just gave me more things to ruminate on as I tried – and failed – to fall asleep. I think it was from sheer physical exhaustion that I finally did, though luckily I didn't dream. I don't think I could have handled a repeat viewing of last night's events.

I still feel terrible. Watching Kyla run out like that was...awful. I've never felt so vile in my life. I hate seeing her get hurt – really hurt I mean – and I know that if anyone ever wilfully harmed her, I'd tear out their throat. But the thought that it wasme who made her so miserable – that's even worse.

I know I should confront her and apologise, but I've never been good with things like that. I wouldn't know what to say, or even where to look. Whenever I close my eyes I can still see hers printed on the back of my eyelids, staring back at me as her mouth opened wider and her cheeks began to burn red. I don't know if I'll ever be able to look her in the eyes again. There are other matters to deal with – such as the fact that I had my first pseudo-sexual experience with my own sister – but all that seems peripheral compared to setting things straight with Kyla. I just...don't want to lose what we almost had. Things were different and I didn't want that to change. I guess it has now though – changed for good.

I'd better go downstairs now and face the music. Kyla might be up already or she might still be in bed. I guess I'll be able to gauge how she's feeling based on that. If she spends the entire day in her room, I'll know I'm in trouble. And I haven't even begun to consider where mum and dad fit into all this. Will she tell them? ShouldI? Of course I shouldn't. There's no way I'm telling them. But will they find out? And what will happen if they do? I can't even bear to think about it. For now, I have to do right by Kyla.

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Dear Diary,

I'm not sure how I expected to feel in the morning, but I had assumed that, at the very least, my head would be clearer. At most, I thought I'd be nursing a well-rounded solution to last night's problem just waiting to be put into action. However, what I'm feeling can, I think, best be described as a hangover.

Idid sleep – I know that; but it wasn't a very relaxing kind of sleep. This morning my head just felt filled with cobwebs, my eyes barely kept open and every muscle in my body was struggling to do its work. In short, I felt like crap. I didn't expect to experience such a marked physical toll.

There were a few seconds there – just a few – when I woke up, when I thought that it had all been a dream, that the night before had finished on amiable terms and I had gone directly to my room after the last movie credits rolled. Of course, realisation dropped on me like a sack of potatoes and that's exactly what had felt like happened to my body.

I had no desire whatsoever to get out of bed after that, so I pulled the covers up to my chin and curled up in a sad little bundle. For the first time, I wished I'd taken meditation classes, or possibly yoga, so that I could clear my mind of all conscious thought and achieve something akin to peace. But, as it was, thoughts were ricocheting around my head like pointed shrapnel.

I had very firm plans to stay exactly as I was for the next twenty-four hours. Getting up and going downstairs would mean forcing pleasant conversation with mum and dad, and possibly being interrogated as to what was wrong, considering how adept I am at concealing my emotions. It's no secret that I'm a heart-on-her-sleeve kind of person, and to be honest, it's never really posed a problem for me. It's just so much simpler to be able to tell what someone is thinking by looking at them, so that you can judge your responses properly. Kevin, on the other hand, might as well be wearing a mask around. It's not that he never expresses emotion – I mean, I've seen him smile before, and he smilesbig; but he's so adroit at hiding what he feels, so that anyone who doesn't know him that well could mistake placid acceptance with fiery anger. I've seen it happen before.

But I don't want to talk about Kevin; I don't even want to think about him. I wish I could pull my brain out of my head and wash it vigorously in the sink until I'd cleaned away every last memory of last night. Actually...that's kind of gross.

Aside from being forced to make idle chatter with mum and dad, going downstairs would also mean seeing him again – and that's something I just can't do right now. Not only that but, I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to set foot in the living room again, let alone sit onthat couch.

As I said though, Ihad plans to stay in my room all day. Around ten o'clock though, I heard a knock on my door. It was a short, slow knock, and I knew instantly who it was. Mum would have called out straight away or gone ahead and opened the door (it wasn't locked); dad, likewise, would have spoken, though it was rare for him to come to my room. But Kevin, he would have been silent, which was exactly what this person was being.

Needless to say, I didn't reply; I rolled over instead and pulled the covers over my head in case Kevin opened the door. Somehow though, I knew he wouldn't. Within another minute I heard his footsteps receding down the hallway and I rolled back over.

Kevin coming to my room could mean only one thing: he wanted to talk about what happened. That alone was strange. Living an open life like I do goes hand in hand with a diplomatic nature. I was the one that usually confronted people to mend problems before they got out of hand. I knew, and know, that leaving them to fester only makes them worse. Kevin didn't think like that though; when confronted with a problem, he pulled away, kept to himself and wallowed in his own guilt, or misery or whatever emotion it was the dilemma had sparked inside him. It was almost as if our roles had reversed, though I can't imagine why that would happen. Ican imagine though, that this confirms his good-intentions last night when he tried to stop me from fleeing the room.

After that rather empty incident, I lay in bed for another hour before pulling out my diary and writing the entry I am now. It is now 11:04 and I still have no idea what to do. I suppose I know whatneeds to be done, but logic doesn't easily assert itself after an incident like last night. I guess I'll just have to suck it up and talk to Kevin; or let him come back and talk to me.

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Dear Diary,

It's still Saturday. I ended up spending another few hours in my room, taking as long as possible to dress myself and make my bed – I don't think I've ever brushed my teeth so thoroughly. Eventually, at mid-afternoon, I decided to make a quick trip downstairs, due mainly to the incessant rumbling in my stomach. It was harder to be depressed outside my room, but only slightly.