Infatuation Ch 02

Well, well – look who's back. Have you come looking for more twisted, filial voyeur? Well, you're in luck, because as it just so happens, I have more of my little tale to tell. So sit back, kick up your feet, and make sure to wipe up any mess you make afterwards. A hygienic pervert is a happy pervert, after all.

I'm just kidding. We're not perverts here – we're sex connoisseurs.

Now ... where did I leave off last time? Ah, yes, that's right; I remember. But perhaps before continuing I should recap the story so far. No? You want me to shut up and get on with it? Well, too bad, pal, because I'm in the driver's seat for this one. I'll be brief though.

Basically, I saw my sister naked, became obsessed with her body, and after a long and unsuccessful attempt to see her in the nude again, gave up. There – is that enough? Good. Now let's continue.

This part of the story picks up on the morning after the day that I decided to give up my failed schemes, which makes it a Sunday. Now, Sunday mornings are wonderful times. I mean, what better feeling is there (it's a rhetorical question – you don't have to say sex) than waking up early and knowing that you can stay in bed for as long as you like? Almost nothing feels better than that. (I told you not to say sex!). So I was a bit happier when I woke up on this Sunday morning, despite the fact that my mind was still heavily occupied by thoughts of Jemma. I reiterated to myself, however, that I was no longer going to play the part of the pathetic teenage boy, scrambling for the tiniest glimpse of naked flesh. True, my adoration of my sister extended further than her body, but it was still a bit twisted to try to catch her without any clothes on, simply for my own carnal fantasies. So I put on a smile and soon felt more clear-headed than I had the whole week.

But wait, you're saying; that's no fun. We want to read about how tortured and depressed you felt; we don't want to read about someone who's actually

sane

. Well, you lucky (and sadistic) devils, it just so happens that my blissful mental state didn't last very long. You see, as I was making my way through the upstairs hallway, heading down to breakfast, I noticed something very peculiar. And what was that, you might ask? Well, I'll tell you.

It seemed that the door to the bathroom was open. Actually, 'ajar' might be a better word. There were perhaps two, maybe three inches of space between the edge of the door and the jamb. I say it's peculiar because no one in our house leaves the door open while they're using the bathroom. And did I mention I could hear the shower going? I knew someone was in there, and I could guess who, but I couldn't for the life of me guess why the door was open. Later, it became obvious, but at the time I was flabbergasted.

So, crossing my fingers and hoping to God that I wasn't about to see one of my parents in their birthday suit, I put my eye to the sliver of empty space and looked inside. The shower, of course, was positioned in a corner that prevented it from being viewable from the doorway, but not so the mirror. The mirror and the bench were basically the only things I could see, but we all know that if you can see a mirror, you can see a lot of other stuff as well. And what did I see? Well, not much, to tell you the truth, but to me it was like staring at an exploding star – something you only see once in a lifetime. It was the blurry, indistinct shape of my sister's body. Yeah, not the most high quality of images, but it sent

my

blood racing.

See, the shower doors are opaque, and so Jemma showed up, on the mirror, as nothing more than a blur. But it was a skin-coloured blur and it was moving and I was

so

incredibly horny that I started rubbing my crotch without knowing it. At the same time, obscure thoughts began to parade through my brain, each vying for my attention.

Why was the door open? Did she leave it open on purpose? Why was I watching this when I'd sworn not to? Why am I rubbing my cock? What's going to happen if I wait here until she gets out? Do cats really have nine lives?

The penultimate question scrubbed out all the rest and soon I was trembling with anticipation. I was afraid of being caught, however, so I spent nearly as much time looking inside the bathroom as I did down the hall. I kept perfectly silent so that I would be able to detect the sound of footsteps should one of my parents decide to come upstairs. They didn't, though, and soon Jemma was turning off the taps.

I was so excited I felt like giggling. (I didn't though). I steadied myself against the wall and pushed my eye further forward, hoping to obtain the best view possible. By now, I was confident that Jemma had left the door ajar on purpose, in order to renew our little game of hide and seek, which, I was now convinced, was as much fun for her as it was for me. But I was also confident that she wouldn't go so far as to let me see her naked, and so I knew that

something

must crop up to prevent me catching a glimpse of that heavenly beauty of hers. And wouldn't you know it ... she wrapped a towel around herself

before

getting out of the shower. It may have been her normal shower-time practice, but it was something I never did.

