Sisters From A Distant Past

Synopsis:

A series of historical vignettes depicting incest in various periods.

Author's Note:

A story I wrote for a client. I welcome any feedback you may have! I hope you enjoy it!

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SISTERS FROM A DISTANT PAST

Section I.

Oi Romaíoi skótosan ton patéra mou."

He spoke it in Greek.

"The Romans killed my father."

He was an athletic younger man in his mid-twenties. His tousled mahogany hair spilled like a mullet down his broad shoulders. His nose was sharp and flared. And his cerulean eyes were mad with what must have been revenge. His frayed, stained toga betrayed the fact that he had not washed his clothes in some time. And in his hand was his only weapon--a rusty spear with the tattered banner of Corinth dangling from it.

"Is that the only reason you're not escaping on the ships with the rest of the citizens?" The battalion captain asked.

"No. My sister Cosima yet lives. If the Romans are less than a day from breaching the city, then I shall do what I can to help her escape from the docks in time.

"I see. The Roman General Lucius does not spare hoplites--even one as young as you. The likelihood of your death is very high."

"I understand, but I will not turn away. I will not run. This I promise."

Hesperos would regret those words.

His was the sprawling City of Corinth, a glimmering city on a cliff whose myriad buildings of white and blue were said to be blessed by the pantheon. Greece had its fair share of wars with its neighbors in the past, but none were as terrible or as formidable as the Romans. And Hesperos, having grown up in Corinth, could not fathom that it would be razed to the ground by the end of tomorrow. As word of the Roman armies' gradual approach spread through the streets, Hesperos found himself torn between escaping or defending the city walls.

"It's not... f-fair!" Hesperos grit his teeth in a crazed frenzy. "I can't... can't do this...":

It would be the last sunset before the Roman invasion.

The young woman was beautiful beyond compare. Her curly, braided hair was a shade of light mahogany, and her cerulean eyes glimmered with conviction. Her pale body drew the eyes of men wherever she walked, as though she were modeled by Pygmalion himself. She was, by all accounts, a model Greek woman.

She did not resist Hesperos. He grabbed her from behind, and as if in a mad frenzy he tore her ragged tunic from her body, exposing the pale swells of her breasts. He unraveled her tresses of dark hair from her bun, allowing them to spill through his fingers as he grasped her with trembling palms. Then, clutching her sides, Hesperos aligned himself with her folds and promptly penetrated her.

"Mmph! Ahhh!" She cried out and arced her back.

Sweat dripped from Hesperos's forehead. Fear and guilt exploded in his mind. Again and again, he ploughed into the depths of the young woman, as if desiring to drown himself in a lake of forbidden pleasure. To forget what was soon to come.

*clap* *clap* *clap*

His thighs clapped repeatedly against her bottom.

"Ugh... Cosima..." The young man wept. "It's not fair..."

"Wh-what's not fair?" The girl panted between his thrusts.

"Dozens of strangers pleasuring themselves with your body every day, just for us to make ends meet. And your own brother who knows you and loves you more than anyone, is disallowed--" He panted as he impaled himself upon her womb. "From fucking you! That is not fair..."

"I-I'm sorry, Hesperos," Cosima mumbled as she took his thrusts. "I suppose that is... simply... the way of things..."

"I will not accept it--" He grunted. "I'm going to die. I'm doing to die!"

"H-Hesperos, come together with me... to the dock..."

"No...! I must avenge father. I must kill the Romans. Every last one!"

He grit his teeth, clutching her thighs as he pounded her harder. Memories of his sister in happier days flashed through his mind. Cosima had always been the bright, educated one whose hands were more suited for strumming a harp, and whose mind and soul were a canvas of poem and song. Now, she had been reduced by circumstance into a mere plaything--a flesh doll to be paid for and used for carnal pleasures.

At least now, Hesperos thought, she might leave the city and begin a new life somewhere.

He embraced her from behind, cupping her small breasts in his palms. The forbidden flesh of his sister spilled through his fingers, her erect nipples nudging into his calloused palms. The nerves in his brain--inflamed with terror and fear from a death he knew was coming--desperately sought a measure of peace from the woman's flesh. And while it didn't work, he wanted to believe this act would make him feel better.

