Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Reluctant, Heterosexual, .
Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - When is incest not incest?
It's hard to know where to start, so I'll begin with myself; I'm Tom Brewster. Thirty-five years old, now; six foot two, brown hair beginning to recede, trimmed beard, glasses. I got my nursing degree at twenty-one and spent a couple of years each in general medicine and psychiatry. Actually, I loved the work. The only thing about the actual nursing I could never enjoy was dealing with sputum. Piss? Shit? Blood? Deep gashes? No problem. But sputum ... let's not go there, okay? What really got me down was a combination of two irritations. The first was bureaucracy – policies, procedures, paperwork, health and safety, all the things that get in the way of doing the job. The second was underfunding, with short staffing, low pay and stress from being unable to properly do the work I was being paid for.
Anyway, I left and went into work as a drug rep. That lasted a couple of years, but I was a lousy salesman. I had an unfortunate tendency to be truthful. The company didn't fight my resignation; in fact, I suspect I got it in just before I was 'let go'.
A friend ('Ton-up' Tony) offered a job in his motorbike business. I'd played about with classic bikes, mostly Nortons, for years, ever since I was old enough to ride one. He knew I was a fair amateur mechanic and knew the contents of his Norton spares shelves as well or better than he did. It didn't pay all that well, but I didn't need much anyway.
Somewhere in there my parents died in a car-crash. I don't know what they were doing in the Fens. The inquest found that Dad lost control on a patch of ice, the car left the road and ended up in one of the deep channels that drain the area, so they were drowned when they couldn't get out before they were overcome by the cold.
Which brings us to my only other close relative, my sister Ellen. Sis is a couple of years older than me, four inches shorter, slim, with long, glossy hair the same shade of brown as mine. But there the resemblance ends. She is something of a nerd, and has built a business designing and maintaining websites. We'd never been particularly close, but the loss of our parents meant we only had each other and we made the effort to keep in touch.
Girlfriends came and went. Giselle, the last, left after I found her making out with some other guy at a Halloween party.
Similarly, Ellen never seemed to hang on to a boyfriend (or vice-versa) for more than a few months. The last ... what was his name? Ernesto? Something like that ... was emotionally abusive and when it began to become physical, she decided enough was enough and told him to get out. Of course, he wouldn't leave her alone, even after she changed her phone number. In the course of a call to her 'little brother' she told me she was becoming more than a little frightened.
"Well, why don't you come and live here?" I asked. "You can do your cyber-magic here quite as well as there, can't you?"
"Oh ... but..." She was silent and I listened to a faint hiss on the line. "Won't that ... I mean ... I don't want to ... cramp your style."
"Hey, Sis, don't worry about that. If there is a problem, we can think of something different. You never bought that flat, did you?"
"There you go. Come here – you can have the attic room. If you're prepared to pay the subscription, I can get fibre-optic laid on. It's available on this street. You probably wouldn't be satisfied with my present broadband service. Give notice on your flat. You don't have a car, do you?"
"Well, I'll hire or borrow a van and fetch you here as soon as you're ready."
"I could come today. Don't worry about your internet. I can manage for a week or so on a slow connection."
I looked at my watch. "Nine-thirty. Assuming I can get a car or van, I can be on my way in an hour, maybe. With you ... about twelve?"
"Oh, Tom..." I distinctly heard a sniffle. The sound of nose-blowing, then, "Thanks, Bro. Yes. I'd love to move in with you."
It took a bit more than an hour. Online I found a Transit van for hire, not too far away. It being Saturday morning, I had to have it for the weekend, but it wouldn't break the bank. Getting there on the bus to pick it up took an hour, then I had to fill the tank, so it was more like one than twelve when I got to Derby. To say that Ellen was pleased to see me was a bit like saying 'water is wet', or 'snow is cold'.