At this point, Jemma had obviously decided that the show was over, and so, with a small smile on her lips, she turned around and closed the door, only moments after I'd withdrawn my face. And that was it for me; I knew I wouldn't come through on my promise. Now, I

had

to see her naked again. It was my mission, my purpose in life, my

raison

d'être

!

And so the game began again. This time, however, Jemma seemed to be actively participating. Whenever I woke up in the morning, I inevitably found the bathroom door ajar, and was treated to some more blurry nakedness for a few glorious minutes. It still wasn't enough though, and I was getting impatient.

More moping ensued – quite a lot of it actually. No matter what I did, no matter where I went, I couldn't stop thinking about my sister. It was Jemma this and Jemma that and Jemma oh-my-God-I-love-her. I was

obsessed

! Obsessed, I tell you!

And now that Jemma had done something to encourage my curiosity, I couldn't turn back and give up like I had the last time. So I was ensnared in her web of rounded breasts and perfect buttocks. And it was a very sticky web, as you can probably imagine.

The thing that bothered me the most during that second week was that even though Jemma was now wholly engaged in this little pastime of ours, she still paid little to no attention to me during the day. And I craved her attention, in the same way that I craved another peek at her lovelies. I was desperate to talk to her, to hear the sound of her voice, but it seemed as though wherever I was, she was somewhere else.

Well, I thought to myself, that's enough of that. If she's going to put all her effort into ignoring me, then I'm going to put all

mine

into being the most ever-present, attention-seeking jackass to ever walk the planet. I would spend time with her even if that entailed having a heated argument. And so that's what I did.

I started sitting on the same couch as her, even though every other seat in the room was free. I went in and out of the study while she was doing homework, pretending to consult the dictionary. I even asked mum if she wanted me to help Jemma hang the clothes on the line, and then told a disgruntled Jemma that mum had made me help her. Every second I spent in her presence was a little scrap of paradise, and I was determined to collect them all and construct my very own fantasy island.

Needless to say, however, Jemma soon became irritated by my constant presence, and it was then that I finally broached the subject directly. I know, I know. "About time," you're all thinking.

It was on a Thursday afternoon. Mum and dad were at work, I had come home from school early, and Jemma was in the kitchen washing dishes. She looked highly appetising in her jeans and simple orange top. And as usual, her breasts seemed a lot bigger than they had two weeks ago.

"Hey, Jem," I greeted her, and ducked into the fridge for a drink. She ignored me, but I was used to that by then, so I asked her if she needed any help.

"No," she replied stiffly.

"Oh, come on," I said, once I'd drained my orange juice. "I can dry them for you."

"That's what the dish rack's for," she replied, stiffly again.

"Well," I said thoughtfully, "can I do anything else?"

"Yeah, you can stop bugging me."

"I'm not bugging you."

"Yes, you are," Jemma maintained, whilst running the sponge up and down a spoon in a very slow motion.

That

seriously wasn't cool.

I trembled. "Well, then, do you want to do something after you finish?"

And that's when she finally snapped. Well, sort of. She dropped the spoon in the sink, spun around, and glared at me with a startling amount of contempt. "Look, James," she said angrily; "you

need

to stop following me around. Okay? It's really annoying, and I can't stand it anymore."

Despite the fact that I

was

still desperate to be around her, I also wanted nothing more than to ensure my sister's happiness. And if I was annoying her, then something had to change. And so I took a different approach. "Oh, come on," I pleaded earnestly. "I just want to spend some time with you."

Jemma sighed in frustration, and then addressed me very carefully, as though she was using her words as a scalpel in a complicated medical procedure. "James ... you are

not

seeing me naked again."

I was floored by her direct reference to the event. We'd danced around it up until now, but there it was, laid before me as bare as Jemma had been. Which now meant that I could argue my case directly.

"Why not?" I asked miserably.

I don't think Jemma was expecting me to say that. She probably thought I'd deny that I ever had the intention of seeing her naked and that I thought she was hideously ugly. But my words had a significant impact on her, and so even though she was already facing the sink again, she spun around with astonishing speed. "JAMES!" she cried in outrage. I think she was both shocked

and

amazed that I had said it.