*whud* *whud* *whud*

The drapes fluttered in the wind, and Hesperos turned his head to look out the window. The sails of a dozen ships were being unfurled, and a congregation of citizens stood at the docks, desperate to board. A part of him wanted to go with them. To join his sister and perhaps settle in the valleys and grapevines of Crete.

"Ugh... Cosima... I'm...!"

The pace of his grunts increased, and he thrust furiously into his younger sibling again and again. He increased his pace as the pleasure of his orgasm began to bubble up, as did the guilt of his reunion.

"Uhh, just d-do it inside me..." Cosima gasped. "It's alright, Hesperos..."

"UGH! Cosima"

Hesperos plunged himself as deeply as the space would allow, and he felt the sensation of his younger sister's womb kissing his glans for the first time. He stayed there, relishing in the warm, wonderful embrace of her vaginal walls, before his hips bucked and he felt his seed erupt from himself and spill directly into her. He shuddered and spasmed with each release, his mind numbing with a pleasure denser than a bottle of Absinthe could ever give. Cosima moaned long and low as she felt the warm seed of her brother pumping into her belly. And when he pulled out, he fell back against the wall with an exhausted gasp, his mind lucid with anxiety once again.

"I'm going to die. I'm going to die," he thought.

He looked at Cosima again as she redressed herself, gazing at his white seed dripping from her thighs. He thought, perhaps, he would leave her with more than the curse of a child.

He pulled out the necklace dangling around his neck.

"Cosima," he said. "I'm going to give you our family's heirloom. Take it. I don't want the Romans to loot it from my body."

It was a small gold periapt, somewhat unremarkable in its design, but it was laden with precious stones, including a large ruby and small azure gems.

"Are you sure, Hesperos?"

"I'm sure. The amulet will protect you always. And should you bear my child, pass it down to him. Please."

Cosima nodded and took it from him. With that, Hesperos redressed himself and wrapped his sash around his waist. He grabbed his spear and shut the door behind him without looking back.

She would never see him again.

Section II.

He won't last much longer."

"I'm sorry, I came as quickly as I could."

Her name was Anais of Davenport.

The sun was setting in Poiteirs, France. Hooves clopped along the cobblestone street as the woman's carriage slowly came to a stop before a towering almshouse. Her dress was simple and modest: she wore a white lace dress with a sash and girdle. From her black cowl, her curly, mahogany hair tumbled down freely from her shoulders. She was slender, of fair skin, and beautiful. Yet on this day, Anais could barely still her tears.

Despite Joan of Arc's leadership and the invention of cannons and firearms, the war against the English yet persisted. It was a dream so long remembered for that war to end so her loved ones might return home.

She walked up the steps and into the doorway. There stood the old nursemaid in the dark, clutching an oil lamp.

"You're very late."

"I will see my brother now," Anais said. "Is he awake?"

"I cannot guarantee that he's well enough to speak with you."

"I don't care. Let me see him!"

Up the set of stairs Anais and the nurse went. The clocktower struck eight as the pair finally arrived on the second floor. Together, they walked past a series of open rooms, inside which Anais could see various patients wrapped in head to toe with blood and bandages, some of whom visibly tossed and turned in their sleep. And when they finally reached a door at the end of the corridor, Anais waited with bated breath as the nurse slowly turned the latch and the door creaked open.

The room was cramped and austere with little more than a bed, a night table, and a burning candle. A small window was situated on the right side of the room. And lying in the bed was none other than Anais's brother.

She gasped in silence. He was missing his right arm.

"D-dear sister... is that you?" He mumbled.

He was a fairly young man in his early 20s. Locks of wavy, mahogany hair tumbled down his pillow. His cerulean eyes--the same eyes as those of Anais--were tired and bloodshot. And his torso was wrapped with layers of bloody bandages, indicating injuries yet unseen.

"Pierre!" Anais rushed to his bedside. "I came as fast as I could. I'm sorry!"

"No, no. It's fine. These things happen in war. It's my fault for not paying attention to the cannon fire."

"I told you, Pierre! I told you not to join Joan's army! But you didn't listen! You. Did. Not. Listen!" Anais burst into tears.

"Yes... you were right. You're always right. Are you... happy now?"

"Of course I'm not happy. Look at you! You're..."

She looked at him up and down. A bloody bandage was wrapped around his forehead, but he still had both eyes. Everything from the neck down was wrapped in bandages. It was clear to Anais that even if he did eventually recover, he would never be the same again.