I tapped on the door, which opened cautiously on a chain. Then after it closed and there was a faint sound of the chain being unhooked, she flung the door open and leapt into my arms. I staggered back at the impact. It was almost hard to breathe as she squeezed my chest. I was ... embarrassingly ... aware of the pressure of her body on mine, the scent of her hair, and gently detached her before she felt my burgeoning erection. This was my sister, for God's sake – I had no business getting a hard-on for my sister.
"Let's get your stuff in the van," I suggested.
It didn't take long. She'd already packed up her computers and clothes; books were in a couple of boxes.
"I thought you'd have more than this," I commented.
"Nah. Never needed it."
I thought of the shelves and shelves of books, the Hi-Fi with racks of LPs and CDs ... the knives, baking tins, all the paraphernalia that goes with actually cooking rather than reheating ready-meals or delivered Chinese, Indian meals or Pizza. Perhaps the stork muddled us up when he delivered us? Why was my sister the techno-nerd while I was the nurse? (Okay – I'm a biker now, but even so, how many bikers do you know who prefer Mozart to Eric Clapton?)
So we loaded her stuff in the Transit. Even though it was a short wheel-base model, the boxes barely covered half the floor without stacking them. We climbed into the cab and I found the ignition switch with the key. Ellen hesitated, then slid across to sit in the centre seat before snapping her seat belt on.
She looked at me. "Is this okay?"
"Sure! Why not? It's not as though I can see anything in the mirror anyway. Why they fit them in vans like this I don't know."
"Um ... Tom ... I ... thanks for this. I didn't know what to do."
"No problem, Sis. It'll be nice having you close. Are you hungry? It's..." I peered at my watch, "after two o'clock."
"Not really. I'd just like to get away from here."
"Let's go then. I'll just ignore the growling from my empty tummy."
"Oh, Tom. Are you really hungry? We can stop for something if you need..."
I laughed, "Not that badly. We can stop at Dobbies when we get to junction 30. They have some nice coffee and pretty good food. It's just off the motorway."
Driving a van is pretty boring. Even on a motorbike, I look around at the other traffic and it's interesting how often one can recognise a car that overtook a few miles previously, or vice versa. I thought it was odd that in the Transit, rocketing along at between sixty and seventy, when almost everyone else was well over the seventy mph limit, that there was a black Audi TT keeping pace with us. Not always at the same distance, but never far away, either. It was the sort of car I'd expect to be doing ninety in the outside lane. I told myself not to stereotype.
It was only when I took the slip road off at junction thirty and the Audi followed, that it began to dawn on me what was going on. I didn't say anything to Ellen, though. We found a place to park not too far from the entrance to Dobbies and went in to find the cafeteria. A plate of chicken Korma and rice, coffee and fruit juice for each of us, and Ellen was quite relaxed, while I was just trying to appear so.
"Hey, Sis, there's something I need to deal with. You going to the loo?"
"Take your time. I'll meet you back at the van, okay?"
It was the work of moments to collect my tyre-pressure gauge and remove the little cap with its valve tool, to loosen the valves in both the nearside tyres of the Audi. He was obviously a bit tight-fisted as he hadn't gone for the run-flat option. Which meant that when Ellen appeared, finally, and we drove off, our tail didn't follow. I calmed my conscience by telling myself that if I was wrong and, unlikely as it was, the driver of the Audi was innocent, no lasting harm was done.
I didn't take the direct route home, even so. I turned right instead of left, drove into Clowne then left onto the Mansfield Road. That, in due course, got me onto the A57 Worksop Road, though I turned left for Sheffield, rather than right for Worksop.
In the process, Ellen, unsurprisingly, wanted to know why I was going so far out of my way.
"Who do you know who drives a black Audi TT?" I asked in response.
She paled. "Eduardo."
Okay, so I got the name wrong.
"Well, I think I've stopped him following us, anyway. When we get you settled, you'd better get a restraining order, because it's not going to be so hard for him to find you."
She didn't seem too pleased about that.