"What?" I said blankly. I couldn't see what the big deal was.

Jemma looked as though she was at a loss for words. Her mouth actually hung open for a few seconds. She looked so adorable. "What do you mean 'Why not?'" she demanded, her brow contracted with anger and confusion.

It was her expression, more than anything, that made me second-guess my response. What

did

I mean by 'Why not?'? Or, more accurately, how could I justify those words? In pondering these age-old questions, I found myself staring at a powerpoint on the wall. When I looked up again, Jemma mumbled something – which was either "Pervert" or "Sherbet" – and started washing the dishes again.

"Hey, wait..." I said, and reached for her elbow. The second I made contact she whirled around and shrieked, "DON'T TOUCH ME!"

I ignored this though, because my attention was far more focused on the fact that Jemma, having spun around at a faster-than-light speed, had neglected to put down the soggy, soapy and disgustingly filthy sponge she was using to wash the dishes. So, yeah, you can imagine what happened. A spray of foamy water arced out and caught me right in the face. After my initial reaction – which was to flinch backwards – I blinked my eyes open and just glared at my sister, who was now trying desperately to stifle her laughter. But she didn't try hard enough, because it exploded out of her mouth and soon she was racked by a gale of high-pitched and irritatingly adorable giggles. I wanted to yell at her and smile at her at the same time.

I said, "Thanks a lot," and flicked the water off my hands. Then Jemma, being the infinitely compassionate person that she is, threw a tea towel at me, which I used to wipe my face.

There was a time when, had Jemma splashed me with dirty dishwater like that, I would have tipped an entire bucket of the stuff over her plain and unattractive head. Now though, I just wanted her to apologise so that I could brush it off as though it was no big deal and win some points. She didn't apologise, however.

"Go and have a shower," she said, turning back to the dishes. "You stink."

I sniffed the back of my hand. "I can't smell anything."

"Well, then, maybe that's why you can't tell that you smell like shit," Jemma replied flippantly. I laughed at her joke, but my laughter sounded false even to my ears.

"All I can smell is your perfume," I said, sniffing the air again. "It's – um – really nice."

Even though she was facing away from me, I could tell, quite easily, that she had rolled her eyes. "Just go," she said, and I went.

That's right: I went. Because, let's be honest, if you're trying to court a beautiful woman, you don't want to smell like Au de Dishwater. What I didn't do, however, was shower for longer than about thirty seconds. After I'd dried myself off, I sprayed on some cologne from the bottle I never used, applied a liberal amount of deodorant and paraded my wonderfully aromatic self into the kitchen.

Jemma was just finishing the dishes and my

God in heaven

did she look hot! The kind of hot that made me want to drop my tongue on the floor and pant like a cartoon dog. Her denim-clad butt was so perfectly round it looked as though it had been shaped by Mother Nature's own ice-cream scoop. And her breasts, just as round themselves, were the perfect compliment to her perfect posterior. She was just so

curvy

. Every part of her body ran into every other part – flawless pieces of a flawless whole. How could I

ever

have thought my sister to be ugly?

How

, I ask you?

Well, seeing as you haven't actually

seen

her, you can't answer that. But neither can I. I have no bloody idea why I'd thought she was ugly, but I had, and boy was I mistaken.

So, summoning up my courage and my wit and my charming sense of humour (let's try to stagger the eye rolling, please) I approached the image of perfection that was my sister and tried to think of something interesting to say.

"Hwdurje," is probably the best assortment of letters to describe what came out of my mouth. But, despite its obvious lack of poetic effect, the word (or whatever the hell it is) succeeded in gaining Jemma's attention. She rolled her eyes again. I think she was happy to see me.

"What do you want now?"

You! And your but. And your breasts. And your soft, fluttering lips and everything you've ever touched in your entire life!

"Nothing," I replied.

"Then buzz off."

I actually felt hurt. So I sighed dramatically and tried to appeal to her sense of pity. Apparently, though, she didn't have one where I was concerned.

Well, that does it, I thought; it's time to bring out the big guns. If she wants to keep ignoring the issue, I'll delve right into it – then she

can't

ignore it.

"I know you left the door open for me," I said quickly, the words overlapping each other.

