I didn't feel him enter me.
All I remember is the bucking rush of my orgasm... and then, as the throes of it faded... I remember the foreign feeling of his apple-sized head inside me.
I had only had my fingers before. One, sometimes two – and, once, the handle of a hairbrush.
Luckily, all the air had been expelled from me in a long, low grunt when I came. If it hadn't, then our parents would have heard me shout, and our lives would have been over.
As it was, I don't understand how they didn't hear the rasping intake of breath which Jonathan drew from me when he pushed himself deeper.
He had his arms wrapped around my torso, and at this point, he lifted me into the air.
My head hung limply back, my hair fanning across my pillow.
My breasts and stomach were pressed against the uncompromising firmness of his pecs and his abs.
My ass was pulled towards him until it would eventually come to rest against his thighs, as he knelt.
He had me effortlessly hanging under him and over the bed, encompassing me wholly, while he took from me an intimate sustenance which no one had ever thought to give him before.
When I couldn't hold my screams back any longer, I found the strength to bite against his shoulder, feeling the taste of his blood in my mouth. The only thing going through my mind was that there was nothing I could do to save myself anymore, and that this was the only thing I could do to save him – from himself, and from the guilt of the pain he was causing me.
Some eternity later, I felt him crush against my cervix, and he pulled back out and then pushed back in – what must have been agonizingly slowly to him, but felt like a piston at full throttle to me.
He might not have actually moved, in fact – just rocked me away and then toward him, while he remained rock-still.
Then he moved his knees back and fell with me – on me – onto the bed. I felt the full weight of him press down on me, all over me, my mouth leaving bite marks across his chest when he heaved back and forth.
I felt his hips grind against mine, my clit leaping to life, a pinprick of pleasure which hurt, like a blessing, even more than the crashing waves of agony around it.
That pinprick became a ray, became a flood of light...
I felt myself coming closer to it...
I felt myself begin to lose my sense of self...
I felt my mind and my body shut down in anticipation of it...
And then it came.
I orgasmed with a power I couldn't contain.
I orgasmed with an intensity which should have shattered the remnants of me.
I orgasmed, and then the world around me darkened, and I started to fade into unconsciousness...
And then... I felt convulsions within me.
As I started to faint, I couldn't fully realize that it wasn't me convulsing.
But there was enough to keep hold of the last fragments of my mind, before they disappeared into the dark.
Enough to have it slowly dawn on me that it was him convulsing.
Enough to, dimly, remember that he hadn't put on a condom. And that it had been a week and a half since my last period.
Enough to rip me from the sweet pull of unknowing, and register the first gush of his semen against my cervix, and then the second, the third, the fourth... I lost count...
Enough to feel his weight collapse upon me.
Enough to hear him whisper my name – enough to hear he said it like a prayer.
\\\//////
As my stepbrother panted hoarsely where he nestled between my breasts...
And as his semen and my blood mingled into a growing lake between my legs…
And as his seed worked its way up to its resting point within me...
...it slowly dawned on me, just how much trouble I was in.
Perhaps it was stupid, but I wasn't even thinking about the overwhelming probability of pregnancy.
No. Much more than that... the thought that came to be was...
Holy shit. I think I've just fallen in love with my stepbrother...
\\The End////
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MOM'S BEST FRIEND
by Vanessa Wilde
James McCullum took off his tie as he walked into the driveway of 18 Meridian Lane.
Then he stopped, stepped back a few paces until he was on the pavement, and fumbled the tie on again. He got all the way to the doorstep of 18 Meridian Lane this time (and even rang on the doorbell) before reaching up to his neck and swiping the tie off one last time, in the moments before the door swung open.
James was a 19-year-old college freshman, who had been an honors student all through middle school and high school, before finally getting into his first-choice college, far away on the East Coast.
He used to own a guitar, once, but sold it so he could concentrate on cello, when he realized an Orchestra extracurricular would look better on his admission statement. He had used the money from the sale to buy next year's textbooks – it never hurt to be prepared!
Needless to say, he was still a virgin – though that fact had never seemed to trouble him as much as it did right now.
If anyone would ever bother to take the thick glasses off his face and get him to look them in the eye, they would notice he was a very good-looking young man – in a pretty way, rather than in a handsome way. He had the sweetest baby-blue eyes. Unfortunately, until very recently, no one ever had.