Anyway, we got home about six. Unloading took a little longer than loading. Here I probably need to describe my Victorian terraced house. A terrace, as the name implies, is a row of houses with no gaps between. Every so often, there's a tunnel though, giving access to the rear, usually for two houses each side, meaning two house owners or tenants have to pass through someone else's back garden. In the case of mine and my neighbour, there is a door opening into the passageway, inside which one is faced by a steep staircase ahead, and a door on each side, one to the sitting room, the other to the dining room, through which is the kitchen and the back door. Upstairs, there is a bedroom each side and a narrow landing leading to the bathroom and another door, which opens onto the attic stairs.
The attic is quite a large room, though the sloping ceiling limits the use of the space. Two dormer windows give light and where appropriate can be opened for fresh air. I had a large futon up there; not the most comfortable bed, but much better than the bare floor. I offered Ellen the choice of smaller bedroom (with its single, interior sprung, bed) or attic and she chose the attic. Which meant carrying her boxes of stuff up two narrow, steep, flights of stairs. We were both winded by the time we'd finished, and our late lunch made tomato soup and cheese toasties sound welcome, followed by an early night.
Having got to sleep pretty early, I was up equally early, despite it being Sunday. I was on my second cup ... okay, maybe it was my third ... of coffee, when Ellen padded in. She had on one of those long t-shirts that I assume are intended as night-wear, with a twee caption: in that case, a dozing teddy-bear. Her legs beneath were bare. Although the t-shirt was loose, it didn't conceal the swell of her breasts, and I had to remind myself, silently of course, that this was in fact my sister, and not just a hot babe. Her hair was tousled, her eyes hooded, and she was yawning and stretching. The latter did interesting things, revealing more of her shapely legs and emphasising the thrust of her bosom.
Despite reminding myself, Tom Junior was showing interest.
"Hey, Sis. You okay?"
Her reply, "Ye ... eh ... eah," was extended by a jaw-cracking yawn. "Best I've..." yawn... "slept for months. Got any more of that coffee?"
"I'll start a fresh pot."
Sunday is a day of rest. I take that seriously, and anyway neither Ellen nor I had any inclination to do anything energetic. We did take an amble in the park, after which I rang Tony while Ellen substituted her wireless router for my wired one.
"Hey, Tony, I know it's my turn to open up in the morning, but I've got my sister staying. I'll tell you all about it, but I need to get some bits of furniture, sort out some arrangements."
"No problem. Take your time – I've nothing spoiling."
"Ta, mate. See you Tuesday."
The rest of the day we talked, ate, and drank.
"He was charming, fascinating, worldly ... and he made my body sing," Ellen told me. "It was only when I started spending more time at his place than mine that he changed. He wanted me to give up web-developing to concentrate on him. He wanted me to cook, wash his clothes ... God, Bro, you know how bad I am at cooking. He began to put me down, with snide remarks. Criticised the way I dressed. Said I was boring in bed. When I wouldn't let him in the back door, he hit me..."
I obviously looked puzzled.
"Anal, Tom, anal. Back door?"
"Ah." I nodded. I know some people like it there, but it's never appealed to me and I assumed it was at the least very uncomfortable for the recipient.
"Anyway, I told him, 'that's it. I'm out of here'. Packed my bags – I didn't have a lot with me – and went home. He bombarded me with phone calls until I blocked my land-line. Calls and texts to my mobile until I blocked his number. That only lasted until he got to another phone. In the end I changed my number. Emails, the same. My inbox now only accepts mail from sources in my address-book."
"All very well, but..."
"But how do new customers contact me? My website permits them to email me, but I have to block him. Still not ideal, but it works." She shrugged. "For now, though, I can relax a bit. Thanks, Bro."
By bed-time, we'd sipped our way through a couple of bottles of plonk (it did take us most of the day) and some of my 'everyday' whisky. Yeah ... I know... 'don't mix grain and grape'. I suggested to Ellen she drink several glasses of water and take a couple of aspirin. She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. "I've got a nice buzz on, and I think I'll sleep okay. I don't want to wake up to pee."
"On your head be it."