Jemma looked at me with a bored gaze. "Are you still on this?" she said, and walked into the lounge room. I followed her closely, trying to keep my mind focused on our conversation and not her oh-so-heavenly buttocks.

"You

wanted

me to see you," I said.

"No – I didn't," Jemma replied firmly, flopping down on the couch. I flopped down right next to her and she glared at me some more.

"You were actually excited, weren't you?" I said, with a knowing grin.

"By my perverted little brother? I don't think so." She said it so casually, almost too casually.

"So it's just a coincidence that you started leaving the door open the day after I told you I'd stop trying to see you naked?"

"James!" Jemma hissed, turning around to see – presumably – if anyone had suddenly materialised in our lounge room.

"Oh, come on," I said. "You knew what I was trying to do, and

I

know

you're

trying to do."

"I'm not trying to do anything," Jemma responded sharply.

"Yes, you are," I said, and then pleadingly, "Come on. Can you show me again?"

Jemma looked horrified. I actually felt horrified. What the hell was I doing, soliciting my sister to show me her naked body again? Feeding an obsession that would never truly go away? God, I was sick. Sick and twisted and horny and in love with my God damned sister. What a mess!

"You're sick," Jemma replied, echoing my own thoughts.

I think I may have groaned then. Yep, I definitely groaned. "Come ooooon," I begged her sadly. "You can't just let me see once and then take it away."

"

Let

you see!" Jemma exclaimed in outrage. "I didn't

let

you see. You walked in one me!"

"It's still cruel," I protested. "I mean...." I looked down at her body and let out a deep sigh. "You're so incredibly gorgeous and you've got this perfect, perfect body and I can't stop bloody thinking about it and it's

all

your

fault

!" I finished angrily.

What a pathetically stupid thing to say, right? Ah, but that's where you're wrong, my friend. For you see, the inherent patheticness of this statement was what finally succeeded in breaking down the barriers of Jemma's obstinacy. Did you get that? Good.

But before you get ahead of yourself:

no

, she didn't cave in and agree to have sex with me, and

no

, she didn't tell me I was the sweetest guy in the world and offer to cuddle with me, which, for the record, would have been awesome. All that happened was that she simply hesitated for a second, as though she was startled by what I'd said. I'm guessing that since I had never given her a compliment before, she was.

Her initial hesitation turned into a pause, which morphed into an awkward silence, which transmogrified into a cynical expression. "You think I'm gorgeous?" she inquired with her eyebrows raised and her tone on the verge of laughter. I was confused, and hurt, and even though I opened my mouth to reply, she cut me off. "I don't believe this," she said, with a hollow laugh, and made to get up.

"Hey, wait," I said, and grabbed her hand. It was so amazingly soft that I was in fear of losing myself in the sensation and forgetting what I was going to say. But Jemma quickly jerked it out of my grasp and fixed me with an irritable glare. "I'm serious," I said in earnest. "I think you're beautiful."

"James..." she began in an impatient tone; but no, I wasn't going to let her rob me of this. Maybe she didn't want to spend any time with me, and maybe she didn't want to have wild, uncontrollable sex together, but she was sure as hell going to know how attractive I thought she was.

"You're the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen in my entire life," I blurted out stupidly. "Everything about you – your eyes, your hands, your breasts, even your nose – it's all perfect."

"James..." Jemma said, in a very different tone. I'd actually never heard her speak like this before. She sounded sort of sad, and she was refusing to meet my eyes. "Don't," she said simply.

"Why not?" I asked. "I'm just telling you what I think."

She finally looked up. "Yeah, and it's creeping me out, so just stop, okay?" After that, she made another attempt to escape our awkward conversation, but once more I managed to foil it, this time by taking both her hands. Alarmingly, she didn't snatch them away this time.

"Please," I said, not really knowing what I wanted to say. "Can't we just spend some time together?"

Jemma looked at me with a pained expression, as though she was preparing to deliver the worst news of my life. But within that there was also a sort of ambivalence that gave me hope.

She opened her mouth once again, and once again I cut her off, this time forgoing any pretence and simply speaking from my heart. Or at least I think it was from my heart. "I think you're beautiful," I said, leaning a little closer. "I really do. I know I'm not supposed to think that, but I do, and I can't help it. I think you're more attractive than any girl I've ever seen before, and nothing you say can change that."