In order to understand why he was currently standing on this doorstep, breaking out into a cold sweat and barely able to breathe, we have to go back to the garden party his mom had thrown 6 days ago.
////\\
Mrs. McCullum was a Strict Mom of the Old School. The idea of being a soccer mom filled her with disgust – you'd never catch her prioritizing her son's sports and hobbies over academic achievement! And frankly, any mother who did spend all her time ferrying their child from one practice to another clearly didn't have their best interests in mind... is the kind of thing she used to say to anyone who gave her a chance.
James was her only child, and so had received the full force of all his mother's theories about parenthood. Birthday parties were to have an equal number of adults and children present, to make sure nobody got too wild. James could have friends over only if they spent the first hour studying. That kind of thing.
However, when he had finally gotten into her first-choice college for him, everything started to change. It was as if a huge weight had lifted off her shoulders. She started to occasionally undo the topmost button on her blouse. She wouldn't always politely turn down a glass of wine when offered one at a fundraising dinner or reception.
And now that her son was back in his little hometown after a very academically successful first year at college, she decided to do something she had never done before: throw a party. A real party. A party which wasn't an excuse to proofread each other's tax reports for accounting errors.
A party with music.
A party with alcohol.
Mrs. McCullum didn't have many friends. She wasn't exactly disliked or anything – she just hadn't given many people reason to try and actually like her. But when they received the invitations, her neighbors and casual a
cquaintances were so shocked by the uncharacteristic behavior that everyone who didn't already have plans all turned up on the appointed day and time, out of curiosity. In the end, there were easily 80, maybe 90 people in attendance.
There were a couple of things Mrs. McCullum hadn't realized about throwing a party. Firstly, she hadn't quite estimated the correct amount of alcohol she'd need. She hadn't accounted for the fact that some people might not come. She also hadn't wished to gamble on the fact that anybody might not actually be drinking that night, or might want to drive home. And she hadn't quite realized that vodka and beer had different strengths of alcohol.
So, going off the assumption that a polite gentleman would have one bottle of beer when at a lunch event, she got a bottle of vodka, whisky, or rum per person.
Needless to say, the punch she concocted was... interesting, too.
As a result, by sundown, the party was well and truly banging. Dozens of people thronged in the kitchen and spilled into the back garden. Someone had taken control of the speakers, thrown out the smooth jazz CD that had been playing on repeat, and started some kind of techno nobody in this perfect picture of suburbia could recognize, but (as it turned out) every single one of them could dance to.
And if anyone took the trouble to look up through the window of the upstairs toilet, they'd see Mr. Truman from Hanger Lane eating Mrs. Simms out for all she's worth.
Mrs. McCullum, the poor woman, was by no means immune to this general mood of festivity.
After one glass of punch, she was referring to people she'd never met as “darling”, or “my love”.
After two, she reckoned she could do without her shoes, and lost the ability to pronounce all the syllables in her last name.
Three glasses in, and she let down her hair. As in, literally untied it from her bun. No one outside her immediate family circle had ever seen her without her hair tied up. When she undid the pins holding it, and shook out her wavy blonde tresses, this was greeted by a large cheer.
She didn't understand exactly what they were cheering.
But she had another glass of punch anyway, to celebrate along with them.
\\////
James McCullum reeled through the party, more than a little lost.
Mrs. Wilson had taught him 6th Grade math. Now she looked like she was trying to add up the inches on a man he could only hope was Mr. Wilson... and it looked like there were a lot of them.
Someone had set up a game of strip poker in his room. It had been maybe ten years since even he had been fully naked in his room, so he couldn't imagine what it would look like with six grown men and women. Now that he thought of it, hadn't that been Reverend Williams sitting on his bed, yelling at the young widow Parkinson to chug the whole bottle...
At first, he'd tried to keep people off the grass in the garden, making sure they stuck to the stepping stones, but that was quickly abandoned. Then he had tried to make sure people used coasters when they were anywhere outside the kitchen.
That hadn't exactly gone very well either.
He had been trying to explain to some respectable-looking older lady he didn't recognize that the cactus they kept in a pot in the hallway wasn't actually her dog ChouChou (and that even if it were, she should stop trying to feed it vodka, because dogs don't drink alcohol... and that even if they did, she was going to drown it if she fed it that much) when he heard, “Jamie-james!”, and saw his mother walking toward him. Well, it was less walking, more weaving left and right, being held upright by Brenda.