Anais watched in horror as he coughed blood

"It appears... I'll be seeing our mother soon..." He muttered under his breath.

"Don't say that. Please," Anais begged.

"Those damn English. Always... going where they're not welcome."

"Don't worry about them. At least you're back with me."

"It's strange... mother's periapt should have protected me. I wore it during the battle, and yet..."

"Oh, Pierre! Come off it! It's just a silly trinket! It has no powers whatsoever!"

"Perhaps not. But it's yours now, sister. Take it, please?"

With a labored grunt, Pierre tore the necklace twine with a quick tug, and he handed the amulet to her

"Please pass it to your children."

"Pierre, I--"

They exchanged a few more words in silence before Anais glanced around the premises and shut the room's door behind her.

The old nursemaid had stepped away to refill the oil in her lamp. And on the way back up to the infirmary corridor, she had decided in her empathy to instead bring a tray of tea and pastries for the two siblings. Carrying a silver tray with a plate of biscuits, two cups, and a steaming teapot, she slowly clambered back up the staircase, passing the rows of open rooms once more. Her brow furrowed in confusion when she reached the end of the corridor and found the door closed again. Unlatching it, she slowly inched it open.

Her eyes widened in shock. Anais, still in her white dress, was straddling Pierre's thighs and frantically rolling her hips upon him. The small wooden bed creaked under their combined weight. Sweat dripped from her brow, landing on Pierre's bandaged chest. The obscene sounds of their lovemaking filled every corner of the small room as Anais took his manhood into herself.

"Huff... huff..." They panted.

"Oh, my goodness! My apologies!"

And the nursemaid shut the door as quickly as she had opened it. Never in all her years had she seen a pair of siblings do as they were doing. She was a God-fearing woman and would normally never approve of such an act in her own halls. But as she herself had personally cleaned his wounds, she knew Pierre's recovery would be nothing short of an act of God. He would die before long.

And so, she quietly waited outside.

"Ahh!" Anais arced her back, relishing in the sensation of her brother's manhood lancing through her depths. She clenched her core, gripping herself upon his girth with a vice-like grip, desperately wishing to milk her brother of the last vestiges of his seed in the hopes that part of him would be with her forever.

With his one hand, Pierre reached for her decolletage, feeling her warm bosom under the silky, lace fabric. Anais held his hand there, allowing him to feel her racing heartbeat as she passionately rocked her hips back and forth. Pierre couldn't stifle a moan when he realized his glans was grazing the entrance of her womb, deeply penetrating her depths. And when he felt a sudden pain in his chest, Pierre clenched his loins and thrust upwards into her as if to accelerate his climax. "

"Ah... Anais... I'm--"

"I-it's okay. J-just go."

Even as pain wracked every joint and every organ in his body, Pierre found solace in the last pleasure of his life, simple and carnal as it was. His thighs and abdomen seized and contracted as the indescribable delight of orgasm pierced through him. His mind turned blank as he felt his own seed roll thick and voluminous, spilling directly into the forbidden depths of his younger sister, his own flesh and blood.

And when Anais knew that Pierre had finished and given her all he had, she leaned down and kissed him. There, as the candle's flame shriveled into a mere wisp of smoke, he breathed his last breath into her mouth.

Section III.

Jonathan looked at himself in the mirror. He didn't like what he saw.

"Well now, you look fairly dashing, don't you think?" His mother gently clutched his shoulders from behind, sharing in his reflection. "Just like your father when he was a young lad!"

"I don't know. I feel like I'm dressing for my funeral. I don't know if I can fight the Red Coats, mother."

He turned away, unable to gaze upon himself. His was the face of Jonathan Tolstoy of Virginia, the son of Arthur Tolstoy. Much like his late father, he wore his dirty, mahogany hair in a mullet. His eyes were a pale cerulean like that of his mother Florence. And now, having dressed in his father's old uniform, he was the spitting image of his old man in his youth.

"I don't know about that, Jonathan," his mother smiled sweely. "You have two eyes. Two ears! A strong body that your father and I gifted you. And the greatness of the Lord as your shield!"

"It's too bad the Lord couldn't save my father, though," Jonathan coughed darkly. "Then at least he would still be alive."

"Jonathan!" His mother shouted tersely. "How dare--"

She stopped herself and heaved a sigh.

