Act I--Forbidden Sights
"Bloody hell, Bran," Lucille cried out as he walked into her room. The door was only half-closed, and so Brandyn figured she was not doing anything; he never thought of his little sister doing these things, hell, he himself was not doing these things, not alone nor with others.
Sprawling on her bed in glorious nakedness, illumined by the caress of the lonely candle's orange flame, Lucille held a hand between her thighs. Her breasts, not small but not large either, heaved with every shallow breath and beads of sweat slid down her gentle chin and neck into the vale between them. The nipples, pink and flushed into red in the glow of the flames, were erect and tantalising. Brandyn swallowed hard.
"Bloody hell," she said again, not covering her naked body, as her eyes took him in. A blush suddenly settled in her face and she spun about in her bed, pushing up the covers. Her rear was to him for a moment and he saw that which was between her legs, the wet and pink flower of her womanhood. He could not look away from that moist hole, and soon Brandyn felt something hard beating against his thighs, against his leather pants. By the time Lucille covered herself that very same blush came to him, too.
"I'm so sorry, Luci," he said in a harried tone and felt his face burning even more. The hardness between his legs threatened to rip apart his pants; the pain from the leather pressing against it was unbearable and Brandyn ached for little more than to release it. "I didn't mean to... I--"
"Get out!" Lucille screamed, her face scarlet. "Get out now, you perverted freak!" She threw something at him, something moist that left a trail of slick liquid along his leather vest. The smell of it made him harder. The thing she threw fell to the floor in a hard, wooden thump, then Lucille screamed again. "Get out of my room, pervert!"
Brandyn ran and ran, accelerating till he reached the stairs. He took them two at a time, all the while muttering "fuck, fuck, fuck," under his breath. He only praised the fortune that none were home save him and Lucille as he closed the door behind his back. With one hand he practically ripped the leathers trousers off, and locked the door with the other, all the while letting out a long sigh at his manhood being released from the lace-bound leather prison.
The mental image of his sister sprawling on her bed, touching herself at night, came to Brandyn's mind and the blood rushed down, filling and erecting his manhood further. "What king of a sick bastard am I," he asked in a whisper as the engorged piece of flesh and blood, his flesh and blood, pulsated in the cold air.
He always kept his room cool, cool and airy, and many times the other occupants of the house--Lucille and Myra, his sister and mother, and George the goldsmith and Gloria the herbwoman--complained of it. "It's too cold here, Bran," they said, but he paid no heed to that. It was a small, almost fetish-like thing he adored; being cooped up in the pilot's cabin at one of the zeppelins was not something one could do with air or chill.
The better half of an hour passed and still the need in him raged. Laying flat on his back in his bed, Brandyn began stroking himself. "Better to end it now," he figured.
Groaning and grunting at the pleasure of it with every squeezing motion of his hands, he could not come to that sweet release of ecstasy. Brandyn never engaged in this delight alone, always with a woman under him, or over him, or before him, but never alone. He groaned in disbelief as the mental image of Lucille came to his mind again. Then his seed spurted out in unimaginable speed and ferocity. He had to bite his lower lip as to not make a sound, not to shout out "Lucille!" as he orgasmed.
Laying on his back, half-covered in his semen, Brandyn's mind began to wonder--was there truly something wrong in viewing one's sister as attractive? Was it truly vile and disgusting to think of pleasuring her with his hands, with his mouth, with all he had? Was it not merely another face of love, that act men and women do in the darkness of the night, that act which leaves the two breathless and craving for more?
Act II--Downward Spiral
Next he knew the sun came and and George was beating at his door. "Wake up, sleepy-head!"
"What time is it?" Brandyn asked, his voice groggy and his mind still in a fog. He quickly jumped out of the beg, only to discover his pants were tangled between his legs and his shirt and smallclothes soiled with his own seed. There was a thump when he fell, but Brandyn quickly regained control of himself and threw off the clothes, replacing them with fresh ones.
"It's seven-sharp, man," George's voice came in a worried manner. "Are you alright, Bran?"
He must be talking about that thump, Brandyn thought as he laced the fresh trousers. "I'm fine, just a bit groggy I think. Have a splintering headache, though."
George laughed. "Small wonder your head hurts if a fall like that is a thing you're used to. Are you coming down to eat?"
The answer George received was the opening of a door to a small crack and Brandyn slipping out with rare skill. He was always a lean man, and could fit in places were other people could not--it was Gloria that said Brandyn could slip in the keyhole and reach the other side of the door, and although that was far-fetched Brandyn could indeed slip in small and narrow spaces.
"Where's mother," Brandyn asked in the form of small-talk when they all sat around the table. "I haven't seen her in days now, and I begin to worry."
Gloria and George shared a smile, then the herbwoman turned to Brandyn. "You need not worry about Myra, Bran. She spends her days chasing skirts and wallets, a penis rarely attached to them."
He frowned at her blunt remark, but it was Lucille that spoke first. "Ma is not a whore."