Monday morning was predictable. I was functioning with a slight head ache. Ellen looked like death warmed over. I shook my head – I don't think she could see – and put a pint glass of water in front of her with some aspirin. "Drink that before I give you coffee."
She groaned, wincing at even that exertion. "You're a hard man, Bro," she croaked in a whisper, but consumed the water and pills. At length, I placed a mug of black coffee in front of her. She lifted it slowly and sipped. Croaked, "Ta, Bro."
She finished the coffee and started another glass of water. Eventually, she had rehydrated to the point that she needed the loo and while she was in there I started another pot of coffee.
She returned. "You'd better eat something," I said. "Toast?"
It took all day, but by the evening Ellen was well enough to eat a proper meal. She'd organised herself in the attic and her computer was set up and working. Supper was cottage pie and broccoli. Ellen ate with relish. "Hey, Bro ... do you think someone made a mistake and muddled up our genes?"
"Very likely. But if you're happy the way you are, I certainly am."
"What, you're happy the way I am?"
I chuckled. "That, too. Just think, if you'd been domestic you might have stuck with whatsisname and I wouldn't have the pleasure of your company. I actually meant I'm happy in my skin and with the way I am, but, yes, I like my sister the way she is."
She had a thoughtful expression. "Okay ... I hope I don't, you know, get in the way?"
"Don't worry about it."
That was it for the evening and we both went to bed and slept. Monday morning, after returning the van, I went with Ellen to the solicitor who had handled the purchase of my house. He referred us to a colleague who began the process of filing a restraining order, and from there to Virgin Media to get a fibre-optic feed set up. A sandwich in town, then a visit to Tony's bike shop to introduce them. Tony raised his eyebrows when he saw Ellen.
"Tom, you never said your sister was a babe!"
"Who ever thinks their sister is good looking?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Come on, Tom. She's a stone fox. I can't believe you haven't noticed. If I wasn't married..."
Ellen giggled. "Thanks! You make a girl feel good!"
"Tony," I interjected, "Ellen's ex might be a problem. We've begun a restraining order, but he does seem persistent."
He frowned. "Give me all the details you have," he was looking at Ellen, "and I have some contacts..."
Yeah – bikers come in many flavours, including police flavour, and Tony ... and to some extent I ... had contacts. Anyway, Ellen gave Tony everything she knew about the guy, and he left to do whatever he needed to do outside the shop. I gave Ellen a tour of the shop and introduced her to some of the lads when they came in for parts or to chew the fat. I suppose word got round, because there were more callers than usual, and they stayed longer too. Six o'clock came round, and I chased everyone out of the shop; at least, apart from a couple who really did want to buy something. I dealt with their needs as they chatted with Ellen, and finally was able to lock up and go home, having bought Ellen a helmet and oversuit. Trade discount, of course.
Supper was makeshift by my standards; mushroom omelette, chips and mixed veg, but Ellen expressed her appreciation. I shrugged. "I expect I'll cook more as you're here," I told her, "it's not worth taking a lot of trouble when it's just me."
Cups of tea, while Ellen watched some programme about gadgets and I listened to Mozart – flute and harp – on headphones. We went to bed and slept the sleep of the just.
Over the following week, Ellen came to the shop with me rather than staying in the house. We had internet in the shop, of necessity, and she was able to carry on her business. It was the following weekend that her ex caught up with her. He made the mistake of approaching her in the shop. She warned him of the restraining order, which prohibited him from approaching within a hundred metres of her. He wasn't impressed by that. He was, however, impressed by two of our customers. Big lads, covered in tattoos and studs. He didn't know they were normally gentle as lambs. They offered to break his arms, his legs, and to kick his balls until it stopped being fun for them, then to call an ambulance. He blustered, and left. We didn't hear any more from him, and gradually Ellen was able to relax,
I was not able to relax, however. Living in close proximity to a very attractive, very sexy woman, even if she was my sister, was quite a strain. I endured it, though, and I didn't think she picked up on my tension. But then she got ill.