But all he noticed was that his mother's hair was down. His mom's hair was never down. But there it was, slinking all the way down to her hip. With a start, he realized that it had been so long (timewise) since he had last seen his mother's hair not in a bun, that he had no idea how long it was (lengthwise) until this moment.
“Jamiiiieeee... my Jamie, way-me, bay-me... heeheehee...”
His mother staggered over to him, and seemed to trip, turning what would probably have been a hug into her clinging on to his shirt to keep from falling down. It was the first time he could remember her touching him in years.
“Sorry about this. I'd had a feeling something like this was gonna happen, so I tried to keep an eye on her... but even I didn't think she'd try and empty the punch bowl in the five minutes I took to use the ladies' room. Turns out I was wrong.”
James looked up to see Brenda leaning against the wall, smiling at him wryly.
“I wouldn't have left her for even that long, but the bathroom was... occupied.”
Brenda was their next door neighbor. She was also probably the only real friend his mom had in the world – though he still couldn't exactly figure out why.
Brenda was everything his mother wasn't. Relaxed. Self-assured. Open-minded.
She was in her mid-to-late thirties, her shoulder-length hair dyed a shade of dark red with a hint of violet. James thought she might be a writer. Or perhaps a novelist – he wasn't sure what exactly the difference was. (He majored in Engineering, which his mother said was a more practical degree than English.)
Brenda spent most of the summer, and quite a lot of the winter, traveling around the world with her dark, handsome husband, who was from some unidentified Southern European country, and whose job description seemed to vary with each time you asked.
James would know she'd be back when she would knock on their door and hand his mother some outlandish souvenir from some far-flung failed state, before retiring to the sitting room for one of their afternoon-long tea and coffee sessions.
He'd know she'd be gone when his mother would invent one of her usual excuses to pop over to Brenda's house, and return a minute later, tight-lipped and stricter than ever, but with an unmistakable sadness in her eyes.
She was also an extremely beautiful woman, and clearly knew it. She didn't even have to dress provocatively to flaunt it – one look from her sultry, dark brown eyes would be enough to send a trickle of sweat down any man's back. James, of course, stood no chance.
He'd had inappropriate dreams about her ever since she'd moved in 5 years ago.
“Oh, um, hey Brenda! How are you?”
He cursed inwardly at himself. That's the same thing he'd said all the other times they'd run into each other today. She just smirked.
“Much the same as last time, James. A little more tired than I was. Not nearly as drunk as I should be. Though after seeing your mother like that, I can see that's maybe not such a bad thing after all...”
As if perked up by hearing herself mentioned, Mrs. McCullum raised her head abruptly. She seemed to notice her son as if for the first time.
“Jaaamiee!! My little Jamie... I never tell you I love you enough, do I? Well, that's silly of me, I should tell you every day... Jamie-baby, I... urk...”
Her beaming smile turned into a confused grimace, her face turned a little green, and Brenda was by her side again, pulling her arm over her shoulder and trying to guide her farther down the hallway.
“Alright Jenna, that's maybe enough quality time for tonight, mm? Let's try to get whatever the hell was in that punch out of you and into the toilet bowl, and then maybe see about getting you into bed...”
Brenda turned around just before entering his mother's room.
“OK, mommy's boy, I think the party's over. Try and get people out if you can, and I'll make sure your mother doesn't strangle herself trying to get her bra off.”
“Oh, um, yeah, OK, Brenda!”
She pursed her full, red lips into a little smile, and stepped into the bedroom.
////\\
It took James a full hour to get the house close to something resembling empty. He had special trouble working up the courage to get Mrs. Wilson out of the broom closet. All four of the men in there with her couldn't very well be Mr. Wilson...
He was picking coats and scarves out from between the cushions of the living room sofa (someone had even lost a pair of socks in there, somehow) when he heard someone coming down from up th
e stairs. With a sigh, Brenda came into the room, and leaned on the doorframe.
“Your mom's sleeping in bed. Finally. It took me a while to convince her that going downstairs to dance was a bad idea. Took me longer to convince her that dancing on her bed with her skirt on her head was also a bad idea... mostly 'cus she was right, and it was a really good idea. Throwing up on her bedroom carpet, not so much... but I gotta admit, you're little old mom has got some moves on her...”
His Dark Secret – A Stepbrother Romance Page 3