Jonathan felt his chest tighten as he felt immediate regret. His mother Florence was as beautiful a woman as they came despite now being in her mid-thirties, and Jonathan couldn't stand seeing her upset. Today she wore a beige dress with lace and frills--the same dress she wore when his father left to join the militia five years ago. Her dark hair was wrapped in a comely bun, and her alabaster bosom was dotted with faint, red freckles.

Her frown returned into a sweet and caring smile.

"Now Jonathan--" She bade him turn to her. "Look at my eyes."

The young man turned to her, meeting her cerulean eyes with his own frown.

"What?" he uttered flatly.

"If you don't want to go... that is, if you don't want to join the Continental Army, you don't have to. I'm sure your father joined simply to protect his family. You. Me. And your little sisters too. So, if you decided not to fight, I'm sure your father would understand."

Jonathan's grip tightened around the handle of his bayonet. He stared down at the floor planks, remembering the day that forever changed his life.

One evening five years ago, when Jonathan was a mere adolescent, a courier bore the news that his father had passed away after sustaining a gunshot in the abdomen. He had died a very slow and agonizing death in the infirmary.

"You are a fool, father!" He remembered. "Fighting the British is folly! It is madness! So what if they're raising the taxes! We can pay it! I'll help!"

"Son, you may not understand now--"

"They'll blow your goddamn brains out, father!"

"SHUT UP JONATHAN AND LET ME SAY MY PIECE!" He smashed his fist on the banister.

But Jonathan stormed away to his room. And Arthur, without pursuing the matter, mounted his horse and rode away into the night.

That would be the last time they would ever speak.

"No, mother." Jonathan looked up at her face. "I understand father now. I will go to fight."

"Good boy. You make me very proud. Oh, wait a moment!"

Florence looked as though she had remembered something. She scurried to a cabinet in the dining room, her long skirt fluttering as she went. And when she returned, she hooked a chain necklace around Jonathan's neck. Attached to it was a gold periapt inlaid with a large, red ruby.

"Oh mother, not this drivel again?" The young man rolled his eyes.

"Yes, again! And on this matter, there will be no debate!"

"Fine..." Jonathan groaned.

"Now, then, one more thing," she smiled. "I said the day that you wear that uniform is the day you become the man of this house. And so you have."

Her red lips curled into a smile.

"O-oh...?" Jonathan furrowed his brow.

A wave of understanding overcame him. She was serious after all, he thought. In truth, Jonathan's relationship with his mother had already crossed certain thresholds in the last year. She had always doted upon him as her only son. But when his father died, he became the only man in the house. And as that man, he was forced into adulthood a little faster than he had hoped. On the day he was permitted to join the Continental Army, his mother promised him the touch of a woman should he never have the opportunity. Her touch.

She quietly unbuckled Jonathan's belt and allowed his trousers to drop quietly to the floor. Jonathan gulped and looked up at the ceiling, realizing that his little sisters were sleeping in the room just above him, all while he felt the gentle touch of his mother's fingers enveloping his manhood.

"I did this for your father before he left too..."

"P-please, don't tell me that, mother..."

"Oh? And why not?"

He felt her thumb and forefingers gliding along the base of his shaft, pumping his foreskin up and down his length. He tensed, the blood in his body rushing to his loins like a carbonation of bubbles. And yet, the hot blush on his face remained. He felt his boyhood transforming into manhood right before his mother's eyes, his girth growing to full mast with every pulse of his nervous heart. And as he enjoyed the view of his mother's ample cleavage before him, now a sight to enjoy rather than ignore, he let himself go and groaned long and low.

"Uughh..."

He moaned there in the foyer by the staircase--the same staircase he had run up and down as a boy. And when he felt a pair of plump, moist lips engulf his glans, he knew his memories of this foyer would never again be the same.

"Mmmm..."

Her throat rumbled as she moaned, lapping and suckling her son's length for the first time. And as he continued to grow in her mouth, she cradled him in the bed of her tongue in a salacious yet motherly embrace. Jonathan hitched his breath; he could never have imagined the incredible warmth and wetness of her mouth, nor could he have hitherto realized the incredible skill with which she milked him. And as she reached into his drawers and cupped his dangling balls, he realized his loins were already spasming from the forwardness of her touch.

"Oh God... mother," he moaned and clutched at her hair bun, unwittingly unraveling it. Her golden locks tumbled down her back.